Juxtaposition and Grief

My favorite word is juxtaposition. Perhaps you find it odd that I'd have a favorite word, but words are my thing, so I should have a favorite. I love to write it in cursive (try it out...you'll see, but you must use a lowercase j). More importantly, I love to admire the power of juxtaposition in literature and life. In my mind, juxtaposition is my non-science version of Newton's third law...every action has an equal and opposite reaction. When it comes to food, it's peanut butter and jelly; it's prosciutto and cantaloupe; it's cheddar and apple pie. On Sesame Street, it's Bert and Ernie. In home decor it's lime green paired with plum. In life it's day and night, light and darkness, joy and sadness. When items are juxtaposed the differences between them are highlighted, deepening the understanding of each. And, that is where I am right now. I am in a state of juxtaposition at the moment, and my emotions are ebbing and flowing between anger and sorrow.

My father died on Sunday. It was a shock that I knew was coming. It was a phone call I had braced myself for years ago, and in recent years, every time one of my Aunts called me or a text came through from them, my heart would sink. Though, when I got the call that my father had passed, my brain was ready; my heart was not.

If you know me well, you know my relationship with my father has been one full of juxtaposition. We had a relationship of high-highs and low-lows. I'm 36 years old. For the first 18 years he was a reliable, consistent force in my life; for the second 18 years he was inconsistent and absent. He made choices that changed our lives forever, and like people do in all circumstances, my Mom, Jim, Nora and I adapted and adjusted in order to survive. The 19-year-old version of me was full of passionate anger that was quieted (a bit) when I fully embraced Jesus. I told people how I felt without guarding my words or softening the blow. The dynamics of my extended family changed, guilt was served up regularly by those who told me how much my dad loves us. My favorite was when people told me I didn't know how hard it was for him. For him, huh? Come visit us in Grandma Miller's basement and we'll talk about tough times. Though I trust that it was difficult for him, he demonstrated this fatherly love by running away and finding refuge from the storm...New York, Texas, Arkansas. Meanwhile, Jim, Nora and I weathered the storm with support from Kevin, The Millers and friends, neighbors and family along the way. That's not to say we didn't all try to reach out to one another. We did, for years. Sometimes reciprocally, sometimes one-sided, sometimes often, sometimes occasionally. I believed him when he said he loved us and missed us, but those words were always juxtaposed by absence...highlighting the disconnect between words and actions.

I am not writing to tarnish James T. Nagle's character. In fact, I believe that he was a good man in so many elements of his life. For the early, essential years of my life, I learned from him. He demonstrated a solid work ethic and I saw the importance of friendship and family through his relationships. He was a passionate man who embraced The Fighting Irish and taught me to cheer for "The go-go White Sox...and whoever plays the Cubs." He was a whirlwind in the kitchen creating wonderful meals while leaving legendary messes in his wake. I remember so many moments with fondness and joy: frequent trips to Williams Bay, boat rides on Lake Geneva, Trips to Minocqua and Cable WI, intentionally loud and poor singing at mass, Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA” on the record player, slow-pitch softball games, Notre Dame blue and gold games, Sunday supper at Grammie and Papa's, long car trips with "Life is a Highway" blaring with windows down. Life was good for so, SO long...and that is precisely why it hurt so badly when everything changed. This was likely when I felt the power of juxtaposition most strongly in my life.

I don't expect anyone to know how I feel right now because I can't even explain it myself. I am deeply sad to know that my dad is gone, yet heavily conflicted about my grief. I have always loved my father. Always. And I trust that he loved us deeply. Yet, here I am, a bit over a year since our last phone conversation, feeling the emotions of an estranged daughter. I am angry that my children don't have a relationship with him and that Connor questions why he never came back home. "He just left you guys?" Yes. He just left. Though, strangely, I am comforted that he found a new life and had his wife and new friends close to love him through his health battles. There are no right or wrong ways to grieve. It is deeply personal, so I think whatever I'm feeling has to be "normal," right? Today, my grief is mixed with anger over abandonment and deep sorrow for the loss of a man who I know was good to me in so many instances. I know some will read this and question how I could "say such a thing" or criticize me for various reasons, but here is what I am asking...I am not asking you to understand my feelings, I am asking you to respect them. My sadness isn't the same as Jim's or Nora's, though we've all lost our father. Our dad left us 18 years ago, and our father died Sunday. Consider, the contrast between Dad and Father.

My Aunts have lost their brother, my cousins have lost their uncle, his wife is now a widow, his friends have lost a friend. I don't know what they're feeling, but I do know my heart is hurting for everyone who has loved my dad. Every single person. He was 58 years old, and now he is gone. That is tragedy enough. So if you see me at his service and I'm not sitting in the front pews dutifully mourning for all to watch, understand that I have spent the last 18 years on the perimeter of his life. It seems contradictory and in poor taste that I would take a front row seat as he is laid to rest.

