Perfect Holidays: Hostess with the... Mostest?

The week before Thanksgiving, Hearts at Home hosted its monthly "No More Perfect Moms" blog hop. The topic was a fitting "No More Perfect Holidays" theme. In the pre-Thanksgiving bustle, I skipped out on this one. (I blame my therapist, whose has been successfully encouraging me to lower my expectations, especially of myself). So this is my belated No More Perfect holidays post.

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Shortly following a family gathering, my sister-in-law sent me an email in which she complimented my sense of hospitality.

My first thought… She must be thinking of someone else.

Me? Hospitality? Really?

I had always equated a good sense of hospitality with the “Hostess with the Mostest” type. The scent of the candles matches the season and the decorations are perfectly coordinated - beautiful place settings, matching serving dishes, plate chargers (and if you don’t know what a charger is, keep reading. This is for you).

These women make great hostesses because their commitment to their guests’ experience is apparent in their effort. They have handmade centerpieces and homemade pies. They bustle around non-stop, making sure the drinks stay full and the food keeps coming. Their creative extras add a lot to the party atmosphere, and the fancy touches are endearing. Their parties are so festive. And so fun.

And that's so not me.

Hosting events can be intimidating when you don’t have a Pinterest-worthy flare. It’s tough to host a fall gathering when you’ve been to a party where the soup was served in hollow pumpkins. It’s hard to be proud of cupcakes topped with plain sprinkles after you’ve been to a party where the cupcakes had Minnie Mouse ears. (Think oreo halves and pink sugar bows. Adorable). When you have Martha-Stewart-types friends and family members, it’s easy to feel like everything you do pales in comparison.

Hospitality was a quality I admired in other women, but it’s definitely never been on my list of my own personal strengths. My china is boxed up in the basement; my gravy boat has never been used; and I don’t own a set of napkin rings or plate chargers. (For those still wondering, they’re decorative plates that you put underneath your real plates. Yeah, I don’t get it either). I don’t have much of an eye for decorating, and I don’t use seasonal centerpieces. I prefer to keep things simple.

So what’s to compliment about that?

If you’re one of those women with over-the-top festive flare, that’s awesome. We admire your effort, we envy your creativity, and we have a great time at your parties. But I’m starting to learn that just as much as people appreciate all-out festive fun, they also appreciate the simple, calm, and casual. There’s no need to worry about breaking one of my dishes or spilling red wine on my white tablecloth. (The dishes were cheap and there is no tablecloth). No need to offer to help me in the kitchen. Let’s have fun. I’ll get the mess later.

I come from a “come on in and grab a beer” kind of family, and I’m proud of that. Matt and I host gatherings all the time, despite my mismatched dinnerware and lack of napkin rings. We don’t buzz around for hours beforehand making sure everything is spotless and perfect. We create a “make yourself at home” setting that is nice enough to be welcoming and relaxed enough to comforting. And we’ve discovered that people have just as much fun without plate chargers.

So if you’re next in line to host the big family Christmas, don’t feel like you have to spend hours on Pinterest finding the perfect recipes and creating the perfect table setting. People will appreciate you for whichever kind of hostess you are. A good sense of hospitality goes deeper than what people see when they walk in the door. It’s really about how they feel when they walk out.

Have a merry (and stress-free) Christmas! 

On Being Loved

Meet the fifth member of our family:

This is Reese's security toy. I got him from my graduate assistant at ISU while I was still pregnant (which means I have a floppy-eared representation of my former career dragging lifelessly at my daughter's side everywhere we go. It's great). His name is Mono (like the illness) because there was a time when she thought every small furry animal was a cat. She would point to him and say “meow” but it sounded more like a high pitched “mono” and the word stuck. We always get a good laugh when she turns to random strangers and says, "I have Mono."

Reese - 9 months

When we take Mono out in public people often smile and say, “That is one loved bunny.” And loved he is. She doesn’t go to sleep without him. There have been many just-before-bedtime searches for Mono when Reese forgets where he's been “taking his nap.” She doesn’t leave the house without him either. There have also been a few three-point turnarounds on the road to town when she discovers that we’ve left him at home. Mono often joins us at the dinner table; he appears in family pictures; and Reese always adds a “thank you for Mono” to her nightly prayers. Yes, he is one loved bunny.

