At first, this blog was a secret. I only told a few people about it and, for a while, I wanted to keep it that way. It was scary enough to write honestly without worrying about who was reading it and what they would think the next time they saw me. But releasing the Crazy became a habit. I became frustrated with the effort it took to keep my stories straight. I was so full of the truth about me that I didn’t have any energy left to keep hiding. So I went public. I told my recovery group and a few friends. I told Jen she could link to me. I linked this page from my flickr site. I told my mom and then my mother-in-law.

I panicked.

I calmed down.

I rested in the very grown up idea that people’s reactions to what I wrote were their issue and that I wasn’t responsible for the way my story was interpreted as long as I told the truth. I understood that my job was to write honestly and candidly and let the chips fall where they will.

But what happens when my choice of words is unclear and sends waves of worry and concern throughout a community of people that love me? What happens when, in my attempt to connect to the shared human experience that makes the growing online community so amazing, I end up misrepresenting myself - again?

What does a writer do when she wants to be everything to everyone?

I try to avoid talking too much about church and my relationship with Christ on this blog for the very legitimate reason of not wanting to push my beliefs on people that might have different perspectives. I believe that as human beings, we have shared experiences that transcend religion and that any variety of people from different faiths can engage in conversation about the way our lives work, but this only works well when people don’t try to force their beliefs on others. I try, in life as well as on this blog, to let people know that I am a Christian and have a relationship with them that is open and genuine, trusting that if God wants me to act in some specific way towards them, He will let me know. And so I progress through life, figuring that as long as I am loving people and acting with compassion, God will work out the details. It works for me, allows me to sleep at night.

What I neglect to mention, sometimes, as a people-pleaser, is that I am a Christian. And as much as I may engage in the battle to break apart the American conception of Christianity, when I call myself a Christian, people use that as a reference point for their opinion of Christ and His followers. I forget that, in my quest to avoid being the person that passes out Bible tracts to the kids that come trick-or-treating; my life is still a reflection. I forget that this platform is public in a way that I can never fully grasp and that the people who read this might not get the whole picture.

I forget that it is easier to explain something in person than it is in print.

My recent posts about drunken blogging have caused some concern. The individual in me wants to dismiss those concerns by busting out my copy of the Bill of Rights and yelling something about individualism and the freedom of speech. I do believe in freedom of speech, but just because you are free to do something doesn’t mean you should. The fact is that words carelessly written or not well explained can cast an incomplete picture and leave people wondering what to think. They can reflect poorly on the beliefs and values that you claim to espouse. They can hurt your cause.

Let me explain further, I believe that the legalistic, Footloose-style Christianity of the Religious Right is wrong. I’m much more likely to quote Anne Lamott than James Dobson (in fact, I might start yelling if James Dobson comes up). I believe that Christ calls us to love and joy and freedom and love again. Because of this, I don’t have any problem with Sublime or Eminem coming up on my ipod. I won’t yell at you or walk away if you tell me that your beliefs or customs or ideas are different than mine, in fact, we’ll still be friends after the conversation. I’ll go to the club and dance. I’ll sit outside a coffee shop and talk gay rights or abortion while smoking a cigarette. And, yes, I will have a few drinks. And I believe that I can do all of these things and still honor Christ.

My error, in this case, was, I believe, in presentation. I didn’t focus on the redemptive and creative value of friendship and fellowship. I didn’t write about how having real, grown-up, friends has made me a better person. I should have written something different, something along the lines of: “Jen and I got together for some post-children’s-bedtime relaxing. We are talking, watching music videos and having a few cocktails. We are working on a hairbrush mix-tape….” Or I should have given you the back story of Meredith Vieira and the Today Show and explained the humor of two mom’s getting together for cocktails. I assumed that my readers would know my intent, a classic writer’s mistake. Instead, I glorified the idea of getting drunk with friends as the only way to have a good time. I wrote a quick post with the intention of soliciting suggestions for my hairbrush CD (thanks to those who have come so far, get yours in now if you haven’t already) and I assumed that my readers would shrug, laugh and dismiss the post. When I wrote it I wasn’t thinking about what it might do to people’s picture of Christians or of Christ. And for that I want to apologize. Because all though this is probably the preachy-est I will ever get, I want my life to reflect what I believe.

