Camden's First Birthday Letter

PREAMBLE:
Let me first preface this post with an acknowledgement that I am acutely aware that it is Camden's SECOND birthday today. When I wrote his birthday letter last year, I was in a strange place emotionally and for some reason couldn't bring myself to post it.  So here it is! This year's post is in progress.

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Dear Camden,

Today  at 8:31pm it is your very first birthday and I look down at you as I lay you in bed, I cant help but fall more in love with you.  I remember, so clearly, meeting you for the first time. Daddy and I gripped each other, as he comforted me for just a few more pushes. I told him that you had arrived. I don't think anyone could have believed that you joined our family so quickly after a 42 week wait. 

Do you remember what life looked like a year ago? Well, yesterday you forgot that you like bread even though the day before you couldn’t shovel it into your face fast enough, so if your memory is a little fuzzy, that’s okay. That’s why I’m here. Because I remember it all.

A year ago, we were cuddling in the delivery room, and everything was white and sterile but oh so quiet.  Sweet little man... the moment you were born everything stopped. It was as if the universe took notice. Everyone left the room, the lights were turned off and you and I laid there in silence and in awe for the most precious 25 minutes of my entire existence.  You were so healthy and content that they allowed daddy and I to take it all in. The peaceful silence you created for me will stay with me forever. 

Though you were a big, 9-pound-4-ounce ball of heavenly chub, in my arms you felt fragile and tiny. The most precious thing I’ve ever seen. And I couldn’t believe that you were mine.

Bringing you home just 3 short hours after you were born was glorious. There was no fear. There was no trepidation. We walked in, Blue greeted us and smelled his new baby brother and we all snuggled in for the first time as a family of 4 +1. You fit in so perfectly. You belong here. When you step into the world I want you to always remember that this, here with your mom and dad and brother,  is where you belong. Forever and always. 

That first night at home was an exhausting one for me, and probably you, too. While your daddy slept, you and I (after sixteen hours of labor) stayed awake getting to know each others' smell. I instinctively knew that you needed me to hold you close.  You slept best those first few nights snuggled close as if you weren't quite ready to give up mommy-camden time. Your brother came home in the morning and was so quiet and so gentle. He treated you like you were the most precious thing he had seen. By the way, he loved the car you brought him he night you arrived. He still proudly holds that yellow Mader truck and pronounces that his "baby bruder got dis truck for him. He is a good widdle bruder". 

As a newborn, you were so happy. You would coo and smile and charm everyone. They warned us in those first few weeks that the key to your heart would be milk. They warned that I would have to take good care of myself in order to keep up with you. I did my best and you were happy. At 2 weeks old you got your first cold. I think it bothered mommy more than it bothered you.  

The next 8 months are an absolute blur. You helped say goodbye to Blue. Truth be told, if  it wasn't for your snuggles (and demands for more milk) I think I may have fallen apart.  Blue knew that you completed us and he could go. You sprouted 6 teeth without us even noticing. You welcomed Cash.  You rolled. You army crawled. You scream a high-pitched "eeeeeeee" when you need a little attention. You said "mama". You gave kisses. You played with your brother. You rolled with punches when we asked you travel across Ontario at a moments notice to spend long days in the cancer centre. 

You came into this world, 9lbs and 4oz… so pink and soft, so innocent and dependent and absolutely perfect in every way. And now, you are a little boy…over 20 lbs, laughing, talking, waving…charming every person who is lucky enough to meet you. You are standing with little help and learning your first steps.  You are one today, beginning a journey—A journey that will take you in many different directions and teach you many things. As I sit here and watch you cautiously take your first of many steps in life, I think of the man I hope you’ll become and that I will go to infinity and beyond to be a good mommy to you and help guide you in your journey through childhood and into adulthood. 

You have developed into such an amazing little person already. You are the sweetest, most joyful child I’ve ever met. You are kind and curious. You sometimes get so excited that you can't help but scream and flail your arms. You are also sensitive. One stern look in your direction or a "mommy's not happy with you" and your bottom lip comes out and sorrowful tears start flowing.  There are big things ahead for you.  You have already made this world a better place for being in it and I feel so honoured to have been chosen to be your mother. 

