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Bette Davis Eyes

I've been on the high-end makeup bandwagon since December 2005. Why do I remember this do clearly? It was Christmas time and for some ungodly reason, I thought it was a GREAT idea to go to Oakbrook Mall for some reason. To this day, I cannot remember why I went to the mall, but I went to the mall at Christmas time and walked through Macy's.

While zig-zagging my way to get out of the department store formally known as Marshall Fields, I was accosted by a gal from the Benefit Cosmetic counter. At this point in time, all I knew about makeup was what I had taught myself through trial and error as a teenager. I bought drugstore stuff because then I didn't have to deal with sales people and it was easy to get my hands on. I was a big fan of Almay, hated L'Oreal lipstick, and wore a lot of random mascaras. I'd been to Ultra a few times, but still only bought stuff from the drugstore brands. I didn't even realize they had high-end stuff until I was twenty-five.

But, I digress, I was fighting my way out of the Macy's at Christmas when a woman commented on my eyebrows. She liked them. She thought she could help me make them look better.

I eyed her, wondering why she would tweeze my eyebrows, as at this point in time I was literally the only female person I knew who didn't pluck, wax, or thread her eyebrows. I did nothing to them. Literally nothing. They simply existed above my eyes and I refused to tweeze them, wax them, or thread them. They were dark, thick, and perfect in my eyes.

"You see, you've got a great base to work with. Nice thick brows, good color, but if we use this," she paused to grab the product she wished to show me, "they could be even better."

She did not hold out tweezers, but rather a compact filled with brown powder and wax. I knitted the glorious eyebrows together.

"Here, sit. I'll show you."

"There will be no tweezing, right?"

"No, of course not. Do you tweeze your eyebrows?"

"No. I do nothing to them."

"Well, sit. I'll show you how to accent them."

I sat. She accented. I looked amazing. She gave me some awesome color in my cheeks. I looked even more amazing. I ended up buying the Brow-Zing and High Beam, the cheek highlighter the woman used. I wanted everything but opted on the two things I did not actually own.

It was more money than I'd ever spent on makeup at once, but man was it worth it.

It also started my downward spiral into buying all high-end makeup.

Six months later, I wound up buying Dior lip products. Some lipgloss and liner cost more than my two Benefit products and the woman who did my makeup had no clue how to apply mascara as I looked like I had little spiders for eyelashes. (I should have guessed because that's how her mascara looked.) I really didn't totally switch over until the fall of 2009. I was living at home with my parents. I needed new mascara (I never use a tube for more than three months after the massive eye infection of 2008) and couldn't find Max Factor anywhere. I was about to just give up and go to Sephora and spend too much money on a tube of mascara that I'd never finish when I remembered the existence of Ultra.

They did not have Max Factor either, but they did have a travel size tube of Benefit's BADgal Lash. I'd liked it when the woman those many moons had used it on me, and the travel sized tube was the same price as Max Factor, so I got it. Honestly, unless you're a heavy mascara user, get a travel sized tube. I still only use tubes for three months, and even the travel sized ones I never use all of it, but I cannot remember the last time I actually paid for mascara.

Yeah, that's right. I don't really pay for them. Outright. I hoard samples of mascara. I get them with my rewards, I select them as my sample bonus, I always select mascara if offered it for my Birchbox. I've tried almost every kind of mascara out there. There are ones I like (BadGal, Marc Jacobs, Milk, and that's all I can think of off the top of my head) and ones I hate (mostly Two Faced Better than Sex and the other Benefit mascaras.) I've found that price doesn't matter when it comes to mascara, nor does the brush really. It's the formula that matters at the end of the day. I have very fine, thin lashes that I refuse to put extensions on, so the heavier the formula the worse I find the results. The thicker the mascara and fluffier the brush, the more I hate it. You'd think with fine, thin lashes, I'd like some volume, but I like a natural look. I'm currently using Hourglass. It's got a thin brush and the formula is pretty good. Not as good as the various Marc Jacobs I've tried, or the Milk one. The Milk mascara is like the best ever. That weird looking brush got me for a while, but once I figured it out, I fell in love.

Also, I hate waterproof mascara. It flakes like crazy. Especially in Alaska.

The Loudest Known Clock

In fifth grade, my friends began to get their bedrooms updated to "teen appropriate." For most of them, it was trading out pastels for bold, older colors. They went from pink to bold teal, light purple to bright blue, pastel yellow to in your face purple. Growing up, I had teal painted walls with a balloon wallpaper border along the top. I also had very dark furniture and got no direct light in my room.

It was dark.

