love + light

I have to wonder if when police officers swore to serve and protect their fellow citizens-- to put themselves in the middle of harms' way-- was there a clause which allowed them to pick and choose those whose lives to protect according to what lives they deem of value? Did their oath also give them the right to kill men whose actions didn't warrant being killed?

Many people want to complicate this heartbreaking situation. But it's hardly complicated. 

If you aren't furiously horrified-- if you aren't outraged and outrageously angry-- at the state of race, racism, privilege, abuse of power, and the level fear so many of our (supposedly free) country's own citizens live in, then you are a part of the problem. We have to wake up. We have to do better. We have to be better to our fellow man. We owe more to our children than this, don't we? I have to believe that things can change. I have to believe in the power of good.

I have to believe that good will always prevail.  

I just have to.

Otherwise, what the fuck is the point?

023/365

I have this thing with horns and taxidermy.  

And rainy days where the edges of life seem somewhat blurred, softened.

And light-filled rooms with darkly painted walls. 

And Edie's unruly raven curls and two single freckles. 

And Mo's mussed up nature, only adding to the undeniable je ne sais quoi she reeks of.

And laugh lines, wrinkles, freckles, and grey hair.

And a home that looks lived-in, slightly unkempt, with a picture or two very narrowly crooked. But only just so. 

And home-cooked meals that elicits abundant and borderline vulgar onomatopoeia.

And books void of happy endings.

And ugly cries so cathartic, you can feel the lightness afterwards deep within the marrow of your soul. 

And make-up sex.

And the particular way my years-old, covered in holes, two-sizes-too-big grey sweatshirt always feels like the perfect thing to wear, no matter the occasion.

And the mess.

I really, really enjoy the mess. 

022/365

I married a man who bleeds a very specific shade of blue and, if you ask him, it's the only shade of blue worth bleeding. For years, I pretended to care; I thought that it would earn me points if my livelihood was even a fraction as dependent on the success of the Tarheels as his is. 

However, I'm not much of a bullshitter. 

The truth is that I couldn't give two single shits about sports. Mind you, I love a good healthy competition and going to actual games is a ton of fun-- if only for the pre-game beer and consuming enough nachos with fluorescent cheese product and pickled jalapenos to fill my yearly quota-- but it would be a rather exhausting stretch to say that I care.

Obviously, this lack of enthusiasm has frequently become a point of contention within our marriage, specifically in March when the stakes are highest; not only is Joe counting on his beloved Tarheels going all the way but I also find him pacing the living room, praying to the Gods of College Basketball Rivalries for the doom of a certain team* that is not allowed to be spoken of in our house. (I'm not kidding, either. For someone who isn't superstitious, my husband is rather adamant that no Blue Devil juju get brought into this Tarheel haven.)

Not only do I not care about sports, but I also hate sports memorabilia. I'm the old lady who refuses to display it in or around our home which, I'm sure, breaks his spirit a little more each day. I find it tacky. When we moved into our new home, Joe immediately began laying not-so-subtle hints that he'd like to mount a flag on one of the columns of our front porch so that we could proudly announce to all of Charlotte where our allegiances firmly stand. 

I may have possibly blacked out or hallucinated the question but I'm assuming that my response went something along the lines of, "Hmmm.... let me think. How about fahk no?" 

Which brings me to the mat welcoming our guests outside of our kitchen door. 

Joe and I are celebrating ten years of being in each others' lives this month** and if I've learned anything about relationships over the span of a decade, it's that 1) they're hard; 2) they're even harder if one or both of you is an asshole; and 3) solve as many disagreements with a friendly game of rock, paper, scissors; 4) if all else fails, figure out a compromise.

That welcome mat is me compromising.

If you listen very, very closely, it also sounds a little like hell freezing over.

Because nothing says romance like telling your spouse' mortal enemies to kindly fuck off.   

*And because I take my responsibility of ruffling his feathers and making fun of his unhealthy obsession, I'd like it stated for the record that he and his entire family grew up fans of the aforementioned unmentionable team. Joe likes to refer to that portion of his life as the Dark Years. He's so lucky I'm here to never let him forget that, unfortunately, we all have a past we're not proud of and that it's important that he own up to his monumental mistakes. *insert devilish grin emojii* Pun intended.

**It's not our anniversary, per se. We only celebrate our wedding anniversary because we may have had a few breaks from each other before babies. We still believe that our time spent apart counts for something because it was all a part of the process that led us to where we are now, which is arguing about unhealthy collegiate dependencies and playing Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine whose turn it is to wipe Edie's dirty bum. 

