Enough.

The timing is right for this post*. I've written so many things but without this story, without this base... none of it makes sense. So I delete them and write on crash pads and body wash. I'm going out on a limb here. Gonna put some real stuff out here. Not looking for pity or sympathy or anything.... just giving out some real. -deep breaths-

This is the (lightly edited) testimony I shared with my MOPS group at the very beginning of the year. The one that started all this.... stuff. The real reason I wanted to start this. I mean, yay on the crash pads and body wash... but I'm nothing if not real. And real needs some brave to get it going. -deep breaths-




Hi, I’m Jessica. If we haven’t had a chance to really chat there are three things you need to know about who I am:

1- I have no filters. No, I HAD filters but I think they broke or need to be changed or something and I just don’t have time for that stuff right now… so I have no filters. Someone recently asked me if I listened to the words that come out of my mouth and I responded “NO. Then I’d be really upset with myself most of the time!” So forgive me. No filters.

2- You must understand that I don’t judge anyone’s mothering. No, Really. I have no time to judge you. I’m too busy judging myself.  Every day. Every moment.

3- In the end I truly believe that every mother who is at least trying to be a mother, is doing the very best THEY can do for THEIR child.  Because HE gave us our children knowing who WE are to our core.

I say all this so that you know nothing that follows comes from a place of judgment (not even for my own parents) but from a place that God has brought me to.

So back to my story....I was a happy surprise: the first child to a couple living in the mountains of Virginia.

Like most couples my parents wanted more than just one child. They wanted a real family. My parents made no secret of it and although I knew they loved me my little child mind took their endless “trying to conceive”, fertility treatments and in vitro fertilization appointments as “Jessica, you are not enough.”

It continued. The words that came from my parent’s actions were:

I wasn’t pretty enough.

I wasn’t skinny enough.

I wasn’t quiet enough.

I wasn’t creative enough.

I wasn’t athletic enough.

I wasn’t a good enough student.

I wasn’t a good enough friend.

I wasn’t a good enough daughter.

Not enough.

After 10 years of  failed attempts and a couple of lost babies my parents finally had my brother in 1991……in the midst of my father’s infidelity.

And when my father finally decided to leave my Mom for another woman during Christmas of 1992 and I tearfully asked him to stay...If only for me...

His leaving said more than any words he could ever say: I wasn’t enough.

My parents divorced and My mother moved 11 year old me and my 1 year old brother up to Upstate New York to be closer to her family. A strange land of snow, cold and salt. I had never seen more than 3 inches of snow at one time and we had arrived the summer before the famed “Winter of ‘93”. It was a new world to say the least.

Even though we had a new life the record was the same:

I wasn’t enough.

And I believed it, whole heartedly.

Even after I accepted Christ and found my future husband (all in one summer. Woot-woot!) I still believed the track my parents gave me. Their actions continued to prove that I wasn’t enough.

I went on with life; graduated High School, got married. Got a job or two. Bought a house. And enjoyed life with just me and my husband  for 7 whole years.

Then five years ago I had a child. My beautiful little girl. I tell her every day she is my gift from God because she is.

I prayed for a beautiful, smart, outgoing, fearless (believing it would be easier to reign in fearless-ness than teach confidence. HA!), compassionate, helpful, Jesus-loving little girl. I wanted her to be adventurous and receive whatever God had planned for her with open arms and a joyful heart. To have my eye color and lashes and Cor’s height and smile. And He gave it to me. All of it.
       

And in the weeks that followed I found I was finally enough.

I was post-baby glowing; I was pretty enough.

I snapped back to pre-pregnancy weight -10 pounds; I was skinny enough.

I could help my itty bitty one off to sleep with just a boob and a rocking chair; I was quiet enough.

I went from a 40 hour a week job to staying home with an infant who slept all. The. Time. I finally had time to craft to my heart’s content; I was creative enough.

And Athletic? Well, you can’t have it all..

I was a good enough Wife

I was a good enough Mother.

Finally I was enough. Motherhood made me enough.

So why just one? Why wouldn’t I do it all again?

In October of 2012 I lost a 6(ish) week pregnancy. It was hard, I cried but I was really OK. I named him October. I loved him (or her) and the little man (or lady) he (or she) would have been. I mourned for the thought of the child more than the child itself and found it easier to deal with at the time.

The second time we were so close to being “safe”. She was so much like her sister I knew she was a girl. It was love at first morning sickness all over again. I had named this one Sparrow. Her name came from my favorite hymn.

“I don’t know about tomorrow
it may bring me poverty
but the one who feeds the sparrow
is the one who stands by me”

I knew THIS time Jesus was standing by me. THIS time would be it.  That He knew I was enough to be a Mommy again. But nearly 12 weeks in I had lost her; 3 days before my 31st birthday.

And there I was, alone in the exam room, sobbing as I was losing my sweet fragile little Sparrow. Not enough all over again.

Not even for God… not enough to give me another child. Just one more little one, I wasn’t being greedy.