I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.

While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.

Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.

So much pink.

My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.

It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)

I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.

I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.

How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.

After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.

It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)

My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.

"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."

The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.

So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.

Back in Fashion

It happened this week. I told someone I was wearing something I had had since high school. Upon realizing this, I was amazed and wondrous, as the size I am now and the size I am now are like night and day.

So, here's what happened. I went to a coffee shop with a friend of mine who was in town. We both wished to escape tiny humans and enjoy a conversation that was not interrupted by the tiny humans (or the husbands). Something you don't realize when you usually converse with a two-year-old and not an adult: you can't have a conversation while there are toddlers present, as they will demand your attention either by talking over you or falling on their face. So, we left the tiny humans with our husbands and escaped for two glorious hours of adult conversation at a local coffee shop.

Now, I love this coffee shop. It was the first one suggested to me upon arrival, but I nixed because it was tiny, cramped, and dark. I wound up going there because it was small and I had a tiny human who was crawling everywhere. I fell in love with it for an array of reasons, none having to do with the coffee. They have a FULL-SIZE CHANGING TABLE. They also gave my daughter a full cup of whipped cream mostly because she was so well behaved while my friend and I had coffee. EMO was maybe nine months at the time. She was crawling and I spent the majority of the time chasing her down when she'd get too far from me. (I would have just let her crawl away, but there were others in the shop and they didn't seem to think I should be letting my kid crawl around the coffee shop.) But, she didn't fuss or complain, simply went back to exploring once I brought her back to our corner. The other's times I've taken her, they've almost always given her something, though never again a full cup of whipped cream (which I ate most of because she was too busy crawling away).

The last time I'd gone to the coffee shop to get coffee with my dad, they'd totally redone the place and it felt bigger, brighter, and totally different, so I wanted to go sit in it and enjoy it without a toddler. While the barista was crafting our lattes, he mentioned that my jean jacket was a hot trend and they were "totally back." (Yes, he did, in fact, say that to me.) We proceeded to have a conversation about how things keep coming back in fashion. He really wanted the 80s to return and for men to wear crop tops. (I was not aware that was a thing for dudes in the 80s, but what the hell do I know? I wore whatever my mother put me in throughout my life in the 80s.) My friend mentioned henleys were coming back in and she'd just gotten rid of her whole collection of henleys, to which I responded, "I only ever get rid of stuff that doesn't fit. If it fits, I keep it just in case."

This is very true. Hence why I have a jean jacket from high school. I also have my Doc Martens from high school. All three pairs. (Which until two years ago when I bought a pair of full price Tory Burch flats, were the most expensive shoes I had ever bought for myself at $120 for the shoes and $110 for the sandals.) I have a sweatshirt and top from Abercrombie. They belonged to my brother and he rejected them. They swam on me in high school, they fit now. The jean jacket was also too big when originally purchased. And here's why: my mom refused to believe me when I told her I wore an XS.

Yup. She refused to believe that at seventeen I knew what size I wore. I had been in denial for a few years, but by that point, I had owned up to the fact I wore a size zero. I accepted it and had embraced the fact I was non-existant. I knew, in the back of my head, that so many of my peers would have loved to buy size zero jeans from American Eagle, who have been jealous of me as I bought double zero jeans from Abercrombie (yeah, double zero. I was double non-existent at Abercrombie & Finch). I wore XS shirts because I had no boobs and going to a bigger size didn't make the shirts any longer.

My mother, who did my laundry, honestly thought I was wearing clothes that were too small simply based on what these items looked like when she washed them. She commented quite often about the size of the shirts when she'd washed them, but never when they were on me. She bought me a crop top. I was never brave enough to really wear it, but she did buy it for me. I've no idea why. I was sixteen. She told me I ought to embrace the body I had at the moment as one day it'd be gone.

Like usual, she was right. And I did listen to her, hence why I owned up to the fact I was not a size 4 and began buying the size that fit: zero. (And man did I feel better about myself when I no longer had a saggy butt and had to wear belts to keep my too large pants up.)

Anyways, in the spring of my junior year, for some reason, we were at Old Navy. I didn't really shop at Old Navy in high school after I embraced my non-existence because they didn't make non-existent clothing. So, my mother and I were at Old Navy and she proclaimed she was buying me clothes. This was strange for a wide array of reasons. She had decided when I was ten she wasn't ever buying me clothing and since I was thirteen I had to pay for my own clothes. Also, I didn't NEED anything. By this point in my life, I had enough clothing to clothe the entire school and then some. (Not that many people wore non-existant sized clothing. This was tragic on many levels, most being I could never trade clothes with my girlfriends as they all wore size four or larger.) But, I was not about to argue with my mom paying for clothes, so I went along for the ride.

