Smarter Ardor
  • Blog
  • Smarter Living
  • Homemade Fun
  • About

Your Mess is Mine

4/29/2015

2 Comments

 
PictureLast weekend in Florida
In August, I will have known them sixteen years. There was Edie, the one who was summoned from the shower by a clueless RA to meet my entire family as she dripped in our freshman dorm room, Tara, the one in the blue dress whom I met while we toured the campus with the Honors nerds (that I somehow thought we were "other than." We were not.), and Amber, the one I interviewed in my first class on the first day about, among other things, having dressed up as the mascot of her high school back in Florida.

I didn’t know when I met them that I’d still know them now, nearly half my life later, having lived in three states since then and now married the better part of a decade to someone different than we’d originally thought. I didn’t know we would slog through marriage, careers, callings and motherhood together, didn’t know I’d still know them when three of us drove minivans and one drove a station wagon. I didn't know we would live scattered in four different states, but would meet up as often as possible, for birthdays and babies and weddings, in Baltimore, Charleston, Richmond, Savannah, Tallahassee, Annapolis and Bloomington. But I did know, after that first year, that those three felt like home. Even then I had a sense that’s grown ever since that this is the kind of thing that only comes around maybe once in a lifetime.  And, I know now, for many people, not at all.

Picture2007, when we met up in Savannah
Last Wednesday I stood in three different airports randomly smiling at my phone as I imagined the three of us moving on a map of the Eastern half of the United States.  The texts came in all day “Leaving now,” from Edie in Indiana in the morning; “At the airport in Tulsa, headed to Houston,” from Amber as I sat in Norfolk waiting to board a plane to Atlanta; “Finally leaving work,” from Tara in Tallahassee as I flew. Two of us flew to Panama City Beach, cramming our things into carry-ons to avoid checking luggage while the other two packed up cars and brought coffee makers, folding chairs and everything else we would need for a long weekend at Grayton Beach.

In the living room, around a variety of tables, in the white sand, in the backseat, in bunk beds—wherever we found ourselves over the next four days—we filled in the details of our daily lives. We lamented that the people who live life beside us, in our respective current hometowns, don’t know our stories like these girls do. Our newer friends require backstory there just isn’t always time to get to. They require explanations of ourselves and our hearts because it’s just not all as reflexive as it is with people who knew you when.  We wished, we said, that we knew each other’s children better. I complained that I can’t even envision these friends I’ve known so long sitting at their kitchen tables or going about their lives, as our reunions usually happen when we meet up like this, apart from our husbands and families and homes, though I’m pretty sure that fact also accounts for some of the preciousness of the time.

Picture2010, in Charleston for Edie's wedding
We speculated about why our friendship has lasted when so many fade away. I’ve lost exponentially more friends than I’ve kept, usually to the slow fade, and often due in large part to my inability to keep in touch. To find friends who saw you then, and still see you now, despite the distractions, mistakes, distance and general busyness of life—I know now—is a gift few receive. To wander with these girls this weekend, reminiscing, of course, but also digging in about what life is now, and all the things it’s been in the last sixteen years, was a privilege. Knowing and loving these girls—and being known by them—has and continues to be an honor. What a rare and beautiful thing to continue to be loved by people who have stood with you through so many seasons, so many mistakes, and remain undeterred, unthreatened, and unsurprised as you sit on the cusp of what you were always meant to be.

Picture2011, in Annapolis
I love these girls with a fierceness reserved for few. I love them because I don’t have to measure my words when I’m with them, because they so intimately know my heart. I love them because they have saved space for me in theirs. I love them because at least one of them has crashed on couches or in my bed in nearly all the places I’ve called home. I love them because they have showed up unannounced in times of crisis, sometimes without even asking. I love them because I’ve done the same for them, without a second thought. I love them because they know me—my faults, my scars, my gifts, my mistakes—they know all of them and choose love and acceptance. 

They have let me grow these last sixteen years. They have encouraged it, they have cheered it, they have welcomed it, but they have never forced it. They would have loved me even if I hadn’t  grown. 

