Body, Meet Image


I started this post a while back, before Christmas, when I was beginning to analyze the correlation to my heavier times and having the “winter blues”. I wanted to have a nice sit-down with myself and really talk about how and why my body isn’t changing and why I’m unable to do the things I used to or look the way I think I do. All of this occurred before these ladies started discussing things like being plus-size vs working hard at fitness.  It’s ironic, in a very real ten-thousand-spoons sort of way, a touch serendipitous, and more than a bit refreshing to realize while I was here having a smack-down, drag-out discussion with myself, the internet was discussing it, too.

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Appropriate and not-so-much: Names we call our children


I taught preschool for a few years. Did you know this? No? I did. It was the year I switched from Elementary Ed and went for Computer Science. That’s how profound the experience was for me. P.R.O.F.O.U.N.D.

Anyway, so I had this kid in my class, this really cute little guy named Evan. Evan was 4 years old when we met. He had a tremendous crush on me. “Miss Leslliieee” he’d say, “I made you a necklace!” He once told his parents he was going to marry me. “No, son,” his dad said, “She doesn’t make enough money.” I loved his parents. Continue...


Body Image


A letter to me:

I am doing everything I can here. Lay off, wouldya? You’re entirely too condescending of me, critical in front of the mirror, embarrassed to post the photos. I just created life, remember? The son you cuddle and enjoy? *I* grew him. And only three weeks ago we underwent major surgery to have him safely brought in to the world. Let me heal before you start judging. Let me get more than two hours of sleep in a row. Let me enjoy this time home with my family before you begin punishing me on the scale.  And those three ounces of milk I’m making is something I’m proud of. I’m making food in addition to all the other things I’ve gone through so if you don’t mind, please don’t punish me for having a bit of a belly still and hanging on to those last 15 pregnancy pounds. After all, there are still three weeks left before we can be active again. Why not save your judgments for then? Continue...

If women are from Venus, Mars must not have phones


I remember the day I knew I could marry Mr. Flinger. Surprisingly, it wasn’t in High School when we were mushy young love-birds. (gag) It wasn’t during college when we were best friends, not-dating, and desperately fixing one another up with other people. It wasn’t until years later, at 24, having moved home to Texas and back that I saw him with my cousin Danielle. I remember the summer, of 2000, living with my Uncle and Aunt having found a job up in Portland, but not an apartment. I moved up from Houston ready to start my job and my new life.  One day we took my cousin roller blading. She so adored Mr. Flinger that she made a necklace for him, a pretty little thing with beads and a star at the center. Perfect for an 8 year old and slightly odd for a 25 year old man. Mr. Flinger wore that necklace all day long. He wore it roller blading at the park. He wore it to the store. He wore it even though the small string barely fit around his neck and the star jabbed him as it stuck straight out, strained on its new owner.

This was the day I realized he would make a wonderful dad; Years and years before that day ever happened. Continue...


The promised wrap-up complete with mush and photo


This weekend we travelled back to the familiar. I reflected on our drive down that I was never allowed to grieve over moving. The weekend we left Oregon, we celebrated LB’s second birthday, stayed up until 1AM cleaning the old house, got up at 7AM on Sunday and drove the remaining things to our new, tiny townhouse. On the way out of town, we pulled in to the doctors to get the second blood draw confirming the pregnancy and check the HCG doubling (being only 6 weeks out of a miscarriage, we watched the levels early on). With so much to be excited about and so many things changing at one time, I never had a chance to say good-bye. It felt like another of our weekend trips. Only one day, we didn’t drive back. I never considered how much this effected me.

As much as I snark on Oregon for their completely effed up politics, their lack of actual bonafied mountains, and the inability to let you pump your own gas, the place became home to me. I’ve lived a lot of places in my thirty years. But in the six years I lived in Oregon, we lived in three towns as many as 60 miles apart,  and still we somehow made a home when I wasn’t looking. Somehow I liked the place I swore I wouldn’t stay. At some point, we made really good friends, found a place to raise our daughter, got used to waiting ten years for the old man to pump our gas. Somewhere along the way, we got comfortable. Continue...

Month One: AKA sobbing while picturing you going off to college even as you can’t conrtol your neck


Baby O is one month old. My son, my last born child, the tiny 5 pound little man, is one month old. And I can already picture him walking out of the house in 18 years, loading his car, heading off to college and watching with both pride and tears of remembering the time he was one month old.

We’ve come a long way, Baby O, from people joking about the beach ball under my shirt to those gawking at the beautiful boy I hold.  For whatever reason, yours or my body’s, you blessed us almost a month early because you knew we couldn’t wait to love on you. You grew strong quickly in the NICU and dozens upon dozens of people prayed for you and cheered you on. They cheered us all on as we sat by your side every day stroking your arm and whispering words of love and encouragement in your very tiny ears. The first time I held you, I cried. The second time I held you, I cried. The third time I held you I fell asleep thanking the world for bringing in such a lovely little man and trusting me with this very tiny life, knowing we would grow together. And we have. Continue...