To the Pregnant Girl on a Beer Run

It was late, and I needed stuff for lunch tomorrow. My two year old had refused to eat the vegetable soup I made today, and I knew tomorrow she would refuse the leftovers. It’s the time of the month that the cupboards don’t hold much bounty, so my husband returned his new weedeater to get us some food.

Every little bit counts.

I was just about to head to the checkout after grabbing a loaf of bread, when you rounded the corner. You grabbed a twelve pack of some beer with depictions on the box promising an ice cold one. You shouldered the beer, with your other hand under your basketball shaped belly. I could see the wince from what I imagine were those oh so wonderful round ligament pains.

You went ahead of me to the self-checkout lane, and showed the attendant your ID. And just like that you were on your way. Little did you know, you would be on my mind the rest of the night.

That beer was probably not for you. You probably bought it for your brother/husband/cousin’s sister’s niece, or any number of people in your life could have asked you to go on that beer run. At least that’s what I’m hoping. I’m hoping you weren’t buying it for yourself, and I know it’s really none of my business if you did.

It’s none of my business what you’re story is, I don’t know you, your struggles, or anything at all about you. It’s none of my business what you put into your body, pregnant or not. I know that.

But I have been praying for you.

I’ve been praying that if you did feel the need to drink tonight, something would change your mind.

If I could, I’d introduce you to my little brother. Joshua is six now. He was born prematurely, and has had a plethora of diagnoses since he was born. One of those diagnoses is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. See, Joshua’s biological mother, along with abusing drugs, drank while she was pregnant. Joshua isn’t physically disabled, but his mind’s age will never keep up with his body’s.

So tonight, I’m praying you aren’t drinking.

It’s hard to describe, when you’ve seen firsthand what FAS is like. It’s hard to depict the way your heart breaks for the child, when he struggles making friends, because he’s different. When he wakes in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder. When he has nothing but impulse, that can sometimes be aggressive. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

But oh, is that boy sweet.

Momma, I just pray that you aren’t drinking tonight. Again, that beer probably wasn’t for you. I hope not.

On. On.

Schlop. Schlop. Schlop.

The sun beats down.

The mosquitoes bite.

You sweat just enough to make your skin crawl and itch.

The sea of mud you’re trudging through is rotten and reeking.

And your hands are tied behind your back.

I recently read someone comparing depression to trudging through the mud. It was perhaps, for me, the most accurate description I had ever read.

It’s never some hard hitting, fast paced, scream inducing downward spiral.* It’s slow, and laborious, it weighs every aspect of you down.

A cinder block necklace.

On, we trudge, not knowing why.

Perhaps the glimpses of our loved ones bring us a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the singing birds give us succor. Perhaps we rely on our faith.

Somehow we trudge.

Sometimes we find solid ground, and it allows us a sigh of relief. But always lingering in the background is the question of when the squalid muck will swallow it up.

And on, we trudge.

Some of us fall. Too weary to keep moving.

Some of us rise. We find that ever sought after high ground, invulnerable to the mire.

And on, on, we trudge.

*see Anxiety attacks.

Hey Mom,

Where to begin?

If you had told me five years ago that today my biggest accomplishment would be eating breakfast before the baby woke up, again, I would have laughed. Choked, probably.

I’m not totally there yet, I won’t be for about 10 more years, give or take, but I’m beginning to get it.

And I’m sorry.

And I’m scared.

What I resented, I now see I should have respected.

But I’m hard headed, you know that more than anyone.

And I’m sorry.

What I saw from my perspective as taking what was rightfully mine, my freedom, I now see was a white hot poker to your heart.

I now see what I saw as overbearing, as you caring.

I now see what I saw as restrictive, as you caring.

I now see what I saw as boring, as you caring.

You cared who I was friends with, where I was, what words were coming out of my mouth. You wanted to keep me close for as long as you possibly could, and you wanted so much more for me than you had growing up. I see that now.

But I know that I did everything in my power to rebel and I can understand, now, what that must have done to you.

And I’m terrified.