Home, Sweet Homestead

In the past year, our lives have changed in countless ways, and we owe it all to a boxy brown house on a modest parcel of land, "south of the river" in Grundy County. We're just two kids from the suburbs who've slowly, but steadily made our way west, and I am certain that we wouldn't change a thing. As a child, teen, young wife, I never had a grand plan of what my grown up home would look like, but I'm certain I never could have envisioned what we have now. Our home is modest, needs updating and will be in various stages of renovation forever, and I'm completely comfortable with that. It has a wood-burning stove that has a tendency to run HOT, and it's surrounded by a cringe-worthy rock walled fireplace. The bathrooms are quirky, and nearly every fixture and cabinet is slightly off center or askew. The laundry "room" is an itty, bitty closet, and the house featured wallpaper in nearly every room. The light fixtures, switch plates and wood paneling, complete with deer grazing and geese flying, are an overt homage to the 80's. The kids' bedrooms have funky, yet lovely wood planked ceilings that you'd have to see to appreciate. The best part is that despite these quirks and oddities, this house makes my heart swell with happiness because it quickly became our home...full of love, comfort and hope.

Kevin and I spent our first year of marriage in a one-bedroom, ground-level apartment in Alsip, soaking up movies and Thursday pizza nights with friends; we had no yard to speak of, and friends gained entry by hopping the balcony railing. We then moved to a two-bedroom townhouse in Manhattan which featured nearby walking trails and the best daycare center I could dream of; this is the place we brought our babies home to, so a part of my heart still lives on Shannon Drive. Many nights were spent on that 10 x 10 patio pondering our inevitable move to Morris. In 2013 we took the risk and rented the cutest, little Georgian style house on Washington St. in Morris; I adored the character of the old wooden built-in cabinets and beautiful staircase. There was a tiny sliver of a yard that allowed room enough for our raised-bed garden, but the lack of yard didn't bother me one bit because the adorable front porch was where our memories were made while porch sitting on spring, summer and fall nights. All of these places had their own charm, though I think Kevin would say that the townhouse was far from his favorite. All of these places helped define certain chapters of our lives and helped us become the people and parents we are now. When we decided it was time to see what country living was all about to say I was apprehensive was an understatement, but in true Sarah Bogard fashion, when we visited this boxy brown house on a snowy February day, I was smitten. I married my first love, bought the first wedding dress I tried on, bought the first townhouse we looked at, rented the first rental we visited and bought the very first, and only house we looked at.

Today, we celebrate a year in the house we hope to spend the rest of our days in, and this house is almost less about the house and more about the land. The plot is tiny in relation to our neighbors, but massive in the lives of these former suburban kids. Ask Connor what his favorite part of this house is, and his answer will always be "the yard" because this yard has given him the freedom to roam, to climb, to dig and to explore. He has a few favorite climbing trees, a "secret" digging spot that anyone can find, a basketball hoop and all the space a boy needs to kick a soccer ball. Faith is not exactly a nature lover, but she definitely can appreciate the sunsets (and sunrises as she waits for the bus), the tire swing and cuddles from her barn cats. The kids aren't the only ones enjoying the elbow room and big sky. In fact, I'm willing to wager that Kevin and I have found a satisfaction here that we didn't know we were missing. We're all finding joy in the mundane and ordinary like we've never done before. Connor can find his in the climbing trees; Faith's can be found while nuzzling up to her favorite cat; Kevin's joy often comes while riding the tractor or mower; Mine comes from a basket of subtly colored eggs.

I think we've learned more in the past year that we've ever learned.

On gardening...When we first starting tilling the space for our garden last spring, one neighbor shook her head in doubt and implied that we were biting off more that we could chew...turns out we made it work pretty well, thank you very much. We were overrun by Swiss chard, volunteer butternut squash, hundreds of cherry tomatoes and pepper plants that refused to die until after the 3rd hard frost. I think it's fair to say we figured it out. Heck, two kids from Midlothian and Posen even grew corn!

On chickens...We've managed to keep eight hens alive, protected and productive for a few days over a year. We bought eight chicks because the internet promised we'd lose a chick or two along the way. Well, all eight of those girls seem to be thriving. Along the way, I've learned how to help a chick with "pasty butt" (yes, that's a thing). Kevin and I (mostly Kevin) have turned a dirty, old dog run/chicken coop into one we can be proud of. And, because we're crazy, we've just moved eight more chicks out to the coop to get to know the hens...because if eight hens is working, we might as well have double that, right?