We both really liked what the mannequin was wearing, so she agreed I could get the jean jacket and red checkered shirt. When we went to get the clothes, I discovered Old Navy actually carried XS. (They did not have size zero pants, though. I did check.) I grabbed the XS, but my mother said, "No. You're not that small."

I think I blinked.

"You need a small."

I did not argue with her. I simply agreed and got the small shirt and jacket.

As whenever I have new clothes, I was super excited to wear the new outfit and planned to wear it on a field trip to the art museum in downtown Chicago. The morning of the trip, I excitedly put my new stuff on and realized a major flaw.

Everything was too big. The shirt was swimming on me, especially in the chest area. Even with my super bra (either filled with air or water, as Victoria Secret carried both to give you bigger boobs and since I had none and everyone who made clothing seemed to think us non-existant people had huge boobs, I had to wear padded bras and the ones filled with air or water looked more natural), the shirt was too big. I put the coat on over it and the coat was down passed my knuckles-- which was great. I loved sleeves that were too long, but the jacket was not the fitted, cute thing it was on the mannequin. It was wide and boxy.

I wore the outfit anyway, as I was running late and figured that at least my pants fit. I didn't take the jacket off all day and no one told me I looked cute.

I never wore the shirt and jacket again while in high school. I've no idea where the shirt went, but I hung onto the jacket. I think my mom sent me off to college with it. I wore it one day and discovered the pockets were sewn in such a manner they gave me inside pockets that were perfect for my ID. So, I wore it a lot in college because it had extra pockets. The jacket even went to Scotland with me. When cooler weather rolls around, I always unearth it from where ever it is and start wearing it again.

As I stood in the coffee shop at thirty-three-years-old and now wearing a size 8, I stared at the jacket I've merrily worn since I became a size 4. It's always fit since that time. Always. (Except when I was six months pregnant and it didn't button over my humungous boobs.) Was my jacket kinda like the Traveling Pants? It was kinda like a traveling coat. It's been to Scotland, Alaska, Texas, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Oklahoma. It's likely to go off and go to more places because every time I've sat down to replace the stupid thing, I can never find a better coat. And yes, I have sat down to replace it a few times. There's just never a coat that's...well, that coat. So, I give up and just go back to wearing a coat bought by my mother in 2001.

And, guess what? I'm totally in fashion right now with my sixteen-year-old denim coat.

Heed Not the Crazy Singing Lady

I have always loved music. Since I was a baby if I believe my parents. So, logically, once I found about musicals, I was a goner.

The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)

There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.

Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.

I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."

In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)

I love Singing in the Rain, but I hate West Side Story. (Which was reaffirmed last night when I watched it on TMC.) 

Basically, if it's a musical movie, I've seen it.

BUT

I'm currently obsessed with Hamilton. I got on that boat late, but I've been listening to it enough lately my child has started singing it without prompting. EMO began singing last night as she was getting ready for bed, "FOR SHAME! FOR SHAME! I WANT GREEN TOOTHPASTE! FOR SHAME!"

Pilot Boy looked at me like I had done something horrible, but I shrugged as at first, I didn't know what the hell she was singing. She usually needs prompting to sing Hamilton tunes. I spout out the chorus for "My Shot" and she can finish it. She sings along at the end of all King George's songs. She randomly shouts words during the raps, but she's never just begun spouting off things. 

I had a feeling it was from Hamilton, but I had to look it up to figure it out which song.

"Farmer Refuted."

I couldn't stop laughing. While I do enjoy that song, it's not one that we tend to perform together when we do listen to the soundtrack (I am that crazy woman in her car waving her arms and pointing while at a red light with a child in the back doing the same thing). 

EMO shouted her version of "Farmer Refuted" till she fell asleep. 

Hiding in Plain Sight

Five years ago this week, I went to Florida for the first time.

Also, five years ago this week, I suffered from the most crippling panic attack I've ever had.

It pretty much continued until I was back in Alaska. But, after my very public breakdown when it began (who says you can't continuously cry for 12 hours?), I kept my ongoing anxiety and panic to myself throughout the trip.

This week, I'm reliving the trip through my past Facebook posts on their handy: LOOK WHAT YOU DID IN THE PAST button.

I sound very chipper and like I'm enjoying myself.

I do not remember enjoying much.

(I wrote a huge post about the trip (leaving the panic out) but it never posted and was eaten by Blogger. I got mad, and never tried again.)

