The Crushing Anxiety of Belonging

I can distinctly remember the first time I had that horrible feeling of being left out.

I wasn’t invited to a popular girl's birthday party in junior high and everyone else was. I remember wondering what I needed to change about myself to get invited? What was wrong with me that nobody wanted me around? Everyone was always telling me how funny I was, how crazy, maybe that wasn’t a good thing? Maybe it was annoying? Oh God am I annoying?

My best friend wasn’t invited either but that wasn’t a salve in any way for my grated, raw feelings. I assumed I was dragging her down with me. Sure we hunkered down together that weekend and prank called boys, ate a disgusting amount of bagel bites and had a great time with just us, as we always did, but bonds were forged at that birthday party and she and I never recovered for the rest of junior high. That birthday party may as well have been initiation night for the junior high version of a sorority. They all stuck together after that and they were mean.

My mother told me not to worry about it. Someday, she said, these things wouldn’t matter. Someday the mean girls will be gone. ‘Who wants to go to her party anyway?’ she asked incredulously. Because of course my Mom was trying to spare my feelings by turning that party into something lame I wouldn’t want to go to anyway. She wanted me to look forward to the glorious years of adulthood where everyone belonged to everything.

Or so I thought.

That sense of belonging I promised myself was coming in adulthood? I finally have realized that’s all in my head. It’s in all of our heads. We choose whether and where we belong. Mean girls never really go away because in many cases they were never there to begin with. In fact most of the time they don’t even know that’s what they are.  

Everyone wants a spot to fit in to, somewhere they feel like they belong, but some people are so anxiety ridden over rejection that they tell themselves they belong nowhere. I’m wierd, I’m ugly, I have no fashion sense, my hair isn’t fluffy, I talk too much, I talk too loud, I talk too soft, I’m too vulgar, I talk about myself too much...EVERYONE thinks self deprecating thoughts about themselves, some more than others. And we all know once you let loose those thoughts, they multiply and blanket the brain suffocating any confident thoughts we may have until we either take control back of our brains and shake them out like sand from a beach towel or we become lonely and socially crippled.

I’m reminded of this whenever I go to my kids elementary school functions and all the PTA moms are grouped together, the soccer moms are together, the neighborhood Moms etc, I’m the outsider. I’m the out of district Mom. Most of the time I feel like they are all looking at me thinking who is this chick? Why is she even here? She doesn’t even live here. And I have to remind myself that if I choose to, I belong.

That’s anxiety. I never really thought I had it but there it is always lurking under the surface. It’s like a fungus that wants to grow and take over your whole brain with self doubt. I’m pretty sure everybody has it to a certain extent. I move easy in crowds, I don’t usually have a problem talking to people, I have many friends and yet I have anxiety over belonging. Now why is that?

That missing birthday invitation affected me. Up to that point I had easily moved in every group and rarely gave a thought to whether my presence was wanted in any given situation but suddenly I felt judged and the ‘what for’ was left to be unraveled by me for the foreseeabe future.

We all want to belong whether it’s to a particular group of friends, to another human in marriage, to a church, to a Mom group, to something. Sometimes we long for a feeling of belonging in our own family and can feel mortally wounded when we don’t find it. Humans were not meant to be alone. God knew that as soon as he made Adam didn’t he? There is a reason isolation is used as a form of torture, why it’s the harshest punishment even in prison. Our souls become sick when left alone. For the anxiety ridden person, the worst loneliness sometimes comes when they are standing in the largest crowd.

Eventually I became friends with that girl whose birthday I missed out on, that girl who unknowingly defined a two-year chunk of my childhood and countless hours of pondering my self worth in years further than that.  I ran into her a few years ago at Target and we reminisced about high school parties and how people were doing. She asked about my best friend, the one who she also didn’t invite to her party, and said something that I reflect on every time I start to feel that anxiety that nobody likes me, nobody wants me around.

“You know I was always jealous of how close you two were. You were such good friends, I never had that when I was that age, you were always together. I wish I had tried to be closer to you but you seemed happy to just be with each other and I didn’t know how to get in.”

How wrong I had been. I was so sure that she didn’t want me around that I never considered she might feel the same way. That they might be looking at us as the exclusive girls and not the other way around.  