On barn cats...I'm allergic to cats, but I adore our three barn cats who definitely earn their dinner by keeping the vermin (and occasional finches) at bay. They're sweet, lovable and always ready to pounce on the next tiny, living creature that crosses their path. Faith has adopted these cats and cares for them daily. It's an odd thing, keeping barn cats. They stay close to the house, but love to trek back along the tree line for adventures, and are always back home for dinner.

On Jack...Puppies are so hard. He's sweet, energetic and beginning to listen well. He's slowly losing a few bad puppy habits, only for him to remind us that he's only 7 months old by eating a shoelace, a blanket or a boot. Kevin has caved and allowed Jack to sleep in our bed; I am not a fan, but Jack's sweet brown eyes convince me it's okay, night after night.

On mowing...One day I'll ask Kevin to write a Guest Post about mowing the lawn; he'll likely turn me down, but he knows mowing a lot better than I do. His lines are straight and crisp. Mine wave and bend. He always knows what he's doing, and he has never gotten the mower stuck in the neighbor's corn field, like I may have done. What I know most about mowing is that Kevin can't wait for the grass to start growing again. I think it clears his mind and is good for his soul.

On projects...They will never, ever end. As long as Kevin has a chain saw, there will be a tree to be cut down. As long as there is wallpaper in this house, we'll need to peel it bit by bit. For every lovely textured ceiling, there will be drywall work ahead. A new set of chicks means at least one more nesting box. The garden will be bigger this year, and that means new fencing. The list could go on and on and on.

I have no doubt that we've still got a ton of learning yet to do, but in a year's time I'm pretty amazed at how far we've come. This simple life makes me happier than I can explain, and I wouldn't trade this boxy brown house for anything.

Pause. Breathe. Love (resist).

I live in America, and Donald J. Trump is my president, whether I like it or not (and, for the record, I do not). However, many Americans do like President Trump, and though I am perplexed disagree, I still respect them because several of those supporters are my neighbors, colleagues and friends. Fortunately, America is a country based upon basic freedoms and principles, and our right to free speech and disagreement with the establishment is literally at the top of the list. So here I am exercising that right, wondering why our political discussions have become so venomous and full of hate.

Undeniably, the clamor has risen since President Trump’s inauguration. There are countless Americans making noise on every side of the issues. The Right is happy and triumphant that Washington D.C. is getting “shaken up” while criticizing liberals for criticizing Trump. The Left is now head-scratching because conservatives have forgotten how they’ve criticized former President Obama for the past eight years, but now we’re supposed to give Trump a chance?

We’re a mess, and everyone is weighing in...so I am too. Politics aren’t my “thing” because they’re divisive, unkind, complicated, and heavy, yet that’s why I’m writing today. When I think about why I write, I know I write for my children to know who I am and what I stand for; it’s as simple as that. My words are my legacy to them.

So, before I get to it, may I take a minute to introduce myself? Most of you know me, and likely know where I stand. However, I’ll begin with an explanation of who I am NOT, especially since many conservatives on social media have decided to brand Liberals and left-leaning people like me in the following ways.

I am not a Special Snowflake.

Perhaps you think that’s a term reserved for those “lazy, misguided” millennials who won’t get a job and can’t handle criticism; however, it’s become very right-wing to consider liberals delicate, soft and in need of “safe spaces” to handle our feelings. Don’t worry; I won’t melt.

I am not a Libtard.

This is simply an unfortunate and discriminatory portmanteau which further emphasizes the President’s lack of compassion for those with disabilities. It’s a despicable word full of hate. Pair those who willingly use “Libtard” with Betsy DeVos and her understanding of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, and you can begin to paint a despicable picture of overt injustice in America.

I am not a Feminazi.

The moment a woman starts talking about her right to basic freedoms, she is suddenly considered radical and extreme. How dare a woman talk about her right to equal pay for equal work, and honestly, shouldn’t every woman discuss her uterus privately? It makes people uncomfortable when we think we own it. Finally, ladies, please, please put your breasts away; don’t you know they’re sex objects. Stop feeding your baby with them -- disgusting.

I am not a Union Thug.

I’m a proud union member who believes there is a lot to be gained from a Union philosophy of “we’re all in this together” to protect the rights of those involved. Remember those Feminazi’s fighting for equal pay for equal work? Well, my Union grants me the right to be paid the same as the men who teach down the hall from me. Since I’m a pretty big fan of equity, I’m a pretty big fan of my ability to say that I am a proud union worker. Thug? Not so much.

If you know me, you know those labels don’t suit me. There is one label however, that I don’t take issue with, one that I don’t find insulting, so feel free to call me a Bleeding Heart Liberal whenever you’d like. I am proudly compassionate towards those who are downtrodden, suffering and facing injustice; I consider that kindness, while others consider it weakness. I will never apologize for seeking humanity before I seek party lines, race, religion, socioeconomic status or ethnicity. I refuse to care whether my critics believe that my strong sense of compassion and willingness to see the good in others is a flaw. I know that most conservatives say Bleeding Heart with a note of condescension, and that’s okay because I’ll gladly fall on the side of mercy, empathy and grace.

