She's Got Legs

I hate my legs.

Not like oh, I wish my legs were 3% thinner.  I am truly embarrassed to claim my legs as part of my body.

I used to wear jeans year-round.  Even in the heat of summer.  I eventually got bold and moved up to capris.  Look out!

Last summer my friend Michele pumped up my confidence enough and convinced me to wear shorts.  I went to Walmart and bought about four pairs of shorts in different colors.  I wore them daily, even though it felt as wrong as if I was walking around shirtless.

You see, my legs aren't exactly like the other legs I know.  My legs have pockets of fat that don't even exist on other legs.  I'm fairly certain my legs have different genetic code than all the other legs walking around on this earth.  Even when I was at my verrrrrry thinnest, my legs were still made up of lumpy, bumpy, squishy matter.

I have tried diet and exercise.  I have toned and squeezed.  I've tried self-tanner to cover these jiggle sticks, but nothing seems to change what I'm working with.

Perhaps it would be prudent for me to share the fact that my older sister has great legs.  Not just great.  Killer legs.  She and my brother could have a calf-off and they literally have.  They are toned and muscular and shapely.  My sister tans very well and my brother is hairy, so I'm the only one walking around with ghost legs.  These people were drawn out of the same gene pool as I was, and yet my legs just don't match theirs.

I realized the other day, while trying to decide if I'd rather roast in pants or expose my deformed limbs in shorts, that I just haven't seen other legs like mine.  Celebrities don't have these bad boys.  The other moms at my kids' schools aren't shaped like me.  Even my plus size friends have super toned legs.

So I guess it boils down to feeling like the oddball.  I'm different than everyone else in a way that I already don't like.  I mean, why couldn't I be different in a way that's super awesome?

I've accepted that I'll never wear a two-piece swimsuit ever again.  I've accepted that I have more wrinkles than all my older friends and that I have to fill in my eyebrows with a pencil.  But I just can't seem to accept these darn things that have the audacity to call themselves legs.

I've worried about how my views of my legs will affect my daughter, but I've seen her legs and they're fantastic.  Thank heavens.  I'll have to teach her to love her long and lean perfect body in a "do as I say, not as I do" sort of way.

We will soon be going on a family vacation.  To Florida.  Where people wear shorts all the time.  We will be vacationing with my stick-thin sister-in-law, my cousin who has been a life long dancer (read: fantastic body), and my aforementioned sister.  There will be swimsuits involved.  I couldn't seem to find a swimsuit with pants, so I had to settle for a skirt.  It's not even a maxi skirt.

I so badly want to enjoy this vacation with my family, and I will.  I just know it.  I don't want to be distracted by body image issues.  This will be a mental battle for sure.  But it's one I intend to win.  My kids are worth it, and they deserve a mom who is having fun with them and not one who is wearing a robe on the daily.

It would be so cool if this next paragraph contained my mind-blowing wisdom about how to love your body for all it can do and because it is fearfully and wonderfully made.  Actually I do thank God quite often for what my body can do.  I can walk without any pain.  I could run if my children's lives were in peril.  I'm tall enough to reach all sorts of things.  I can drive myself and park wherever there's a spot, and these cottage cheese gams make it all possible.  I'm thankful for what I can do, but I'm still not a fan of how I look doing it.

Maybe you have something about your body that genuinely bothers you.  Not just the little insecurities of wondering if your hair looks frizzy or if your shirt shows that weird back fat indent that women get from their bras.  I mean maybe you base your whole wardrobe around part of you that you deem strictly unacceptable.  We can get through this together.

Maybe our deformities keep us humble.  Maybe they keep us grounded and help us look past physical appearance.  Or maybe I'm just still learning how to grow out of body issues.  Maybe I'll be brave enough to wear shorts, and another woman will see that I'm letting my imperfections show and so can she.

That's what I'll be telling myself in Florida.

Jessica

Jenga Straws

I couldn't hold my emotions in anymore.  I got up from my work chair, leaving it spinning as I stood too quickly, and went into the tiny bathroom adjacent to the patient therapy room.

As soon as I closed the door behind me, I cried.  I gave in and let the tears flow.  My face did that squished up unattractive thing.  I pressed a tissue just below my eyes to soak up any dripping mascara.  I didn't need to have my makeup cried off so everyone could see what a hard time I was having AND how my undereye regions look like someone with a terminal illness.

It wasn't that something awful had just happened.  It had been building all week.  I kept thinking about the phrase "the straw that broke the camel's back."  I had been carrying a load of straws, and the final one had just been placed on top.

I actually felt like I had been playing a game of Jenga with my straws all week.  My pile of straws included things like my 8-year-old daughter with a broken leg, my boys surviving middle school, my stomach refusing to just freaking digest food, my messy house, our family calendar, increasing migraines, my body image, and all the normal things that a part-time working mother of three balances.

These straws were constantly shifting, and new ones were thrown on the stack. 

I cleaned my messy house in an attempt to clear my mind, and within that very day, my lovely children turned my house into a national disaster.  I have been faithfully working out to a specific 90-day fitness system, making sure to get in at least 4 one-hour workouts per week.  This week I hit the 30-day mark and weighed in.  I weighed exactly the same as I did at the start.  Exactly.  I lost 0.0 lbs.