So my Mom was right in a way when she said someday it wouldn’t matter. It’s not because we grow up and all of the sudden we are included in all groups and all things, holding hands and basking in the glow of community and belonging. It’s because it takes a lifetime to realize that mere inclusion does not erase anxiety.  

The truth is our soul can’t really be completed by the acceptance or validation of others if we suffer from insecurity. True soul soothing, cool breeze, happiness inducing feelings start in yourself.

The truth is the party never even mattered. I chose not to be friends with her, it really was my choice. She was never mean, I was. My anxiety caused me to quickly assume myself unworthy. It was easier to go on the defensive and save myself rejection than to shrug it off and move on. I judged her and everyone she associated with and told myself I was the better person.

The truth is that crushing anxiety of belonging isn’t really keeping us from connecting and belonging to others, it’s keeping us from connecting and belonging to ourselves. Once we believe in ourselves  and the beauty of own souls we belong everywhere we go.

Birth Story

Women love a birth story.

I mean it, we can’t get enough. We watch YouTube videos of births, we read stories about them, we listen to each other’s tales in person, and we watch them on TV. We live for the experience, the excitement, the suspense, the drama, and then the ultimate payoff, the sweet little baby.  We love topping each other with hours spent pushing, harrowing recounts of labor, tales of horrible and wonderful nurses and doctors, and of sleeping husbands who arise just in time to see their child or who hold our hand all 100 hours of the experience. It’s a miracle we love to witness over and over and it really never gets old.

Most of the time we aren’t bold enough to just come out and say “so tell me every detail of the birth” but we’re thinking it honey. Oh we’re thinking it. One need only be in the company of mommas and utter the words “when I had so and so it was 22 hours of torture. I didn’t even know I was in labor until…” and you will find yourself swept up into hours long exchanges of birth stories as unique as each grain of sand on a beach.

And while I’m sure there are women out there who maybe don’t so much care to hear the gory details of another’s birth experience, I wager the percentage is low. 

But what about the women who have birth stories to share that don’t have happy endings? Do they want to share all the details? Doesn’t the catharsis come from the act of telling each other about the whole life changing experience? It’s still life changing even if the end leaves you with no baby right?

My guess is most people who haven’t gone through it don’t want to hear stories involving dead babies.

Yeah I said it. Dead. Babies.

It’s so harsh isn’t it? So crass and cruel and something we would just rather not think about. Those two words don’t belong together, like opposite sides of magnets pushing away from each other with all their might. No, no, no don’t say those words. We cannot take the pain of it. It is just too much sadness.

Sure we all know it’s pretty common, nearly 1 in 4 women have had one, but talking about miscarriage is a MAJOR downer. Best to just say sorry, must have happened for a reason, there was probably something really wrong with it, God has a plan, let me know if you need anything…

What if that anything is simply to share the experience in all it’s heartbreaking glory?

Part of the problem is we don’t know how to start the conversation. We yearn to be the one to utter the magic words that will make it all better when someone is suffering and we fear being the one to say the wrong thing. One need only do a simple Google search to find a "Top 10 List of Things Not To Say..." for every fathomable situation. We worry too damn much about what not to say. It's crippled our ability to talk to each other and so we say nothing at all or mumble 'that sucks' and the person suffering never gets the necessary release and healing that comes from sharing their story.

Women who have had miscarriages are not fragile creatures who will crumble at having to utter details aloud. We are some of the strongest beings in the world. We have been given the ultimate gift and then been forced to endure having that precious gift ripped from our bodies, bit by tiny bit. We can handle talking about it.

And so we should be talking about it more.  We need to release. 

There will never be an appropriate occasion, a time during a dinner when uttering the words, “I’m still sad I lost that baby,” will come out clean and seem appropriate and that is okay. It’s okay. Life is messy, rude and screws with you bad. If we want to be truthful about our experiences then the painful ones have to have a place too. 

Sure there will be tears, or maybe not. Maybe time has healed a momma enough to let her be more reflective about it all without the emotional breakdown. But if there are tears so what. What the hell is wrong with crying anyway? What needs to be shared are not just the tears but also the details. The birth story.