Now that we’ve gotten the name calling out of the way, I’ll gladly tell you who I AM.

I am a LEO wife...if you’re unfamiliar, a LEO is a law enforcement officer. My husband serves our community with dedication and passion that I admire and respect. Consequently, I worry every time he goes to work. Every.single.time. It doesn’t matter that he’s not on the road or in a squad every day; he and his counterparts are still always in danger because the world is broken and law enforcement officers have been demonized in ways I can’t fathom. I stand by the men and women in blue in a way that many will never understand. The tricky part is that when people only see me as a Liberal, they make the assumption that I’m anti-cop. As President Trump would say, “Wrong.” My heart breaks everytime I hear of an officer ambushed or killed in the line of duty. When I hear of those tragedies, I pray for the families of those lost and their LEO brothers and sisters, and I cry for the lives lost. What is this world coming to that the “good guys” are now the targets?

However, I still have room in my heart for those who die at the hands of police when they are unarmed or the force unwarranted. In fact, on the day of President Trump’s inauguration, one of my former students was shot in the back and killed in Chicago by an off-duty police officer. Insert all of the cliche comments you hear on the news...he was such a good kid, how could this have happened, what is the world coming to? The difference was that this time, I was able to put a face to the body under the sheet. That night I cried for Joshua Jones, the unnamed officer who killed him and for my husband and every law enforcement officer I know because they live and work in such a hostile climate. My bleeding heart always has room for compassion for everyone.

I am a mother. My children have married parents paired with the privilege of a home where our income is steady and their needs are met. I take pride in my ability to provide for them, and though we’ve had moments where we’ve struggled, we are making it through with the grace of God and our American bootstraps. I don’t helicopter because my daughter is Type-A enough to handle things, and my son will likely be a better grown up if we stand on the perimeter and let him figure it out. My kids do their own projects (but sometimes I might push ‘em along because it is taking soooo long), and I let them turn in work that is rough around the edges as long is it’s their best effort. I preach love, kindness and forgiveness; offering all in heavy doses while asking for plenty myself. We pray nightly and ask God’s blessing upon us, our nation and our world. Weird, right? I don’t over-parent my kids, I tell them to be kind and we have a steady relationship with God. But I’m a liberal?! Many think I’m supposed to hover over those precious snowflakes, and hand them unearned trophies before we head to our protest march. Nah, we’ll just keep loving our neighbors, tending our chickens and being “the resistance” from over here.

I am a teacher. My students are diverse and their home situations vary from routine stability to unimaginable disarray. They are white, black, hispanic, biracial, Muslim, Catholic, Christian, Atheist, areligious, republicans, democrats, gay, lesbian, poor, not-so-poor, college-bound, workforce-bound, military-bound, undocumented immigrants, US citizens… However, when they walk into my room they’re all “my kids.” I don’t see them for their labels, though educational bureaucracy often forces me to examine them that way. As an educator, my job is two-fold: teach the material, but also teach them to be good humans. Together we learn about literature and writing while we develop a strong work ethic, all while establishing a classroom culture built upon diversity and respect. When I sit back and think about the fact that I have 9th and 12th graders discussing and debating current events while using academic language, I become so proud of where we’ve come. Yes, you’ve read that right. In my classroom undocumented immigrants and staunch “build the wall” proponents can have an opinion-based conversation supported by facts with their emotions relatively in check. Youth group leaders are able to have conversations with their gay peers about transgender rights. White and Black students discuss current events without batting an eye. They are polite, passionate and poised. I’ve taught them to listen before they respond, and though sometimes it takes a moment or two to gather the proper phrasing or to calm their raw responses, they nearly always impress me.

“I hear what you are saying, but disagree with you because…”

“I understand your point, but if you look at it from my perspective…”

If it can happen in Room 147, why can’t it happen in the real world? Why are keyboard warriors so hell bent on screaming their message and insults so loudly that political conversations aren’t worth having? Sean Spicer should take a few lessons from my freshmen and perhaps his press briefings would feel less combative. This year’s classroom mantra: Pause. Breathe. Love.

I am an American. That makes me a multi-faceted part of this amazing melting pot. I am a card-carrying liberal gun owner in the heart of a deep red county in a blue state. I paid my own way through college,  worked two jobs, and took out loans which I am still paying on today. I hold a Master's degree and am a teacher by choice, and not out of June-July-August convenience; I believe in the potential of the students who sit in my classrooms. I live an hour away from where I grew up, but I drive back daily to teach in the community that raised me. My chickens make me happier than I like to admit, and there is an indescribable joy when I watch my garden yield its harvest. There is no one way to define or label me, and when we try to apply labels, we all fail.