You melt my heart every time you smile, and when you lay your head on my shoulder after a long day…it helps make the world right again. Never in my life have I been so excited to wake up…it’s because I get to wake up and be your mommy again. My angel, it is such a profound gift. 

Tomorrow we both have to start a new chapter in our lives. I know this year being at home with daddy has been the greatest gift we could have ever asked for, even if I cried in my car at recess because I just missed you so much. This last year has been an amazing journey. It has been the most rewarding, incredible, special time in my whole life. I will cherish the experience of your first year of life in a special way, and treasure it always in my heart. 

Cam, a year ago, you turned my whole world upside down. You took what I knew about life and love and motherhood and you shook it all up and rebuilt it into something beautiful; something I don’t fully understand. 

Words cannot express how much I love you, my prince, my precious boy. You are my sunshine, my heart, my purpose for being—my everything. I’m so very proud of you and grateful to be your mommy. 

Happy First Birthday Special Little Man!

On Trusting Your Instincts

I was talking to a friend of mine a last week. I was telling her how I usually know when it’s time for me to move. It seems to many that things have always fallen in place for me; in career, in love, in life. But, "falling into place" isn't exactly the right way to describe my circumstances.  I go out on a limb here to say, that I am on a carefully thought of path.  I listen when the path tells me it is time to change directions.  My friend asked me, “How do you know? What makes you aware that you ‘know’ this?”

It was a reasonable question: What is the actual sign that indicates that you “know” to do anything?

“You just know,” I told her.

“But how?” she asked, curiously.

I didn’t really have a good answer for her at the time, but it stuck with me.

After thinking about it for awhile, I realized it’s not in the “knowing” that we get stuck. We always know. It’s in how well we trust what we know, and whether we’re willing to trust it enough to act upon it.

So, how do you know that you “know” something?

Well, let me ask you this: How did you know that you were going to marry the person you married, or take the job you were offered, or go see the new doctor you read about?

What made you decide that this was the right decision for you? What made you “know” that the house you bought was the right one for you or the apartment you chose to rent was the perfect spot for you?

It’s intangible, isn’t it? It’s a feeling. You know, and then you “know” that you know.

Or, how do you know when it’s time to end a relationship? Or when it’s time to move on from a friendship that is no longer serving you? Even if it’s been one you’ve been with for a long time?

I’m going to say it: usually, you know. Most often, it’s not the “knowing” that is the case. It’s the trusting. As I was reflecting on instincts and taking leaps and changing paths, something jumped out at me.  Literally!  My youngest leapt into my lap off the couch.  He jumped knowing that I would catch him.  He does such things often.  He runs at me full tilt, lunging himself at me trusting that I will be there to catch him.  How does he know? Is it a feeling? A look? Instinctual? Trust?

Trusting that our assessment is accurate, that our feelings are valid, that our observations are not all in our head. Trusting that we know what is true for us. And then trusting that we have enough courage to take action on what we know.

We often doubt ourselves. We wonder “What if I’m wrong? What if something better doesn’t come along? What if it’s not the right time? What if…?”

So, what to do?

My feeling about it is this: We always know what is going on with us, but fear has the opportunity to creep in when we second guess ourselves. So, when I get stuck in a particular situation, I always ask myself this question:

“I know what I don’t know. But what is it that I do know?”

Then I usually go into a litany of what I actually know, either because circumstances have proven it in the past or because of a logical conclusion: I know that I can never make a wrong decision because I can always “right” my decision down the line. I know that this is an opportunity that is presenting itself now, which means on some level I am ready for it.

I know that I can try it out for awhile and see what it’s like. I know that I can always change my mind if I want to. I know that in making a decision, I will propel movement, either way, and change is good. I know that things always work out for me, regardless of what happens. The list goes on and on.

There are a few things we know. Always. And we can stand by them. 

So, what is it that stops us, really, from trusting ourselves?

That we’ve made wrong decisions in the past? That some of our decisions have caused us pain or misfortune and we are afraid of our judgment? That we don’t know what the outcome will be and so if we can’t predict it, why risk it?

What is it? Even these argument we can dispel. We are a result of all we have lived. Every experience we’ve had contributes to the people we are today. And this is not all bad. We stand at the precipice of new beginnings, right now. Life is full of second chances.