In my experience through two miscarriages it has become clear that unless someone has gone through one they most likely don’t know what a miscarriage entails. I think there is a protective part of the human brain that has made us think the baby just disappears, gently floating away on the wind like pieces of a freshly blown dandelion. Oh how I wish that were so.

Sadly I know better.

Whether it occurs ‘naturally,’ with the help of drugs to contract the uterus, with a D&C, with an induction, or the ultimate pain-stillbirth, it is NOT gentle or fast. It is bloody, crampy, painful, emotional, heart-wrenching, gut wrenching, exhausting and necessary.

It’s childbirth, just not the way we had hoped. It can last for weeks or even months and in the midst of it you will realize normal and wrong have become kissing cousins. It all feels wrong and it is almost always normal. I’m sure there are women out there whose miscarriage experience doesn’t look anything like that, whose experience was quick and relatively painless.  It still matters.  A lack of physical suffering doesn’t negate the loss and it is still an experience that 100% sucks.

There is so much talk these days of the need for better mental health care in this country and yet we struggle daily to simply communicate to one and other.

That IS mental health care.

To share with each other and listen even when we may not want to hear what the other person needs to share, even when we are in a hurry, even when we wonder if they are just looking for attention. Does it matter what the reason?

Sharing is caring homies.

So here is my birth story in all its long winded, cathartic glory.

  

My Story

I’m sitting in the waiting room of my gynecologists’ office surrounded by tummies in various stages of pregnancy.  Though it is never spoken aloud we’re all thinking the same thing “How far along is she?” It’s what we all think when we join the pregnancy club. Suddenly ‘we’ are everywhere and we are curious to compare. 

Today I pray is not the day someone decides to ask me.

Today I’m not here because I’m having a baby, I’m here because I’m not.

Three weeks ago I entered this very same office and sat in this very same chair surrounded by tummies in various stages of pregnancy. Though it was never spoken aloud, we were all no doubt wondering “How far along is she?”

I was 12 weeks along, due January 26 with baby #5.

I was so overwhelmed when I found out I was pregnant. Five kids! I had a baby just last year and he still isn’t sleeping through the night so the idea of continuing what was now a two year run of no sleep into what at the very least would be a three year run with no sleep made me feel crazy.

I processed the news slowly, waiting two whole weeks to tell my husband. He had just turned 38 and had made some comments that got me thinking he was ready to be done with the baby stage of our lives so when I finally did tell him and saw that he seemed not only happy but amused by the idea of a veritable circus of children I started to embrace it all.

Babies here, babies there, babies everywhere! Bring it on. We can do this!

We shopped for a space shuttle size vehicle that would fit all of us, we plotted out redoing rooms in the house to make way for another human, and slowly we told people. Actually I told just a few people, he told many. He was excited and I was cautious. I found myself not wanting to share the news just yet, a gnawing fear in the back of my mind saying wait until you see everything is moving along as it should. I was sick but not sick enough. I kept telling myself maybe this pregnancy would be the easy one, that the pattern of struggling through horrifying morning (noon and night) sickness for months in all my other pregnancies may be broken by this one and just stop worrying.  But I lost a baby 4 years ago and the story went much the same.

Found out I’m pregnant, told people, noticed I was not sick whatsoever, found out baby has no heartbeat, miscarry, mourn.  

But that was then and this is now. I'm in the waiting room about to see my baby for the first time.

I am 12 weeks, due January 26^th with baby #5.

As I lay down on the table that day and watched anxiously as my baby appeared on the screen I knew before the words were even out of her mouth. I knew because a 12 week old baby is so clear and this was so not. 

Where is the heartbeat?  What is that?  What’s happening?  No, No, No.

Two circles with two lumps, one smaller than the other.

In the instant you see a positive pregnancy test the entire life of that baby flashes before you and in the instant you look at that ultrasound screen and hear your doctor say “oh no, I’m so sorry’ all the possibilities of that little life, the person they would have been, the kisses and smells of them, the toddling and teething, the talking and teaching, the growing pains and joys, Christmases and birthdays, first days of school and graduations, all of it is suddenly ripped from your grasp. You may not have even realized until that moment that you had attached yourself to all of it so deeply but the sting of it being ripped from you will bring you to your knees.