The reason I can rest in the knowledge that I will always know these precious girls— no matter the miles that separate us or the time between calls— is that I believe when they look at me they still see that brash, self-righteous, leggy, sun-streaked blonde that I was when we met. The one who was so sure of so much, whose convictions were as yet untested, the one so few people in my current life ever knew. And they have loved all the versions of me I’ve been since then. The reason I can rest in their love and acceptance is because they have made it so clear that both live somewhere above the drone of daily life. And though I’ll always wish I could walk down the street and settle in at their kitchen tables for coffee, though I’ll always miss them with a sometimes  physical ache, their transcendent love is one of the best things I’ve experienced in this life.

PictureMy room the morning after I returned home
“What if we take pictures of our homes, just as we find them when we get there?” Tara, nearly seven months pregnant with her third child, had suggested. On Sunday as I traveled home, back through three airports, the pictures and texts started coming in.  They featured clothing and toys strewn about, children sitting on kitchen counters and wandering into the frame; they were scenes captured unretouched. That’s what our friendship is—unretouched. Unedited, unfiltered, messy, raw and brilliant and real. 

Sometimes it feels far away, always there is too much time between visits, but I could not be more grateful for these women who have let me into the messiness of their lives and who don’t balk at mine. They have taught me more about God and grace and love than I could ever list or repay. 


"Bring me to your house, tell me, 'Sorry for the mess,' 
Hey, I don't mind. You're talking in your sleep, all the time.
Well, you still make sense to me, your mess is mine..."
--Vance Joy

2 Comments

What Makes You Beautiful

7/1/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Before I became a mother, and before I started getting older, I had never given much thought to the nature of beauty. I knew I could see it in a variety of colors, shapes, sizes and ages. I knew I had seen it in the face of a baby, of my mother, and of my grandmother. Of course I knew it was easier to see and accept in others than in myself, but I had heard it said about me, and sometimes I had even seen it.

When I had my daughters—my second one in particular—I found myself giving more consideration to beauty, what comprises it, and how to talk about it. Now over thirty and the mother of two, my body doesn’t look the way it did before, and mostly I don’t give it more thought than it deserves. As I’ve aged I’ve embraced eating and exercising for health—not appearance or weight—and I am able to focus on that. But my face doesn’t look like it did before either, and that’s been much harder.

After I had Emerie, I developed melasma, hyperpigmentation of the skin often caused by hormonal changes and made worse by the sun. I’ve seen an aesthetician, had facials, and tried countless over-the-counter products and natural concoctions to get it to go away. In many women, it fades when their pregnancy is over or they are finished nursing. But mine is still going stronger than ever 2 ½ years after all that. There are more drastic steps—harsh prescriptions and laser treatments—but they are expensive and I’m not at a point that I’m ready to take them. So now I look for heavy makeup to cover it up. This condition has made me resentful, because it causes me to focus more on my appearance than I have before. Though I’ve always worn makeup, I typically favor a natural look. Now I don’t go anywhere without makeup. The idea of camping or swimming (an activity I love) makes me cringe. These splotches on my face have challenged everything I ever said about beauty and confidence and how they both come from inside.

Except they can’t. Trying to raise two little girls into strong young women is not easy, especially surrounded by messages that tell them their appearance is the most important thing. My children listen to the words I say; I know because they repeat them to unsuspecting strangers all the time. But more than that, I know they watch what I do. Lately I’ve been fielding questions about appearance. We talk about how beauty comes from who we are, not what we look like. When someone we love calls herself fat, we talk about how some people are big and some people are small and all people are valuable and worthy of love. We talk about all the things our bodies do for us and how grateful we are for them, no matter what they look like. When we see someone who looks different than we do, we talk privately about the differences and how we don’t comment on people’s appearances; we just show them kindness and love. We talk about how God made everyone, how He doesn’t make mistakes, and how everyone is beautiful.

All of this makes sense to me, especially when focused on others. But when the focus turns inward, it’s harder and maybe even more important to my children's development. As we prepared to go to the pool one day, I sighed and applied concealer to my forehead, knowing my efforts were futile. Mirabella watched me in the mirror.

“Mommy, when you put that stuff on your face, I can hardly see your spots,” she said, innocently.

I hadn’t even known she had noticed them before. “You know,” I winced, “I didn’t always have these spots. I got them after I had Emerie. Sometimes our bodies change when we have babies or get older.”

“Huh,” Mirabella said, watching every move.

“Do you think I’m still beautiful, even with the spots?” I asked her.

“Of course you are,” she replied quickly, “because you’re my mommy.”