Also, by chance you, too, would like to earn Your Wife of the Year membership card, I got the 2x3 mat made custom here. 

021/365

"How to talk to your daughter about her body, step one: don’t talk to your daughter about her body, except to teach her how it works.

Don’t say anything if she’s lost weight. Don’t say anything if she’s gained weight.

If you think your daughter’s body looks amazing, don’t say that. Here are some things you can say instead:

“You look so healthy!” is a great one.

Or how about, “You’re looking so strong.”

“I can see how happy you are – you’re glowing.”

Better yet, compliment her on something that has nothing to do with her body.

Don’t comment on other women’s bodies either. Nope. Not a single comment, not a nice one or a mean one.

Teach her about kindness towards others, but also kindness towards yourself.

Don’t you dare talk about how much you hate your body in front of your daughter, or talk about your new diet. In fact, don’t go on a diet in front of your daughter. Buy healthy food. Cook healthy meals. But don’t say “I’m not eating carbs right now.” Your daughter should never think that carbs are evil, because shame over what you eat only leads to shame about yourself.

Encourage your daughter to run because it makes her feel less stressed. Encourage your daughter to climb mountains because there is nowhere better to explore your spirituality than the peak of the universe. Encourage your daughter to surf, or rock climb, or mountain bike because it scares her and that’s a good thing sometimes.

Help your daughter love soccer or rowing or hockey because sports make her a better leader and a more confident woman. Explain that no matter how old you get, you’ll never stop needing good teamwork. Never make her play a sport she isn’t absolutely in love with.

Prove to your daughter that women don’t need men to move their furniture.

Teach your daughter how to cook kale.

Teach your daughter how to bake chocolate cake made with six sticks of butter.

Pass on your own mom’s recipe for Christmas morning coffee cake. Pass on your love of being outside.

Maybe you and your daughter both have thick thighs or wide ribcages. It’s easy to hate these non-size zero body parts. Don’t. Tell your daughter that with her legs she can run a marathon if she wants to, and her ribcage is nothing but a carrying case for strong lungs. She can scream and she can sing and she can lift up the world, if she wants.

Remind your daughter that the best thing she can do with her body is to use it to mobilize her beautiful soul."

-Sarah Koppelkam

020/365

I'm not what one would describe as a touchy-feely kind of person.  

I am not cold or distant by any means and I am definitely more of a hugger than a hand-shaker. You better believe that I come in for the real thing if I've known you for longer than a minute and you don't have unbearable B.O. However, I blame this more on my southern charm rather than my personal preferences. 

When Joe and I first started having, ahem, adult sleep overs, it was very quickly established that there would be no touching during sleeping hours. Before and after, it is likely that we can... you know... "cuddle" but if I'm unconscious, ere on the side of caution and, please, not touch me. Luckily, I married someone who is the same way which is likely why we work. Occasionally, I've been known to give a mean elbow to the ribs while remaining completely comatose when his feet manage to forget the agreed-upon boundaries. (Sorry, Joe.) 

Naturally, I worried that this lack of needing physical connection would hinder me as a mom. I needn't worry because Mo, in true fashion, wasn't a cuddler. I actually worried something was wrong with her as a baby because she was all, "Bitch, give me three feet" instead of wanting to be as close to me as possible. She hated co-sleeping and slept like a star fish. We were the perfect mother-child duo in terms of not wanting to constantly be touched. 

Which brings me to Edie.

That child lives for an opportunity to get her some snugs. Randomly throughout the day, she'll crab-crawl her way over to me only to plop her head in my lap for a few moments, like she just wants to check in and make sure that my lap is still there and operational. The nook between my chin and shoulder is likely permanently molded to her sweet head of raven curls. She still prefers to drink a bottle laying down in my lap on the floor so she can stare up at me. She is so sweet that she even still makes sure to wake up around three a.m. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. to guarantee the fulfillment of her daily cuddle quota. 

And I...... love it?! Nothing is more soothing to me than the weight of her head on my shoulder after a warm bath. The fact that she almost always ruins the moment by peeing on me right afterwards doesn't even phase me. 

But that's just Edie being everything I never knew I needed or wanted, by forcing me to slow down, by reminding me that babies don't keep and everything else can wait, by loving me so obviously and with so much affection.

This gig, man.... I often wonder who I'd be without it. I'd surely be a lot less loved.

*Joe's feet will never be welcomed on my side of the bed, though. Just sayin'...