So, the question is not if we’ve made poor decisions in the past. Undoubtedly, all of us have!

The question is: How willing we are to get up to the plate and swing again? Make a new decision, have a new experience, try something new?

Trusting yourself is a practice, but you can’t get the practice if you don’t start somewhere. How is it that you gain trust of anyone in your life?  Time. Watching whether they do what they say they’re going to do. Consistency. Faith.

So, start with yourself. Build the kind of trust in yourself that you would want in a good friend. Make a decision, stick to it. See what happens.

Someone once pointed it out to me that choices are “strategies.” They’re not right or wrong, good or bad. They simply either work or don’t for the time being. And when they don’t, you can always choose a new “strategy.”

In either case, it starts with us. Are we willing to take the bet on ourselves that we “know”—that it’s time, or that it’s ours, or that we need to take the risk and just go for it?

That’s what it takes.

Trust in our truth. Faith in ourselves. And a little bit of surrender.

On Letting Go

Letting Go

The hardest part of life for me has been learning to let go. I often give generously of my heart, feelings and spirit. Please pardon the cheesy cliche, but I wear my heart on my sleeve.  When I feel that the most valuable parts of me have been thrown away or disrespected, I have a hard time moving past it.  

I have come to learn that sometimes not doing anything does more to heal a situation than over-reacting or demanding a resolution. You just have to drop the rock.

Letting go may be more of a selfish act than you would think. It is an act of forgiveness — or a decision to not become the judge and juror — and to let people off the the hook. In forgiving we free ourselves to work on and experience what matters, the people in front of us that really matter. 

Of course, the alternative is walking around holding grudges and/or worrying and essentially drinking poison expecting the other person to feel the pain. It’s the equivalent of renting space in your head to things you can’t control.  This type of mental energy is really unproductive, and something that I think impedes your ability to move forward and really let go of what that person meant in your life.  

The Big 3!

In my life there have been 3 big things that have begged for me to let go.  Interestingly enough they are all different in nature.  One was a relationship that left me feeling little, used and thrown away. The next was the loss of a circumstance or opportunity that had meant .  The last was a result of a death.  All 3 have a common theme; I was left feeling hurt, angry and resentful.  

My pattern of dealing with this type of grief is to push it away and harbour the negative associations internally.  Typically, I will end all attachment, tidy up all the positive memories in a neat little box in my head and never look back.  I have come to realize in the past few weeks how toxic this can be. In the end, the other parties are not hurting, it is just me left grieving. And thus, began my journey of letting go.  

As part of the challenge to myself, I wrote out my grievances, and then tried to look at it from the other persons’ perspectives. While I may not agree with their actions, I could see they were simply acting in self interest, rationalizations and justifications. No one thinks they are actually doing wrong, usually.

This is important. If someone doesn’t think they have done wrong, they won’t apologize or rectify a situation. Part of letting go, is truly being content with never getting the apology you think you deserve. See most people hold grudges because they are waiting for the other party to acknowledge and correct a wrong. The expectation of an amends is likely to remain unfulfilled, creating an ongoing pattern of negative resentment. I become a prisoner of my own angst.

The low probability of receiving an amends makes it critical to let go of small and big issues alike. Letting go has allowed me to be free. In the case of “The Big 3”, I was able to see why these people acted, and why the situation occurred and I decided to let them off the hook. That doesn’t mean I endorse their actions, it just means that their negative projections no longer have a place in my head nor heart. By letting go, I was able to free myself of resentment. I could focus on what mattered; the people and opportunities in my life today. The long and short of it is to cut the bullshit.   

The most profound thing that has happened as a result of forgiving and letting go has been the space that has been freed up in my head and heart.  It was as if a huge burden had been lifted.  I can now clearly see the beauty that exists in my life.  My heart is not consumed by grief and hurt.  It.  Is.  Liberating!

