Occupy My Life

Yesterday, I told a friend that I was thinking of giving up blogging and writing all together for awhile.  That my book and "building a brand" and networking with other writers and agents consumed too much of my thoughts and mind. It distracted me from my family and that I'd be a more loving wife and mom if I sacrificed my dream.  She wisely commented that, "Well, if it doesn't hurt, it's not love.  But it's also not love if you give something up and then talk all the time about how much you've given up and want credit for it."  My dear bestie A knows me well enough to know I'm not mature enough to love sacrificially and not want a parade in my honor for doing so.

However, after praying more about the whole writing and my own dissatisfaction with  my life as of late, it is also true that perhaps if I wrote more, I'd think about writing less.  Because real writers write.  They don't just sit in coffee shops and talk about writing with their writing friends.  They don't just carry around notebooks and jot notes.  They don't just ignore their families in an effort to remember that brilliant thing they thought about in the grocery store and forgot to write down in their handy dandy notebook  (You know that thing that made them buy four boxes of fruity Cheerios and completely forget the milk and bananas they went in for in the first place.)  Writers sit and write.

I do not want to participate this year in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month),  because if I can't read two books at the same time, I definately can't write a new book while still working on my manuscript from last year.  (Yes, the first draft if done.  But I may be weaving into it my idea for my second book.  I've had conflicting advice from two different agents.  So maybe it's not done.  But it is in a binder on my desk.  And I move it around from room to room in the house, stealing 5 minutes here and 5 minutes there to edit it and scribble notes in the margins.)

So instead, I'm going to participate in BlogNoWriMo.  I don't know if this is an actual thing.  I may be making it up.  But I'm almost certain I read something about it on twitter (which HAS become a distraction and so has been removed from my phone).  I'm going to blog everyday for the next thirty days.  And I'm not going to think about it.  I'm just going to Nike it up and just do it.

So, quite possibly, y'all could be reading a lot of mindless dribble for the next month.  Because part of this discipline is to help me be more present with my kids.  To focus on writing for a certain amount of time a day, and then close my notebook, Ipad, and laptop.  And then focus on legos and baby dolls and Thomas the Tank Engine (because I know have TWO kids who sleep clutching a little blue engine). 

I'd like to occupy my own life instead of hovering over the lives of my friends in social media.*


*Yes, I'm about the tweet that.  Baby steps.

Hi, My name is Elizabeth, and I'm a Hypocrite...

The one two punch of a disjointed summer and the ever bleeding uterus has made me realize I’m a hypocrite.  Let me confess that again.

I’m a hypocrite.

No.  Really.  Not in a tongue in cheek “aren’t we all?” kind of way.   (Because, yes.  If you are human you are either a hypocrite or a liar.  Deal with it.)  But in a “I’ve been saying one thing and completely doing something else” sort of way.  (So, you know, in the “definition of hypocrite” kind of way.)

Here is what I’ve been saying:  I trust God.  I trust that He loves me and is for me.  I trust Him to fight for me.  I trust Him to provide for my family and me.  I trust God with my health.  I trust God that even if the worst happens, He will use it for my good and his glory.

Here is what has really been going on in my mind:  If this is God loving me, I wish He didn’t love me so well.  If he made me, then why the hell am I falling apart?  Maybe this darkness I keep running into in the hall will go away if I just write about it and then writing will be my Savior.  Maybe if I can just cram my days with freelance writing gigs I can slowly 8 cent a word my way into financial security.  And if my savings account never dips below a certain amount then it will all be okay.  Maybe if I just get my darn uterus ripped out, I won’t be in pain and then snap! Everything will be great.

But, as it turns out, none of the things I’ve been putting my faith in have brought me squat.  In fact, instead of bringing me life, these idols of money and self-reliance are most likely the culprits behind my life slowly and painfully draining out of me. *

When God said, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” it wasn’t the shrill request of an insecure spouse.  It was the stern warning of a loving Father.  A Father who knew that not only would faith in other gods not give life, but drain it.  And, ultimately, kill.

OUCH.

Someone once explained to me that placing faith in God is like sitting in a chair.  Faith is the trust to put one’s full weight into something.  The faithful posture is one of swinging legs.

But instead of sitting back into the lap of God, trusting Him to hold me, protect me, to be God to me, I’ve perched.  Like a Varsity cheerleader on her boyfriend’s lap.  Abs and thighs clenched.  Hovering more than actually sitting.  And while it may appear to be a faithful pose—it’s just that: a pose.  A full 80% of my body, heart, and soul is clenched up and resting in my own strength.

My thighs are burning.