Sometimes people ask me if I've ever considered attempting to replace him with a new one. Of course not. I know Reese would never accept a different bunny - even a seemingly nicer, newer version of the one she has. She doesn't care that he's had everything imaginable scrubbed out of his fur. She doesn't care that he's now more gray than white or that the material on his nose is rubbed off. She doesn't care that his fur isn't soft anymore or that he smells kinda funny even after a trip through the washer. To Reese, Mono has always been the perfect companion. The flaws just don't matter. She loves him and she can't see what other people see.

When I look at Reese's attachment to Mono, I realize how silly our struggles with self-image really are. We judge ourselves by our appearance, but the men who married us and watched us carry their children don’t focus on our stretch marks or cellulite. They don’t see the flaws that we see. Instead, they see a perfect companion.

We judge ourselves by our mistakes, but the people who know and love us to our deepest core don’t focus on our misspoken words or neurotic tendencies. They don’t see the flaws that we see. Instead, they see a dear friend.

We judge ourselves by our shortcomings, but the God who loves and forgives unconditionally doesn’t focus on our lapses in judgment or deepest regrets. He doesn’t see the flaws that we see. Instead, He sees a loved and worthy creation.

If you are fortunate enough to have people in your life who know, love, and accept you at your best and worst, then you, too, are "one loved bunny" and nothing else matters. None of those people would prefer another you – even one that appears more perfect on the surface.

That pure unconditional love reminds me of this passage from the 1922 children's classic The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams. She writes:

"When a child loves you for a long, long time - not just to play with but really loves you, then you become Real... It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time... Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don't matter at all because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Reese - 3 years

You Are So Beautiful

Ok, ladies. Here we go with another Hearts at Home No More Perfect Moms Blog Hop. This month’s topic is “no more perfect bodies.” It's a personal one and since it's not something we openly talk about, sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one out there who has been in the place I'm about to describe. I guess I'll find out…

Before I had kids, I knew exactly what kind of mom I was going to be. No tantrums in this house. No unhealthy snacks for these kids. And as far as all that talk about moms who "let themselves go," that wouldn't be me. No, sir. I was going to get my butt on a treadmill and be rockin' my pre-baby figure in no time.

The part of me that now knows better finds this hilarious. Oh, little naive one. How's all that workin out for ya? So, I guess nobody told you that the muffin top is sit-up proof. And despite the claims of some infomercials, you might as well toss those C-cup bras because those days are OVER.

Well, that little naive one inside me doesn't see the humor. I have been mourning the loss of my pre-baby figure for months, despite the compliments of people who say, “Wow, you look exactly the same!” Trust me, I do not. Clothing hides a lot. If you saw me in the shower, you would understand. (Although I'd rather you just take my word for it).

Our honeymoon - June 2008

On more than one occasion, I have stood in front of my full-length mirror and cried about how I can no longer fill out my bras but I seem to have no problem over-filling my jeans. Then I feel vain, which makes me feel guilty, which makes everything worse (as guilt always does).

I used to be so beautiful.

I know that sounds so sad - I told you I was vain. Real beauty comes from the inside, right? I see it other people. My husband sees it in me. Why couldn’t I see it in myself?

After Reese was born, I made a pretty decent comeback (ahem, mothers of one, beware) and maybe I expected it to be that easy again. After two pregnancies and a combined 12 months of nursing (I had to quit after 3 months with Allie), I've been struggling to come to grips with where things have... ended up. And honestly, up until last weekend I thought that’s where this post might end. I didn’t know what else to say. I have a "mom body" now and I'm sad about it. The end.

But God leads us in such wonderful ways and during the Hearts at Home conference last Saturday, I wandered into a session on "dressing your mom body with confidence." I assumed it would be some frumpy lady preaching about modesty and I was always more of a “flaunt it if you’ve got it” kind of girl. The problem is that I no longer think I have IT and now I’m lost. And bitter. So there I was.

I sat quietly in the back of room. The speaker wasn’t frumpy at all. She was well-dressed and beautiful and just an awesome woman - like the kind of person who could have been talking about the mating habits of snails and I would have listened. As I sat there, I finally started to understand where my attitude had derailed. I discreetly pulled out my Kleenex as women around me probably wondered why I was getting emotional over patterned scarves and layered tank tops.

Then I really lost it when she said that our daughters will develop their sense of confidence based on our sense of confidence. How will we teach them to embrace their beauty if we can't fully embrace our own? What will they come to believe about themselves when people tell them how much they look like their mamas?

When I got home, I apologized to Matt for rolling my eyes when he tells me how good I look and for not taking his compliments to heart. Later that night, before I changed into my pajamas I stood in my full-length mirror and apologized to myself because my unwillingness to accept my imperfections blinded me to the perfect beauty that exists within them.