I eat gluten-free and take specific supplements in an effort to help my ridiculous stomach digest normally, but this week my stomach has been especially painful and nauseated.  I haven't been sleeping well, and I have no idea why.

I just felt like none of my efforts were making any difference in any area of my life.

On the plus side, I had been doing well taking care of Nora.  Her broken leg required help in all sorts of ways that I couldn't have anticipated ahead of time.  We had hit our groove with school.  I had a good handle on how to get myself ready for work as well as getting her ready for school each morning.  On the day I ended up crying in the bathroom at work, everything had started fine.  We got the boys to their school and got to Nora's school a little early.  I walked her in (she's on crutches) and carried her back pack.  I helped her to her desk and propped her foot on the extra chair and pillow I had made her.  I put her lunch in the basket and her folder in the bin.  I handed her the activity book I had remembered to bring for her to entertain herself while she waited for her classmates to arrive.  I checked my watch and felt good that I had exactly enough time to get to work on time.  As I bent down to kiss her goodbye, the principal walked into the room.

I had met with Nora's principal, teacher, and school nurse earlier in the week when she first returned to school.  We discussed any accommodations she might need, what the schedule would look like, how I would help her in and out of school each day.  I felt so blessed that my daughter attends an amazing school with such caring staff.  These three women were so kind and so willing to do whatever was necessary to help my girl.

But on this day, the principal was coming in to let me know that I needed to start walking Nora just inside the school and leaving her on a bench there to wait for someone else to help her to her room.  She said we couldn't be in the classroom "unsupervised" in the mornings.  I was confused.  And flustered.  She was so sweet and delivered her message like she was telling me my outfit was cute.  Nonetheless, I started to stress sweat immediately.  All I heard her say was, "You're doing it wrong."  I had to get out of there.

I felt the sensation of the last straw landing on the pile.

I arrived at work 5 minutes late.  I am never late.  And I walked in at the exact same time as my boss, so he definitely saw me arrive late.  There were already two patients in the waiting room and the phone was ringing.  I tried to switch from Mom Mode to Work Mode, but my emotions were already spilling over.  Thus I ended up crying in the bathroom at work.

As I reprocess all of this now, I realize that I had let a lot of things beat me up during the week.  People's words, my thoughts, numbers on scales and tags, circumstances.  Not only did I have bruises and fractures from receiving the blows, but I also had bloody knuckles from taking my own shots.

I think a lot of the thoughts that swirl around in my mind are coated in my own misconceptions and insecurities.  It's time for them to take a little bath in truth.  My house is messy, but it doesn't mean I'm a bad wife.  It means my family members suck at picking up after themselves.  It means we could all do a better job picking up after ourselves, and it's not all my responsibility.  I haven't lost any weight, but maybe my heart is healthier from my exercise.  My stomach is a constant source of pain and frustration.  I am doing the best I can to make good food choices, and some days are good.  I'm a super rule follower, and I never intentionally went against any of the arrangements we had made with Nora's school.  The principal has a responsibility to manage the school just like I have a responsibility to manage my kids.

Nora's leg will heal.  Some days my house will be clean and I'll feel good.  Some days I'll take my chubby hindquarters into the work bathroom to cry while my stomach hurts and I remember someone's critical words.  The beauty is that I get to start fresh each morning.  Sometimes I don't even have to wait for the next morning.

After I finished my ugly cry and wiped my face, I came back out to my workstation.  I took a few breaths in and out.  I turned to my coworker and said, "Morning:  take two.  How are you today?"

Jessica

Where I Am

I need a safe outlet to say this:  I'm terrified of the anniversary of Griffin's accident.

St. Patrick's Day will be exactly one year since the worst day of my life.

A few months after the accident, as I started to heal, I imagined the one year anniversary.  I envisioned a celebration of Griffin's life and a tribute to what God did for us.  Maybe we would have a party to commemorate being survivors.  No longer would I feel nauseated at the sight of the color green.  Green would be our banner of proclamation that God gave us a miracle.

As we turned over a new year, January brought me the realization that I'm not where I thought I'd be.

Disappointing.

Pinterest and Instagram are flooded with Valentine's Day images, but St. Patrick's Day ideas are sprinkled into my feeds.  Every time I see any reference to the green holiday, it's like a silent punch to my gut.

Rather than hosting a big celebration, I literally don't want to leave my house on March 17.  I don't want to see green or shamrocks or people living ordinary lives as if the day is like any other.

This isn't how I want to feel; it's just where I am.

This new year has brought me a fresh batch of flashbacks and fears that the worst things imaginable can actually happen.  I pray through each situation and fight my urge to keep my children in my view at all times.

I look forward to a time when I don't notice casual references to death.  I want to forgive the color green.  And jumpropes.  And swingsets.  And St. Patrick.

I'm relearning spiritual lessons I thought I already learned.  I need to tend to wounds I thought were healed.  I need to write a blog post that isn't well thought out or witty or wisdom-packed.

I need to say some of the things that have been weighing me down.  So much for where I thought I'd be.  I need to start where I really am.

Jessica