But the song continues:

“And the path that be my portion
May be through the flame or flood
But his presence goes before me
And I’m covered with His blood.

Many things about tomorrow
I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow
And I know who holds my hand”

I am enough for Him. Enough for Him to go through all the rage and resentment and anger and sorrow and hate and everything I felt towards Him and every single pregnant woman around me popping out babies like gumball machines.

He was with me as I wept, as I slept away my afternoons because it was easier than functioning as an adult.

As I parked in the “expectant mother” parking spot at Wegman’s because passive aggression is a great release sometimes.

As I tried to live a Christian life while ignoring Him as being a part of it.

But even more precious than  Him waiting though all of that is that he waited for me to get to the other side.

To where I know my mothering isn’t based on how full my quiver is. That I’m just as good of a mother with one little girl as Michelle Dugger is with her 18? 19? 31? Kids.

To knowing I am not less blessed with my one child than those with more babies than bedrooms.

To the point where I know I’m enough for Him, and that’s all that matters.

And slowly I’m getting to the point where He is enough for me. Some days are better than others. And some days I’m thankful for unanswered prayers (Did I mention that my child was fearless?). But I’m getting there. To enough.



A few weeks ago my sweet daughter and I were sitting on the couch chatting.

“Mommy, you have one little girl.”

Yep, one sweet little girl.

“Some Mommies have girls and some Mommies have boys.”

That’s the way God planned it out.

“Some Mommies have lotsa little boys and girls.”

Yep.

“But you have just one Me.”

Yep.

“Is that enough?”

And here was my moment of truth.

Here was God looking at me through her little child eyes and saying: “Here’s what you prayed for. Every little detail in one little package that I made for you, just for you, before YOU were even born. Is it enough?”

My sweet human. You are enough for me. Every day. Every minute. Every second. You are more than enough and a little extra on the side.

*I had originally planned to post this on October 15th: National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day....but things didn't work out as I had planned. As they rarely do. Since 1988 the whole month has been dedicated to remembering our nation's lost children. I felt it was only right to stop in the middle of my daily madness and remember our two lost children, even if it wasn't on the 15th.

I know we are not alone in this. That we live life with many hurting Mommies and Daddies. It doesn't make it easier... It doesn't make it better... But maybe we can all heal a little stronger with each other's support. Or at least know we're not alone. Nothing is worse than suffering loss all on your own. Don't. Reach out. Find someone. Share your story.

And most importantly, if you're a Momma of a lost child and hear nothing else in what I've said hear this: It's. Not. Your. Fault. You ARE enough. 

Fakin' it.

So I feel like a fraud. This blog thing makes me feel like a fraud.

I've taken a break from the blogging because of it. I am no great speaker or writer or conduit from God. I don't have daily epiphanies that bring me closer to Him. I will freely admit that some days I read the Bible on autopilot. I have no great wisdom, I can't share what "works for me" because I haven't found what works for me yet.

I'm a plain ol' mom, who is just struggling to survive the days. Some days that takes less effort than others.

 Some days I can bring myself to spend the entire day in crafty/outsidey/happy/smiley/adventures mode and others I just pray the iPad battery lasts until naptime.

Some days I have great patience and others I send the wild beast outside where she belongs.

Some days I accomplish everything on the to-do list and other days are considered a success if I even make a list.

Some days we have green smoothies for lunch and others I roll through a Wendy's.

Some days I rock and others I just plain suck.

Some days there just is no Joy in the day.

So there it is. The truth.

I see the pins on Pinterest. The pretty little signs to hang on our walls. To remind us.

And some days I can't. There's no joy to be found.  Just survival. Then guilt from not finding joy.

Why should I be joyless? I'm blessed beyond measure: our little house and our little family. But these reminders of what I should feel make me feel guilty, once again less than, because I don't feel joy.

Behind these signs and the blogs I follow I see women, mamas, who seem to have it together. That plaster a perfectly veneered smile on their faces and sing-song-ily say "Choose Joy."

I fake it 'till I make it..... but what if I never make it?


Then this.

And I felt joy. This spoke to me more than the pretty pastel, chevron, chalkboard signs guilting me into joy. This statement makes me want to move mountains. 

Not because it takes the power from God. Not that it puts the power in my hands.... but it allows me to be me; a little ball of fury taking down whatever is in my way. With Him by my side. Coaching me through the day. Not just making a choice but actually DOING something.

Child trying to corner me into a corn syrup filled breakfast? Bob and Weave.

Blowing though both Language Arts and Math lessons in less than 45 minutes WITH comprehension? One-Two-Punch

Facebook friend backdoor bragging about their child's ahead-a-grade-level-reading in their beautiful home remodel on the heels of their warm-weather vacation? Blocking

Attacking the laundry pile? Jab

Toys sorted? Uppercut

Cooking a meal that everyone will eat without any complaints at the dinner table? Footwork

Ending the day with the house a little cleaner, child a little smarter, husband a little more comforted? Punchout

At the end of the day I may be tired out. I may be bruised and battered and swollen. But I hit back. Yes, I do choose joy. Forget "'till I make it".... I'll be faking it 'till I die. But I am gonna punch today in the face. Everyday.... and that makes me a little happy. Even joyful.