God gave me a body because He wanted me to respect it. Now I do. I am humbled by that. This body birthed two amazing children, children who wouldn’t exist otherwise. I am proud of that. This body isn’t damaged. It wears a badge of honor, a badge many women don’t get to wear. I am thankful for that.

February 2013

And as I stood there feeling humble and proud and thankful, I finally saw what my God, my husband, and my children already see.

I am still so beautiful.

That's why people tell me I look exactly the same - because to them I really do. That's why my husband tells me I'm beautiful every day - because to him I really am. And that's why I've had such a hard time believing that the beauty is still there - because I had heard it from everyone but myself.

Whatever imperfections you dwell on, remember that we all have things about our bodies that we’d like to change. It’s easy to assume that someone else has no complaints, but we don’t see each other in the shower or in the fitting room. All we see of others is what they choose to show us, and that’s rarely an accurate representation. If our clothes look unflattering, we change. When someone compliments our jeans, we don’t announce that we just went up a size. And when people say, “wow, you look exactly the same,” we just smile and say thank you, leaving them to think that we don’t stand in our mirrors and cry because we haven’t figured out how to embrace the perfect beauty in an imperfect body.

So love your muffin top and embrace your stretch marks. Wear your badge of honor with pride and gratitude. Remember that your self-image isn't just about you. It's also about the daughters who are developing their own sense of self every day based on what they see in you. As you continue to repeat these very important words to them, don't forget to also take a moment to stand in your own mirror and say - and believe - those same words for yourself.

You are so beautiful.

I'm also linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs today. We are celebrating March and the arrival of spring with posts that reflect the word "Rejuvenate." Join us here for more Bigger Picture Moments.

AND for more "no more perfect bodies" posts by other Hearts Bloggers, follow me to Jill Savage's blog.

The Time I Almost Ran Away

I wish I could say that my recent absence came about because I’ve been too busy reveling in the joys of my growing family, and if I wasn’t so compelled to tell the truth, that’s probably what I would have said. I might have told you about how much I enjoy watching Reese tell Allie what color everything is and asking her if she’ll be ready to play outside “when the snow goes away.” I might have told you about how busy I’ve been preparing for my new part-time teaching job. I might have even opened up about how difficult the transition to two children has been and how much harder it has become to juggle all of my responsibilities to my home and myself. All of these things are pieces of the truth, but they are only minor contributors compared to the real culprit.

Although it pains me to say it (or write it) out loud, the truth is that I’ve been caught in a dark place since mid-December because of a terrifying episode of postpartum depression that ripped through the center of my being in a matter of days and put my heart in a vice grip of constant panic.

I experienced some postpartum struggles after Reese was born, and I promised myself this time would be different. I spent months building a fortress of positivity around my heart and soul. Armed with self-help books, daily meditation, and relentless prayer, I truly believed I was prepared. Allie’s delivery went so smoothly, my recovery went so quickly, and we settled into our new routine so easily. Everything about our birthing experience with Allie was a stark (and pleasant) contrast to the many struggles we experienced during and after Reese’s arrival. I had every reason to believe that I had beaten it this time. After six weeks of baby bliss, I thought I was out of the woods.

I did not see this coming.

At first, I thought the tears were born out of exhaustion. I thought the frustration was a natural part of life with a toddler. I believed the panic was legitimate and the worries were real. By the time I realized what was really happening to me, I was already deeply buried in the trenches.

This was not a run-of-the-mill postpartum episode – the kind that leaves you crying over your permanent muffin top and mourning the loss of your personal freedom. Oh, no. This was a door-slamming, on-the-floor-crying, sanity-robbing hostile takeover that kept me up at wee hours of the night plotting my escape from this house, this town, this life. I was constantly distracted, always on edge, pacing the floors like a caged animal. Simple tasks overwhelmed me to tears, and I felt like I was drowning in my own life. I fought the constant urge to jump in the car and head out of town with no plans to return.

If the anxiety wasn’t bad enough in its raw form, I made it worse by wallowing in guilt and shame and allowing myself to question my love for my family as if a better wife and mother would never be in the place where I found myself.

Four days before Christmas, I overheard Reese addressing the guests at her stuffed animal tea party, “Mommy’s sad and I don’t know how to fix her.”

I had wanted to work through this on my own, and I believed my faith and my love for my family could carry me to the other side. I got through it before and I would get through it again, but not at Reese’s expense. With my white flag flying high, I made an appointment with my OB and came home with a prescription for the medication I swore I would never need.