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift

From “Why,” by Rascal Flats

You must have been in a

Place so dark

You couldn’t feel the light

Reachin’ for you through

That stormy cloud

Now here we are

Gathered in our little hometown

This can’t be the way

You meant to draw a crowd

 

Oh why, that’s what I keep asking

Was there anything I could’ve

Said or done

Oh, I had no clue you were masking

 

A troubled soul, God only knows

What went wrong and why

You would leave the stage

In the middle of a song

 

These are the lyrics from a song that has been playing over and over in my head for the last few days.

It has been 10 years since I found that my mom had killed herself in the car at our family home. It has been 10 days since I was told that my dad would be joining her. 

In the past week while I have been helping my dad come to terms with this cruel reality, we have had many evenings of reflection and "air clearing". As I have been going through his belongings, I have found many remnants of my mom, despite their relationship meeting its demise more than 30 years ago.

The past 10 years has been a journey of growth, discovery and realization. My mother was a gift.  I no longer want to focus on the darkness that surrounds her past. Rather, I want to share with you the beautiful gifts she helped me “unwrap.”

The poet, Mary Oliver, wrote in her Thirst collection, “someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.”

Most people wouldn’t associate loss with being a gift. But because of my mom, I do.

The death of my mother, my box of darkness, was a gift. It just took a while to unwrap it completely. Here are some of the things that I’ve learned in the wake of my loss:

1. Education is Empowering

My mother's death was a beginning of a new and unwanted education for me.

Learning about suicide was never on my “bucket list,” but as my family and I were thrown into a world we did not see out, a world where one is forced try to fathom the unfathomable, education saved us.

For the past 10 years I have been trying to sort out what I knew about depression, suicide mental illness prevention and treatment. Between the books I have read, research I have done and the stories that have been shared with me since I made my journey public, the most valuable insight was this:

• A person who dies by suicide is often so consumed by pain that he can no longer think of anything but ending that pain.

• The pre-suicidal state of mind is one of extreme mental anguish where one’s judgment is distorted and one does not have the ability to “make choices” or see options. Our rational minds can’t fathom how our loved ones could have “chosen” to take their lives, but in their grief-stricken minds, there was no other choice.

• This is why it is so critical to reach out to others whenever you have suicidal thoughts of your own; you may be in a tailspin that you cannot pull out of by yourself.

• Individual therapy and group therapy in any form is essential for helping survivors to deal with this grief.

• The group of people I know who are “survivors of suicide” is much larger than I would have ever guessed. Suicide is still so stigmatized by our society that most people choose not to speak about it publicly. It has amazed and saddened me to discover how many people I know that have had their lives affected by the loss of someone important to them through suicide, and that they only felt they could share this with me after I had become one of them.

2. ABC: Always Be Capturing

Noticing and noting have always been critical in my life and in my learning, but I have been more conscious and conscientious about keeping a record of important moments in my life, and more importantly, the people I get to share those moments with.

 Remembering you, mom, has been a gift: Smells, songs, Hello My Name is Joe, Australia, The Carpenters and Wilson Philips.

I wish I had ALWAYS BEEN CAPTURING – my memories of you would be even greater.

3. Live in Appreciation; Forgive

I know...it seems cliche. We don’t appreciate what we have until it is gone. There is a reason things are cliche….they are often somewhat based in truth.

To say my mom and I had our ups-and-downs would be an understatement. Just weeks before her death, we had made a lot of progress in our relationship. We were in a state of change, whereby we were learning how 2 adults would function together.  It excited me to think that my future children might get to know the new Brenda.

We never got that chance. As I look back at how much I anticipated our evolving relationship, I regret not appreciating what we had much earlier.

Now, in death, rather than in life, I find myself appreciating her more for who she was, and forgiving whatever it was that drove us apart. I find myself wishing I had the opportunity to appreciate our differences as a window to learn about our similarities. I would so relish the opportunity to better know her, learn from her and love her more deeply.

Live in appreciation; forgive. Now.

4. Facing Death to Value Life

The meaning I have found in my mom's suicide and my dad's terminal cancer diagnosis, is to realize that life is tenuous for us all. Facing death with grace is the fulfillment of life, regardless of what you believe will follow.

Of all the gifts my mother bestowed upon me, this is the most significant of all.

We have the choice of making every minute count with the people we love from now on, and valuing them and our lives in a way we never did before. (another cliche?!)