We are living in a world of conflict where we are so blinded by our resounding need to be right that we forget that the people ideas we are so vehemently opposed to are held by our neighbors, friends and family. I do know that my anti-hate inspirational quotes will do little to change minds as others post their xenophobic, homophobic, racist memes. I know that this blog will be posted long after my initial shock and disbelief hit on Election Day. As I post this, my slack-jawed, stomach-turning outrage has begun to be shaped into purposeful, intentional resistance to a man and a party who does not represent the majority of the people they are meant to serve.

I won’t name call, I won’t see the world through a single lens and I won’t keep quiet. I promise that I will not keep quiet. I don't know what that will look like, but I do know I will protest through love; I will continue to allow my liberal heart to bleed all over the place while showing everyone who knows me the value of kindness, compassion and understanding.

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” ~Desmond Tutu

Connor is Getting Way Too Big

Connor has been on my mind a lot lately, and it recently occurred to me that I've never written a post solely about my little guy. Not because there's nothing to write about...but probably because that's what happens when you're not the first baby.  I stop and mark all of Faith's milestones with carefully crafted blog posts, while CJ cruises through them with a high-five and a Facebook photo. Yesterday, while visiting with friends I nearly choked over the fact that Faith was going into 5th grade, but tears quickly filled my eyes when I stopped to note that "my baby" would be starting first grade.

I love summer with him. He's my early-rising-climb-into-bed buddy and we regularly watch PBS kids while I sip my coffee and browse whatever Facebook and Pinterest have to offer.  It's our "thing," and it's not special...but it is...because he'll turn to me to say "I love you, Mama" and will then snuggle in for a brief minute, and I always hold on just a second or two longer than he had planned. He's my favorite hug-giver...hands down.

Mommy-Son Date Night:
He bought me an apple
and these flowers

This summer has been a fun one with him because I love the simplicity of his play. He's at an age where the technology is still momentary, while the allure of a Hot Wheel car jumping a cardboard box ramp is just about the coolest thing in the world. When I asked him recently what his favorite thing to do was, he asked and answered, "Ever? My favorite thing to do? I think it's ride my bike." Simplicity. We lack playmates on the block and I'm not the arrange-a-playdate kinda mom, so we keep it simple during these slow summer days. Yesterday he beamed with pride when he told me he had finally split a 4x4 he had been working on with a screw and a hammer...better than an ax, right? I'll admit, his desire to bang nails and work with Dad's tools took some time for me to come to terms with, but now it's pretty normal. "Oh, you're just playing with a hammer? Okay, just keep it out of the mud"...real words from me this week.

His first fish of the year at Woodhaven

I also love his tender little heart and his serious desire to own a pet. We've been fortunate to be watching Aunt Kristy and Uncle Ben's dog, Junior, for the past week, and he loves nothing more than being his buddy. From tickling his paws to checking out his teeth, Connor wants everything to do with Junior...and the best part is that Junior has picked Connor's bed to curl up on every single night. He just thinks that's the coolest. Tomorrow, Junior heads home, and I think CJ may miss him the most. Someday he'll have a dog to care for, and he's got quite a plan for a few barn cats that he wants to own...once we own a barn, of course.

As I was trying to fall asleep tonight, I kept running my afternoon through my head and couldn't shake what a

CJ at his "favorite splash pad ever."

big kid Connor is becoming. Yes, he still snuggles and climbs on my lap before bed, but his little kisses are getting harder and harder to come by. He's recently decided to give them out less frequently, and that's just too sad for me. Another growing up moment happened today when we went to the community pool. As soon as we entered he saw a friend...he looked at the friend...looked back at me...kicked off his flip flops...and jumped right in. He's the kid who literally clung to me when we swam in early July, and now he's jumping in and leaving me behind to mind his flip flops. Oh what a metaphor that is. Eventually his friend left and he pulled me over to the basketball hoop at the edge of the pool where he edged his way in with the big kids to shoot as often as he could get the rebound...and then asked to stand on my knees so he could dunk. Yes, little man, anything to see your smile as you hang from the rim (with one arm) and beam with happiness. I won some major Mom Points because after the pool closed we went to a park nearby to swing on the swings. When he asked I nearly said no...why? Why do I say no to things that are so stinking simple? So there we were. "Push me, Mama," said my big kid who can easily do it himself, and so I did. I pushed him until he got "too high" and we laughed over silly stories of rockets attached to his butt to help him spin all the way around the bar. It was a perfect moment, and I knew I wanted to write it down so I could keep it forever.