Those of us who are trying to follow Christ without locking ourselves away from the real world walk a fine line. Either we err by becoming legalistic - condemning, judging and censoring when we should be loving and helping. Or, we stray toward secularism, forgetting that, as believers, our lives should look different. It’s a constant tension and I don’t think anyone ever gets it right. But we keep trying.

So how does one reconcile the idea of having a public journal, detailing the good, bad and ugly parts of their life with the desire to not offend anyone? How do I continue to share my life with people that I would have otherwise never met, and in the process make the world just a little bit smaller, without diluting what I believe? How do I balance the knowledge that I have readers who are believers and those who aren’t? I have dear, dear friends on both sides of that line and I don’t want to ostracize anyone, yet in the process I end up offending Christ and diminishing the importance of my own beliefs. Why are my priorities backwards? Why am I not able to rest in the very grown up idea that people’s reactions to what I write are their issue, that I am not responsible for the way my story is interpreted as long as I tell the truth? When will I understood that my job is to write honestly and candidly and let the chips fall where they will?

This deep seeded desire for approval is the starting point for most of my lies. I spin this story so I appear to be a better mother. I rearrange these words to seem a better person, a cooler person. I omit a few key facts to complete the pretty picture of a nice girl who doesn’t have a whole bucket of Crazy floating around in her head. It doesn’t work. But I keep trying. I need to tell the story of my life. I need to recognize and validate my journey. I need to write and I need to know that people are reading what I write. For many of my readers this is the only way I communicate with them. The relationships that are built through blogging are important to me and I want to keep them intact. But if the point of this blog is working through my issues, I need to be true to myself and what I believe.

What I fail to realize is that, by its very nature, truth-telling is divisive. In trying to please everyone I will, as we know, please no one. So I am going to keep learning to tell the truth. I am going to keep writing, but I am also going to take a few more minutes to think before I hit that notorious publish button. One of my best friends always signs her notes “To thine own self be true”. And I am going to take her advice. I am going to continue walking the steps of my journey, as a human being, a daughter, a woman, a wife, a mother, a Christian, and I hope to find connections with people on at least one of those levels and I will trust that we can work on the relationship from there.

I have agonized over this essay. I have re-written and re-worded almost everything in here and if you struggle with something I have said I ask you to come and talk to me about it. This is me. This is my story. Thank you for coming along.

It was such a great plan. Sleep off the alcohol at Jen’s, set an alarm in time to get home before Justin went to work, hopefully catch a few extra winks before Andrew woke up - ah, but there’s the rub.

Andrew woke up at 4:30. Sitting straight up in his bed yelling, “Get. That. Binky.” Justin obliged (because Andrew doesn’t realize he can get out of his bed, and we don’t want him to explore the possibilities inherent in such a plan) and my plans were foiled.

It’s a good thing we have friends coming over today.

Here’s to the best girl night EVER! Cheers.

I’m snuggling with Jen on her couch, watching music videos on our ‘let our hair down’ night, drinking many cocktails after the children are asleep. And yes, we are drunk. I am spending the night and setting the alarm in time to get home before Justin goes to work.

We are trying to compile a hairbrush mix tape. You know the hairbrush songs, the ones you sing in your car when you think no one is watching. We are serious mix-tapers, and we are terrified of missing a song. If you were to make a hairbrush mix, what would you include? If your song makes it on my mix, I will send you a free CD. How’s that for a drunken promise?

Don’t worry, we’re drinking lots of water. I’m only on my fifth cocktail. We’ll be fine in the morning.

Ok, ok, I know puns are the lowest form of humor, but look at the results of the 20 minute hailstorm that just unloaded over my house:

Impressive, no? But now it is sunny again and all the hail is gone. Spring is coming. I can feel it.

