On dreams.

I could say once upon a time I had dreams. Dreams of being successful, having a “good job,” finding Mr. Perfect, getting married and having two little babies. Dreams of big nice house, with rolling green grass, gorgeous flower beds and a living room and kitchen to make a magazine jealous.

I never did though.

I never had future dreams. I never dreamed of graduation and college. I never dreamed of jobs and careers and how I would survive in life. I never dreamed of future partners or spouses. I most certainly never dreamed of babies.

I was, to put it simply, impractical.

I dreamed of making art, not necessarily being successful, actually I usually imagined myself poor and bouncing from friend to friend’s houses. I dreamed of dying young and tragically and then, finally, being recognized as the artist I was.

I dreamed of one day finding out that I was something else – a witch, a fairy, a mutant – something magical. I dreamed of having powers and being reclaimed to secret worlds.

I dreamed of aliens and space and the world ending and going to live in the stars.

Years and years later I still dream impractical dreams. I dream big and bold and fantastical dreams. I still dream of magic and adventure. I still dream that one day I will have powers beyond my imagination, wings, or that a man in a blue box will fly me away.

Every so often I tether a few balloons and bring myself down. Then I dream of owning a farm and making yarn. I’ll dream of writing and illustrating children’s books, or even writing just a book. I will dream of selling my art because I can and want to, not from a need. None of these are still the most realistic dreams.

Mostly though, I still just dream of magic and adventure.

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enough

when I don’t get all of the clothes folded. when dishes pile up in the sink. when the bathroom mirror is spoltchy. when the bathtub is still stained pink.

I am enough.

when the floor has gone unswept. when the counters are sticky. when the hallway needs a good cleaning. when the table stays a yucky mess.

I am enough.

when my children beat each other up. when they scream “I HATE YOU, TOO!” when they fall on the ground in angry tears. when in a rage they break all of their toys.

I am enough.

when their reading grades are low. when they’ve lost their gym shorts… again. when they still don’t know their times tables. when they refuse to do their school work.

I am enough.

when my pre-baby clothes are still too small. when I haven’t showered in days. when my legs are more than just prickly. when I feel nowhere near ok

I am enough.

when my roll of fat hangs over my pants. when my hair is faded and in knots. when I get sad looking at my body. when acne covers my face in ugly spots.

I am enough.

 

when all that you feel is fat and ugly. when you feel like the world’s most useless wife. when you are sure that you are a failure as a mother. when you feel like you just suck at life.

You are enough.

More than enough.

ALWAYS ENOUGH.

this, my body

this, my body, is beautiful.
it holds the wonders of creation and the magical mysteries of life.
it has lived, breathed, nourished and held more than just myself.
it is the creator of worlds untold and dreams uncountable.
it has features unique to just me –
things only me, God and my love will ever know of.
it is the canvas of my soul; colorful, imperfect and ever changing.

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this, my body, is powerful.
it overcomes pain – joint pain and deep in the bone pain.
it is familiar with the pain of broken bones, split skin and stubbed toes.
it endured through the pain of childbirth and the fire that is thrush.
it welcomes the monthly battle that it goes through to destroy an organ.
it has known the endless pain of failing at it’s job of carrying a baby
– the pain of losing a baby and feeling it leak out of you.

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this, my body, is precious.
it is a one of a kind special edition, a collector’s item,
something never to be seen again whole.
it is half of the blueprint that makes up my children. this nose, these eyes.
to hate any part of it would be to look at my children and to say to them
that i hate these things on and in them as well.
it is the only body that i have been given – i must cherish it.

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this, my body, is mine.
i own it.
i claim it.
i hold it dear to me.
this, my body.

today i wore motherhood (2/365)

today i wore motherhood.
i was clothed in spit up and wrinkles and crumbs and snot.
my face was made up with hormones and exhaustion.
i carried the scent of old breastmilk, sweat, and a light undertone of baby pee.
my hair was done in grease and tangles and styled in a messy bun.
today i wore motherhood.
and it was beautiful.

this is who i am (1/365)

i am happy, even if i am not smiling.

i am exhausted, all. of. the. time.
always.

i am a ginger and i accept this.

i am always leaking milk.

i am blind if i am not wearing my glasses.

i am bigger than i would like to be, that’s not even counting baby weight.

i am loved by so many. i am deeply loved by those who matter.

i am silly, immature, and highly sarcastic.

i am a gray sort of sparkly – fun and bright, but not in an always obvious way.

i am a reader and knitter and daydream taker.

i am optimistic and almost never realistic.

i am a planner of never followed through plans.

i am sometimes sad. sometimes very, very sad.
but most days i am just glad.

i am happy, even if i am not smiling.
and this is my self-portrait of who i am.