Easy E at 3.5

Fact #1: To know Edie is to love Edie. I say this not out of maternal bias as many would assume even though, clearly, guilty as charged; rather, I’m merely repeating what has been relayed to me by every person who comes into contact with her which is that she is irresistibly lovable. She’s just one of those rare breeds of people who others find nearly impossible to not like.

Fact #2: I do not claim to understand Edie’s particular kind of crazy but I do admire her 100% commitment to it. Edie often feels a little like life itself; a chaotic mess that somehow never fails to prove being worth the wild ride. But her dedication to crazy is never without purpose; when her shit hits the fan, she goes to great lengths to explain to me or whomever has set her off exactly why she is intent on losing said shit and precisely how whomever is responsible contributed to it. She also manages to give such a compelling and passionate argument that Joe and I have a very hard time being annoyed with her meltdown at all. She feels all the feelings, she tells us about them down to the most minor detail, never wavering, taking full ownership always. And you know what? I can’t help but admire that in a woman.

Fact #3: I’ve never met another soul on earth who loves their pork products quite as much as Edie. Last year, she convinced her entire class that no lunch was worth having unless salami constituted a majority of the meal. Her enthusiasm upon opening her lunch box every day and seeing those slices of salami in their designated compartment was so contagious that it wasn’t long before every other child in the class began demanding salami from their parents. Thanks to Edie, there is likely a small army of three year olds who need to have their cholesterol levels checked. On the flip-side, Edie’s never as upset or disappointed with me as she is when we run out of “lami’s” (pronounced lah-meeze) or, god forbid, I forget to restock them at the store. One such day that Edie didn’t find salami in her lunch box, she grew very quiet, teared up, lowered and shook her head from side to side, and with her arms out to each side to drive her exasperation home, she lamented to her teacher that “There are no lamis, Ms. Carrie. My mom hurt my heart because there are no lamis.”

Fact #4: If I hadn’t been there, I’d wonder if Joe wasn’t the one to grow, labor, and birth Edie himself because they couldn’t be more alike if they tried. I often wonder when— if at all— I’m going to show up in her because, truth be told, I want to be able to take some sort of credit for that child. Beyond the obvious— looking nearly identical as babies and toddlers— they are a pair of kindred spirits that always seem to be in on the other's joke. They have the same love language and good lord do they love a cuddle. They share similar roles among their siblings and are both even-keeled by default. They’re under-the-radar comedians who always know how to lighten a mood or say or do something inappropriate. They share the most beautiful almond-shaped blue-green eyes and lashes that seem to fan out across their entire face. They take the same physical stance with their knees locked and eyes glazed over when they’re deep in observation mode. They are both fiercely loyal to those who love them them, are deeply devoted to fairness, and can’t tell a lie to save their life.

Fact #5: Edie was born a week early, on Marlo’s due date, April 29th. She made labor and delivery as easy on me as possible and came into the world twelve hours almost to the minute after my first contraction, thirty seconds after my water broke, and without so much as a single push, forcing her father to witness the business end of things because there wasn’t even a single extra second to look away. Which, in hindsight, was clear foreshadowing of her overall disposition, general sense of consideration of those around her, and her holding people to a specific level of accountability. Edie reads a room and a persons’ needs better than most grown adults I know. Straight from the womb, Edie was born with the understanding that she stands not alone, but rather in relation to the world and people around her and, as a result, possesses the innate ability to fill the space meant for her without much effort. This ability to ride the waves of life, even as a newborn, is essentially how she came to be known as Easy E. Being in Edie’s presence— and being loved by her, particularly— makes life feel a little easier, a little lighter, even if in that moment life is proving to be unfathomably hard.

things 02 | statements sweatshirts, sunscreen, and Fitzgerald

1. I ordered this ‘Vive La Resistance’ sweatshirt this week for rather obvious reasons. In all honesty, buying something that not only makes a statement but supports a cause I believe in made me feel better at a time where I’m feeling a little hopeless. Clare V., $125

2. When I was pregnant with Knox, my entire body was terribly dry. As a matter of fact, my skin has become abnormally scaly during all three of my pregnancies and it’s definitely one of the harder aspects of pregnancy for me because nothing 100% remedies it. However, to help alleviate the situation as much as I could and look less like a lizard, I began dry brushing and it has proven to be a game-changer. (Here is a good source of information on dry-brushing and its benefits.) I won’t lie, the process can be kind of painful at first depending on your skin's sensitivity but holy hell does it make a huge difference in the overall condition and appearance of my skin. Since a certain three year old I know recently poured blue toothpaste all over the brush I’d been using since I began the self-care practice, it was time for a new one. Enter: the ‘G. Tox Ultimate Dry Brush’. I am obsessed however, I should warn you that this brush is probably NOT a great choice for a dry-brushing beginner as the bristles are very stiff and intense. Goop, $20