Somewhere in the depths of the darkest emotional hole I’ve ever experienced, I found the inner strength for which I had spent so much time praying. It didn’t come in the form of a superhuman ability to defy biology and overcome a long-standing chemical imbalance. It came instead in the form of an emotional white flag and a rock-bottom willingness to accept my circumstances and receive help.

It’s been over three weeks, and I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. I knew the worst was over when we all got the flu on New Year’s Eve and I couldn’t stop laughing at Matt’s “happy new year” jokes in between trips to the bathroom.

Slowly, I’m remembering how to laugh at messes and spills and diaper blowouts. I’m playing with Reese more and fretting over the budget less. I’m learning to ignore the inner voice that makes me feel ashamed of this weakness and to listen instead to the one reassuring me that I’m still every bit as strong as I always believed.

Well, that’s the real reason I’ve been M.I.A. this month, and I chose to share the full extent of the truth because I know I’m not the only mom who has experienced this emotional cage. Even though most of us struggle through postpartum hormonal changes in some way, the voice of this part of motherhood – like many other not-so-pleasant aspects of our roles – often goes unheard. Let’s be that voice. If you’ve been there, let your story plant a seed of hope for someone else. If you’re there right now, reach out for help before your older kids start seeking counsel from their stuffed animals. And if you ever start to believe you are alone in this battle, just give me a call and I’ll tell you about the time I almost ran away from home.

The Best is Yet to Come

Slowing our bikes to a stop, we gathered in a giggly cluster on the front lawn of my childhood home. A white limousine sat in front of the house across the street next to a group of smiley teenagers. We watched in awe, whispering as quietly as young girls can whisper while we cast our votes for the prettiest dress and the cutest date. When the limo finally drove off, we returned to our bikes and I pedaled down the street behind my friends, fantasizing about my own prom night and the many promises of a bright and beautiful future.

That was eleven years before I actually attended my own prom, and here I sit eleven years after, having experienced so many of the days that once seemed so far away – high school, college, marriage, pregnancy, motherhood. Through the first three decades of my life I looked toward the years ahead with such hope and anticipation. Every year brought another exciting “first” and the future was full of mystery and adventure. I wanted to look older, feel older, be older. The best is yet to come.

Somewhere along the way, my feelings toward the future began shifting away from excitement and floating in the space between indifference and dread. With so many major events now in the past, I feared that life would become perpetually repetitive, boring even. No longer able to fantasize about where I might “end up,” I wondered if the adventure was over, if I would begin to spend less time daydreaming about what is to come and more time entertaining thoughts of what might have been “if only…”

Yesterday I celebrated my 30th birthday – not the way I celebrated my tenth with a slumber party filled with popcorn and late-night laughter; or the way I celebrated my eighteenth with a huge bonfire in my parents’ backyard; or the way I celebrated my twenty-first with an irresponsible number of shots and a very spotty memory. Instead, I spent the day at the pumpkin patch with Reese and my mom, and then I enjoyed a pedicure and dinner with friends. It was quiet, peaceful, and perfect, and I celebrated because the repetition I anticipated has become the comfort I seek and the boredom I feared has become the contentment I cherish.

With one decade closing and another about to begin, the future is filled with a different kind of adventure. The identity-seeking years of wild parties and tangible firsts are becoming the peacefully stable years of security, consistency, and continued spiritual growth. With a greater appreciation for simple joys and deeper gratitude for even the smallest blessings, I have a renewed sense of excitement for all that lies ahead.

As 21st birthdays become 40th birthdays, weddings become 50th anniversaries, and graduation parties become retirement parties, I will always remember that little girl on her purple bike pedaling toward the road ahead with the wind at her back and a heart full of hope and anticipation for the promises of a bright and beautiful future. 

The best is yet to come.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Jade's place!

Bringing Sexy Back

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror at Walmart last week. I had on baggy sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt, no makeup and a baseball hat covering my unwashed hair. I quickly turned away, and continued down the aisle. As I grabbed the rest of my groceries and headed home, I wondered what happened to the confident woman I used to see in the mirror. Something changed after I became a mom and as much as I try to rethink my attitude toward outward beauty, the physical aftermath of pregnancy still haunts me. When I mention my insecurities to Matt, he always tells me I’m crazy, and his actions and affection toward give me no reason to doubt his sincerity. So if he doesn’t see a difference, why do I?