5. Grace and Gratitude

The pain and loss of my mother's death will always remain, but my grief is beginning to be transformed into grace. Her memories remind me how ephemeral life is and how fortunate I am to be blessed with family, friends, and work that fill me up.

Her memories remind me to live every day to the fullest, to take nothing for granted and let those whom I love know how much they matter and I love them

Her memories remind me we live in a beautiful world that offers endless possibilities.

Thank you.. from the bottom of my heart.. to all that prayed for our family.. to all that shared so generously … to all who reached out to me and to my family in the weeks and months that followed and to those that are reaching out now. You will never know how much you are a part of my learning, my healing and my ability to support others in their grief.

Kingston's 2nd Annual Birthday Letter

There are times when I sit down to write and the words just flow…when the words are there, just waiting to be written.

This isn’t one of those times.

Each time I sit down to write this letter, I stare at a blank screen.

That is how much I love you, my sweet boy. There aren’t words for this kind of love. You are, without question, one of my life’s greatest gifts.

With your hugs and the way you hold onto me as though just a few minutes longer are all you’ll need. I know I should go but you make me weak. I need that.

Thank you, Kingston. Thank you for wearing your love for me on the outside; for holding me with all that you are.

Just saying your name makes emotion pour out from my heart. Never in my life have I experienced such a deep love for something or such an overwhelming amount of pride and joy. Thank you for making me a Mommy and your Dad a Daddy. We have such a special bond from being your parents, that we can often just look at each other and without saying a word know exactly what the other one is thinking or feeling about you.

Watching you grow up this past year has been a blur. A blur of you. You’ve changed so much, so fast! It’s been hard for me to keep up. One minute you were unsteady on your feet and the next you were running through the house like a crazy boy. It’s so hard to remember the days when you were stationary.

You went to bed one night barely speaking and woke up the next morning with words exploding from your mouth. You want to know the names of things! And when we tell you what things are you say them back to us. And let me tell you, you have the quite the vocabulary. Words like "broke", "buzz", "buddy" and some sounding like four letter words we wouldn't dare say. Take "truck" for example or when you tell Blue to sit.

It hasn’t been an easy year for us, you and me. We’ve had some…adjustments. With these new found words of yours has come a serious case of toddler ‘tude. You like to say “No, NO” when you don’t want to do something we want you to do. I know you’re just testing out the world a little bit, trying to find your own sense of control over the little things, so I cut you some slack, sometimes. But not always. You have to get out of the bath. Ad you could possible brush your teeth away if brush for a y longer. And I have to change your stinkbutt diapers. Be nice to girls, Even if they have cooties.(And they ALL have cooties until I tell you otherwise. Except me. Mamas don’t count.)

You need lots and lots of cuddles. Sometimes you still need a few middle of the night snuggles, and while I’d rather stay in my own bed, all comfy and cozy(and asleep), I’ll give up a few minutes of rest to breathe in your toddler scent in the middle of the night. That’s when you snuggle your face into my neck and sleep the most peacefully. It’s hard for me to put you back into your crib when you snuggle like that.

In the past year you’ve taught me how to be a mother–your mother. This is something I always wanted, and there was a time when I didn’t know if I’d ever be even sort of good at this. But your cuddles, your kisses and hugs, and they way you call for mommy, tell me that I’m more than just sort of good. I’m pretty okay. Even when I’m not.

You know what you want, when, and how you want it. Boy, we have had quite a few disagreements over your opinion. No, you cannot eat gummies for dinner. Im sorry but we cannot go outside at 9pm. And please try to remember the vacuum cleaner is not to be used as a riding toy. Please try not to kill our dog. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve actually thought you murdered Blue with your toys, eye gouges, and hair pulling.

I have shed many tears over the passing of your second birthday. Because you’re getting so big and my baby is gone. Because it’s difficult to remember every moment of the past two years. Because Daddy and I haven’t decided whether you’ll have a brother or sister. Because with each passing moment I'm acutely aware that these precious moments with you will not be forever.

2 years ago today you were a stranger. I could only dream of what your voice would sound like when you said, “Mommy". I could only imagine what you would look like when you took your first steps. I could never comprehend how proud I would be every time you learn a new word, when you blew out the candles of your 2nd birthday cake, and all your other little accomplishments. I would have never guessed how much joy and happiness you could bring to me.