3. Regardless of your stance on the mom jean trend, I believe we can all appreciate the virtues of the high-waist and non-skinny fit. Personally, I love them, wear them non-ironically, and find them to be the most flattering on my body type (which is curvy-ish, bottom-heavy, and, ya know… a mom.) These ‘PINCH’ cropped, straight leg pair are the ULTIMATE. As a former denim buyer and mom-jean devotee, please just trust me on this. AGOLDE, $178

4. I have to give credit for this find to my girl, Apes. I was determined to buy a fiddle leaf fig this year and to, more importantly, keep him alive. She told me about this ‘Boomerang Comeback Formula’ and I’ve never looked back. As you can see from the picture, Fitzgerald (yes, I named him) is not only alive but he’s thriving: he’s grown eight inches in height (8!!) and gotten eleven new leaves since I bought him in May. It probably doesn’t hurt that I baby the hell out of him. My kids look at me like I’m crazy but I talk to him as I dust his leaves every week, making sure to give him copious amounts of positive reinforcement because I swear it works. I’m not sure how much you’re actually supposed to use but I add about 1/8th cup of the liquid fertilizer into the thirty-two ounces of water I give ol’ Fitzy every week. FoxFarm Bushdoctor, $22/one quart .

5. To date, I’ve tried around twenty-three natural deodorants and only twenty-two of them have truly sucked. The single one that didn’t? A little natural organic coconut-oil based MVP that smells like the tropics and keeps your pits from smelling like a combination of ass and curry. It also moisturizes them and doesn’t leave any residue on your clothes. Kopari Beauty, $14

6 + 7. There is one beach activity that I mourn the luxury of experiencing now that I’m a parent: reading. Since Joe and I are leaving for Tulum early Wednesday morning for a little “you survived your first year with three children” gift to ourselves and I can think of no better opportunity to reignite my favorite beach pastime and no better source to do so than with the second and third installments in the ‘Mestra’ trilogy written by L.S. Hilton. Dark, twisted, glamorous, and indulgent, they are just what this mama needs to take her out of mom-mode. Amazon, $18 each

8 + 9. Speaking of being in Tulum, I’m a psycho when it comes to sunscreen. Don’t get me wrong, mama loves a tan and lounging in the sun with the best of them but ain’t nobody got time for skin cancer or wrinkles. My favorite adult sunscreen is the ‘Milk-Lotion Spray SPF 50+’ for body and the ‘UV PLUS Anti-Pollution Broad Spectrum SPF 50+’ for my face, both by Clarins. I don’t normally splurge on sunscreen but when I’m going to be spending so many hours over the course of five days lying on top of white sand in the Caribbean sun, I figure it can’t hurt. Nordstrom, $36 & $43, respectively

10. Joe travels a lot. Like, A LOT, A LOT. Last year, he finally decided that it made sense to upgraded his ten-year-old luggage to something a little more professional looking and, not to mention, durable. As soon as his AWAY suitcase arrived, I became green with envy because 1) I don’t have a suit case at all and 2) the one I do seldom use when I travel is the one he just decided was no longer in working order. So, you can imagine my sheer delight when a little over a month ago he surprised me with my very own suitcase! Mind you, the one he bought me is a bigger (because, duh) and greener (ha, natch) version of his own. ‘The Bigger Carry-On’ by AWAY TRAVEL, $245

triggered

Marlo is blissfully innocent and unaware of the current political vitriol engulfing women within our society. Her honest naivety still allows her to believe that the current patriarchal climate we live in isn’t out to get her simply because of the reproductive organs she was born with. Because the fact is this: Marlo (or her sister or brother) will likely be sexually abused, sexually assaulted, molested, and/or raped over the course of her lifetime. That is a statistic that, as her mother and her fierce protector, makes my insides hurt.

The past few weeks have felt like not much more than a giant trigger. Even as I try my best to avoid the news and various social media outlets that freely spew political vitriol from both sides of the table in the name of self-preservation, I still find myself in what feels like a constant state of reeling. As I read the transcript from Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s sworn testimony detailing her sexual assault, I’m forced to internally revisit my own sexual abuse no matter how hard I try to avoid doing so.

