I'm tired.
I'm tired of me.
I'm tired of how I look and how that makes me feel.
I'm tired of not doing anything about it, no matter how bad I feel.
I'm tired of trying to fix myself and giving up on it.
I'm tired of feeling guilty about being a failure.
I'm tired of wondering how much better my life would be if I wasn't so miserable.
I'm tired of trying on my clothes and having them not fit.
I'm tired of hating all of my clothes because they suck and I don't want to shop because it makes me feel even worse about myself.
I'm tired of worrying about what everyone else thinks of how fat I am.
I'm tired of being uncomfortable in my own skin, literally, not figuratively.
I'm tired of my world revolving around food and failure.
I'm tired of worrying that my kids will be embarrassed about me.
I'm tired of wondering how my husband could find me attractive.
I'm tired of this.
I'm tired.


Are we bad parents?

My dear sweet husband posed this question to me on our way into the house after a pretty ridiculous 90-minute jaunt to Sam's and Wal-mart (yes, the double whammy of what's wrong with America - all in one day!) We managed to come out alive and with nearly everything on the list (which I left at home). And we also managed to get completely in the house without pushing past one another to get to the liquor cabinet...but barely.

It seems we are, as they say, "in the throws of it." We are dealing with a newly minted kindergartner who is exhausted and now, suddenly and traumatically, thrust into the world of "big kids" and their bad habits. That could explain why he slammed the door repeatedly this morning and when it wouldn't catch (which it never does), he yelled, "THIS FREAKIN DOOR!". Right, I get it, at least he didn't say the other thing...but we're picking up bad habits from bigger kids and some same-sized kids with bigger brothers and sisters at massive rates of speed. It seems I may have a big boy on my hands. And in the words of his former, cute, cuddly, adorable self - "I don't like it. I don't want one."

So he, this little man of many new talents and skills - reading, adding (EVERYTHING!), telling me about his wonderful new life skills he's learning, which includes "listening to your authority figures immediately", can go from reading the Brooke Shields cover of People to his little sister while she pees - "My Men, My Mom, My Crazy Life" - to slamming doors and yelling "freaking" in literally 10 minutes.

And then there is that precious little peanut we like to call the Tornado. Sometimes she is a calm summer day with a light breeze, but before you know it, the high winds kick in and then there's quick periods of hail and lightening. Funnel clouds are rare, but always possible.

Don't get me wrong - I adore her, but I also fear her. Mostly fear. She's high octane. She is more than we can handle at two - what the hell are we going to do when she's 16? She talks a lot now and repeats everything she hears. Mostly what she hears her brother say...so, reread paragraph 2.

They are precocious. They are trying. They sometimes make me want to cry, drink, pull my hair out, or all three.

Are we bad parents? We agreed that by asking that, chances are, we are okay parents. I mean bad parents don't consciously think about being bad parents do they?

And honestly, right now, I'm okay with just being okay. We are surviving.



To anyone who has ever been lonely, you understand. You can be constantly surrounded by people but still feel alone in your life. You can have casual interactions all throughout the day and still feel stuck in your bubble. You crave that deeper connection - with someone, anyone, everyone. 

I have never been a lonely person. At least not that I recall. At least not until we moved here. Everything here feels very superficial. Superficial interactions, superficial friendships, superficial commitments. 

"We should do something sometime!"

"Let's grab lunch."

"We really need to hang out more."

I adore my friends. I am proud of my friendships. Some are lifelong, some are newer, but all are important. But here, in this place, I have struggled to find anything enduring. If we were to leave here tomorrow, I'm sure we'd keep up with a handful of folks for a little while, but that's it. We'd just be a blip on the map of their lives. And vice versa. 

I feel like I've tried. I've tried to the point of feeling dejected and rejected and heartbroken and sad and mad and frustrated. My therapist told me that making friends as an adult with a family isn't like it was when I was young and single. It's harder. Sometimes impossible. And to that, I call bullshit. How is it that you can't make it stick as a wife/mother/career person? My desire and my need for friendship drive me to make that connection. Why can't I get close to someone and have that support that I so desperately crave?

For now, I rely on long distance "bromance" to sustain me. Those fleeting conversations, quick texts, emails, glimmers of hope. 

I am unhappy. 


Keeping it Real

There's no point in lying. I'm in a bad spot right now.

I am homesick beyond belief and truly miserable in our new life. There, I said it. I hate it here. Sure, there are things I like and people I care about, but after almost two years in our new "home", I still feel like an outsider. I feel like I'm in purgatory. Like we're in some weird intermission where one act has finished but the next has yet to begin (or perhaps isn't written even?).