I'm at the point in my summer where my brain flips into Work Mode, and I have a workshop tomorrow that will turn that mode into high gear. This is usually about the time where I've had enough of this stay-at-home-mom stuff, but this summer I am way in love with my big kids. I'm in love with their personalities, with their simple routines, and with the way they just roll with it. They don't need big and fancy...and quite frankly, neither do I. I know that I can count the days until summer of 2015 is in the books, and this time around it's making me sad because I'm quickly understanding how big these kids are getting; and lately my heart is aching over Connor and his big-kid ways. So, for now I'll make the best of the days that are left (following tomorrow's workshop of course). I'll try not to "Shush" him as he mindlessly crows like a rooster, I'll let him linger in my lap a few minutes longer before bed, I'll celebrate creativity when he attaches a hand mirror to a toy truck to use as a "phone launcher," I'll do all that I can to say yes to simple things like a bike ride and swing at the park. The end of this summer is bittersweet for sure, but mostly because, as my Grammie and Papa would have said, my baby is "getting too big for his britches," and it's making this Mama sad.

Body Image and My Baby Girl, Part 2 . . . Dear Faith

Oh my goodness, raising this girl is going to be rough, and though I know raising kids is not easy, I'm perplexed because she's only nine...and it's already I-don't-know-what-to-do-now hard.  Today my thoughts are stuck on Thursday's tumultuous, tear-soaked, emotion-filled exchange where she talked about her body image...namely, that she is "fat."  Last night was not the first time we've discussed what it is to be confident and proud of yourself and loving yourself the way you are.  In fact, our first legitimate conversation of this type happened when she was four years old.  It's crazy that this flexible, energetic, joy-filled gymnast can doubt herself so deeply, yet when I think about the world we are living in and the standards which we are working against, I am harshly aware of how easy it is to feel inadequate.

Dear Faith,

I am writing to tell you about all the things that are wrong with the world and absolutely, stunningly perfect about you.  My words will not adequately describe the body-shaming culture in which you are being raised, nor will they ever be able to paint my incredible love for who you are, what you have done and will continue to do in my life.

Please understand that people are mean and they will judge and criticize you in nearly every element of your life: your physical appearance, the number of times you can jump rope per minute, how easily you can or cannot complete your math assignment, the clothes you wear, the food you eat, the house you live in, the way you speak, the way you smile, the friends you keep, the quality of your stuff, and the newness of your shoes.  You name it and people will judge you for it.  Some times they will celebrate these parts of your life, but often people will judge, envy and sharply hold you up against their version of The Way It Should Be.  And Faith, please understand that no one in this world can ever meet the expectations of this world...no one.  Not me, not you, and not even the person who is telling you you're not good enough.

The problem is that society is not teaching us to love the body and gifts that we have been given, so as your mother, I am doing the best I can to teach that to you.  God has blessed me with you, and you have been blessed with talents, goodness, kindness, sincerity, selflessness and beauty...so when you reduce your value and worth down to the size and shape of your body, you are tragically disconnected from the amazing gifts that make you YOU.

I've spent much of my life being embarrassingly aware of how my body is not The Way It Should Be, and only recently have I allowed myself to love it.  I remember the humiliation of being weighed in front of my peers in grade school; I will never forget the shame I felt on "uniform day" for every team I've ever played on, and each and every formal dress I've ever purchased made me uncomfortably aware of how I was far too "plus-sized" to meet the standards of this world.  I will not pretend that working through these moments was easy, but I always knew that I was more than what I weighed or my charge-you-extra dress size.  And that is what I want you to know and understand now.

I could write a list of my shortcomings and inadequacies, but instead I have begun to intentionally change the way I view myself.  My goal is for both of us to be comfortable in our skin and to celebrate what our bodies are capable of, and I pray that you can see that through me. Most importantly, my body has allowed me to become the mother of two amazing children, and it bears stretch marks and a soft middle that many would say are unbecoming, yet if I change my perspective I can see these flaws as a badge of honor and pride.

And perspective is what it comes down to, Faith.  Since the standards of this world are harsh and unkind, we must turn our back on what others say is The Way It Should Be, and we need to view ourselves and others with a loving eye.  An eye that is free from judgment, comparison and criticism.  I wish you could see yourself through my eyes because I see nothing but beauty from the inside out.

Don't ever forget that you are...

beautiful, intelligent, witty, powerful, compassionate, bold, thoughtful, creative, passionate, strong, and capable. 

And if anyone ever tells you that you are not good enough, always remember that THEY are wrong.

With more love than you can imagine,
Mom

Why Are We So Lucky?

It's not uncommon for Faith to covertly call me to her room for a private chat, and when she asks for those moments I always hold my breath.  But then, as I exhale, I ask myself, "what is it going to be today?"  Often these moments are emotionally charged and fueled by her need for sleep; topics range from mean kids in class to Connor being a terrible brother, and occasionally she tells me we love her less than him.  Tears are always involved, and there is never a quick fix.

