Being A Grown-Up: The Everlasting Saga, Part 1

I hate what kids these days call "adulting." H-A-T-E hate it.  All I want to do in life is as follows:

• Sit on the couch and hold babies.
• Sit on the couch and talk to the big kids.
• Sit on the couch and binge watch ALL the shows.
• Sit on the couch and eat chocolate cake.
• Sit on the couch with friends who let me wear pj's when they come over.

And last but absolutely the very best one:

• Lay in bed for as long as possible with my favorite person, drinking coffee and dreaming out loud.

As you might have noticed, there is no room in my wheelhouse for "measurable productivity." (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)  I am a very busy woman, what with all that sitting on the couch.  I cannot be bothered with things such as organizing, cleaning, or executing any of the grand plans I have written down in my many little notebooks that are chock-full of grand plans and ideas.  Unfortunately for us creative types, sh*t doesn't do itself.  It requires someone to actually do it.

Which is precisely why we call it sh*t.

Speaking of, I started making a list of the areas in my home that need to be purged and organized.  Upon completing this list and feeling a profound sense of accomplishment for my wisdom and forethought, I realized I had written down every single room or storage space located within these four asbestos-shingled walls.  For various reasons, most of which are listed above, I've never managed to get our whole house in order since we moved in back in 2011.  Under threat of impending catastrophe or disease spreading mold, I have organized the occasional room or drawer. But never all of them at the same time, and some of them never at all. Really, y'all.  I just can't be bothered.

The one that started this mess.

But this is no way to live.  Consistent with the complications of humanity I really, really want to live in a beautiful, clean, organized space.  The fact that I do not often makes me at best unhappy and at worst very cranky with my cohabitants.  They do not like me when I'm cranky.  I don't like me when I'm cranky.  And so I find myself concluding for the thousandth time: I've got to get my sh*t together.

So here's my idea: I'll trick myself into doing it.  Convincing oneself that one is doing one thing when one is actually doing another thing takes a lot of trickery and sneakiness.  Thankfully, I have always been very sneaky.  (Just ask my sisters.  I took all their things.)  Through meticulous self-deception I will attempt to make the process of reorganizing Every Square Inch of my home....wait for it....Fun!  The method most likely to work is--no, not "whistle while you work" you goody two shoes--by utilizing satirical, self-depricating humor.  Obviously it is my moral responsibility to make these morsels of humor and sagacious wisdom available to the public.  My audience needs me.

How exactly will I execute this plan?  I will chronicle my journey right here at Messy Manger by providing before and after pictures of my endeavors accompanied by quip-y witty banter.
Because nobody has ever done anything like this in our modern era of social media.
(Uh, missed opportunity folks.)

Alright, y'all.  Here we go.

I hereby contract myself to you, My Faithful Readers, (most of whom know me well enough to ask me why I'm not doing my blog thing because you've seen my house and you know it's not because I'm so busy cleaning and organizing) to perform the following tasks:

• On a weekly basis, except family vacations and religious or government holidays--any religion, any government--I will completely purge and organize one room or storage area in my home.
• When I have completed the purganizing* process, I will provide my readers with visual and written evidence of my work.

So there you have it.
Simple.
Two steps.
Once a week.
I can do this.

I hope.

The real kicker is when I inevitably will miss a week and although you guys will be so gracious and forgiving, my husband who thinks he's soooooo responsible will tease me for watching Netflix all day instead of actually doing something.  Then I'll have to pick, like, the BIGGEST problem area the next week and totally knock it out of the park because I hate it when he thinks he's better than me.**

See.  I told you I was sneaky.

*I just made that word up.  Purganize.  Brilliance here, take note.
**Except back rubs and making coffee.  He can be better at those.

The Aching. The Vulnerability. Too Much.

It's been months.

We have weathered yet another incapacitating pregnancy.  We came out the other end of a terribly hopeful labor with a fifth warm, fuzzy soul. (We never got to see #4, so really our Baby O is #6.)

She is here.

And I am here.

But so is my husband and Li'l Bit, Gizmo, Ladybug, and The Rascal.  There are 7 of us.  SEVEN!  And B.daddy and I have these peculiarly lovable "unrelated" souls all around us just begging to be loved.  There are so many human beings happening right now!  How does God even stand it?

How do we do this thing called love?

I have so much raw love inside the most deep, dark, protected part of my heart.  But how do I get that love through my walls?  These walls have kept me standing my entire life.  They may be the only things keeping me standing.  Or they may be the only things keeping me separated from the people who are so eagerly trying to love me....and more importantly, so desperately wanting me to love them.

And my walls may rebuild themselves even after I have broken them down with vim and vigor and vomit.  Really? For the rest of my life? (Please, no.)

Maybe I'm sitting here with my FIFTH BABY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD wondering why I haven't figured this thing out.

Maybe the feeling I had of being totally and completely overwhelmed after having one child is the exact same feeling I have now.  Because maybe having a baby is a big deal.  Can I just tell you what a big deal this girl is?

She is warm, oh so warm.
She is perfect.
She smells like breastmilk and the cleanest, purest fuzz.
She is sweet.
She is vulnerable.

Her one goal in life is to be loved and cared for.

Her first smile wasn't just a grin.  Her mouth opened so wide with elation my heart left my body (yet again) and implanted itself inside her chest (yet again.)
Her siblings kiss her and coo over her constantly.
Her mere existence constantly breaks my heart into a trillion pieces.

