5/20/22 5/20/22

Silence is Suspicious

Alternate title: You pay for every moment alone (but you know how I love alliteration.)

We are entering a new phase of independence. At three-and-a-half and five-and-a-half, my kids now play independently for a good portion of the day (am I allowed to say that out loud?) And I love it, do not take lightly, and most definitely pay for it in terms of mess and overall destruction of the house.

I want to be one of those moms who has taught her kids to put away toys as they go. To require one area to be thoroughly tidied before they move onto the next. To have labeled boxes and a working "system."

Turns out, I am not that mom.

You've probably heard the phrase, "Don't wake a sleeping baby." My mantra is "Don't interrupt happily playing kids"--even if that means they move from making robots with foam paint brushes and athletic tape in the kitchen to rescuing the fine folks of Adventure Bay on the living room ottomans to performing ninja moves on a pile of couch cushions in the loft (in a span of three minutes!)

Silence is suspicious, yes. Sometimes silence means they've found the adult scissors, are squirting tooth paste into a bin of dried beans as a science experiment, or have taken the cap off EVERY marker in the art drawer and left it on the floor (I'm speaking from experience here). But silence also signals independence. Silence is also sweet and silly and saving my sanity.

Below are some images where I tried to find the beauty in the aftermath of alone time.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Still Motherhood”.

3/18/22 3/18/22

I'll be the banks for your river

Maybe God’s not judging me. Maybe He’s okay with my ebbs and flows. Maybe He’s the banks to my river.

God used to speak to me. And I used to write about it on this blog.

I use the past tense here because lately I’m not so sure. I don't know how to be sure that it’s really God’s voice that I heard.

It's not that I believe I never heard from God or that I was wrong about it all. I’m just less...certain. More cautious. (16-year-old Aly would have been horrified by this “lukewarm Christian” talk and wishy washy faith).

I’m currently in treatment for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and one of the themes of my obsessions and compulsions is Moral Scrupulosity.

“Scrupulosity is an OCD theme in which a person is overly concerned with the fear that they are doing something that goes against their religious beliefs or is immoral.”

Simply put, I have a deep and distressing fear that I am not living out my values. And I have developed compulsions to alleviate this fear. I have been convinced that I must find the right answer–the right action–in every situation and God will make this known to me through signs and certainty if only I pray hard enough, believe earnestly enough, and am faithful enough to figure it out. (Spoiler alert: this is not actually figure-out-able.)

I didn’t know this was part of a disorder until six months ago. To me, the anxiety and the fear and the worry and the rumination and the second-guessing was just my normal experience of faith. Or more accurately, an indictment on my failed faith.

So now I find myself asking the disturbing question, “Was it the voice of God or a mental disorder?”

Before recovery, I would have rushed to find this answer. I would have NEEDED this answer to be okay. I would have rejected all the good and beautiful and redemptive things I learned about God.

I am learning to live with uncertainty. To hold space for the messy.

I can believe God loves me and also be confused about how He chooses to speak or not speak.

I can embrace my belovedness even if I don’t know all the answers.

I can be bewildered by violence and war and racism and still believe that God is good and there is goodness inherent in all people.

What I cannot do is be certain that my faith or my politics are right. That my way is more holy. And conversely, I cannot be certain that the other side is wrong.

If God is as big and powerful and loving and grace-filled as I believe, won’t He* understand that I don’t understand? That prayer might be hard right now? That grief lingers in the corners of my recovery?

Needtobreathe** has a beautiful song called Banks. Some of my favorite lines go:

I wanna hold you close but never hold you back

Just like the banks to the river

And if you ever feel like you are not enough

I'm gonna break all your mirrors

I wanna be there when the darkness closes in

To make the truth a little clearer

I wanna hold you close but never hold you back

I'll be the banks for your river*

Maybe God’s not judging me. Maybe He’s okay with my ebbs and flows. Maybe He’s the banks to my river.

*you can see I’m still scared not to capitalize He for God ;)

**Don't worry, I haven’t backslid too much–Needtobreathe is a Christian band!).

***

2/17/22 2/17/22

Love Looks Like Maybe

Love looks like refusing to feed my OCD cycle with reassurance. When asked if I look fat, I want you—no, need you—to answer “Maybe. ”

Ryan, your love looks like...

pouring your curated craft liquors down the drain
ordering Rachel Held Evan’s book
scooping kitty litter and braving Costco on a Saturday
meeting with a Life/Dad coach
learning to regulate your emotions and reframing narratives with kids

refinancing the mortgage, consolidating car payments
taking out the trash and setting the coffee
sneaking in late night workouts
planning a trip to the Olympic Trials, learning all the gymnasts’ names (Go Mykayla!), and immediately watching replays in the hotel room
organizing a trip to visit friends in Idaho
foregoing a trip to visit friends so I could fly last minute to my grandmama’s funeral

encouraging me in AA
hiding the BMI scale
reaching out to your people
sharing my blog posts
building me a new website (coming soon!)
re-engaging after tough interactions

stacks of crustless peanut butter sandwiches
a Pielogy box with my name on it
preschool drop offs with the threenager
quesadillas and gyro meat sizzling on the skillet
shoestring fries and dino nuggets humming in the airfryer
his and hers yodels (IYKYK)
Dada “nuggles”

calling the kids downstairs when I’m trying to finish a workout in peace
scheduling family photoshoots--and enduring them!
binging Dexter and Top Chef and Ted Lasso
cringing with me at Covid misinformation videos
waking up at 3am to watch Simone
printing family calendars for the grandparents
designing the yearly Christmas cards

willingly participating in a child dedication where the five-year-old crawled around on the stage and the three-year-old grabbed my crotch during your heartfelt prayer
giving grace when I’m angry, critical, self-righteous

saying I’m sorry
saying I love you to the toddler who screams and stomps at your mere presence
saying nothing and everything with your hand on my shoulder
saying great! to my decision not to cover up my gray hairs
saying I’ll pick up Aidan, I’ll run to the store, I’ll give you some quiet

***

Love even looks like saying *Maybe* when I want to know if I’m fat, failing, defective.

Love looks like refusing to feed my OCD cycle with reassurance. When asked if I look fat, I want you—no, need you–to answer Maybe.

And though you are an Enneagram 9, a peacemaker, a non-rocker-of-boats and follower of Unspoken Rules of Men Everywhere, you do say Maybe, and we move forward together.

***