2 years ago today I wasn’t sure I could do it. I still have days that I’m not sure I can do it. But, I hope you know how much I try to be the best mom possible. I love making you laugh so hard that your face turns red and you get hiccups. I love tickling you so hard that you giggle and say, “No, Mama! No!”. I love that I’m the only one who can understand your “kinglish”. I love that I get just as excited as you (okay, maybe more excited) when we see a big cuck (truck). I love getting to discover new things with you.

2 years ago today I knew I loved you, but I could have never imagined how much more I could love you today. Kingston, I love you so much and am so proud of the boy you are. I can’t wait to see how much you change and grow over the next year.

I’m thankful that YOU still love me, even when I don’t love myself very much. Even when I don’t think I’m very good at this and we’ve had a terrible, horrible, no-good, really bad day. You still come to me and say “Mommy up!” waiting on me to show you the world above your eye level. And there’s something kind of poetic about that. Something kind of awesome.

You are my sunshine; my bestest little boyfriend.

With a heart bursting with love,

Mommy

Newborn nostalgia (aka the lies we tell ourselves)

It wasn’t so long ago that I was the clueless mama of a newborn baby boy.

But it’s been long enough that I look back on those days with the sepia-toned lens of nostalgia—one not covered with spit up or smeared with overflow from a leaky diaper.

In other words, my memories of that time are filtered through a thick layer of bullshit.

See for yourself:
B.S. Mirror: From the moment I found out I was pregnant I felt glowing and embraced the life that was growing inside of me. Yes, there were aches and pains; some discomfort, but it was all going to be worth it in just 40 short weeks.

Reality check: Pregnancy sucked. I was bloated and tired. I worried constantly that I was not caring for this child enough to make a perfect human being. He broke my ribs. He dislocated my pelvis. I was In constant pain but refused to let anyone know. 40 weeks is BULLSHIT. K arrived after 42 weeks of torture.

B.S. Mirror: January 12 is going to be my big day, when I can finally rid of this physical burden on my body. I will be able to move again. My perfect delivery is within sight. This is what we have been waiting for. The pain wasn't so bad. And after all, this perfect human is worth it.

Reality check: My unmedicated delivery hurt like a mother-fucker. My husband did not watch in admiration and love; he was too busy playing on his PSP. K ripped apart my undercarriage to the tune of 53 unmedicated stitches.

When I arrived home with my not-so-cute screaming bundle of joy I did get normalcy back. In fact it was too normal. Vacuuming and entertaining just 12 short hours after K butchered his way into the world. I wanted everything back to my pre-baby honeymoon with dear husband also. So much so that, I ignored the advice and pleas of my midwife to stop causing her to redo stitches.

B.S. Mirror: I see myself cuddling under a blanket on the couch, my son snuggled on my chest. I smooth the downy peach fuzz away from his face and smile, feeling strangely complete as we both drift into sleep.

Reality Check: I am exhausted. I haven’t had more than two hours of sleep in seven weeks. My back hurts. My boobs hurt. I want nothing more than to escape back to my childless days for a little while—just long enough to get a few precious hours of shut eye.

Deciding to ignore all the warnings about the dangers of sleeping with your child, I collapse on the couch, willing myself into unconsciousness. But when I do finally fall asleep, I dream I’m smothering my son and jerk myself awake—feeling even worse than I did before.

B.S. Mirror: I am strolling down the street on a breezy spring morning, my son gurgling happily in his stroller. I chat with him as we walk, pointing out the trees waving in the wind, the puffy clouds in the sky and the brightly colored flowers blooming along the sidewalk. There is no place I’d rather be.

Reality Check: I am walking briskly down the street with my son thrown into his stroller. It’s only after we’ve walked for 15 minutes that his hiccupping sobs finally quiet.

Although I feel like an absolute idiot, I dutifully keep a running dialog going as we go. Why? Well, I’m afraid the Parenting Gods will strike me down if I fall silent and leave him to his newborn ruminations. But really, there’s only one thing I want to know—how many extra calories do I burn with his eight-pound body as extra baggage.