This is exactly how I felt after Li'l Bit was born--my first baby.  I expected to swoon and feel comforted and whole.  I did NOT expect my heart to break like it had never broken before.  I did not expect to feel like the most important part of me was beating inside a tiny, helpless human being.  But I had never fallen in love so hard and so fast.  Of course I didn't know.  And who would expect that to happen a second, third.....sixth time in one lifetime?

Who would expect so much love?  And who would expect it to ache so much?  Those walls start shooting right back up, because this can't be right.

It is so much safer to separate oneself.  Within myself I can master, control, protect, contain.   At the very least, no one can hurt me if I feel nothing for anyone.  Can I just be me?  Separate and far away from anyone else?

No.
You can't.
These are your people.

I love these people.  I can't handle it.  I can't squelch it.  I cannot contain these children.  I cannot master my man.  I cannot protect any of them despite my ultra-sensitive, whatever-phobe-or-phile-radar was ostensibly nurtured into me. They just keep living and feeling and acting and asking and speaking.

Inside my walls all was quiet.
All was just so.
Safe.
All was dark.
All was not right--it was bleakly silent.

My man has so many good words.
My babies are so noisy.
My soul aches for even more of this noise that breaks my heart because it reveals the secret that we all are aching to be loved.
I am not alone in this wanting to be loved.

~~~

Thanks to the people who have loved me, I am finding my many words.  The silence is no longer bleak.  My words are finding a safe place to land and, by some, be heard.

Selfies

(Okay, so not Post-Script P.S. but Pre-Script P.S.: I hate selfies.  They are selfish.  I only take them when I'm feeling gross and horrible, but then all of the sudden my phone's glossy camera says I look amazing....or at least passable.  And then I realize it's a lie, delete it, and go to sleep.)

If selfies exist for any purpose it is this one:

(Taken with a disposable Kodak, y'all. Legit.)

This is the only picture we have of the two of us on our honeymoon.

The purpose is to remind me just how mercifully I have been blessed with a man who cherishes me and respects me with every single one of his breaths.  I was primed, y'all.  Primed for something not-so-happy at best, and abusive or destructive at worst.  But I wasn't dealt not-so-happy at best.  I was given the best man on the face of the earth.  I seriously believe with every fiber of my being that there is not one single man who could meet my needs and love me and forgive me the way my B.daddy does.  I realize that sounds fantastical, but real love has a way of doing that.  You get caught up in it.  It probably doesn't take your breath away, because you realize it over the kitchen sink or in the bathroom or in the middle of the night when no one is around to notice.  But when you do realize it you know:  this is my man; from him I have nothing to fear, for him I will do anything.

I say all of these things because they are the evidence and proof of the last thirteen years.  But right now I am 37 weeks pregnant with our fifth child.  I sleep next to no-minutes-ever.  My two year old begs my constant affection and attention despite my disappearing lap-space.  My three big ones need me in such specific ways, and all have told me they want to grow up and have kids--just not deal with marriage and "having a baby" which makes me think I'm failing on some catastrophic, epic level.  My man's plate is so full....so very full.  Despite the fact that I have played a significant role in giving life to four (almost five) of the human beings in this family, I feel like a big, fat, lump of a burden.

And what do you do when you feel like a burden?
You lash out at your dearest one.  You tell him it's all his fault.  It's the weight he's put on you.  It's all of his unspoken disappointments you've known all along.  The things he would NEVER say.  There's no way you'd feel so horrible if he'd just let up for a second, right?
You take all that hurtful-fearful-hatred and you punch him in the face with it.

You punch him in the face with it and you want to apologize all at the same time.  If he responds out of anger, you completely freak out.  Far worse than your first attack, you try to blitz him into his normal senses screaming, "No! I'm freaking out! Not you!"  And then, if he responds out of compassion and patience you completely lose it.   Tears.  Of epic proportion.

We've had a lot of that in the last few weeks.  Tears.  Discomfort.  No sleep.  Work stress.  Homestead stress.  School drama.  A two-year-old being a two-year-old.

All of our Joneses are primed and ready to completely tear one another apart.  We're tired and cranky and who-knows-what over this new human being entering our orb.  But then I see this picture:

We could have been ruined from the start, easily.  But we saw from the get-go: communicate, communicate, communicate.  Talk until you are embarrassed to talk and then talk some more.  That's how we spent our honeymoon....talking. *Sure as hell wasn't going to embarrass myself by crashing a bike into a pool in front of my brand, new husband and then never ride one again for thirteen years.*  We talked and ate and slept together.  And through those fleeting days we laid the ground work of our whole marriage. 

Tell me how it feels.

Is it good?  Is it bad?

What do you want?

What do you need from me?

These were the most basic questions that started us on the most epic journey of healing and rediscovery.  It has taken me a very long time to believe that this man will still love me despite the puss that oozes out of my wounded heart as I try to leave the pain and shame behind and embrace the freedom and joy that has surrounded me ever since I met him.

So as the puss continues to ooze out and our kids persist in their development and this sweet Olive prepares to meet us......I will remember to talk to my man.  

How do I feel?

Is it good or bad?

What do I want?

What do I need from him?

And when I feel a bit stronger....

What does he need from me?