I think of all the mistakes I made, because in my immature little mind, I knew what was best, and I wasn’t about to grow up into all the things I shamefully thought you were.

But now I see.

I see that you were doing your best. I see that you were working your ass off to try to give us the best life you possibly could with what you had. I see the frustration of coming home and wanting to relax, only to find a mess. I see the difficulty in wanting your daughter to have a better childhood than yours, only to be told what a terrible mother I thought you were.

I see that, and I’m sorry.

Where I wanted a friend, you were a protector.

Where I wanted my way, you gave me what was best.

Where I ran, you stood steady, always waiting for me to return.

I see that now, and I want to thank you.

Without you, Mom, I can’t imagine what my life would be like, and I don’t want to.

Without you, I can’t imagine what kind of mother I would be, and I don’t want to.

I see what you’ve done for me, and you deserve some recognition. I know I’ve been awful to you, too many times to count, and I just want you to know, it’s not your fault.

Sure, I maybe got my stubborn attitude from you, but those were all my decisions.

I honestly don’t remember in detail all those all-out battles we’ve had over the years. I know they were painful. I know there will probably be more (we’ve gotta keep things interesting, right?), but those aren’t details I remember.

Details I remember are more like being held when I was sick, and the smell of your hairspray and perfume when I laid my head on your chest.

Late nights watching sci-fi and eating Star-crunch cakes.

How you smiled when you’d hug papaw.

How you take care of EVERYONE when they get sick.

How, no matter how many possessions you have, will have boxes upon boxes of pictures.

Those details matter.

And if I can leave that kind of impression on my girls, no matter how badly they break my heart as they grow up, if I can leave them with little memories like that, well, I think I’m doing okay.

Love you, Mom.

A Love Letter

It’s been a little while, husband, since I’ve been able to sink into your arms, at least without worry of hearing a needy little cry from down the hall.

It’s been a little while, and I feel more guilty each day, that with each new word or phrase the toddler learns, I worry we’re slipping away.

We’ve grown to be great friends with exhaustion, and  learning to live with longing for the bed, just not for extra curriculum, only sleep enters our heads.

It’s been a little while, husband, and I want you to know, I’m sorry for being so distant, I promise I’m not growing cold.

Each day comes with new challenges, new patience is demanded of me, and by the time you walk in the door, a break is the only thing I can see.

I want you to know that there are times that it is you I see. You’re more than a father and provider, you’re my husband standing there.

Music in the cool night air,  you’re the full moon shining in a dark window, a blue white wash illuminating everything it touches. You’re the peace in a trickling stream, and the sweet smell of summer grass covered in dew just before dawn. You’re the rush of the wind, and the cool touch of a hot day’s rain. You’re the vastness of the sky that makes me feel so small, the crash of the waves, and the salty sea taste. You’re everything I love all wrapped into one, husband, and so much more than that. Oh, so much more.

You ground me when I cannot stand, and you envelope me in your calm, steadfastness. You make me strong when I am weak. You move me. All this, husband, and then there is more, for you are a father, and a husband, and a provider. You are leading us, and helping us. You are trusting God, and gaining strength. And I just want you  to know, husband, that I pray for you every day, that you will continue to do so, and that you and I will grow together, and raise our family right, and I love you.

I love you.

Dear Diary,

It started with a panic attack.

A long, albeit gorgeous day at the park playing, after a restless night, was followed by a shopping trip. I knew I should have waited to shop. Shopping always triggers my anxiety at least a little.

Standing in the aisle of condiments, comparing prices, it suddenly took over. Little yellow tags everywhere, the buzz of cart wheels, chatter, and bright florescent lights suddenly became more abundant, louder, and brighter. My chest was tightening, and my face grew hot while my hands grew sweaty, and I felt like I was in the spotlight. I just knew everyone was staring at me, like my hair was on fire, and the pounding in my ears grew unbearable. I walked slowly and things became a blur. I grabbed a few more things and proceeded to the long line behind the only self-checkout that was accepting cash.