I remember being unable to enjoy any meal because my stomach was also twisting in knots. I remember worrying about meals and eating because that's just what I do when I'm in a panicking state. I remember getting so overheated I couldn't do anything other than try to calm myself down (which didn't work very well) because it was so damn hot and humid in Florida (to me, everyone else thought it was lovely). I remember that after this trip, I couldn't even manage to go to Target without having a panic attack.

Five years ago this week, panic took over my life.

Five years ago this week, I developed a disorder that took over my entire life and still controls a lot of what I do.

And I still have no idea what set me off.

I will never know because most panic disorders just kind of happen. And you don't always understand why you just have to learn to recognize the symptoms and deal with them in a way you're comfortable with.

I can't fly without a Xanax now. But, I can now ride in the car for over 45 minutes without any drugs. I can go out to eat again without drugging myself and go new places within town without taking a Klonopin. I finally found a breathing exercise that works for me to calm and slow my heart rate. I take drugs to help me sleep, but hell, I'm sleeping again so I don't care. (I also can't loose weight because of this drug but don't care because I am sleeping through the night for the first time in five years (not counting right after having a baby when I could sleep whenever and likely forever).)

Most people don't realize sometimes when I'm being socially awkward it's not actually because I'm socially awkward but because I'm having a panic attack. No one knows. Because unless I start crying, me having a panic attack pretty just looks like me sitting in a dark corner by myself watching the world go by. My husband only knows because he recognizes the breathing exercise, but the people at the auto show last year didn't know I was having a panic attack as I pushed my stroller to the entrance just by looking at me.

I looked like a mother pushing a stroller.

Underdressed, but still. There are crazy people who don't dress properly. (I am that crazy person.)

Five years ago, I felt like I was falling apart at the seams and I desperately wanted help.

Four years go, I made myself work through various panic attacks to get this help.

Due to getting help, I can walk into the Med Group and not have a meltdown, I can wear clothing that is kind of weather appropriate, and I can get in the car on a Sunday night and go to Oklahoma City and enjoy dinner with some guy I don't really know but knows my husband well.

Instead of thinking, "I can't do this," I think, "I can do this. Breathe in two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

First Day of School

Today EMO started preschool. I had to wake her up, as today she decided she wanted to sleep in. She was a little befuddled when I dressed her shortly after waking her, but she went with it. While I got ready, she ate her blueberries and drank some of her milk. While we've been telling her she's going to school, today she seemed to understand that today was the day she'd get to go. She was super excited.

Upon arriving, my daughter said, "Go, Mama, go!" She made a shooing motion, so her dad and I left.

I had two and a half hours to myself. Pilot Boy told me I should take this time to clean the house. I glared at him as he whisked himself off to work. Instead, I downloaded the photos I took before we left, edited them, and sent one of the less blurry ones to my family. After this was done, I still had two hours left, so I was like, "Ugh. Fine. I'll clean."

So, I cleaned up the family room, reorganized things, and realized how many bikes/riding thing my daughter has (four). It was really enjoyable to sit in the quiet house and have it be clean. I could see the couches, the floor, and the carpets were vacuumed and there were no fur-tumbleweeds blowing around.

It was so enjoyable, I almost did in fact forget to go get her.

Pilot Boy send me a text at about ten reminding me to get her. I joked that I'd forgotten I had a daughter, thanks for reminding me.

Somehow, forty five minutes flew by and as I was like, "Oh, I should go get her." Then I looked at my watched and realized I was late.

I hurried over to the school, stood in line, and was greeted by my daughter saying, "Mama, you came back!"

This is how she always greets me when I've been gone for an extended period, be it I ran off to do errands or she was asleep. Sometimes, all I have to do is be in the other room and she greets me as if she wasn't really aware I'd come back from where ever I was, even though I tell her I'll be right back.

When I go to get her from her nap, she will say to me: You came back!

Just like she greeted me this morning when I woke her up. And when I came to get her at school. And when I came back from the bathroom.