As they often do, my children remind me that I would do well to apply the acceptance, kindness, forgiveness and love I teach to myself.  This modeling might be more instrumental in the way they regard themselves than anything I could ever say.

0 Comments

Why Don't You Be My Girlfriend?

10/18/2012

6 Comments

 
Picture
It's hard to believe it now, but there was a time in my adult life that I said, "I'm not really in the market for new friends."  Granted, I said it to Daniel, probably because I felt annoyed or something-- I can't remember. I'm so far from that sentiment now it makes me laugh.

I think, regardless of where we lived, becoming a stay-at-home mom would have sent me on the hunt for more friends anyway. But friend-searching where we don't know anyone is sometimes daunting.

See, most people I meet are not new around here.  They have family here, or maybe a home church, and lots of friends. Just about everyone I've met has been wonderful.  But their lives are full, so the sense of urgency is just not there-- of course it isn't.  I guess I underestimated the time this would take, and I should have known better.  Making friends was always easy, until I became a mom.  Is it just me, or for some reason, has that seemed to make it harder? Life is busy, we are no longer our biggest priority, and it's hard. I can fill my whole days just with mothering and home management stuff alone.  It can be hard to determine how best to spend time, when days are crowded with so many "good" choices.

I have been so fortunate to meet some incredible women since moving to Tennessee. Seriously-- they are amazing.  Brilliant, lovely, funny, authentic, adventurous, thoughtful women who also happen to be pretty fantastic mothers.  In some ways I wonder if my overall disoriented nature isn't the reason I found them.  Had I been home, I probably wouldn't have joined every Meetup group I could find, might not have sought out MOPS, might not have left our block party breathless only to return with my phone to (probably rather rudely) request a potential girlfriend's number.

I am hopeful I will soon be past the small talk, past saving numbers in my phone with a description of a girl so I will remember which new face she was when she calls, past the itchy awkwardness.  I'm looking forward to cups of coffee at chaotic kitchen tables and nights out without crayons. I'm longing for familiarity-- when I won't have to so carefully measure everything I say (Heaven knows I'm no good at that!) because everything is said to people with no larger context of me. I'm looking forward to having girlfriends that are not long-distance, nap-time calls away, looking forward to having-- and being-- someone to depend on in a bind.

When the awkwardness fades and I'm part of a tribe, I hope I'll remember this.  I hope I'll risk seeming pushy and call, invite, reach out to the girls outside.

6 Comments

Girls Just Wanna Take a Nap

11/13/2011

5 Comments

 
Picture
This year I was fortunate to have three overnight visits with girlfriends.  My first was with my best girls from college.  We have known each other since the first week of our freshman year.  We try to get together once a year, and this last year, as we’re all turning thirty, has afforded more opportunities than others.  During our visits last year, one for a wedding, the other for a birthday, there were a few late nights out. But for two of us, there were also nursing babies and overworked husbands and active little ones tagging along.  The morning comes a lot earlier than when it's just us.

Then when we got together in March, Tara was nearly nine months pregnant.  Hindsight tells me it was probably poorly planned.  Since our home bases now extend from Florida to Indiana to Virginia and Maryland, we had trouble selecting a central location and decided on Annapolis.  It’s not really about the destination anyway.  Fortunately.

Annapolis, waterside and low-lying as it is, experienced a downtown flood.  We were able to circumvent the standing water to venture to dinner and a brunch, and we all got mani/pedis, but then found ourselves starving and putting a hurting on a bread basket (or three) at a steakhouse at 4:30, which meant, obviously, that we’d need to cancel our dinner plans at an upscale wine bar (why did I think we would be up for an 8:00 reservation at a wine bar?).  When we returned to the room, we watched a pay-per-view movie, had a makeshift baby shower, and talked into the night.  I seem to remember there were tears.  Tara, uncomfortably pregnant, slept propped up in the recliner and said it was the best sleep she’d had in weeks. 

Picture
Then, in September, Daniel shocked me by returning from a trip on a Friday when I thought his brothers were coming for a visit. He called from the driveway and told me to meet him on the porch.  I walked out, stunned, to see Edie, Amber and two of her children on my porch with balloons and cupcakes.  Tara would arrive on a late-night flight with her new baby, whom none of us had met yet.  We all ventured to the airport at midnight to collect her and finally settled in to bed around 2:00 when Tara had pain that required emergency attention.  She and Edie spent the night and most of the next day in the emergency room.  I wish I could tell you this is the first girls’ weekend that has featured emergency medical attention.  Alas, it is not.