B.S. Mirror: I sit on the floor in the family room, humming to myself as I fold another load of tiny little onesies. The house is clean, quiet and peaceful, and I feel lucky to be alive.

Reality Check: I swear under my breath as I fold yet another load of onesies. The house is in chaos around me. Dishes haven’t been done in days, the carpet is buried under a layer of dog fur and dirty burp cloths are strewn everywhere I look.

Just as I finish, a scream breaks through the silence, and I tiredly trudge up the stairs for the 15 bazillionth feeding of the day. I fervently wish my mommy would come and save me.

I know these things are all true because, well, I have a blog. And I wrote this stuff down, yo. But that doesn’t keep my hormones from melting into goo every time I see a newborn. And it doesn’t silence the voice that says, “Oh, come on. You know you want another one.”

Stupid hormones.

What does your B.S. mirror tell you?

20 Things I bet You Didn't Know About Me

FROM THE BOTTOM UP

1. I like to wiggle my toes when I’m waiting for something – like in the waiting room of my dentist. It makes me less nervous.

2. I like to be sockless as much as possible. Places I’m definitely barefoot are: a) at home b) in bed c) in the shower.

3. I love to sleep with a snuggle pillow. It has to be just the right pillow--not too hard and not too soft. For this purpose, Ryan and I often have to have a "Pillow Draft" at the start of the night.

4. I am a sucker for pain. I love it. It makes me feel alive. Controlling pain makes me feel tough. And just for shits and giggles I love hearing Ryan say "ow". He knows the look now, so will just give me an arbitrary "OWWWW" so that he doesn't get hurt.

5. Okay, I must confess. I love wearing high heel shoes. I love hearing the click click click as I walk. It makes me feel sophisticated and sexy.

6. Oh, I forgot to tell you about my ankles, calves and thighs. Well, later.

7. I hate talking on the phone. Send me an email. A text. A smoke signal. I can't stay focused on the phone.

8. I sing in the car. I sing loudly and proudly...that is until someone pulls up beside me. I may have pretended to be talking on my hands-free phone once or twice. Go ahead, judge me- you know you've done it.

9. I hate forks! The sound of forks touching things freaks me out. It makes my teeth hurt. Gawd forbid someone scratches the plate, or AHHHh their teeth or if they get stuck together in the dishwasher (in this case they will stay there until Ryan separates them).

10. I get excited when I can solve a math problem. I am not talking complex linear algebra--I am talking "Hey, you did it Mrs. Whitehouse".

11. I won't be all negative but I HATE when people breath on me. People in lines at the grocery store, people telling secrets, Ryan while sleeping. I might add tomatoes and oranges to the ever growing list of things that just freak me out.

12. I don't talk about my childhood. Not becuase it was horrible but because it tends to lead to pity. My mother was highly disfunctional. So I don't bring it up. Most people only know me as the "teacher girl who has shit together". Ha gotcha fooled don't I.

13. I can't write. Never could. I find it amusing when you comment on my writing ability.

14. I am a people watcher. If I am with you in public I likely tuned you out 10 minutes ago while I was watching that guy try to figure out if he has BO. Probably, shouldn't have told you that one. But, now you know.

15. I have never had close friends. I tend to keep everyone at a distance. Those that I have been close with have never been so for very long. If I sense that I have let you down, or I am not perfect in your eyes anymore, I will push you away. Sorry, just the way it is.

16. I remember things in smells and sounds. I hate flowers because it reminds me of my moms funeral. I love the smell of men's cologne; it reminds me of when my dad would say goodnight. I could honestly have an epic soundtrack for my life. The music is constantly going in my head. In fact, I probably have a song that reminds me of you.

17. I like feeling sad. I like crying. It is as though I know I am alive. Just like a good laugh, a good cry feeds the soul.

18. When I am bored or am thinking I write using my fingers. An "air-write" of sorts. If you ever see me moving my fingers I am probably air writing those 4 letter words of which I am so fond. But I will never tell you what I am writing about ;) And Ryan insists that I add that when I am holding something back I bite the corner of my bottom lip. Probably, shouldn't have told you that one either.

19. I procrastinate. I work well under pressure.

20. I love to love. I am good at.

21. And now you know that.