Mom'fessions: Things I'm Tired of That I Smile Thru Anyway

It seems like moms, SAHM/WAHMs in particular, always get the shaft, man.

Now...before I dig in, understand the following:

1. My thoughts might not mirror yours.
2. My experiences might not mirror yours.
3. It takes a dry kind of humor to get me, and it's fine if you don't have it--but there's no need to announce it because just as my humor is dry, my give a flip is busted. *shrugs*

That being cleared...

I don't scoff at the privilege of being a WAHM mom. It's allowed me tge opportunity to be with my kids while still contributing to the household as well as having a corner of the day for just me.

Never underestimate that--you need it like a fish needs gills. That time to yourself is crucial because no matter how much you adore your kids or how "goals" you and your hubby are, it will all drive you batspit insane if you can't have a momentary breather. Don't argue--even June Cleaver and Clair Huxtable had their escapes.

What I do scoff at is the need, or perceived need, to be constantly on. The kids need me. Hubby needs me. The grass needs me. I'm a walking rolodex of appointments, phone numbers, and account stats. I'm the sole finder of things and organizer of lives. I handle, fix, and care for/about EVERYTHING.

I generally dig it.

But because I'm a sparky little human, I still have my moments where I want (read: need) to not be any of those things. Moments where my kids' latest masterpiece isn't even one radar. Moments where if I hear one more "Mom, look!" I'll lose my shkit and refuse to look for it!

In no particular order, here are the the things I'm most aggravated by, that I smile through anyway. *chuckle*

(NO, I don't martyr myself--I just know all of this is fleeting and time waits for no one. In a few years I'll miss having a baby on my lap or a toddler whose world rests on my approval and engagement.)

Anyhoo...

The 500th artistic masterpiece. The previous 499 look exactly the same, dear one. But I love them because I love you.

The 928th attempt at a joke. That fire truck joke is still not funny to me...but I will still listen because you're still my little star.

The fifty-leventh "Look, mom." No, I didn't miss it. How could I? You've only shoved it in my face, obscuring my view of anything else.

The "I can't find its." No, I don't now where your *insert missing item* is. But I do know that standing there in the middle of the room with a contemplative look on your sweet face, won't find it.

Being the sole provider of *insert pressing need* Dad is home too, kiddos, and he's perfectly capable and willing to make your snack/give you juice/play a game or 50. He enjoys it! You should really give him a shot...

...

As families go, mine is pretty cool. My kids aren't nearly as daredevil-y as I was, and they're actually a lot calmer than I ever was also. I enjoy my days with them...

...I just know the value of a little time here or there with myself. That's why I stopped pushing myself to be always on.

Now I'm just as off as everyone else. Makes for some hilarious conversations, memories, and pics which won't ever see the light of day.

My OB Harassed Me About My Weight...

...ugh.

First off, I'll start by saying I've always been a healthy human. I'm 5'4, and I generally stay at between 128 and 138 pounds. Not intentionally, but my activity levels and my food preferences (I like moderation--I eat a bit of everything) keep me at a steady Kiel.

I was outside my normal network last year, thus came the need for a new OB.

So...I packed up my inhibitions and made the drive to the office. I was nervous but eh, whatever. It's always daunting to meet a new doctor, especially when they'll be very acquainted with your nether regions whether they ever learn your favorite color or not.

The nurse took my vitals and had me sit in the waiting area. All normal. Because I'm a shy person by nature, I didn't pay too much attention to the bad vibe I got during triage/intake. I'm not exactly socially awkward, but I'm also not exactly a social butterfly. In order to not misread a vibe, I usually just observe from a safe distance. This vibe didn't let up though.

What vibe?

Oh, the whispers. The raised eyebrow. The double checking of my weight.

Now, I'm not large, but I'm also not unhealthy. I eat well and my appetite is pretty good most of the time. Because I've breastfed and pumped for the last (almost) 3 years, I actually get away with a couple extra snacks a day. I consider myself a normal-sized person, or at least normal for me. Besides, what's normal?!

The bad vibe continued. Got stronger.

I was given tips on healthy eating. I was encouraged to not skip meals. (I generally don't!)

I was give a gentle lead into the discussion about eating disorders.

The only time I've ever not eaten for any notable time frame, was during a struggle with hyperemesis. I didn't eat because eating led to vomiting, which led to a bleeding esophagus and crushing chest pain. And even then, I still made sure I was nourished--I took intravenous nutrition and fluids, and consumed the few foods I could by mouth even though they were just little sips and nibbles.