I heard her say it though she sounded so far away “Oh Katie I’m so sorry. Are you sure about your dates? I’m measuring about 7 weeks or so, maybe 8.” Then she saw the second circle.

“Is that twins?” I asked, shocked and feeling myself about to cross over into hysteria.

“Well could have been, yes hmm…but it looks like the second yolk sac was smaller… and things are breaking down a bit…let me look at the second one… it’s hard to tell. Are you sure about your dates?”

I can tell through the fog that she is trying to spare me pain. I’ve been with her 10 years and am on a regular hugging level of closeness so I know she is choosing words carefully. I shut down and start thinking about how I hate the term yolk sac.

Sounds like I’m growing breakfast. Just ew. Keep it together, just make it to the car then you can lose it.

As soon as I think of lose it I start rapping Eminem’s Lose Yourself. It has nothing to do with the situation but it helps to calm me since I’m focused on remembering the lyrics. My body may be betraying me but my brain is sharp and knows how to protect me. She's talking to me about what happens next but I'm busy rapping and feeling surreal.

I need to shift gears in my story and explain miscarriage a bit for those who don’t understand because my experiences thus far have shown me that many truly don't.

When a woman has a miscarriage the baby does not disappear into the ether.  As you watch that screen and hear the words it can certainly feel like that is exactly what is happening but just like a healthy pregnancy carried to term, a miscarried baby must come out and when it does it is not pretty.

For most women who miscarry early on a D&C is avoided if possible.  You are put under anesthesia, dilated and the baby and all the contents of the uterus are scraped out.  While it is the quickest option there are risks involved including infections, puncturing the uterus, scar tissue etc…so it’s not ideal and docs like to avoid it if they can.

I was given drugs to induce contractions so that the uterus could be given a chance to empty on its own. Both times I had what’s known as missed miscarriages meaning my body never got the memo that the babies had stopped growing and continued feeding the placenta and treating my body like it was growing a baby.  I can tell you that my body does not let go easily.

The contractions and cramping hurt horribly. You are home and you are essentially giving birth on the toilet. It is mentally traumatizing and emotionally crippling. You go crazy for a bit and even look at what you pass horrified that you may see the tiny baby but also grotesquely hoping you do because it will be the only chance you have. Some people do see the baby but I never did. Most of the time I was in too much pain to search. 

You will pass placenta in pieces, fluid, clots, and of course baby.  It can last weeks and for some even months because it doesn’t happen all at once but piece by agonizing piece. There is a lot of bleeding and it will leave you weak, tired, emotional and even ill. My first miscarriage took three weeks to complete once I took the drugs and I still had to have the last of it removed in the office. In the end it was six weeks total after the baby had stopped growing.

The second one I am currently going through and it has been three weeks so far.  Seven weeks total since the baby stopped growing. This time after I took the pill to move things along I lost enough blood and fluid to make me pass out for the first time in my life and ended up in the hospital. There is a special kind of pain that cannot be described when you are lying in the hospital losing your baby while lullaby music plays over and over as others are born.

It’s important for people to understand that miscarriage is sadly so common that you probably know 50 women who have had one. When I had my first miscarriage I was shocked as aunts, cousins, friends and others shared their own stories of miscarriage and they were all hard and sad but so helpful to hear.

Yes it is sad but it really helps to know that you are not alone and it is not your fault.

In your mind you will go over every meal you ate, drink you had, wonder if you sniffed fumes somewhere or were exposed to something, didn’t take enough vitamins, is there something wrong with your body, if you try again will it happen again, if you do have a baby does this mean there will be something wrong, are you too old, is the universe trying to tell you to stop?

Is the universe trying to tell you to stop?

You will think to yourself why did God take my baby? Am I not worthy of being a mother? Do I have too many already? Did I party too much in my twenties and damage something? Have I not taken good enough care of myself?  Maybe not these exactly but your mind will spin like a hamster wheel inside a gyroscope on a roller coaster. Round and round it will go trying to make sense of it all.

In 99% of cases there are no answers to be had. Miscarriage isn’t even considered a problem unless you’ve had three in a row.