Andrew was a complete shit today. I almost had to send him back.

But now I am stretched out, watching Sportscenter, and there is Peter Gammons reporting live from Spring Training.

I can breathe.

There is always something to look forward to.

When Andrew was at the doctor’s last week, his pediatrician mentioned that most pack and play’s have a weight limit and that Andrew might exceed that limit. I didn’t really think anything of it, he loves his pack and play and sleeps like the proverbial baby in it. But then, a few days later I heard an interesting banging noise from his room as he was getting ready for his nap. I ignored it, but then, when he woke up from his nap and I went in to get him, he said, “move.” And I said, “what moves?” He replied, “pack and play,” and threw his weight against the side, at which point the entire playpen leaned over at an approximate 30 degree angle.

I began to realize that maybe there was some reason to look at the weight limit.

As expected, he grew out of his pack and play approximately four pounds ago. So we floated the idea of the toddler bed, and boy did it float.

“Big boy bed! Like Isaac!”

Andrew spent the night at Grandma’s on Friday night and we reorganized his room. I was prepared to get the pack and play back out when he freaked out about the changes that were made in his absence. But, I didn’t have to.

The little buggy is growing up.

I haven’t written a lot about the boys before Justin. There were a few and some of them were good and some were bad. Surprisingly, at least to me, it is not the bad ones that pop up in my head. They are done, it was stupid. The good ones though, they stay around. Ryan, Scott and Jason were nice boys and we had relationships that were first based on friendship, just like my relationship with Justin. There was something that seemed wrong and disrespectful about bringing them out in to the open. But (insert redundant sigh here) like everything else, I am learning that these things need to be brought out and dealt with, no matter how painful. I love my husband and I do still care about these other boys, it is the caring of old friends, because the friendship is what stays with you, long after any romantic notions are gone.

I make a lot of mix-tapes. A few years ago I started making one every Christmas that served as a recap of the year that was ending. I can not think of a better way to express my thoughts than through music. For 2005, my theme song was One Prairie Outpost by Carbon Leaf. The line “The irony, ask me, ‘where have you been?’ / I don’t know, I don’t know / Because I don’t know where to begin” brings a lump to my throat every time I hear it. I feel this way so often. I have done so much and come so far and I don’t know where to begin explaining it, even to myself. That is why it takes me so long to write about some of these things.

The 2006 mix was called The Voices I Hear. Conceptually, it started out as a compilation of songs that told the truth and songs that told lies. But as I listen to it more, I realize that most, if not all, of the songs do tell the truth, and they serve to correct the lies that I tell myself. If I had to pick a theme, it would be the three songs that, throughout the whole organizational process, always stayed together. Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits, Told You So by Barenaked Ladies, and Everyone’s Beautiful by Waterdeep. So much of my mental energy this year was focused on the past, on regrets and alternate endings, on people I miss and those I don’t, on growing up and moving on. One of the greatest struggles in my marriage is the baggage of past relationships that I carry around. I gave parts of my heart to these three nice boys and now I struggle to reclaim these parts and give them, used as they are, to Justin, their rightful holder.

For years, I was told that the only appropriate thing to do with these parts of my heart is regret them and beat myself up every time they made their presence known. Holding them, examining them and then putting them down was out of the question, they were dirty and ugly and wrong. I lumped these parts of my heart together with the parts of my body that I gave to other boys, I counted them all as mistakes and failures. I know that some of the things I did in my youth were horrible mistakes, I do regret them and I would take them back if I could. But I don’t feel that way about these three boys. For a long time I thought that the affection I carried for these boys was another failure to add to the pile. But I don’t think that is true. Yes, I will advise my children to guard their hearts and their bodies, but I will also strive to teach them that we, as people, fall in love, and when you fall in love with a nice person you don’t need to regret the joy that it brings. It is possible, I believe, to love responsibly and carefully and come out of the relationship better than when you entered. It is possible to look back gracefully at a relationship that ended and simultaneously see the good and the bad of it, understanding why it would never work and cherishing the memories of the good times you had. I never understood how people stayed friends with their ex’s until I understood this capacity for grace.