To be fair, I met this doctor on the tail end of that hyperemesis bout. I was getting used to food not being painful... and enjoying it. So to have this person taking one small thread of my life and measuring my entirety against it felt really bad.

I hadn't thought about being told off for not measuring right on a scale. I was happy to be eating without pain, happy to be nourishing my baby via all that good breastmilk, and happy to see/smell/taste food without being violently ill. In my excitement to finally be feeling normal again, I hadn't given my BMI a second thought... or first.

What did I do?

Nothing at first, admittedly. I wasn't even entirely sure I should be offended at all. I'm not exactly skinny, and it almost felt hypocritical to compare this to skinny shaming. One, I'm not skinny. Two, I'm not ashamed of my weight ever--not at its highest (so far 150) and not at its norm (around 138). You can't be shamed for something you aren't actively or latently self-conscious about.

But to have this doctor actively plucking at me, trying to draw a confession about an issue I don't have, made me feel shame. Not because of weight, but because I didn't stand up for myself as soon as I felt "this isn't ok!" I shouldn't have "respectfully" listened to them drone on about bulimia or anorexia. I should not have gotten on that scale three times. I should NOT have allowed that doctor to press guilt on me for issues I don't even have.

I felt sad, too. If I was feeling this way in the complete absence of a problem, how would a patient feel who NEEDED treatment for those problems?

It made me mad. Mad enough to go do something about it. Mad enough to make sure that doctor didn't treat anyone else to the same shame he attempted to serve me.

I didn't harm his practice. I simply spoke up and out. My only regret is not doing it sooner-- there were two or three appointments of similar ill manner that I shrugged off. As I've emerged from my struggle with PPD, I've been a little more sensitive than normal. So I didn't want to project my malaise onto a situation that didn't warrant it. I didnt speak because I wanted to be sure there was an issue--and there decidedly was.

I wouldn't have been projecting. I WASN'T being hypersensitive.

When a doctor badgers a patient about a treatment they don't want or need, it's wrong. When a doctor uses his position to force a patient to accept an incorrect diagnosis, it's wrong. When a doctor refuses to respect a patient, it's WRONG. When a doctor consistently pushes a patient to accept unneeded intervention, it's WRONG WRONG WRONG.

This doctor wanted me in therapy. For an eating disorder I don't have.

Now.

Imagine walking in that office NEEDING help for an eating disorder.

Would you feel comfortable? Would the doctor even notice you were suffering?

Because he was so focused on the ten pounds I shed after delivery (never mind I was breastfeeding around the clock and enjoying a pretty active stint after being on bed rest for months), he completely missed the opportunity to be a decent human.

I wouldn't darken his doorway again if he were the last OB/GYN in Georgia. Thankfully I won't have to.

Tweens, Chores, and the EVIL Mom...

Insert sarcasm.

Maybe an eyeroll for good measure.

Wait... now I'm acting like my tween. *sighs*

Between about age ten (when they're just getting their big kid bearings) and age  thirteen (when they're officially teens), we have the tweens.

That's where we are now with our princess.

She's a ball of sunshine, and she's extremely sensitive and also very intelligent. This girl amazes us with her wit. She's also super talented and can draw anything.

... but for some reason her hands and feet get sick when it's time to clean her space.

Y'all I'm NOT a neat freak. My home is clean for sure, but it's obvious there are kids here and I don't nag after them to make the house look like a show model. (Although it did before kids...*sighs*)

We travel a whole lot. We are almost constantly on the move, for days or even weeks at a time depending on hubby's schedule and my willingness to go where he does. So I get it-- when we're NOT in a hotel (where we do nothing but tidy the suite) or in transit, everyone wants to decompress and just chill in their space. Something about being on the road makes being home almost inexplicably nice.

Our princess will be twelve in September.

If she had her way, she'd play Minecraft all morning, Legend of Zelda all evening, and text memes to her bestie the rest of the time. She still likes to participate in family activities... but marginally. With no siblings close to her age--she is literally the only child in the house over the age of 3... and we don't live near any relatives now--I definitely understand her boredom. I'm an adult and there's only so much Mickey Mouse I can stand and I'm only able to do Legos for short stretches before my brain shuts down.

When I was her age... *cute the dramatic segue into the Dark Ages*... I had chores. Nothing too crazy, now. I had to clean my room and my bathroom, help tend the pets, and assist with yard work as needed. We cleaned house on Saturdays, which was also my wash day. (By wash, I mean laundry. Baths were daily; we weren't allowed to skip!)