Three in a row…what the hell…having one is hard enough I can’t imagine three in a row. I can’t imagine a lot of things. I can’t imagine the pain of still birth, or a 2^nd or 3^rd trimester miscarriage, or infertility and never being pregnant at all. Those aren’t my experiences but I weep for and with the women who endure them.

I remember sitting in the car that day that I found out thinking just be grateful you have children at all. I’m not sure why we do this? We make ourselves feel petty for mourning the loss by focusing on how much worse it could be. It doesn’t need to be worse to count. Someone will always have it worse than you but your experience is no less valid because it’s not the worst of the worst.

Being a woman is a privilege but Lord it is hard. We are built especially for this, built for making babies, and when we want that and it doesn’t happen, when it doesn’t go right, we feel like our bodies are betraying us. Suddenly the skin we wear seems more like an ill-fitting space suit that is malfunctioning and we can't breath and we just want to get out of it. Or take it in for repairs.  We want to fix it and we can’t. What’s wrong with you body? Just do your damn job. I bathe you, I feed you, I clothe you. I buy you that nice organic lotion…wtf.

In the end It really doesn’t matter if you already have 11 kids or none at all, the experience of losing a baby is one that will bring you to the bottom, test your will, hone your strength, teach you how precious life is, and leave you feeling a void that will never be filled no matter what may follow. 

It took having miscarriages myself to understand the physical process. I had to go through and experience the kind gestures of others to learn how to treat someone else who has had one emotionally. I’m sure at some point I too said insensitive things to a grieving momma, though it was certainly unintentional. I probably tried to make them feel better by saying ‘you’ll have more.’ I’m sure it seemed positive at the time. But now I know whether I have more babies or not, I will never have these.They are gone and they were wanted and loved before they were even known.

Now I know when it comes to birth stories it’s important to listen to the sad ones as well as the happy.

My miscarriage is nearly complete and with that knowledge comes the realization that I am about to be done. Not pregnant, not miscarrying and no longer attached in any way to the babies that once were. I’ve prayed for it to be over so that I could move on but now that I’m almost there I find myself sad to be moving past it. This is the part where you let go for good.

Some people move on and don’t look back, some don't really even want to talk about it; others plant a tree, pick names, or get some other bit of remembrance so that they can keep a little part with them always. I didn’t with the first one, I simply moved on, but this time an unexpected gift of bracelets from a friend proved shockingly healing. I haven’t taken them off yet. One for each baby I’ve lost each engraved with a sweet little symbol; wings, tiny feet, and a little heart.

It’s a reminder that they were there once. That they were a part of me and that even though they are gone and were never given a chance to be the magical little people I know they would have been they are still part of my story and always will be.

I have given birth to four healthy children but I have six birth stories to share.

What's in a Name?

"You guys always pick black names."

This ridiculous statement is something we have heard on countless occasions. Don't get it twisted either, we have heard it more from friends who are black than from others by far.  It's motivated by association and it has always got me thinking about what they really mean? Where do we get these associations we have with names?

photo courtesy of www.thechive.com

Miles and Desmond. In America these names may be associated with a famous musician and athlete respectively but globally that is not the case at all. For example: Miles is Latin for soldier and has been around since the beginning of civilization and Desmond is Scottish and means 'the world.'  The only 'black' tag is the one given to it by an individual who associates those names with someone who happens to be black.

And that's the bottom line isn't it? What a name really means is individual to us all.

It's based on who we know, what we've read, what movies we've seen, shows we've watched, what music we listen to, where we live, and what our ethnic backgrounds are.  If you knew a Laura that was a nasty piece of work you aren't likely to pick it for your own daughter. If you grew up in the 80's the name Jake is forever a jock name. Geographically speaking, if you grew up in metro Detroit you knew at least 10 Quincy's growing up so you're unlikely to pick that for your own child, ditto Jennifer and Matt. Too many associations tends to mean it's easier to just pick something different.

Everyone who has named a child knows the stress that goes into it.  It's a name that is to become part of history, forever stamped on the family trees of multiple generations and someday it may be something that a future descendant looks at and chooses for their child saying "We wanted a family name."