I suppose I should be grateful all it has taken is a crappy summer and a faulty uterus to show me my own hypocrisy.  

May God be so gracious the next time my wandering heart hovers.

The Summer of my Discontent

This is the summer where I learned the above sentiment.  And let me be clear:  it was not a fun lesson to learn.

If you are a close friend, or you've been paying close attention, you've probably noted that this has been a difficult summer for me.  There are a thousand reasons why this is so. It was my first summer with a non-napping four year old. I have an almost two year old and I'd clearly repressed what that age was like out of self-preservation.  My husband travels (a lot).  The stupid IRS is auditing everyone who applied for the adoption tax credit and so considerable monies we thought would be arriving in May have yet to show up.  And probably won't until November.  I've had some health issues and so has Grace, what with the temperature feeling as though we were living three inches from the sun.  I'm editing the Bethany newsletter which is great, however, the articles I get from people, no matter how many times I ask for them ahead of time, always seem to show up in my inbox at 11 pm the night before I'd hoped to have the newsletter done and since I'm getting volunteers to write the articles, I can't really complain or yell at them.  I had (and sort of still have) a job with another writer where I got to work from home, which I thought was awesome until I realized home is where my needy kids are and they didn't get the Mommy needs some quiet time memo so I ended up working at night which meant that I never got any time to myself.  Or with my husband. 
The first time I really noticed it was a problem was when I found myself looking forward to my annual gynecological visit for some "time alone".  I prayed and prayed I'd have to wait a long time in the waiting room, but alas, Dr. M was right on time.
I've felt guilty because my dreams of taking the kids to all these fantastical field trips got sidetracked because Mommy had work to do.  And when I was working, all I was thinking about what else needed to get done around the house.  And so then I'd try to get something done around the house and I'd start to feel guilty about not working enough for my writer boss.  And then I'd feel bad because I couldn't remember the last time I had spoken kindly to my husband.  Stressed, I spent a large portion of the summer believing the lie that life was actually easier when Sloan was out of town because then I didn't even have to try to be with him and I could just be the master of my own ship.  When he came home and attempted to help or parent, I basically told him he was a third wheel or an extra child. 
Lather. Rinse.  Repeat.
I finally broke down on the way home from a weekend away with Sloan (which was MUCH, MUCH needed!).  I cried for about two hours while we were going up I95.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of mom I wanted to be.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of wife I wanted to be.  Crying because I was in physical pain.  Crying because I wasn't the employee I wanted to be.  Crying because I didn't even know if I wanted to be a stay at home mom, but conversely, the thought of doing something else made me want to puke.  Crying because the art projects I had hoped to complete over the summer weren't even begun.  Crying because I missed blogging and writing for myself so, so much. Crying because I was such a raging bitch to my husband and over and over again he forgave me.
It was at this point of self-loathing Sloan blurted in, "Stop.  Just stop.  I get it.  You need help.  You need Jesus.  Who doesn't?  Why is this such a shock to you?"

And there was the mother-freakin' rub.

Basically I was pissed that I could not, nor will I ever be able, to be all things for all people.  That my attempts to do everything at all times perfectly have done nothing but make me and the folks around me miserable.   
And so I've spent a lot of time repenting.  For the same things.  Over and over.  Like I'm a toddler or something. 
I'm sorry I yelled at you.  I'm sorry I called you a tool.  I'm sorry I played poker all night and ignored you.  I'm sorry I blamed my bad mood on you when it is really me I'm disappointed in.  I'm sorry I talked about you behind your back to my friend.  I'm sorry that I'm too tired to discuss this with you and so I'm just going to give in and ignore you because I just don't care.  I'm sorry you have no clean underwear.  I'm sorry I don't let you make any parenting decisions because I really am a control freak. Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.
I'm sorry that I let you watch too much TV yesterday and now it is all you want to do and if it will just shut you up, then yes, you can watch another episode of Blue's Clues.  I'm sorry I threw away your sword because I was too impatient for you to walk backwards with it to the toy bin.  I'm sorry I yelled at you so much the day you wanted to walk backwards everywhere.  I'm sorry we've eaten cereal for dinner three nights in a row.  I'm sorry for yelling at you for pooping in your nighttime pull-up.  I'm sorry that I'm putting you down for your nap early because if I have to listen to your whining and screaming for one more minute I am going to lock myself in the bathroom with the Real Simple magazine and not come out until tomorrow.  I'm sorry that I told you we would go to the zoo today but Mommy just has a few more pages she has to look over.  I'm sorry I broke all of my promises.   Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.

It has been, needless to say, a summer which I never want to repeat. 