As such, my girl has similar chores. (She doesn't weed flower beds or cut grass though. Pansy.) She's expected to clean her space, clean herself, and basically just not be one more person I have to chase with a baby wipe and strain remover all day. The only chore she has that isn't directly related to her own personal space is the afternoon dishes. The afternoon dishes usually consist of a plate or two, or whatever utensils used after breakfast.  #soMuchWork #meanParents

You'd think she could remember these few honeydos easily, especially since she prefers an organized space and doesn't care for clutter.

... right.

Just look under her bed. *cringe*

Right now I'm in drill sergeant mode. If it's left on the floor, it's taken away. If it's not kept clean enough, it might just be tossed. She loses electronics and screen time when I have to remind her more than once about her laundry or taking the trash out.

I was not quite prepared for the tween lazies, especially from my once-tidy little ladybug. Seriously, when she was a tiny tot, she took great joy in organizing and staging her room. Now she's allergic to the vacuum and making the bed is against her religion. *sighs heavily*

I'm determined to not be that naggy mom, and I prefer not to micromanage too much, but I'm struggling here. I was NOT ready for this part of the game.

My big issue is, not doing it for her. Like, there's something about the way she sweeps a floor that makes my skin crawl. Also I don't understand why she doesn't turn the water off while washing dishes. (I do step in there-- one because WASTEFUL MUCH and two because HEY, WE ONLY PAY FOR THAT!)

Thankfully she's still a very sweet kid. Minimal attitude. Other than her lackadaisical approach to chores, I'm only ever put off by her disinterest in EVERYTHING that isn't directly related to her. She isn't very moody or mean spirited. She's never actually given us back talk. (Best for her, because I don't play that.)

I still feel like I hit the lottery with this kid. She's a treasure. We just have to work on this laziness because it severely irritates me.

The Middler Chronicles

Namasté!

I just enjoyed the sweetest snuggle sesh. My little guy had a bath last night, and his lavender soap and shampoo had time to sorta marinate overnight. When he woke me up this morning, he was like a warm cuddly lavender lovey.

No...I don't exactly relish 3 aye em wakeups. I prefer to only meet 3 o'clock once a day, thank you kindly.

But one of the worries I have as I learn to really balance this mommy'ing thing is, how do I make sure each kid gets enough of me?!

When my little guy was born, my princess was already nine and a half years old. She wasn't entirely over me, but she didn't need my attention nearly as much as our nieces and nephews (four of whom lived with us for months and still frequently visit) and none of them needed my presence nearly as much as the baby.

Fast forward--the baby is now nearly 3, and not exactly the baby anymore. Hubby and I are on our third, which means our son has shifted to the middle.

Ah, the dreaded (?) middle. Not only is he in the throes of preschool-ness, but he's not the baby anymore. He's a big brother, but he isn't even a big kid.

I actually felt a lot of guilt about that for a while. While Princess had nine years to be the star, my Baby Bear only got about 2. *sighs*

See, despite my complicated family dynamic, my birth order during my upbringing was pretty straightforward. I was the youngest child my grandma had actual legal guardianship over.  As other grandkids came and went, my "spot" never changed. She never legally took on another kid, so I was always secure with that at least.

As my guy has shifted, I've become way more keen to allot enough time for him. I don't want him to fall through the cracks and end up relating to those middle child jokes later in life.

There's something about being the middle kid that just, I don't know, this at me. He isn't the oldest, so he isn't really expected to be responsible for much. But he isn't the baby, so he's not afforded quite as many opportunities to vent his frustrations or turn up the cute.

He wakes at 3 aye em most mornings (to see Daddy before he leaves for work), and it's ended up being a really good time for me to get in some time with him as well. After Dad has made his exodus to the salt mines, Baby Bear and I snuggle up with a few hundred pillows and just relax.

There's never much conversation. He's usually half asleep, and I welcome that because so am I. We get amongst those many pillows and curl up. We sleep with classical music playing (and these really cool night lights that cast a soft, color-changing glow on everything) and just stay there.

Eventually an alarm will sound and the Princess will awaken, or a baby will wail her displeasure at early morning hunger pangs. But my Baby Bear (I don't care he's a toddler, he will always be Baby Bear to me!) and I often get at least an hour or two before any of that.