I started wondering if maybe the problem isn’t pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, or motherhood. Aside from the fact that my bra got downgraded an entire cup size and I’ll probably never have a flat stomach again, all of my issues are much more related to my lifestyle than anything else. Now that I am busy being a mom, I don’t exercise as much or take time to do my nails. Now that I have nowhere important to go, I often skip the makeup and resort to sweatpants, t-shirts, and messy ponytails. Now that I don’t see anyone besides Reese and Matt on most days, it somehow got easier to skip a shower or go (I won’t even say how long) without shaving my legs. Then when I get a glance at myself in the mirror, I get upset and blame it all on motherhood as if I have no choice but to accept the disheveled new me.

Well, my Walmart pajama party was the last straw, and I decided to make some very simple changes. I started by rearranging my clothes. I moved all of the sweatpants, t-shirts, and anything equally unflattering to the back of my closet. I threw out any underwear with stretched elastic or frayed edges. My makeup and nail polish are now easily accessible and my hair ties and sports bras are not. Then, I started getting up extra early to exercise, shower, and get ready for the day just as I did when I worked full-time. No, I didn’t wear pantyhose or business suits, but I did put on a nice outfit and some makeup (even if my biggest outing that day would be a trip to the mailbox).

I was surprised at how quickly I started to feel beautiful again. When I first started staying home (after the newborn stage ended, of course) I got dressed almost every day. Then it was every other day; then just when I had the extra time; then just when I was going somewhere. And although I never got to a full-fledged pajamas-all-day-every-day stage, I’d say it was easily 50/50… ok, maybe even 60/40 with sweatpants in the lead. Before I knew it, I was wandering around Walmart in my pajamas and a baseball hat wondering how this happened.

Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that I didn’t need to look good anymore because it didn’t matter anyway. It does matter, though. Taking a little time for me every day makes a day at home just that much more productive and enjoyable. It helps my confidence, boosts my energy, and reminds me that my work is important. And the compliments from my husband have been pretty great too, which give me even more motivation to do it all over again the next day.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The comfy clothes aren’t gone for good, and I have nothing against wearing sweatpants to Walmart. I know I’ll still skip a shower here and there and I may not always keep up with shaving my legs as often as I’d like (sorry, honey). The difference is that now I can appreciate my lounging around days as an awesome perk of staying home rather than believing that’s all I’m worth now just because I don't have anywhere else to be.

If you’re proud of your role at home, and if you’re proud of yourself for making the sacrifice and the commitment to do it, then you deserve to be equally proud of the way you look while doing the job you love. So grab your yoga mats, nail polish, and makeup. Le'ts bring sexy back. 

Little Miss Perfect

Not long ago, parenting.com conducted a survey of over 26,000 moms and the results were revealed both on a Today Show segment and on the internet. Of all the "mom confessions," the one that was least surprising but most bothersome was the number of moms who admitted to passing judgement on other moms. Of course, we're all occasionally guilty of thinking that a kid is too old for a pacifier or that a mom spends too much time at work. But just because we all do it, doesn't mean it's okay. In fact, it's never okay because all we're doing is reinforcing the pressure women face to be perfect at everything.

I know I'm not the only woman who feels like I am expected to be a superhuman combination of Martha Stewart, Betty Crocker, and Carol Brady. Whether the pressure comes from societal, social, or familial sources, it seems there is always a reason to feel inadequate. Do I spend enough time with my kids? Am I providing my family with the right nutrition? Is my house clean enough? Am I taking care of myself? Even if we could do all those things right, there are plenty of other things that no one can balance perfectly. If you work too much, then you're not spending enough time with your kids. If you spend too much time with your kids, then you're "letting yourself go." We just can't win.

It's about time we acknowledge that we're all doing our best even if we're not the best - which no one is and anyone who seems to be is just overly committed to never letting anyone else know about it. So if you're one of those moms who does the flight-of-the-bumblebee-cleanup when a car pulls into her driveway; who can't go anywhere without her makeup; whose kid always wears matching ribbons and bows; and who would never admit that she sometimes feels overworked, overwhelmed, and overtired; well, your secret is out.

The truth is that there is no such thing as a perfect mom, perfect wife, or perfect woman. But there are lots of great ones, and if you're doing your best to be yourself, love your family, and manage the juggling act that is life, then you're one of them. So don't let those "perfect" moms fool you into thinking that anyone else out there has a better handle on life than you do. And don't let the fear of judgement stop you from being proud of who you are and celebrating all that you do right.