Words are Flowing

EMO had words. Lots of words. Most of them are easy to understand, even. Sample of her favorites words:

• Mama
• Daddy! (there is always an exclamation mark after that one...)
• Bucky
• Mook (also known as milk)
• Melmo (AKA Elmo)
• Gapes (grapes)
• Luce (Lucy)
• Bye!
• Hi.
• Peas (please)
• Tanks (Thanks)
• Tigey (Tiger)
• Basue (Basil the Dog)
• Horsie!
• NEIGH!
• Bark!
• No
• Potty
• Poo poo
• Toot
• Hungee (Hungry) 
• Mac N Cheese
• Mee
• Smoothie
• Phone
• Moovie (TV)
• Mickey
• Goofy
• Funneee
• Silly
• Tickle
• Puckle (pickle)
• Berry
• Elsa (Anna)
• Elsa (Elsa)
• George (yeah, she can say it right)
• Daniel
• Cat
• Doc
• Lambie
• Jammie
• Dress
• Shoes
• Car seat
• Pretty
• Awesauce (Awesome. She loves "Everything is Awesome" and will sing it with you if you want)
• Bayme (Baymax)
• Purse
• Okay
• Muzic (Music)
• Frozen
• Let it go
• Sit
• Sleepy
• Leepsteak (Lipstick)
• Lotion
• Shoewer (Shower)
• Brush yur teeth (brush your teeth, which means she wants to brush her teeth as well as you better brush yours)
• Dinner
• Scared
• Safe ("Bucky safe" is what she usually tells me, as she happened to accidentally see the scene of Captain America where Bucky fell off the train. I'd thought I'd paused the movie when I went to get her after nap time, but hadn't. She was very concerned for Bucky, so I told her he was fine. She didn't let up till I assured her Bucky was safe, so now she always tells me Bucky is safe.)
• Tissyou (Tissue)
• Seeick (Sick)
• Choke
• Don't die 
• Diznee (Disney)

And those are the only ones I can think of while I'm sitting here while she's napping (after telling me she wasn't tired. She was out instantly.) 

We're Full of Beans

Two years ago today, around this time, I told my husband it was time to go. He was on the phone with his grandmother (it was her birthday), so he said, "Well, looks like we're having a baby, so I'll talk to you later."

After dropping the dog off at the neighbor's house, we drove the the hospital, where for four hours I labored without drugs because I was only a centimeter when I arrived and they won't admit you till you're three.

I almost punched the nurse who told me I was only a centimeter. I'd been in labor since three am.

The being who was causing me so much pain two years ago just said "Bye" to the TV show she's watching, standing roughly a foot in front of the TV. The being who was making me double over in pain two years ago is currently 35 inches tall, 27 pounds, and has a mouth full of teeth. The being I'd yet to meet two years ago will turn two tomorrow while she watches Sesame Street. Though, I might make her watch Kelly and Michael as that was what was on the TV when she was born. I remember it quite clearly because I kind of wanted to laugh when they later wondered what time she was born. Like her mother, no one was looking at the clock. But, unlike her mother, I was half paying attention to the TV, so I knew roughly when she was born due to where Kelly and Michael were in their opening.

I still haven't lost my baby weight. My boobs are still huge. My hair is finally recovering from the horrors of being pregnant (I was not one of those who had shiny, thick pregnancy hair. I had flat, dull, thin hair-- likely because EMO was stealing all my hair for herself.)

My house usually looks like it was hit by a tornado, the kitchen is always dirty, and there is always laundry that doesn't get done. The dog seems to shed more suddenly, my hair is more curly, and I always want to go to bed at nine pm, but make myself stay up till ten.

I dance around more, I sign stupid songs I make up and someone actually laughs now, there's someone else in the house making up words or mispronouncing them other than me, and I am never truly alone.

EMO knows lots of words: poo poo, pee, puty (computer), okay, oh no, fone (phone), clock, choo choo (train), neigh, sursily (seriously), Melmo (Elmo), Goofy, doggy, daddy, mama, ug (hug), Anna (who is actually Elsa), Scott!, MeMe (who is named MeMe), Toodles, car, toot, Me, Bye, Hi, Gumpy (Grandpa), cammy (camera), shower!, movie (means TV), ouch, shoes!, and likely others I can't think of at the moment.

She's my long limbed baby with lots of hair. She's determined, stubborn, and a dare devil.

Two years ago, I didn't know her. Now, I couldn't imagine not.

Let It Go

When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher who was awesome. He was great for a wide array of reasons, but mostly because --and I don't remember why he said what he did-- he told us if we had any problem, any worry, anything we needed help with to just send it up to God. And he shrugged his shoulders, turned his hands over and lifted them up as if he was handing God whatever the problem was.

He claimed it worked.

I was doubtful.

I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.

I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.

So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.

I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.

I let go.

I sent it up to God to deal with.

And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.

Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.

Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.

And I always feel lighter.

It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.

It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.

Why?

Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.

So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.

I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.

And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.

I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.

And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.

I let go.

Does the issue still exist?

Yeah.

Does it still kind of bother me?

Yes.

But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.

Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.