Marlo is six-and-a-half years old in this picture. In many ways, she is still a baby. She’s becoming a young lady, straddling that fine line between innocence and adolescence and figuring out who she is and where in this world she stands. Knowing that I was not much older than Marlo is now when the sexual abuse initially began is what I find so excruciating to mentally conceive. I thought I’d made peace with what happened to me and, for the most part, I had. Rather, I have. But when I hear women being mocked and blamed for their abuse— by people (mostly men) who have no fucking idea what mental and emotional affects sexual abuse imparts on its victims, of course— and then ridiculed for not coming forward when it first happened however many years ago, the anger rises in my chest like poisonous bile.

I was almost nine years old when it first happened to me.

Nine years old.

Over twenty years ago and, though a few people know about it now, this is the first time I’ve ever addressed it publicly. Does the time lapse make it any less valid to address? Do those twenty years make it any easier to accept? Do those twenty years make me any less fearful for what my daughters and son may one day face because over the course of those twenty years, we’re still blaming victims and having the same conversations about sexual abuse and assault?

On all accounts: FUCK NO.

He never physically touched me. Instead, he made me watch porn. He forced me to watch him jack off. He made me put on lingerie that he got from god knows where. I distinctly remember violently shaking out of embarrassment when he asked me to twirl around so he could see me in the oversized thong he had given to me to change into. It was dark blue satin with black lace. I had to flip through old Hustler magazines and tell him if I thought the women were sexy or hot or if I wanted to have sex with them or the men who were having sex with women in the porn he’d play for me. It lasted for almost five years.

My perception of what was happening was so warped that I often questioned if I could even call it sexual abuse since he never technically touched me. I worried that because of a definitional technicality, it would actually be me who got in trouble if I told anyone. I was also deeply embarrassed, mortified. For years I was forced to watch things that, up until the point of that experience, I didn’t even know existed. I carried around the weight of burdensome guilt because, the fact remained, I didn’t do anything to stop it so if I was so uncomfortable, an argument could (and likely would) be made that I had a weird way of showing it. While the abuse was going on, it was also subtly engrained in me that if I told anyone, I would not only be responsible for my own consequences but I would also be responsible for whatever happened to him and since real family looks out for each other, I better keep my lips sealed. I was innocent but I wasn’t dumb and, clearly, neither was he.

And it did remain a secret. Not a soul knew until I was twenty.

Joe and I had been dating for almost a year and one night as we were laying face-to-face in bed talking about things that only carefree college students have the luxury of talking about, an uncontrollable and unexpected wave of emotion rushed over me and the words spewed out of my mouth before I could stop them:

“My older cousin sexually abused me for years but I never did anything to stop it. I’ve never told anyone. It lasted until I was almost thirteen.”

After I admitted my truth, my initial response was visceral fear that Joe— a man I was already wildly in love with— would now view me unloveable or, far worse, pity me. I worried he’d never touch me the same way after knowing what I’d gone through. I’d let him in on my dirty little secret and had potentially self-sabotaged the future I was already desperately hoping to share with him.

Joe remained deafeningly silent, leaving my mind wandering in a million directions all laced with terror. A few moments later, without muttering a single word, he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me in closer to his chest, and let me cry the violent sobs I’d been holding in for over a decade. He didn’t ask me any questions. He didn’t want to hear the sordid details. He didn’t ask me why I didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t blame me. He simply let me release my anger, hurt, and sadness without interruption.

Once my sobs subsided, I heard him quietly say, “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Christy.” He was sincere and kind and loving and it meant more to me than I’ll ever be able to express to him. But, most importantly?

HE BELIEVED ME.

I hate that we’re living in a time when we not only blame women for being victimized but we also lay upon them the burden of prevention instead of teaching young boys (statistically speaking, men make up the majority of perpetrators) to resist toxic masculinity in a culture that often rewards it and almost always excuses it.

This isn’t a political post. At least, it’s not my intention for it to be read as one. Making this public is also not an attempt to punish the (now) grown man who did this to me all those years ago or to cause emotional harm to any family members who may read this. However, I’m done with shame, guilt, self-sabotage, and fear. I’m all out of fucks because I spent a lifetime living with this and I AM SIMPLY DONE WITH THE CULTURAL INSINUATION THAT THERE IS A TIME LIMIT ON WHEN WE CAN SHARE OUR TRUTH AND OUR STORIES, NO MATTER HOW PAINFUL THEY MAY BE.

This is also not my attempt at a pity party because I do not need nor want pity. I find pity to be the most patronizing and condescending reactions of all. However, it is my intentional hope that anyone reading this who often finds themselves questioning victims— men or women— for not coming forward immediately or filing a police report or playing twenty questions with the details or motivations surrounding someone sharing their assault to take a minute and ask yourself how much pain/shame/guilt/fear a person would have to experience to be silenced for years, decades, or even a lifetime. Imagine what living with that emotional toxicity does to ones self-confidence, current and potential romantic relationships, sense of self, childhood, and even the embracement of their own sexuality.

