Guilty No More

Not long ago, I wrote a creative non-fiction essay focused on my love affair with guilt.

The opening lines went something like this...

"Other than my mother, nothing has loved me more than guilt.  Its stuck by me in all seasons. The very moment that I try to let it go even for a brief sabbatical is the instant that it calls me home, reminding me that we are partners for life."

I continued the essay trying to get my bearings, hell-bent on determining the origin of my obsession. Was it my Catholic upbringing, my parents' divorce, my need to please others, who knows?

And then, in traditional Kelly form, I went for a run and this song came blaring through my headphones:

And it struck me, to live ones' life under the guise of guilt is not to live at all.  It is to be frozen in the past or to reel forward to an unknown future, fearing that you'll mess something up there as well.  It is to constantly question, to doubt, to play it safe, to wonder, to worry and to not walk on the cracks in the sidewalk. And it is exhausting.

The greatest source of guilt I contend with is whether or not I'm fucking up my children.  I think most mothers walk around with this daily source of concern.  We worry that we're not around enough or that we're hovering too closely.  We caution that we're being too hard on them or that they're becoming entitled, spoiled brats who will be living in our basement at 30.  We are quick to anger and judgement and slow to patience and grace.  We also know that this day will not come again and sometimes, you just can't take back what you said or didn't say when you should.  And God damn it, the stakes are high.  I can't think of anything I care about more.

But today, on my run, I decided that it's better for me to fuck them up and get really good at apologizing over and over again than to live in a constant state of paralysis.  Every meaningful relationship is based on saying "I'm sorry" again and again and again.  So, modeling that I'm human and that I'm trying to do the best in the moment, seems better than trying to feign perfection, falling short, digging myself into a deeper hole daily.

I'm not sure that I'll ever be completely free of guilt...it just seems to be in my blood.  But knowing what I know about the human condition, it's better to operate from a place of recognition as opposed to a permanent residence.  It's better to be alive, free of the bars of guilt.

Why We Do It

Yep, that's a picture of my foot and my blackened toe.

I'm gonna lose another one.

This will be my fourth casualty in the love of running.

When I inadvertently showed my friend the other day, she said, "Why in the Hell do you do that shit? Haven't you suffered from like every running injury known to man?  Maybe, we're just too old."

And, well, she's kinda right.  I've had shin splints, IT band issues, hamstring, knee and heel pain, lost toe nails and now, some unknown throbbing pain on the top of my right foot. 

So, I started thinking about it.  Why do I do it? Maybe running is just too hard on the body, particularly the older you get and if you were never really an athlete in the first place.

Then, because being a mama is my primary role in life, I started likening motherhood to running. 

Being a mother is not easy, by any stretch.  There are days when I come out of the trenches looking far worse for the wear with very little reward to show for it minus the fact that my children are alive and I am too...but just barely.  I've suffered infinite scrapes and bruises to my heart and my ego, continuous amounts of sleep deprivation, hair pulling, back talking, eye rolling, screaming, crying, gnashing of the teeth...and that's just getting started.

But after nine years of doing this gig with three kiddos, I've also experienced a love that is unparalleled by anything else.  And I would walk through fire for any one of them every day and twice on Tuesday.

And well, it's worth it.

Just like running.  When it starts to hurt or gets to be a bit overwhelming, you back off, try a new route, ice down the worn parts, ibuprofen the inflammation, and then, well you get back on the horse.

Because the high that comes from the endorphins, the adrenaline, the release of toxins and unnecessary stress is really, well for me, unparalleled by anything really, other than, wait for it, wait for it...sex.  You knew that I had to say it.

For now, I'm stuck with the ugly parts of me like blackened toe nails, chaffing and sore quads.

As well as the sassy comments from the littles when they're overstimulated, undernourished, irritated at the world, or just in a funk...but sooner, rather than later, I'm reminded of why we do what we do...it's so worth it.

38 Birthday Candles

Today, I turned thirty-eight years old.  In human years, not in dog lineage.

It feels like a big mouth full.  Technically, it's considered middle-aged.  Approaching the over-the-hill marker.  A place that felt far away not too terribly many years ago.