Halfway through I realized I grabbed too much, and had to call the clerk over to cancel some items from the order. My hands trembled as I put the bags in the cart, leaving behind a small pile of discarded groceries I couldn’t pay for. The thoughts in my head grew louder, and my limbs switched to auto pilot.

“How will we make it the next two weeks? This isn’t enough food. You’re so stupid. You should never have become a mother. You don’t deserve them.” And so on…

Ten minutes later I made it home, and broke down. I feebly tried to explain my mindset to Matt. I’m still not able to explain it well. Panic attacks do that to you. Stress triggers your fight or flight reaction, adrenaline pumps, and whether you try to fight or fly, it leaves you feeling drained in every sense.

Today, I am depressed. It seems to be the natural progression of my cycles. I go from panic mode to anxious and depressed mode. I am trying to learn how I work, and what triggers it. Sometimes I think it can be triggered by exhaustion, but most of the time, I feel like I have these episodes fall from the clear blue sky.

I get tired of the way my brain is wired at times. I worry I will never feel “normal”. I am terrified I will lose my husband, and my daughters will grow up to resent me for the way I am. But I am fighting, and I am learning, and working to educate myself in order to educate others. And that counts for something. It must.

Mother’s Sleep

An oxymoron perhaps.
I pat the little one’s back, as she lays at my breast, fighting the urge to drift into dreams.
Resting my head on my pillow, I’m finally giving in to the need to unwind. It doesn’t last long, I forgot to do this or that, but some stress can wait until tomorrow.
Insomnia sets in, and it’s a lonely stretch of time, despite the need for a break, I wish my hubby were more of a cuddler sometimes.
My eyes begin to burn, so I set aside this infernal device. Funny how technology has become an extension of ourselves.
I close my eyes.
Tonight I am anxious.
Every time I hear a sleepy stir, I open my eyes. I feel every twitch and jerk that my husband or daughters give. I hear every slumbering sigh, every breathy pause.
I dream of worries I experience each day, always with a bizarre twist, always waking to watch the rise and fall of a little chest, and my eyes slide shut once more.
Sometime later, drowsy, I offer a breast to the fidgeting, grunting little creature lying next to me.
The room becomes pale with gray morning light, and soon I hear my husband leave for work. I move to his side of the bed, and snuggle into his scent.
“Wanna get up, Mommy.” says a sweet almost-two-year-old voice from the other side of the room.
Mother’s sleep. Definitely an oxymoron.

Time Changes Everything

“Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten?”

The teachers used to pose this question a lot in high school.

My outlook was never really bright. I saw myself alone and depressed, just like I felt most of high school. Sure, I had friends, but I couldn’t see them sticking around (and for the most part they didn’t).

I hoped to at least be in college, working and growing towards something. I just didn’t really know what.

Never in a million million years would I have imagined this.

I never imagined I would marry such a wonderful man. I never imagined having children. When I was sixteen, twenty-five seemed so far away. Sometimes I didn’t want to make it that far. Sometimes I wanted to take the easy way out.

I was a dumb teenager. A really dumb teenager. I dated a boy that took advantage of that. Took advantage of my poor poor self esteem. I didn’t want to be alone, I was terrified of it, so I let him abuse and manipulate me.

There is a reason my friends didn’t stick around, and he was it. I wasn’t allowed friends.

I made a lot of mistakes, and time passed so very slowly, and lonely in those days.

And I never looked forward to the future.

When I was seventeen, I did meet a genuinely nice guy, who I know to this day honestly cared, but I was rushing.

We entered an unhealthy relationship.

We had a lot of fun, and maybe could have eventually thrived, but tragedy struck my family, and I went on a downward spiral.

I am too ashamed to think about some of the things I did in that time.

When I was nineteen, I was enticed by another abuser, and that went on for three more years. I became isolated. Abusers like to make sure of that, and I lost almost everyone, again.

I had given up on being happy, but as long as I didn’t have to be alone, it was okay.

One day I snapped out of it.