I think in America we have taken a much different route than the rest of the world when it comes to naming. Where once names denoted social class or status, religious affiliation, or geographic origin like village or town, names now can be meaningless except to say we like the way it sounds. We don't necessarily think of family, heritage, or history, etc...we think;

"Does this name sound presidential?"

"Does it go with our last name"

"Do the initials spell something awful like f-u-k?" (Sorry to all the Frank Ulysses Kellogg's in the world;)

"Can it be turned into some awful nickname that will render this poor child the butt of playground jokes throughout their childhood?" (Not sure this is avoidable by the way no matter what name you choose. Children are evil.)

Myself, I've tried repeatedly to pick Italian names but I married someone of Scottish heritage and have had a hard time finding things that don't sound ridiculous. Carmine Heddle doesn't have a lilt does it? Add to that the fact that so many people have chosen names that are decidedly identifiable to specific ethnic origins (Isabella, Gianna, etc...) that are not their own and I think it's safe to say Americans are erasing the ability to make assumptions about individuals based on names.

Ultimately I hope that a name will be nothing until the person who carries it gives life to it for us.  That people won't read a name on a resume and dismiss a candidate based on that alone. It is sad that having a foreign sounding name lowers your chances of getting called by a large percentage. Perhaps as each successive generation of melting pot named individuals takes over hiring this type of reaction to names will diminish.

The truth is these little people who we bestow an identity upon make the name themselves. They become that person so completely that you can no longer think of them any other way. Leia is Leia, she isn't bogged down by that name, she inhabits it and gives it life and new meaning for me that I couldn't have imagined.  It was an uber-geek move on our part to pick it, and one we have suffered relentless criticism for, but in the end we love it and so does she. Desmond and Miles are the same. What I associate with those names now is specific to what they have given to it.  Every Desmond I meet in this life will bring to mind not Desmond Howard football star or Bishop Desmond Tutu, but MY Desmond. My bouncy, silly, amazing little man. Ditto for the other babies in my life including the one who has yet to be named;)

I hope the parents who named their baby Asshole (Ah-Shole-EE) feel the same way.

The Quiet Demise of Handwriting

When I was younger, before there were cell phones, laptops, tablets etc...I used pen and pencil to write.  I loved writing so much I would make lists of things I had already done just to have something to write and satisfyingly cross out.

Scraaatccchhh.

Oh what a satisfying feeling sharp pencil dragging across paper is to me!

My friends and I had notebooks that we would write in during class and then exchange between classes.  I could write novels of conversation in the span of a few minutes. I still can. In fact, every story I work on I write long hand and then type. I can stare blankly at a screen for ages with not a thought coming out in type but when I put pen to paper magic happens baby!

15 years later, stooped over a faded hand written letter penned by a man named Sir Henry Strachey who was a diplomat sent to America to try to smooth things over between the colonies and Britain in 1775, I marvel at his beautiful, elegant, swirly handwriting.  The particular page I am remembering was a love letter to his wife, the kind that made you blush despite having said nothing graphic in nature back when men had to use prose to impress a woman.  (I've got my husband working on that one;)  It was the combination of beautiful words and beautiful writing that struck me and got me feeling melancholy. Is a beautiful handwritten page, in a mans hand no less, something we may never see again?

I went home that day and told my husband I wanted him to write me a love letter. Something that can be found in 200 years by a future archivist, something that will make them wonder what my life was like. He wrote me a beautiful love letter that I cherish but I should note that he typed it up and printed it out.  No, not printed by hand, printed out of a printer.  And thus is the sign of the times. (I still love it babe, thank you!)

I sat down on my porch one day watching the kids play, doodling in my notebook, and I decided to write out the alphabet in cursive.  Upper and lower case.  Go ahead and find yourself a piece of paper and a pencil and do the same right now.  Go ahead.  Don't be surprised when you get tripped up on a few of those rarely used uppercase cursives. Try not to be too appalled at how awkward it feels to write period. We barely even sign our names with real pencils anymore. Instead we swipe cards and scribble something illegible with an electronic pen that is about as useless as one square of toilet paper.