Wardrobe

I've been bummed out lately. No, I'm gonna be honest. I've been flat out depressed. And when I say flat out depressed I mean flat. out.

As in I was flat and I was out.

My depression was so bad I was stressed out over being depressed. To the point I made myself sick. My stress had caused my good bacteria to call it quits and the bad bacteria to take over everything. I finally broke down went to urgent care (being completely disconnected to my body, completely sure it was strep throat) and got a prescription because my kefir smoothies just weren't cutting it.

Which of course made me more stressed ("For goodness sakes I can't even keep a suitable environment for BACTERIA to thrive in what makes me think I can ___________________?!") which made me more depressed.

So here I was: tongue swollen so much I couldn't close my mouth properly, I couldn't eat anything thicker (or more distinctive) than applesauce and I was doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. For days.

Then He woke me up at 5 am. There was no Earthly reason I should have been awake that early that day. I tried going back to sleep but nothin doin' when He wants to talk to you.... And He needed to talk to me.

I'm sure you were aware of the books Beth Moore was giving away earlier this year. You know, 10-ish books that she was just handing out for free Kindle devices. Madness, I tell you. Facebook, the Mommy blogs, every Christian woman I know was all over that deal. Anyway, I was part of the madness. I got my books...

So I'm reading "Praying God's Word Day by Day"..... "reading" is more like it. Just being honest..... and I flip to that particular day: February 12th. This is what it says:

We Must Never Cease

Believing 

That God Cares About

Those In

Physical, Emotional,

Mental.

Or Spiritual Prisons

Crap. She's talking about me. 

Reading on this is the scripture used for this particular day. The day I'm wide awake. As if I had just downed a medium french vanilla 2 and 2 from Dunkin' in 15 seconds flat awake at 5 am.  

You comfort all who mourn. You provide

for those who grieve in Zion - to bestow on

us a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil

of gladness instead of mourning, and a 

garment of praise instead a spirit of despair.

Isa. 61:1-3a

Crown of beauty instead of ashes.

Oil of gladness instead of mourning.

A garment of praise. Garment.

I had to put it on. I had to go in my closet, pick it out, squeeze into it (because with my depression comes a serious craving for the junky stuff), and put. it. on. No matter how uncomfortable it may be at first. Because like most of my spandex laced jeans it will stretch a bit and feel a bit more comfortable as the day goes on. 

So that day I was gonna do it. I spiritually and physically got dressed. 

I found my "thankful" journal à la Ann Voskamp and wrote everything I was thankful for: the silly stuff (cookie butter, warm slippers, a Wegman's less than a 3 minute drive away from my front door) the real stuff (a healthy little girl, a husband who loves me for who God made me, our home, a reliable car) and the Sunday School stuff (His saving grace, His enduring love for me, that I am a princess in His kingdom).  I went on and on for pages and finally I felt it. The deep thankfulness of who He is and what He's done for me. Just for me. Only me. 

I turned on KLove.... which is huge for me. I'm not 100% sold on KLove. I mean, who on Earth is that chipper in the morning? Nobody, that's who. Nope. I don't wanna hear that kind of saccharine sweetness until at least after 10 am. Shut it and play the music Kanklefritz. Of which about 1/4 of which I actually like on it's own musical merit...... but this time I didn't listen to be entertained. I listened as if it was part of my spiritual ensemble. 

I cleaned. Oh boy, did I clean. Every room, every surface, every nook and cranny (what's a cranny?). And as the house straightened up so did I. I made it my mission to have the kitchen sink empty and shiny every moment I could. Laundry cycled through from hampers to machines and back into closets. No more did we share the dinner table with (clean) socks and undies. I went back to my daily vacuuming habit. My house was clean for nobody else but my little family. You could stop by this very second and I wouldn't need to make a mad dash around the house filling an empty laundry basket to stash in my closet in the time it takes for me to realize you're here to open the back door for you. Seriously. Stop in. Try me. 

I started working out. Nothing fancy. Just some YouTube videos. Something to keep me sweating until I thought I was gonna throw up  moving. Though I dread those 20 minute videos I look forward to that clarity and peace I get after I'm done. (At this point it may be about half an hour after I'm done but at least it comes.) 

So there it is. My new wardrobe. Better than what Stacy and Clinton could shop for (What Not To Wear, anyone?) Some items were an easy buy. Some needed altering. Others I needed to step outside of what's comfortable and try a new style... but it's there. And I think it looks good on me.

....a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair....

****PSA: Depression is real. Depression is painful. Sometimes God can help you out of it. Other times He can help you get the medical help you need. It's different for every person and every scenario. If you begin to suspect your depression is more than "cabin fever" or "baby blues" please seek help. Tell your husband, tell your friends, tell your family. Then tell your doctor. It's OK to get the help you need to be the Mama your babies need.  ****