I don’t know what made me do it. Like having an out of body experience, I saw all the unfair treatment, the isolation, and the verbal abuse I was being subjected to.

I left, and it was the best decision I had ever made, because now I have this.

I have a family. I have someone I know I can spill my guts to without judgement. I have someone I know will choose to love me every single day, no matter how unlovable I’m being. I have someone who I know will always treat me tenderly.

Time was not kind to me in early adulthood. I did so many stupid things. I have spent nights crying over wrongs I can never make right (and still do sometimes), but life has brought me here.

I have so much to be thankful for.

I can’t say I can look back at my teenage years all too fondly, but it made me appreciate so much more.

If I could go back, I can’t say that I would try to change things, because I might miss out on so much now.

Like counting little fingers and toes.

And reading bedtime stories.

And learning what unconditional love is.

If I could meet my sixteen year old self, I may not try to steer her clear of all the pain that awaits, but I would hug her, and tell her to just be patient, because the future is better than she could have ever imagined.

Time. It moves slowly at some points in our life. Often the worst times in our lives, but if we can just keep pushing forward, we may see the future holds such a better outcome than we could have ever imagined.

Some of the old wounds are still there, and some of the old scars are so ugly, but I wear them proudly, because they brought me to the most wonderful time of my life.

It Doesn’t Always Go As Planned… And That’s Okay.

It actually rarely goes as planned.

In fact, it is my belief that as a mother of a toddler, making plans should be filed under the definition of madness, along with cleaning while a toddler is in the house, and thinking those cute Pinterest crafts will turn out looking anything like they’re meant to.

But, hey, don’t we get credit for trying those insane things?

This week I had planned to do my weekly photo challenge, titled “Eat”, and I had all these cute ideas about these delicious and pretty little snacks I would make and photograph. I looked forward to it, actually, because I have been far too long out of practice with Still Life.

Except, my life is never still.

(I at least attempted!)

Here’s the thing.

Yes, there’s always a thing.

I don’t have the time or energy on hand to make Pinterest worthy recipes, in order to photograph them.

I don’t have the time or energy on hand to do much of anything Pinterest worthy, and I’m convinced that unless you have a human sized army of ants at your every beck and call (or the ability to hire a caterer for every event your pretty little heart desires), you really don’t either.

Before the days of having a 19 month old hellcat running around, babysitting a special needs 4 year old, and being pregnant and feeling like I imagine a hippo feels, I had a lot of fun setting up props and taking elaborate shots, working on my skills, and experimenting. Now, I’m adapting, and learning that although I might have the time and energy in the future (and older models who aren’t always on the move and into something), I will need to stick to lifestyle photos when it comes to my own home.

You can’t deny, they’re adorable, though!

Getting them to sit still for two seconds is the trick!

The good thing about life is that it’s ever changing. It may be frustrating at times, to not be able to get that perfect shot, or to have the time to make a pretty little set up just to photograph a piece of fruit.

I may never be an amazing photographer, simply because my world doesn’t revolve around it.

And that’s okay!

My life is about more important things.

My world revolves around a precious, hell-raising toddler.

My world revolves around an amazing husband, one I never in a million years could have imagined walking into my life.

My world revolves around the life growing inside my tummy, ready to make her debut in a short time.

Photography simply enhances the passion for the life I have that revolves around my family.

I hope to always improve, but to never let it consume my life. I have more important things consuming me.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cold

I hate Winter here.

It’s not magical. There’s hardly ever any snow. What there is is a lot of cold, dark, dreary days that blend into one another. When it does snow, we usually get less than an inch, and by the time noon comes around, there’s nothing but nasty looking slush and mud. ICK.

The cold air gets under my skin, and the cloudy dark days make everything seem dull. Nope. No winter wonderland here.

I often daydream of finding an RV, packing up my family, and becoming nomads, until we find a comfortable climate.

But sometimes the cold doesn’t just get to you physically.

The cold is invasive. It gets in and hardens all it touches. The snow’s touch is soft, but cruel.

