I realized that I was so deeply unhappy with myself that I couldn’t even look in the mirror. If I did happen to catch a glimpse of my reflection, I didn’t recognize the person staring back. I pretended not to care about my appearance after awhile, citing “#thatquarantinelife” and “#workingfromhomewithababyatoddlerapreteenandateenlife.” Though these are legitimate stressors, they are also excuses. BS excuses.
Sure, times are hard and you don’t have to be perfect, but when you start to feel disgusting in your own skin (and there’s something you can do about it, but you just don’t), there is something wrong. In my particular case, there was no one to blame but myself.
Because we haven’t wanted to make a big deal out of it given the current social climate, not many people know that we bought a house this year. But truthfully, it’s a BIG EFFING DEAL. We still can’t believe it. Coming from Southern California, we never expected to own a home. At best, it was a far off goal.
Over the last few months, I’ve noticed that friends and family have picked up some new hobbies or learned new skills while in quarantine. Activities have included solving puzzles, gardening, sewing, and refurbishing furniture.
I never thought I’d be one of those people. Cases in point: the two dusty guitars hanging on our walls and the shrink-wrapped ball of macrame cord sitting at the bottom of my drawer.
That said, I have been known to go a bit overboard when I set my mind on something. And sometimes, I get a bit obsessive or completely consumed. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I’ve got addictive tendencies.
Alright, alright, alright… here I am again. Over the last several months, I’ve started drafting blog posts, but ultimately abandoned them. I let ego get in the way of putting out content. Instead of running to the computer as soon as an idea struck, or heck, even putting pen to paper and just getting something down, I would begin writing it in my head.
My mind would start asking those dumb questions, like “how much could you really write on that subject?” “who would care?” and “what’s the point?” After reading (okay, fine, listening to) Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, I realized it was just my ego screwing things up for me. I was too hung up on what other people would think or what other people would get out of it.
My family has been some form of sick for over a month now. This is one of the drawbacks to being a part of a split household. Illness has the ability to bounce back and forth like its a ball in a pinball machine, hitting this person and that person, and maybe that one again.
As I write this, I have a throat infection and pink eye. Owen has a double ear infection and nasty cough as a result. Since it hurts to speak, I just keep having all of these thoughts swirling around in my head—things I have to do, things I have to tell people, things that I want to do, things that I worry about, etc. But I’m at a loss because of the sickness setback.
And on the day I was to be induced (but never actually got induced), a little boy (KNEW IT.) came into our lives. Owen Noah Insley entered this plane of existence on August 12th at 2:07 p.m., weighing in at 7 lbs, 3 oz. with a length of 20.5 inches. The miracle of birth, amiright?
Seriously? Never did I think that I would still be pregnant seven days past my due date. Four days? Sure. Six days? It’s happened before. But seven? HMMM… I have to imagine the ultrasound tech or doctor got my date wrong. Especially for my FOURTH kid?! Bananas.
Well, regardless, here we are. I have an induction scheduled for tomorrow morning; I have to be at the hospital at 7 a.m. I was fortunate enough with the first three kids to avoid the need for drugs, so I’m a bit bummed that I might have to take something to induce labor. I’m pretty much hoping that by the morning, my body will be in a good enough position to just get things going with a swift break of the water bag. I say “hoping,” but truthfully, the word, hope, gives me pause these days. Ever since I heard Rachel Hollis speak at the 2019 Rodan + Fields convention, I reactively flinch whenever someone says “hopefully” or “I hope…” or something similar. During her talk, in relation to business (or making your dreams come true), Rachel blew my mind with five words—hope is not a strategy.
Here we are, two days after my due date, and we’re still waiting to meet our little babe. I genuinely thought that this fourth child would come earlier than the others, but apparently not. (clearly still have a ways to go with this intuition thing) And that’s okay. Even though I’ve already begun to go stir crazy, I have been able to be semi-productive in other ways…
The first day home from work, I did my nails, finished the last season of A Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce, and almost finished Good Omens (have since finished it and it’s great—recommend). I also picked up the book, “A Spectacular Catastrophe,” again and made some headway. I may or may not have done a load of laundry, as well (baby brain). It’s a good bet, though; I’ve been doing at least one load every day. I’m trying to stay on top of these things now, as I know there will be a day (any day now) that I will completely neglect laundry and potentially most everything else that requires even a modicum of attention.
I was talking to a friend of mine the other night about music. It was harmless enough—talking about Nirvana and The Smashing Pumpkins—but then nostalgia started doing the thing it does, when it instantly beams you back to a long forgotten moment in time and makes you feel things you don’t necessarily want to feel, but it hurts so good. It’s that car wreck that keeps you from averting your eyes. Ya know what I mean?
On this particular trip down memory lane, I landed back at my high school orientation. As I recall, that 14-year-old girl felt many things that day: scared, shy, embarrassed, lonely, and exposed. What will usually happen on a look-back, such as this one, is that I’ll let myself be taken away; I’ll feel all the feelings and get lost in the mini-movie in my mind. I’ll sit in the sadness for a little while and feel a deep sense of loss. On this night, however… I didn’t. Instead, I laughed. I laughed at, ultimately, how small that moment really was. And I smiled knowing that there was a big world full of big experiences yet to be had. But why? Why, this time, did I feel joy instead of melancholy?
I am only a few months behind getting a post up, but I wanted to begin this blog with gratitude. I am so, so thankful for where I have been guided so far in this beautiful phase of life, which brings me to the proverbial elephant in the room—I’m only several weeks away from giving birth to my fourth child. In fact, as I type this, my belly is going wild with all sorts of “fun” rolling motions. (Like, have you ever been woken up by an earthquake and you have that sensation of your environment being a part of a universal flash mob of The Wave? Well, that’s what my stomach feels like.)