So, when she poked her head down the stairs last night asking to chat with Kevin or me, he gave me the nod and off I went.  I found her sobbing and working hard to catch her breath; we had a good day, so I wracked my brain to anticipate her concerns.  Kevin and I had just been away for the weekend...so maybe she felt a need for a bit of extra attention.  Connor shot her with a nerf gun before she got in the shower...so maybe he was the culprit.  She got B+ in math...so maybe she wanted an A.  We had tacos for dinner...so maybe she wanted pizza.  It took a good minute or two before she was able to, tearfully, say this:

"Why are we so lucky?"

I leaned in to hug her tighter and asked her for clarification.

"I have a bed to sleep in.  I have a warm home.  I have people who care for me.  Why am I so lucky?"

More hugs, some calming words from me.  But my answers weren't good enough for her.

"Why is God so good to us when other people need so much?"

I have no words because I have no idea how to respond to a question this big...asked by a person so little.  She went on to say how thankful she is and continued to question whether it's fair.  I continued to hug her, and marvel at her questions and her legitimate concern for others.  When I ask where all of these ideas are coming from, she explained that Kevin had made a small donation to a food pantry the last time they went to Jewel.

"Mom, they're going to use that money to help people have food at Thanksgiving.  There are people who do not have food at Thanksgiving?!"

These are the moments where I know my little girl's innocence is slowly eroding away and being replaced by reality.  How do you tell her that life is often unfair and in many cases there is very little one person can do to change it?  How do you tell her that God is bigger than us, and that we can't always rationalize the things we don't understand?  How do you tell her that this world is a crazy, scary place where sometimes the best we can do is hope and pray for those who need our prayers and love?

And in the moment where my eyes welled up over her loving indignation, her nerf-gun-shooting little brother came into the room, and without missing a beat hugged the two of us...his tiny little arms doing all they could to take away the sadness he saw in our eyes.

I just love, love, love them.

After the hugs and wiped tears, we took deep breaths, said our prayers and started talking about ways in which we can help.  We truly have SO much to be grateful for, and now, sparked by her father's simple act, my little girl has reminded me how very important it is to spread kindness.  We haven't formulated a game plan, but we want to keep it local and help our neighbors...I have a feeling this little girl is about to do big things for those who need some kindness.

From Zero to 60...Day 60 {Part 2} Focus on Fitness

Okay, let's get to the fitness aspect of this 60-day Challenge.  This is definitely the element that I was LEAST excited about.  For many, many reasons...namely, I don't like to do it.  I knew I hated workout DVDs, and I didn't have a realistic space where I could complete these workouts.  Plus, I just knew I didn't have the time.  We had just come off the heels of the worst winter Chicagoland had ever seen, so I sure as hell was not going to go outside.

When I type that today, all I notice are the excuses...one after another, it is a list of reasons why I wouldn't let myself be successful.  Thankfully, I didn't allow myself to be talked into that pattern of excuse making this time around.

Excuse #1: I hate workout DVDs.
As I mentioned here, I have finally found a program that I not only LOVE, but that I look forward to doing every single day.  TurboFire is a cardio kick-boxing program with awesome music and a ton of variety.  After borrowing a few DVDs from my friend, Jen, I knew I had to buy the program because I needed to try all of the workouts, and I was bummed out when my workout schedule said that I needed a DVD that I didn't have.  That is a purchase that I know I will never regret, and Heaven knows that I have made my fair share of regrettable fitness related products...many of them at-home DVD programs.

TurboFire makes me happy, kicks my ass and leaves me confident that I have done something good for myself that day.  It had been a long time since I intentionally made my health a priority, and this workout program totally clicked with me.  One of my favorite lines from Chalene, the fitness instructor, occurs during the cool down of one of my favorite DVDs, and she says, "Realize just how luck you are to be able to workout this hard."  Well if that isn't awesome, I don't know what is.  This program is a blessing in my life.  I'm lucky to be able to do this...absolutely and undeniably.

Excuse #2: I don't have a realistic workout space.
True, I don't have space enough for equipment or lots of stuff, but in reality not a lot of space is needed.  Since I knew I didn't want to be punching, kicking and sweating in front of my family, I knew I had to take it to the basement...the freezing cold, dark, creepy, coal room-having basement.  I didn't want to, but I had to.  That was the difference.  I had to.  If I was going to make this work I had to find a reliable solution.  It is far from ideal...water seeps in, the windows are drafty and old, the lighting is bad, it's freezing in the winter and humid as hell in this early summer heat...but it's now one of my favorite places.  Crazy isn't it?