I had a hard time deciding whether to use the Indigo Girls version of Romeo or the Dire Straits version. I ended up choosing the Dire Straits version because there was more of a quiet sadness to it, an acceptance, not as much rage and pain. I don’t feel rage or pain when I look back on these boys. Romeo and Juliet reminds me that my timing is not perfect and that the things I think are right aren’t always so. It allows me to think about these relationships with fond memories, and realize that the time was wrong. It reminds me that everything happens for a reason and that, while I can grieve the loss of these important relationships, I can also be thankful for a God or Fate or whatever you want to call it that sees the bigger picture of my life and brings the right people together at the right time. It reminds me to ease up on myself and find a safe place for the memories.

Told You So, in my mind, has always been my fall back song when things don’t work. It’s a little sassy and perhaps a bit cruel, but it is also true. Sometimes we don’t realize how wrong things are until we distance ourselves from the situation. It reminds me to trust my intuition more and to stop second guessing every decision that I make. It also reminds me that things happen for a reason and that the things that I saw as warning signs in other relationships, were just that. I often wonder how any of these other boys would have reacted if I had opened up my can of Crazy on them. I don’t know, but I know there is a reason that Justin was there when it happened.

Everyone’s Beautiful is pretty straight forward. It reminds me to forgive the people that hurt me, remembering that they too were figuring things out and to offer them the same amount of grace that I would wish to receive. It reminds me that we are all equally lost, fumbling around, looking for something to hold on to. It erases bitterness.

Forgiveness is tricky. It is something that, the more I learn about it, the more I realize how little I understand it. My eloquent friend Beth compared it to gardening, she said that you have the initial act of forgiveness (the planting) and then you have to constantly go back and trim and weed and care for it. This was revolutionary to me, the idea that I am not expected to snap my fingers and have the forgiveness be over and done with. It is freeing to understand that forgiveness comes not of my ability to completely forget what has happened, but to extend grace to the situation whenever my mind turns in that direction. Before I understood this, I thought that I was incapable of really forgiving anyone, including myself. But I know how to garden, and I can deal with the idea that, after making the initial offering of forgiveness, I will need to come around and clean things up every now and then.

It is this understanding of forgiveness and grace and memory that will allow me, one day, to present my whole heart to Justin.

Andrew has had a cough for a few weeks now and I just thought that it would go away. After spending the day with him on Saturday, Justin finally convinced me that I needed to take Andrew to the doctor and get it checked out.

Turns out he has pneumonia. Again. Here is a picture of Andrew last winter with pneumonia. Here is a picture of Andrew this winter with pneumonia.

He calls his nebulizer the Elephant Machine (because the mask turns him in to an elephant), which is pretty darn cute, but does not make up for the fact that this is two rounds of pneumonia in two years.

I turned on the TV randomly the other night and found the end of Duke v North Carolina. This might mean nothing to you but it made my night.

I love college basketball. I like the NBA, I mean it’s fine. But I LOVE college hoops. Justin, however, does not love college hoops so I don’t get to watch as much as I would want to. I used to make a point to catch this game, but in the last few years I have let it slide. I should not do that.

I have been a Duke fan since ‘91, the time of Laettner, Hurley and Hill. I admit that rooting for Duke is kind of like being a Yankees fan (something I would normally eschew) but, old habits die hard. I might not be a Duke fan once Coach K leaves, but if Wojo takes his place, my allegiance will not even waiver.

Duke didn’t win the game, but it was okay. There is something about Duke, the Crazies, the quality of basketball that you can see every single time. I love it. Thank you, gods of tv viewing, for leading me to ESPN in time to catch the ending.

…One giant leap for my schedule.