Sometimes we get a muffin and share it. Sometimes we venture to the living room and observe the cars outside as they come and go. But mostly we hang out in the big bed, listening to the sleepy sounds of our neighborhood waking up. It's magical!

During the day I check in often with my Baby Bear, especially in the thick of our usual routine, which includes schoolwork he is too little for and baby work he is too big for, because the middle isn't always fun. Being caught between a big sister who can do everything you can't and a little sister who can do almost nothing you can must be frustrating.

Being reminded that you're too big, only to them be told you're too little?!

We've kinda abolished those phrases from our kids' days, except where clothing or sports equipment is concerned.

No, Baby Bear isn't more coddled because he's the middler. We just make a conscious effort to make sure he isn't less so!

As such, he's a happy kid. He's able to let me play with the baby or do schoolwork and video games with Princess. He's not as prone to tantrums, likely because he is not ignored or shrugged off. Even if I'm engaged in something he can't help with (chopping vegetables, washing the tub), I allow him to be my right hand, very near to me, so he can have a bird's eye view of what's happening.

It's really easy to overlook an easygoing kid, y'all. For a wee stretch of time, we took our son's easy nature for granted. We don't now. Now, we make sure he is getting our time and undivided attention BEFORE he throws a fit.

Note: He was never forgotten or cast aside--it's just very easy to neglect the extra cuddles and reassurances when a child doesn't outwardly demand them. Our son is very mild tempered and generally operates on a very even Kiel, so we were lulled into a false sense of maturity there. He didn't "need less" of us. He needed us, just was less keen to demand it. So we adjusted and made sure to make "a little extra," the norm--for all three but especially our middler.

Namasté!

-- Tayé K. ♡

YES, My Son Has Long Hair. NO, Your Input Isn't Needed or Wanted.

Namaste!


As back to school season charges forth, I'm meeting the wave and getting into the swing of it all by attending activities and enrichment programs with my kiddos. We homeschool, but we still get out quite a bit for socialization. (For those who always mention that particular bullet point to homeschoolers--knock it off, because those of us with well-rounded curricula do actually socialize our kids. Plus, they don't do that lab rat state testing the public school kids lose their marbles over each year. NYAH! *raspberries*)


Maturity lapse aside...


We hang out at least two days a week. We do our lessons in the morning. Or afternoon on storytime day, which is each Tuesday.


So I dress the kiddos, load up the truck, and off we go. For the most part, our interactions with people are pleasant. We smile and chat, or run around the park.


"She is such a spry little thing!"


*needle scratch*


Because my tween is about as far from spry as a person can be without being actually comatose, and Tiger Lily is too small to be considered spry or even mobile, I know immediately it's happened again. *face palm*


You've overlooked the athletic gear, in masculine colors. You've completely ignored the shirt that reads, BEST BROTHER EVER.


Yep, You zeroed in on his ponytail.


My son has a beautiful floof of curly hair. Because he won't be getting it cut until HE decides it's time, I keep it pulled back most of the time. When he's running around playing and being a toddler, I usually just wrap it in a ponytail or tuck it in a man bun so it doesn't get into his eyes. While that hair flip he does is absolutely to die for, I figure he probably wants to play unfettered, unbothered by his wayward curls.


He isn't wearing bows or embellishments of any kind. His hair band is black. There aren't any intricate parts or style techniques that would suggest he's anything but a boy with a ponytail instead of a Cesar.


I get aggravated by people who assume little boys with hair are effeminate. If a woman has short hair, the average human won't run around saying that woman "wants to be a boy" or "looks like a guy." Nope.


It's problematic to me because it's usually either men who aren't exactly shining examples of masculinity themselves OR women with hair envy.


His hair is long because he actually likes it. His hair is long because I like it. His hair is long because not only am I not willing to force a haircut onto a toddler, but because I'm also willing to maintain it.          


I'm not willing to hear anyone's misinformed conjectures about it though.


Save that and massage it into your scalp--then you too, can have luxurious curls. *chuckle*

Differences

Namaste!


Happy Monday!


We are getting ready for story time. (It's actually tomorrow, but I'm doing laundry today and will be going over the rules and such throughout the day so my little guy is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.


One thing I love about our area is the diversity. There are families across the board--different nationalities and races. The income level is the same, but kids generally don't care who's mom or dad has a 401K Because our little corner is a fairly well-appointed piece of the Georgia pie, our local library is pretty sweet. It's accessible, which means all the kids can participate and enjoy. It's colorful and fun and just a really neat little place!