I swept the concrete floor, set up a card table for the TV, plugged it in, bought a yoga mat, and the rest is history.  The program really doesn't need much space, and my basement has just enough to make it perfect.

Excuse #3: I don't have the time.
Well, who does have the time?  Aren't we all over-burdened, over-worked, over-stressed, etc?  Yet we still find time to check Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest dozens of times a day?  Yes, like many mom's I run my kids to soccer and gymnastics, but I was starting to feel bad because I was doing the running after my afternoon commute, which is almost always an hour.  How on earth could I manage to drive home, take kids to activities, make dinner, make lunches for tomorrow, bathe children AND squeeze in a workout?  Not a chance, right? Wrong.

After, Angie, the co-leader of my Clean Eating Challenge, suggested that I join her Fitness Challenge group I really needed to think hard on those "no time" excuses.  How could other moms do it?  I had committed to eating better, why was it so hard to find the time to work out?  So, I decided that I had to make it happen, and since I knew the afternoons were out of the questions, morning became my only option.

Early, cold, dark mornings...in my aforementioned cold (now humid), dark, creepy basement.  But I did it.  I laid out my workout clothes (or sometimes slept in them), set my alarm for 4 a.m., got out of bed by 4:15 a.m. and that was it.  On day one I had completed my workout and posted my post-workout selfie by 5:20 a.m.  Yep...selfie...posted to the group Facebook page, all for the sake of accountability.  More on that later.  So, after day one, I knew that it was possible.  I woke up, worked out and made it to work on time without issue.

Fast forward to today, and I have completed a TurboFire workout 53 days since March 31st. Six of the 60 days were rest days and just one day was a skipped workout (but I did go for a walk on that day).  And that was because we had water enter the basement and destroy the laptop that I used for my workouts...so there I was in the 4 o'clock hour sad, not that the laptop was destroyed, but angry that I couldn't complete my workout.  Talk about a shift in perception?!  But seriously, 53 workouts?  I don't know that I can string together 53 leisurely walks to the park over the course of a summer.  That's how I know I've busted my "no time" excuse.  I made time.  Plain and simple.  It began to matter to me, so I made it work in my schedule.

In the midst of this early-morning craziness, my neighbor and friend, Marcy, and I have started spending about 45 minutes to an hour per day walking , when our schedules allow.  So, not only am I committing time to fitness in the morning, but I've also managed to find time in the evenings that I had previously thought was non-existent.  How awesome is that?

Why this Challenge Group has changed my life...
That sounds dramatic, doesn't it?  Really, Sarah, it's changed your life?  Yes.  This group of 17 mothers has been a wonderful source of accountability and support.  There was something in me that knew I needed to work out in the morning so I didn't let anyone down.  Going in, I had no idea what to expect; I just knew I wanted to do it right.  You want me to take a sweaty picture and post it...on the internet?  I've never taken a cell phone selfie in my life, and now I was going to do it post-workout?  But I did it...over and over again.  And I gained confidence from the posts of others.  I saw that other busy women took the time to care for themselves, so I continued to do so for myself.  We posted our daily meals, confessed when we had a bad day with some cookies from Jewel (I might speak from experience), took snapshots of our heart rate monitors (yep, I bought one) and we supported one another day in and day out.  I felt like I owed something to this group because they were sharing with me and inspiring me along the way.  So, yes.  It's changed my life.  I now know that it's much, much less about the scale and measuring tape than it is about loving who you are and who you are becoming, and that is why I believe in the challenge group concept in a very real way.

As I mentioned in my "Halfway There" post, I thought that the infomercial-based workout program was a gimmick that promised more than it can deliver, and I'm proud to say that it's delivering its promises, and I'm proof.  I'm not losing weight rapidly in an unhealthy fashion, and neither did the people you see in the advertisements.  They're losing because they've made a commitment to themselves and because they have made their health a priority in their lives.  That's what I know I'm doing here.  So, yes.  I'm all in.  I believe in this fitness concept of building up others with love, support and a quality fitness program.  I've already signed up for my next "Summer Slimdown" challenge because I can't wait to see what will continue to happen...I'm so amped to see where I'll be at the end of the summer!

Is it easy?  Not a chance?  Is it worth it?  You bet it is.

If you might be interested in joining a challenge group or have any questions about this whole doing-TurboFire-in-the-basement thing, let me know.  I would love to have my friends and family on this journey with me.

Results since March 17th Clean Eating Challenge:

Weight lost: -17 lbs.

Inches Lost
Waist: - 5.25
Hips: -2.5
Bust: -3.5
Left Arm: -1.5
Right Arm: -1
Thighs: -2 each
Left Calf: -1
Right Calf: - .75

Total Inches: 18.5

65 Consecutive days logging into My Fitness Pal

Until next time...

Click here to see what 60 days did to alter my focus on food.