In my continuing search for balance, I am constantly tweaking my weekly schedule. I fluctuate between ridiculously long and detailed task lists that never get fully accomplished and that usually end in a large bag of chocolate covered peanuts. Since this is not the desired result of my lists, I then switch to my no-plans-go-with-the-flow sort of non-schedule. This usually ends with me in my pajamas staring at a pile of laundry that is large enough to smother my son who has not bathed in over ten days and a large bag of chocolate covered peanuts. Since this is not the desired result of my freedom, I switch back to lists and the cycle spins again.

Over the weekend, Justin and I worked together to organize the space under our stairs, a project that had been on my lists since the day we moved in. As I was organizing the shelves, and resisting the urge to bust out the label maker, I thought about the way that I wanted my weeks to look. Right now I have a pretty good balance going, on Mondays my in-laws come over in the morning and watch Andrew while I go work out. Tuesdays are free for errands/chores/etc. On Wednesdays, I go to my sister-in-law’s house and we each go for a short run while the other person watches the kids. Thursdays are my busy days, Andrew and I go to Cherie’s house in the morning and we try to do an exercise/childcare swap and then we head off to our recovery group. Fridays, I either go to a neighborhood mom’s group or we do something as a family if it is Justin’s day off. To me (factoring in the seemingly endless list of trains to be driven, stories to be read, noses to wipe, diapers to change, and all) this looks pretty busy. But, even here, I find myself apologizing for it, trying to justify it and rewriting the sentences again to make my day somehow seem worthwhile.

I hate the mindset that tells me that my worth can only be found in a perfect child, a paycheck, or a quarterly review. I would take to the streets armed to defend the position that says a housewife is worthwhile, that running a household is a full time job. But, like so many things, I seem to believe this to be true for others and not for myself. For right now I am enjoying being busy, and that is good, but I need to find my worth outside of the schedule.

I am overwhelmed by the things I need to do.

Friday was one of those days that suffers from multiple personality disorder. A full-fledged public temper fit, complete with kicking and screaming as he was carried out of the store, had me frustrated and exhausted by lunchtime. I laid in bed for a while during Andrew’s nap, regrouping my sanity and wondering how the hell I was going to be in the right mood to enjoy my Christmas present, tickets to the Carbon Leaf show at the Moore last night. The situation did not look good.

I pulled myself together and, wouldn’t you know, had one of the best nights out that I can remember.

The opening act, Toby Lightman, reminded me why I like getting to concerts early. I like to think that the bands I choose to see in concert have adequate musical taste and can be trusted to choose a good opening act, after all, the first time we saw Carbon Leaf they were opening for Great Big Sea. We have also seen OAR, G. Love, Donovan Frankenreiter, and Aaron Sprinkle, just because we arrived by the time that was printed on the ticket. As good as Toby Lightman was, Carbon Leaf carried the show.

When I bought their new album on itunes, I was surprised to see that they reviewer compared them to Matchbox 20. Not pleasantly surprised. I thought, have I missed something? Am I blinded by my love of the pipe whistle and the accordion? Did they sell out? No, this is their seventh album and they had a great indie following, they couldn’t have sold out. Seeing them in concert again, I realize that itunes didn’t do their homework and is blinded by the mild Rob Thomas resemblance in the “Learn To Fly” video (c’mon Barry, you’re better than that) and nothing more. I’m sure that Matchbox 20 has some very admirable qualities (maybe) but they are no Carbon Leaf. Carbon Leaf is just one of those bands, like 5 O’Clock People, that you have to see live. You can buy the cd’s and really like the music, but you don’t love them until you have seen them in concert. You don’t love them until you look around at a bunch of cynical, Mountain listening, Seattle-ites and notice that everyone is singing along and dancing to the accordion and pipe whistle solos. You don’t fully respect them until they turn off all the microphones and perform a song with no amplification. I know the Moore is small, and old, and designed to carry sound, and that most professional singers can project their voices and hold a tune, but the fact is that most professional singers don’t have the balls to prove it. They rely on the mike to carry their sound and the tech at the sound board to add interest to their performance and the fans eat it up.

So take that, crappy morning! Even the worst day can turn around. You can see the rest of my pictures here.