It can happen quickly. A few big things, a lot of small things. It reaches into your core, like a million tiny fingers, softly, coating and covering, and freezing.

First it stings and tingles. Then numbness sets in. There’s a crackling sound, as all the warmth is transformed into a frost bitten, unfeeling mound of ice.

It might not seem so bad at first, until you realize it’s killing you.

It hurts at first, the stinging, but it doesn’t last. What lasts is the numbness.

Our dog was hit by a car the other night. She was a puppy. Bolted out the door as I was carrying in groceries, like she had done many times before.

I felt like I was plunged into a frozen lake, as I ran out to her screaming in pain. In her terror, she bit me.

Nothing seemed real, except the tears stinging my eyes, and the throbbing in my hand as I scooped her up in my sweater.

Her hind legs were completely stripped of skin. She trembled and shook in my arms. The couple got out of their car apologizing over and over again. I absently told them again and again it was okay.

We needed to get her to a vet.

But there was no help for her. Her back was likely broken.

I cried. So much I cried. I felt the cold fissures of pain reaching for my heart as she looked up at me, and I made the terrible decision. I knew she was hurting so badly.

She was only a puppy. A sweet, loving puppy.

I felt battered. Exhausted. Climbing up a blustery peak.

I began to have contractions. Tragedy is hard. Tragedy while pregnant is harder.

Then suddenly I didn’t feel anything. I was inside a cold, hard shell.  My mind had built a wall of numbness. In a way it was relieving. Cold only keeps the ice from melting.

And it is deadly.

Thankfully, there are little rays of sunshine to melt through.

Rest In Peace, Tickle. I hope you are loving it in doggy heaven.

Please note all images © Kristin Warner Photography are and are protected under the United States and International Copyright laws. The images may not be reproduced, copied, transmitted or manipulated without the written permission of Kristin Warner. Use of any image as the basis for another photographic concept or illustration (digital, artist rendering or alike) is a violation of the United States and International Copyright laws. All images are copyrighted © 2009- 2015 Kristin Warner Photography

New Year’s Resolutions Are A Load of Crap.

Honestly. Who can honestly say that at any time in their life, they have said (in what was probably a very buzzed state- from alcohol or otherwise), “Tomorrow is a New Year! I’m going to make some big changes!” And stuck with it?

 

New Year’s resolutions are a big steaming pile of crap. We say we’re going to start a diet, going to work out, going to reinvent ourselves, but once we sleep in after staying up too late, and partying the night before, it’s all over with.

Motivation out the window, and carried away by the wind.

It’s just another flip of the calendar page, another day, a time frame invented by some old men a long time ago.

If we want to stick to resolutions, we have to make them every day.

“I will resolve to clean the house today, I will resolve to clean the house today”, until it becomes a habit.

I started a photo challenge at that flip of the calendar.

I’m too massively pregnant to be taking clients right now, but I don’t want to fall out of practice, and although I love snapping photos of my 18 month old Sweet Pea (aha! the name of the blog is revealed!), she isn’t always willing to cooperate. So I found this:

My first week’s challenge was “Resolution”.

Oh boy. This one was a big challenge. Resolutions are a load of crap, anyway, right?

Time to rethink some things!

A pearl is created by an oyster’s resolution to expel a foreign body- parasite or irritant. As long as the foreign body remains, the oyster coats and coats it in a substance called “nacre”. The end result is a naturally beautiful gem. (source)

So how can that apply to my life, or your life? There are many “irritants” in my life, things that I do every day that need to be changed. If I can be like an oyster, I can only imagine the beautiful outcome my life will have. If I take those bad habits and poor choices and coat them with better choices, and better habits every single day, my life may be likened unto that of a pearl.

This isn’t about making a statement on how I’m going to be a new person suddenly. An oyster stays an oyster, but after a time, the oyster has the ability to produce something rare and beautiful by sticking with the resolution of dispelling the unpleasant body from inside.

Just like the oyster, I have to start from the inside.

And no matter how many times I fail, I have to continue to work at it.

A pearl isn’t produced overnight.