It's also a place that for me, has snuck up...which is descriptive of most of  my life, but has served as a semi-wake-up-call when I realize that my third decade of life is coming to a close.

As I look back, my twenties were really a time of self-discovery.  I felt lost.  Unsure.  Wavering.  Wondering.  Trying on new identities.  Thinking, probably foolishly so, that if I were married that life would have meaning.  Thank God, that wish didn't come true, until I tied the knot with the right one two weeks before my thirtieth birthday.

My thirties have been a time of care giving, sacrifice, endurance and everything that is wrapped up in the beauty and exhaustion that is motherhood.  I first became a mother when I was 30 and then again at 32 and then again at 35.

And every moment has shaped and molded who I am today.  I am less self absorbed.  I am less judgmental.  I don't have time or energy to be the kind of control freak that made me a good employee, but frustrated the shit out of my family and friends.  After watching illnesses, deaths and miracles transpire, I am keenly aware of what matters and what doesn't.  And the reality is that most of the heart ache we encounter is born of our own doing and really doesn't add up to a hill of beans.

At the age of 38, my days look like this....scramble out of bed at 4:30am for a coveted run where I imagine that I'm a Nike girl dressed in Lululemon with crazy speed and an amazing ass (wishing is free, right?).  I come home shortly before the sun comes up with the hope that my three littles and my better half are still sawing logs so that I can scarf down one large cup of coffee and stretch my bones because unfortunately, they creak a lot these days.  Moments later, I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and very carefully, pick out the perfect strawberries for my 8-year olds' lunch.  He wont eat the soft ones.

And then, it's off to the races.  Hurry up.  Eat your cereal.  Throw on your uniform. Brush those teeth. Stop annoying your sister.  Jump in the car.

Where I navigate the circle drop off and try not to be "that" mom in the janky car who can't get her shit together.

And for 30 seconds, I close my eyes and make the sign of the cross over my 8-year old and my 5-year old while saying:

May God bless your mind, so you can learn.

Your ears to be a good listener.

Your mouth to speak kind words.

And your heart to feel love.

Kisses and a squealing from the drive as I feverishly listen to NPR for as long as I can before it's back home to kiss my husband goodbye and grab my insane, biting, fearless 2-year old toddler.

Bed making, grocery shopping, laundry doing, ballet, soccer, piano, after school pick up, nap times, jewelry show preparation, school/church volunteering, homework supervision, dinner making, bath and bed carrying out and by 9pm, when it's all said and done, I look at my husband and say thank you for doing this with me.

This is what it feels like to be 38.  I'm not young.  But I'm not old.  I'm somewhere in the middle.  I suppose one more time reinventing me.  The me that runs, jumps, climbs, hopes, dreams, falls, fails, hurts, forgives, needs, believes and prays in gratitude for it all.

Happy Birthday to a 38-year old me...it's a blessed life, for certain.

Getting Back to Me

It's amazing how much a tiny little baby can consume in energy, time, and priority.
Claire turns a year old next month and it's just been in the last week that I've been ready to take care of me. 

I went to my hair stylist and got all the gray out.  I went to the eye doctor and got new specs.  I went to the salon and treated my hands and toes. And then, I put on my shoes and went for a run.  I was really anxious.  No, I was terrified.  I hadn't seriously tried to exert myself in a long time and I was resolute that this day, this hour would be mine.  Equipped with a new play list and determination, I owned it.  And, praise God, restored my faith in my body and my will power. 

I don't begrudge the sacrifices that come with motherhood and I recognize that I certainly don't have to spend as much time as I do with my children...but I know now, more than ever, that if I don't take care of me, there will be nothing left for the ones I love.

So, it's time to run...it's time to read...it's time to sleep...it's time to dream...it's time to write...it's time to recognize that I am not exclusively a mother.  I am a woman...a complicated, crazy ass woman who is thankful to exchange the nursing bra for a sports one and the maternity underwear well for...we'll see, I'm still not sold on the thong.  But you get the picture.

Hats off to the feminine and my resolve to get back to all of me.