As such, my son has gotten the opportunity to meet and mingle with a very adorable circle of kiddos.


In particular, his friend Florence and her rock star mommy.


Florence is my little guy's favorite playmate here. She's not much bigger than he, and they get along really well. They play with trucks. They race the matchbox cars on the little city rug. They even sit together at snack time.


They have a good time, and it's completely organic. They were never "pushed" to sit together. It just sorta happened, and when the kids expressed a preference for the little red chair and the little yellow chair, we just let them be great.


This isn't even a spectacular tale--well, unless you look at the facts behind the faces. As you know, my little guy is two. (Almost two and a half!) Florence is almost nine.


*needle scratch*


Yep. They are almost seven years apart. They're also roughly the same size--Florence is a tiny wisp of a girl.


SO how is it that they are together at storytime?


Florence is autistic. She is homeschooled, and in addition to knowing her mom from co-op, we also meet up at storytime. (We go to the library once a week, and Florence and her mom are there on the same day!) Because Florence understands the same things my little guy does, at the same level, it is a unique opportunity for her to get social development and just have some fun without worrying too much about "fitting in" or "Standing out."


My little guy LOVES Florence. They have little conversations and do high fives. They are both into
Word Party and Daniel Tiger.


But the real reason I mentioned Florence is because her mom is a rock star.


See, she shoulders a heavy load when it's time to introduce her princess to new people. Florence does not speak much. She is very shy. Because Florence is so small in stature, she's often not treated like an equal by the kids in her therapy groups. Sometimes her mom lets people think she is younger, to avoid the judgment from her size and to avoid all the tips and advice people unload on parents of autistic kids.


Admittedly, I'm impressed by her because when we met her, she did the coolest thing ever.


She introduced Florence by saying, "This is my Florence. She doesn't like to be called Flo."


As we chatted, she did eventually tell me about Florence's autism, and how it has affected her. I learned about their days and all the therapies Florence receives to make sure she is as ready for the world as possible.


She didn't bumrush me with all that at once, though. She let me meet her kid first. Not the diagnosis.


I am never intimidated by a child who looks, acts, or is different than mine. I am, however, intimidated by moms and dads who introduce the condition first, then their kid. Instead of telling me little Terry likes cars and trucks like my kid, they're giving me a rundown of all the ways Terry is NOT like my kid.


It's important to know--but are they raising a condition or a child? Is my child meeting Terry, or is my child meeting autism, ADHD, and bipolar disorder?


The only disability we contend with is a physical one, so I can't say I'm well-versed in knowing what those parents deal with in their day to day interactions with "normal" families. (Is there such a thing?) I won't dare compare our physical therapy to their intensive occupational, speech, and physical therapy. I won't compare my anxiety over milestones to their absolute frenzy about mastering simple day to day activities. It would not be fair.


One, because I don't believe it's a competition--I don't even WANT to win the contest for saddest mom story or most challenged kid. I really just wanna develop a mom circle, hang out, and hopefully our village can raise kids who aren't total assholes.


Florence's mom is the mom I wish all special needs moms could be. I know she has her troubles and worries (will Florence be able to have independence? Will she be able to follow her dreams? Will she know how to navigate life in the event her mom is not there anymore?) , as we've spoken about them. We talk a lot, actually, and I find that while she definitely has a set of worries unique to her situation, she's no different than any other mom.


She wants her child to be successful. She wants her child to be happy. She wants her child to be healthy. She wants her child to enjoy childhood, while preparing her for adulthood.


In my travels, I've run across a lot more parents like the fictional Terry's, than the very real Florence. And it's always on my mind to ask them why, except they've already martyred themselves and I don't want to add on to that. I almost feel like it isn't my place to say anything, although I'm quite sure they would have an easier time if they could relax a tad.


The thing I admire most about Florence's mom is her willingness to let the world see a child first. While it's not easily overlooked that Florence is different, it's also not the thing that jumps out at you. I noticed her neon green sweater first. (She wears a sweater most times because she likes the feeling of the fuzzy material on her arms.) It's really bright--like the smile she flashes when you acknowledge her favorite item. She also has more cars than dolls in her backpack, which makes her a rockstar in my son's eyes. He has cars in his backpack too!


I'm not blind to the differences in kids. I see and acknowledge each as it arises. I know that even if you took 10 kids born at the exact same time on the exact same day in the exact same hospital and cataloged their personalities, you would STILL end up with ten different people. Some differences are physical. Some are developmental. Some are practically invisible.