Imagine the choke-hold that kind of trauma possesses over every single aspect of a persons life before you question why it took them so long to come up for enough air to speak out.

One shouldn’t have to experience the darker sides of humanity to embrace empathy, to acknowledge pain when you see it, or to extend the courtesy and value of validation from one human to another. Compassion doesn’t cost anything and yet we’re taxing women with the burden of proof and blame in order to receive it. So, with that in mind, what if our first instinct as a society was to show compassion instead of contempt. Maybe we could even go as far to consider the possibility that victims often aren’t out to get anyone— not even their abusers. Most people who come forward do so because they’re sick of drowning in the depth of their own pain and shame and sharing their experience is merely motivated by their own vigorous hope to heal.

My love goes out to all of you who have lived through this, are still living through this, or have been forced to remain silent.

I see you.

And I believe you.

foxy knoxy turns one

Joe is in Nashville this week and while catching up on our days over the phone yesterday evening after the kids were asleep, he asked me how I’m handling knowing that my boy turns one tomorrow. I thought about it for a split moment, vividly remembering how hot of a mess I was when Edie turned one, and then I answered him.

“Tomorrow night I’ll probably do what I always do and make a scene and embarrass myself with lots of ugly crying when I put him to bed but, come Friday morning when we wake up, I’ll remember that I never have to experience a first year ever again and I’ll probably go outside and do a round of celebratory back flips.”

Because it’s true.

Yes, I already mourn the inevitable thinning out of Knox’s turkey thighs and I dread the day he doesn’t willingly let me smother his chubby cheeks in kisses. Yes, I will undoubtedly miss the way he growls like an animal when he wants more food and I will forever very fondly remember the days when his favorite place was perched on my right hip but I will not miss the toll this past year put on me and my family. Yes, I wish I could go back and be a better (and less depressed) mother to Marlo while she was a baby but I do not, with a single ounce of my being, possess any desire to relive the struggle of being a new mom. And, of course I wish I could revisit Edie’s first year and give myself and Mo more grace as we established our footing as a family of four; of course I regret not relishing Edie’ baby-ness more than I did because Edie was a living, breathing inducer of baby fever like I’d never seen before and haven’t met since. But I would never want to go back and feel that lack of confidence, that maternal uncertainty, and crippling frustration ever again.

So, when a well-meaning fellow parent a few stages removed from our our current phase of parenthood tells me with utmost conviction that I’ll miss this current stage so much one day, I internally cringe. I want to correct them on the spot and defend myself and explain what the last six and a half years have felt like. And when they remind me to “be grateful,” that annoyed cringe turns into visceral rage and I have fight every urge to punch them in the throat.

Because, with all due respect, no I absolutely fucking will not miss this part of parenthood. In fact, there are large portions of all three of my kid’ first years that I’ve successfully managed to black out.

The last 365 days have proven to be not much more than a psych experiment in mental, emotional, marital, maternal, and physical survival gone rogue. I have been pushed beyond any and every boundary I previously enforced as a person, as a mother, and as a wife. I’ve expanded in ways that I now realize in hindsight were necessary and vital ones but the work required for embracing that kind of growth often left me wondering why I ever thought I was capable of being a mom to three humans and seriously doubting that I’d ever be a good one.

But I’d be lying if I said that I’m not feeling a little melancholy though, I’m fairly certain that my mood has far more to do with the finality that his birthday symbolizes more so than actual sadness because he’s turning one. Today marks the last page of a chapter whose plot largely revolved around growing, birthing, and sustaining human life. It’s a chapter that will go down as one of the most transformative, significant, consequential, and soul-affirming chapters in my life and, man, I’m eternally fucking grateful for it and for the three little people Joe and I got out of the deal.

Tonight, as Knox lays in my lap drinking his bottle while I whisper Doris Day’s ‘A Bushel and A Peck’ before laying him in his crib, I’ll ugly cry and feel all of the feelings. I spent much of the past year doubting myself and my capacity as a mother, but the truth is, surviving this last year serves as proof that I’m far more than capable of mothering these three babes of mine than I ever give myself credit for. Tomorrow morning when I wake up and go lift my one year old out of his crib, I’ll tell myself that closing this chapter means I’m also beginning a new one— a chapter whose overarching theme is simply loving the hell out of my kids.

Happy Birthday, Foxy Knoxy.

Thank you for choosing us, completing us, and for reminding of what I’m capable of.

I will love you forever.

-mama