A New Dawn

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Ahhhh, Now That's AH-MAZING

For all of the perfectly coiffed gals and immaculately staged living rooms that plaster the glittering walls of Pinterest, I have to say... I don't fancy the perfection of it all.

I think we girls like Pinterest so much because it's like Build-A-Fairytale land for women: the perfect place to create a million dollar wedding to an imaginary Prince Charming, the ideal space to conjure up an enormous house with chandeliers as big as your 1st grade daughter and painted in high gloss blacks.

It's where you escape reality by playfully creating one that will never come to be.

Photo Credit: a perfect gray

What I did find, however, was this gem of a Pin. It's the kind of kitchen that looks good, lives well, and can take a beating. The open shelving is stocked full of useful stonewear, the baseboards are probably chipped from the kids playing hockey in the house (AGAIN, DAMMIT), and that cast iron sink is probably filled to the brim with filthy dishes by 8pm every night.

Pretty but not glossy. Useful but not neglected. Inspired by beauty, rooted in function and family. This is my kind of living.

Spotted with Envy

Photo source: Sarah Tucker, FairyTales Are True.

How much does this girl and her polka dot scarf and those ice blue eyes make you want to be her? Schlepping through the snow, probably in Sorels and some sort of legging on your little bird legs. The hat is so... I'm Cool Enough to Dress Like I'm a Hobo and Make it Look Really Fucking Great.

I want to be her, if only for the time it takes to type this post. I want to smile fully, wear funky clothes that reflect my playful inner personality and zest for life.

I want to sip tea from oversized mugs in indie coffee shops while leisurely passing the day away and deliberately ignoring the outside world with the irreverence that only a girl with dip-dyed hair and a polka dotted scarf dangling over free trade green tea could do.

Feeling Feverish

Do you ever feel so sick of everything that you start to feel sick for real?

Sick of the same people, the same places, the same food, the same schedule.

Sick of yourself?

While you could call it a case of cabin fever, it hasn't hardly been winter here in Minnesota this year, so you could even call it spring fever at this point. I've been feeling it for the past several weeks so intensely that my head throbs with migraines and I wake from hours of rest feeling anxious and exhausted with the day already. My anxiety bubbles up into my chest where it sits until I return to bed for respite from the fears, worries, and monotony of the day.

While I have dealt with depression and anxiety for all of my adult life, it somehow feels different this time. It doesn't feel sad or concerned about catastrophic events unfolding, it more feels like desperation and panic about every day life.

Deciding on what to have for breakfast has sent boulder sized lumps all the way up my throat lately. There is this frazzled, unfocused, and neurotic dialog going on in my head that I can't quite seem to quiet.

Life is so luscious right now. I have the job, the house, the boy, and the jam packed race and competition schedule I've been craving. My family is healthy. The sun should be shining in abundance in my world.

Am I waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Have I been so soured that I have become a Fatalist?

I wonder if abrupt and drastic change would be the cure. It feels like the pot is so quiet that maybe the boiling over is immanent: is it me or him or them or should I have gone to Florida for work after all?

What is it about me that can't let the waters or my nerves ever be calm?

The only thing more plentiful than this unsettled feeling is my gratitude for how lovely life really is at the moment. Which exacerbates the worry and compounds it with extreme guilt over what seems to be me sabotaging me with my own special blend of me-ness.

What do you do when you feel stir crazy and on the verge of standing in the open wilderness only to hear your own screams echo from the trees?

Pochohontas, Shredded

All of my sassy readers are surely familiar with Minnetonka moccasinsas as well as Under Armour.
As luck would have it, no more than 24 hours after identifying myself as a cozy, highly functional cable knit sock, I stumbled upon myself leaving the gym in an even stronger statement.
Ass kicking hippie.
I generally try to have a pair of cute boots for leaving the gym in, but as the exhaustion of kettlebell swing after lunge after hill sprint set in, my fashion sensibilities failed me. And there I was, leaving the most fashionable, hot mom populated gym in America in moccasins and black gym socks.
I stood at the lockers for a moment, wondering how I could possibly make the moment less hideous: moccasins, no socks? Moccasins, SmartWool socks from today's work ensemble? There's no lipstick for that pig though. And besides, Uggs were cool! Those stupid Zumba pants with neon zippers and shoelaces hanging from the pockets are cool!

Who the hell would mess with a Native American samurai anyway?

Take Heed

We all knew this already. I know we did.

It was always my pledge that "I would never" be a parent that would whip through the golden arches drive thru line. Then you grow up, buy a house, and have a grown up life full of responsibilities, familial commitments and all sorts of scheduled fun.

Life gets busy with good stuff and bad stuff and you get busy busying yourself. Then a Happy Meal started to make perfect occasional sense. Why not!

I always swore that there was a gap in the market for moms: when you're on the run, there's no time to go home and chop a salad, the kids are a disaster and you're not about to take them IN to a restaurant, but you haven't eaten since the ten Cheerios you slurped out of your 3 year old's cereal at 6am, what's a gal to do?!

I'm not a fan, nor will I ever be. But I do see the place of fast food. Moreover, I wish I were smart enough to replace Quarter Pounders with healthy fats, leafy greens, and rainbow-colored side dishes. All served up via a For Your Convenience speedy-serve window. Maybe we would even throw in a "free massage and complimentary babysitting service" coupon to every 10th customer.

I love and believe in the Mommyhood just that much.

We know we're not supposed to eat foods we cannot pronounce; we know we're not supposed to eat Cheetohs and cheesecake and drink Mountain Dew. WE KNOW BETTER, we just don't always do better.

It's human.

My commitment to organic and eco-conscious living is often mocked and I stand firm and back up my more-costly-than-Goldfish-and-McNuggets choices with this:

In 20 years, I can live with myself for having wasted money to buy organic and wasted energy and elbow grease for being chemically-conservative (to say there are zero chemicals in my home is a gross overestimation if not a blatant lie). I cannot, however, live with the risk of making myself or my family chronically or terminally ill with the knowledge and doubt over, "could I have prevented this?"

Let's be real: nothing tastes better on a hungover Sunday morning than a McMuffin and a ketchup-smothered hashbrown.

But it's not that good.