That's why people who stop by my house on any given day shouldn't be surprised to find my living room in complete disarray, bed unmade, and dishes piled in the sink; or my kid running around with stains on her shirt, hair not combed, and remnants of lunch stuck on her face; or me with no makeup and a poorly constructed ponytail. If you catch me on a day like that, you'll see no sign of embarrassment over the condition of my house or the appearance of myself or my child. Instead, I'll be proud that I'm confident enough to allow people into the imperfect parts of my life. The same goes for my discipline practices, parenting choices, and marriage dynamics. So go ahead, judge away. At least I know I'm doing my part to break the cycle of perfect images. Of all the judgmental labels people might put on me, I can rest easy knowing that "Little Miss Perfect" will never be one of them.

Redefining Beauty

A couple weeks ago I went shopping with my mom and made the mistake of trying on swimsuits for the first time in 2 years. (Reese was born last year at the very beginning of summer, so I was still hiding under t-shirts and basketball shorts for the entire swimsuit season). "Disappointed" is a huge understatement in describing how I felt in that dressing room mirror. There were things sagging and bulging in places that never sagged or bulged before. I tried on one suit after another, each one covering more skin than the one before it. I left the store empty handed and sad. Later that day, I made the 90 mile drive home and spent most of the way thinking about my self-image.

It would be impossible for me to fully express my feelings without admitting that I struggle with vanity. Before I got pregnant with Reese, I thought I was hot stuff. (This is a picture of me 3 summers ago on our honeymoon). At the time, being pretty was the most important thing to me. I'm ashamed to say that at one time I truly believed that I would rather be pretty than smart; that I would give up my degrees before I would give up my looks. Now that I'm on this soul-searching journey, it pains me to think about how much of a struggle this has been for me. How is it possible that I can value my shell so much more than my core?

I think pregnancy was the humbling experience I desperately needed. It has forced me to redefine what it means to be beautiful; to look at beauty in a deeper, more mature way. It has forced me to be proud of my body for different reasons. I grew a human being inside me, gave birth to her, and nursed her for nine months. I am proud of that and I am proud of myself as a mother, a wife, a friend, and a person. Motherhood hasn't made me less beautiful. It has made me more beautiful. (This is me last summer in Missouri, sporting my maternity pants and holding the little person who made every wardrobe adjustment well worth the change).

That day at Kohl's I wasn't looking for the right kind of beauty. I was looking for shallow-hearted, narrow-minded, society-driven beauty. And in doing that, I forgot about all of the other things that make me a beautiful person - all of the beautiful things about my core that I would never trade for a perfect shell. I needed to stop trying to look beautiful and start trying to be beautiful. And I'm slowly learning that changing that one tiny word is what redefining beauty is all about.

Wear It Proudly

A couple weeks ago, I was playing on the floor with Reese when she started poking her finger into my back. At first, I couldn't figure out what she was doing, and then I suddenly realized exactly what she was doing. She had noticed my tattoo.

Yes, I have a tattoo. It's a little purple flower on the right side of my lower back. I got it in college with my best friend who has a similar one. (You know how it is, a good friend goes with you to get a tattoo, but a great friend gets into the chair next to you. Well, that was me. I went there planning to be a good friend and came out as a permanent great friend). Lots of people - mostly older people - told me I would regret it someday, but I never thought I would. Then something changed in the last few years. I started feeling self-conscious if I thought it was showing. I had a different reaction when people asked about it. And then I had a daughter, and I kept thinking about how I would have to explain it to her someday. (And by someday, I meant years from now. Little did I know she would already be poking it at ten months old). The more I thought about it, the more I got down on myself for not respecting the body God gave me and for not thinking about the long-term consequences of my decisions.

Well, I recently had a miniature epiphany, and my whole attitude changed. I don't really know what brought it on. I've been doing a lot of religious reading and self-reflecting lately (hence the blog) and it's helped me begin to understand a lot of personal issues - even little things like how I feel about having a tattoo. Anyway, I started thinking about why I made this into such a big deal in my head. I think it's partly because I sometimes feel judged for it. Well, shame on anyone who judges someone for such a dumb reason, and shame on me for letting other people make me feel bad about my body or my past. Every mark I have (visible and not visible) represents a part of my life that makes me who I am today, and I like that person. My tattoo represents a carefree time in my life. It represents the close relationship I have with my friend (who was my maid of honor and is now the Godmother of my baby girl). Every time I see it I think of her and the fun we had in college and the road that led me to Matt and back to God. So I'm done feeling bad about it. I'm done thinking about removing it. I'm done feeling judged over it. I have a tattoo and I like my tattoo. And from now on, I'm wearing it proudly.