So I am reminding myself that there are seasons to life.  That Henry's sweet and tender disposition at 4 is proof that Gracie won't always hit her brother and scream for cookies and donuts as I put her down for her nap.  (Though you got a love a women who wants to eat cookies and donuts while reading her book in bed.)  That soon school will start back up and I can run errands with only one child in tow and that maybe I oughtta look for a Mom's morning out program for Grace to begin this fall.  That while I desperately want to be getting my own literary agent and editing my own manuscript and not someone else's,  just because I'm waiting until the kids are in school to do that doesn't mean it won't ever happen.  Because the book can wait.  Playing legos and dress up cannot. 
I'm also thanking God for my amazing husband, who upon seeing my head barely above water, has adjusted his travel schedule so that every 6th week or so, he doesn't travel at all.  And when he is home, he has taken to cooking all the meals or at the very least, being my helpmate in the kitchen.  He also got me tickets to the James River Writer's Conference in October and has promised me a Saturday a quarter to go be away by myself for the day so I can write.  All day long. 

A Real Conversation

Henry:  Mom, don't you have some work you need to do?
Me:  Umm, I always I have work I need to do.  But I'm enjoying playing Legos with you and Gracie.
Henry: But if you did work on the 'pooter, we could watch TV.
Me: (laughing) I'll let you watch some TV while I work during Gracie's naptime.
Henry:  But Gracie likes TV too. 
Me: (looking at Gracie jump up and down on the trampoline) I think she's okay.  We'll wait until she goes to sleep.
Henry:  I guess that's okay.  Mickey Mouse is On Demand.
Me: I'm glad my work schedule is to your liking.
Henry: Yeah.  It's cool.

Tennies on the Subway, Pumps in the Office

That's right, I'm a working girl.

I got a job!

Well, to be clear, it's more of a job-let.  But to say that it is an answer to prayers would be a gross understatement.  I've been itching for the past year or so to write.  And not just on the blog or work on my book, but to write for compensation.  To be able to help provide for my family by using the gifts God gave me.  Even if that provision is mainly just gas money.  I think I was also (secretly) wanting someone not related to me to say, "No, you're not crazy.  You can write.  You are correct in thinking this is your thing God gave you.  Michelle Kwan's is skating.  Bradley Cooper's is, well, just look at him. And yours is writing." 

While no one has exactly said those specific words to me (did I just compare my writing to Bradley Cooper's hotness?), it has brought me great joy to receive respect and admiration for my writing. 

So what is my new job?  Well, actually, I sort of have two jobs.  But only one of them pays.  The first, the non-paying gig, is that since January I've been writing for and editing the Virginia Bethany Christian Services newsletter.  In total, it is about 8ish pages each month.  May was about honoring mothers, both birth and adoptive moms.  June's is about fundraising.  Since I've taken over, it seems we've gotten some positive feedback.  It used to be just sort of slapped together by some of the pregnancy counselors.  And I want you to know I'm saying slapped together not because they were sloppy or unprofessional, just that they a) are not writers, and b) work as social workers for a non-profit (which is to say they work way too much for way too little money).  So I asked if I could take it off their hands.  They cheered, did little dances, and then handed me the reins.  It's been great.  And the editing of the articles has prepared me for my second job.

Which is to help another writer with her writing and to get things out the door to agents and publishers and the like.  And this one is the one where God just pointed at laughed at me.  Literally, on Friday, I received an email that said (I'm loosely paraphrasing)--Hey, Elizabeth.  I think you are awesome and I would like to pay you to sit around in your PJs and Toms and write for me.  Also, at some point there will be Margaritas.  I'm not kidding about the margaritas.  Margaritas have been promised to me. 

The most difficult things about both of these jobs are time management and voice.  Time management because I'm committed to being a stay at home Mom, committed to my kid's memories of me being about Legos and dance parties, not shows on the DVR while Mommy types in the dining room.  Right now I'm typing while Henry is at school.  Grace fell asleep in the car while running errands and I'm just letting her take her afternoon nap two hours early.

And as to voice?  I am finding it difficult, in both the newsletter and the joblet, to be true to the original author's voice.  I have to squash the part of my writing self that says, "Oh, I would've said it this way" or "this would be funnier here".  Sometimes I do this when just reading books for pleasure.  To the point that at my last book club meeting I said, "This book was okay.  My main problem with it is that I didn't write it.  It would've been funnier if I wrote it."  Sorry, Shauna Niequist.  Apparently you didn't get the memo that Cold Tangerines was really my story.

So if I'm blogging less or just putting up photos it is because I'm going to try to limit my blogging time to 30 minutes.  This post has taken roughly 20.  But some of them, like the three without typos, I spend hours on.