So in October, when three of my local friends and I prepared for a night away in D.C. that our husbands had planned, I wondered what it would be like.  No nursing babies, no pregnancy, no getting up in the morning with toddlers.  Would there be wine?  Dancing? Sleeping in?  As it turns out, not really.

Two of my friends announced the happy news of their pregnancies on this trip.  We wandered around the city in the perfect fall weather, walking into the American History Museum three minutes before it closed, only to be brusquely escorted away from the (awesome!) Julia Child exhibit.  We walked in to a restaurant for dinner, since we couldn’t decide and were too late to make reservations.  One thing about these weekends—there is never a shortage of good food.  My non-pregnant friend and I had delicious sangria before we decided to go to a movie, admittedly, a luxury I am not often afforded.  I chose 50/50, the dark comedy about a young man with cancer.  We sat, four across, crying.  I’m not talking about a few tears—this was the ugly cry at its worst—there were audible sobs.  When we left the theater, bleary eyed, not only did we not feel like doing anything else, we didn’t even talk much to each other.  Who picked that movie again?

At brunch in Georgetown the next morning, the waiter, upon hearing we were all on a night away from husbands and kids said, “Well, when the cat’s away…”

“Umm…we’re the cats,” I said.

On all of these trips, the company is the thing, not the locale or activities.  Still, I’m not sure what I expect.  Sex and the City we are not, but it’s not like we ever really were.  Since graduating from college, we've gotten married, acquired real jobs, and had children.  And we're tired, so very tired.  I’m not denying late nights in my past, or the occasional regrettable decision, and I'm not saying I don't know how to have fun anymore. I would never deny my lasting penchant for unruly, Elaine Benes-esque dancing, even if I don't get to do it as often anymore.  But maybe this is what it is to be responsible grown-ups, that even when afforded the opportunity to let loose, we don’t.  Not really. 

Or maybe all of this is why I need these friends.  I need the new ones to help me navigate the waters of being a mom, a wife, an adult.  I need them to remind me that I’m not alone in all of this, and I cherish their company on this road. And I depend on the older, similarly disoriented ones to remind me that it wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I was reckless, a time when I stayed up until four just because I could, a time when I drove through the night to the beach just to see the sunrise.  I knew how to throw a good party that did not feature an arts and crafts table.  Then again it did feature crappy beer, bad food, and really obnoxious former frat boys who were not nearly as entertaining as the little girls who frequent my living room dance parties now.  So the progress is not all bad.
5 Comments

    RSS Feed

    Picture

    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

    Picture

    RSS Feed

    Archives

    March 2020
    February 2020
    March 2019
    January 2019
    August 2018
    April 2018
    November 2017
    July 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    February 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    March 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    February 2012
    January 2012
    December 2011
    November 2011
    October 2011
    September 2011
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011
    April 2011
    March 2011

    Categories

    All
    Anklebiter Anecdotes
    Bendetto
    Careful Feeding
    Charm City
    Complicated Joys
    Family Affairs
    Family Conference
    Festival Of Estrogen
    Grace For Moms
    Help Yourself
    Inanity & Insanity
    Looking Up
    Making It Home
    Mothering Missteps
    Moving Onward
    Music City
    Part Time Lover
    Part-time Lover
    Part-time Lover
    Soapbox
    Stumblings
    Su Casa
    The Village
    This City Life
    Wanderings
    Wifedom
    Worklife

    Links

    Grace for Moms

    MOPS International's Blog

    Amber Hudler

    Smarter Ardor.
    Copyright © 2011-2018.
    All Rights Reserved.
Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.
Photos from lungstruck, Orin Zebest, yaquina, warrenski, Jing a Ling, The Shopping Sherpa, Sir, Rony, orangeacid, adrianvfloyd, SierraTierra, benjaflynn, Homeandgardners, eye's eye, katerha, LivingOS, wolfB1958, andyarthur, Jeremiah Ro, alextorrenegra, ShironekoEuro, mabahamo, iMorpheus, openuser, kamshots, nickHiebert, VinothChandar, Yashna M, mike138, Dougtone, cogdogblog, x1klima