And I don't like to feel this way. And I don't intend to feel this way. I came here with bright eyes and big dreams. Sure, it was hard to say goodbye to Lexington, a place I'd lived and loved for 15 years. But I was excited about our family starting someplace new and different. I was proud of my husband for chasing his dreams and anxious to see him happy and fulfilled.

Fast forward to present day - It is hard. It is hard to be somewhere where you have no family or real, true friends. We have somehow only managed to form acquaintances over our time here. I believe this to be because this is a hard stage in life to really try to form intense new bonds. Parenthood trumps all other hobbies, activities, etc. Trying to find time to schedule activities for myself is nearly impossible.

We are up at 6 (who am I kidding? 6:30 or 6:45) every day to get the kids to school as soon as the door opens so I'm not late for work. I work 8-5 and then jet back to get the kids by 5:30. By the time we get home it's nearly 6 (or after if we need to make any stops). I throw together something (edible, yet not healthy or nutritious) for dinner, get the kids a bath and maybe into bed by 8 (though little bit likes to lay in her bed and talk, play, scream, cry, sing, yell for sometimes an hour and a half after that.) At that point, I'm toast.

I failed to mention my lovely hubby in all of this because 4/5 weekdays, I'm doing all of this solo. The "dream" we chased has him working longer hours than before, including being at work before we wake up most days and getting home maybe in time for jammies and books (if we're lucky). He is exhausted.

I am never rested. Always frantic. I never get to do the things I want to do (Mommy, can you please play with me? No, sorry kiddo, I have to cook your dinner, do the laundry that is piling up, take out the trash, (soon) mow the yard, etc.)

I know that likely all of these "that's life" issues would be going on in Lexington. I am not doubting that. But would I have much more gusto to face "life" if I was spending 40 hours a week at a job I loved, seeing friends and family on the weekends, having someone I could call to help me out in a pinch, not having to ponder who on earth to list as an emergency contact at our daycare because we know no one well enough to have them take our kids. (We do have our neighbors, for which none of this applies.)

I miss feeling like I had a career and not just a job. I miss feeling necessary and needed and fulfilled by my work. I feel useless in my current work, but am grateful to have a paycheck. I feel like my true skills and talents are going stale from lack of use.

All of this stress and emotion often makes me feel like I am failing. I'm failing at getting in shape like I try to do over and over again. I'm failing as a wife - by not making this work, by being too tired and too unhappy to even think about romance. I'm failing as a friend by not keeping up with those dear people whom I miss so badly. I'm failing as a disciple by not trusting that God has a plan for us right now.


Reasons why I should...

Reasons why I should continue in my efforts to get healthy and fit...

  • Because I deserve it!
  • Because it makes me feel good.
  • Because I have a full cute wardrobe of clothing that I could wear if I get fit!
  • Because my kids deserve a mom who can keep up. 
  • Because my kids deserve a mom who will be around for a long time. 
  • Because I've tried the alternative and there is nothing really very appealing about being overweight and out of shape. 
  • Because enough is enough.


They say it will get better...

Do you ever go from moments of complete and total faith and peace to moments of complete and utter anger and despair?

It's been 112 days. 112 days ago, there lived a lively little eight year old girl in Clearfield, Kentucky who had dreams of being a doctor or a nurse and a mommy. She asked more questions than anyone I know and truly wanted to learn from the answers (so you'd better be right!). She had the cutest little nose and the prettiest eyes and the most loving spirit.

And she had a broken heart. And no one knew. And 112 days ago, no one knew that in a few short hours, she would go to take her bedtime shower and that would be the end. No warning. Nothing. Gone.

I have days where I think, "wow, her heart was so big and so full that it just exploded." And then I have days where I just think "this is total bullshit. Why wasn't there a warning sign? Why did we not know? What if we could have gotten her help?"

I have days where I go the majority of the day without picturing her lifeless body laying in a coffin, and then suddenly, without warning, I mistakenly call my daughter by her name or hear one of "her songs" on the radio and I'm back down again.

I look at pictures and think about how things might have been different if we'd known we'd only have her such a short time. I don't remember the last time I heard her voice. I'd give anything to have one more hug, one more Snoopy kiss, play Slugbugs one more time.

16 weeks ago, life was sailing along pretty good. And then I got the call. And I wonder now if I will ever get my sister's voice saying those horrible things out of my head. Will I ever stop hearing myself screaming? Will I ever kiss my kids goodnight again without wondering if they will wake up? Will I ever think of my brother and not think of him on the floor of his home doing CPR on his baby girl?

Will we ever get together as a family and not think about who is missing? Eventually we'll stop having the first this without her or the first that without her, but will we ever really have anything without her?

Will we?