...BUT ALL ARE DUE, THE SAME DIGNITY.


Which starts with the way we introduce them. The way we treat them. No one can see strength when all you point out is weakness.


Just my thoughts!

Gratitude Attitude!

... not difficult to do, but nearly impossible to have a peaceful home without.

For all my outspoken-ocity and brass, manners are a big deal to me.

Note: For the record, being outspoken or ballsy does not necessarily equate to being rude. Even as I'm making my opinions known, I still choose what I deem the appropriate time and place to share those opinions. That's tact as well as polite. Digression, complete.

A cornerstone of manners is gratitude. Gratitude itself cannot exist without humility. Neither is a congenital trait.

As you might know, 2015 rained its little piddle cloud on Family Namastè. We utook losses left and right, beginning with a fire that gutted our home and left us scrambling to put together some semblance of normalcy.

Because we had only the clothes on our backs, we had to adjust quickly. When I tell you it was difficult?!

We were insured--every loss was compensated. It was just hard to be thankful or even mildly grateful when we woke up that morning with a beautiful home and our own EVERYTHING, only to be left with nothing mere hours later. There were only a few items salvageable from that house. None of which made a huge difference besides sentimental value, to be honest.

... which is where my family and I had to be humble and show gratitude. We also had to toughen up a bit. While we don't love a particularly glam life (we have our moments), it felt like we got knocked down six or seven pegs.

Let me tell you--it is a beyond bitter pill to feel pitied. We've always worked hard for everything we have, and we've never taken handouts, so it was extremely hard for us to accept anything from our inner circle. We weren't being prideful peacocks...

...but to go from having our own things that we chose and paid for, to politely sifting though kind (and extremely generous--our circle is wonderful) donations for that day's outfit or shoes, was a really tough dose. I was heavily pregnant with Brother Bear too: enter, hormones. I cried way more tears than I care to admit. And I felt badly for doing so, because while we lost everything, we still had what mattered. We never wondered where we'd be resting our heads and we never missed a meal. We landed at this ultra posh spot in Atlanta, so I felt so convicted for weeping in my creme brulée.

The hotel room was super nice, but even the pretty views of Buckhead couldn't take my mind off the house on the mountain. And where would we even settle next?! I wanted our home, not someone else's. I didn't want to get used to new surroundings or new neighbors. I didn't want to be living in someone else's memories.

Again, I had to check myself. While I wasn't in my home, I still had one, or at least a base. While the kids weren't nestled in their own adorable bedrooms at night, they were sleeping in a safe, comfortable space. I wasn't whipping up my usual homemade meals and treats in my own beautiful kitchen--but one, I wasn't starving and two, it is seriously difficult to not enjoy resting your laurels in a place where practically any food can be delivered!

No, it wasn't a vacation. (You lose a bag on vacation, not your entire house.)

I had to get over myself and my plans.

The universe laughs at plans.

It's obviously a bit easier to look back on those days now. (And no, it didn't take us experiencing a season of loss for us to appreciate what we had or even what we rebuilt and have now.) In the thick of it, I had to count it all handled and keep my game face up because I knew our princess was watching, feeding off our reactions as she processed everything.

Sometimes people would remind us that it could be worse--we could be grieving loss of life instead of loss of items. We could be uninsured! It could be worse. Instead of weeping into that delicious dessert at the W, I could have been crying it out at the bus stop.

I didn't need those reminders. I just needed to decompress and process what was going on, so I could handle the needful.

Fast forward to now...

I'm definitely walking in my gratitude attitude.

It took me a long time. I had a lot of hurt to let go of, and a lot of unresolved anger to wade through. I hated feeling like I was being punished for trying--my husband and I had put in hundreds of hours and thousands on thousands of dollars to live where we did, as we did. We both worked our butts off. We spread good karma whenever we could, so it didn't make sense that we were in such a snowball effect of misery. Couldn't the rain cloud shift for just a moment?

It did.

Turns out, approaching things with gratitude has made the journey easier, even if the practice isn't.

When I'm inconvenienced, I still have to takea moment to refocus. I still have to check my collar when my patience wears thin. Lately I'm way more zen, partly because I've learned to have a chill pill.

Not an actual pill...just some gratitude.

Now...let me go exercise this gratitude attitude while I'm in traffic! I have to make a Publix run to stock up for the tot soccer pizza party. *heart eyes*

Namastè!

♡ Tayè K.