That day I realized mine may be the last generation of cursive writers and how awful a realization that is! With the implementation of Common Core in every school in America and teachers being given the option of spending time on teaching cursive or working on more test prep etc., cursive instruction is a rarity. There are many who feel it should be this way since we are in the age of technology.  It's a valid argument. We type, we swipe, we tap screens, we speak words out loud and they appear and soon we will simply think it and it will be so (how sweet will that be?)

But wait! Those who would toss cursive in the can should be advised that I have done my research and there may be more reason to keep it than previously thought:)  In fact, brain imaging studies have shown the benefits of a child writing cursive are in the same realm as learning to play a musical instrument. 

As someone whose eldest son struggles with Sensory Processing Disorder I can tell you that the type of organization, coordination, and stimulation provided by learning cursive sounds like a great tool to help him 'rewire.' In a time when we have so many children with processing difficulties teaching cursive and noting improvements in children, especially those with attention and processing disorders, is well worth study.

This article by Dr. William Klemm, Professor of Neuroscience at Texas A&M, is well worth the read (it's a short one so you have time;) What Learning Cursive Does For Your Brain.

Even if you don't have children to concern yourself with, the demise of the hand-written word is something we are all witness to and a phenomenon worth pondering. What will future generations glean about us from our digital footprint? As an Archivist I can tell a lot about a person from their handwriting such as roughly what year they were born, what country they were taught in, what their economic status was etc...Perhaps next time you send a thank you note, rather than a quick post on Facebook, a text or a voicemail, try writing a note in cursive. What does your writing say about you? Does your language change when you write rather than type? Does it make you feel calm and focused?

Admit it, that scraaaaatch is so satisfying:)

Get a Room!

Is this the picture of marital bliss or what?

It is a little scary to have people tell you they admire your marriage.  A huge compliment! but scary as well because we all know, married or not, how fragile relationships are. Sometimes I worry the admiration will jinx us.  Relationships can turn in a instant, often when only one of you is aware and I know this from personal experience.  

How many billions of people over the course of history have been blindsided by infidelity? How many surprised by their own affections turning toward someone other than their partner?  Or from one or both somehow falling straight out of love with each other?

I have a strong marriage BUT I don't take for granted how easily things can change when people become so 'sure' they have a strong relationship that they feel no need to maintain it.

I have no business giving anyone marital advice I'm simply going to list what I think are the reasons I have found happiness after some interesting trial and error.

First, and possibly most important, he is my best friend and he was my best friend before we became a couple.  It makes all the difference in marriage. Before marriage, passion counts. Typically, but not always, you have to be physically attracted to each other to generate interest.  Once you're married and the everyday grossness and boredom of life creeps in (like taking care of each other when you have the flu, or helping plunge the toilet, or tag team cleaning diarrhea off a child, or tooting when you lean in to kiss each other, or realizing that you  actually are at Home Depot and/or Bed Bath and Beyond on a Saturday, and thus just a razors edge away from breaking down and streaking through the quad to start off your mid-life crisis) THEN when all this has occurred friendship, comfort, and the ability to laugh at life together will matter more than passion.  It will have to! Because bodily malfunctions and double-crosses increase exponentially with age.  It truly gets so ridiculous and gross that you will want to leave yourself at times...or maybe that's just me.

Second-Passion.  I said it counts before marriage and I stand by that.  It should be strong enough to withstand the above mentioned situations along with a whole host of others.  Not just funny situations but hard ones. Things like sickness, losing your hair, being unable to have sex, gaining weight, losing weight, job loss, job stress, kid stress, exhaustion, boredom, side effects from medications.  It's hard to look at the person you may have once lusted after and not see them anymore, I mean really not see them because they are droopy or heavier, wrinkled etc...Holding onto passion while you each individually deteriorate or fall apart is wicked hard and it happens to us all at some point.  

It is a harsh reality of life that we will love each other and bear witness to the demise of our loved ones and ourselves.

So we keep touching.  Once you stop hugging, holding hands, kissing, etc...it can be awkward to try and pick it back up.  It is the first step in growing apart. I never understood why people didn't hold hands more.  It's so simple and yet can be so powerful in keeping you both connected. I literally hang on my husband like an old coat.  He comes in from work and I knock my kids to the ground to get to him first, jumping on like a spider monkey. He loves it;) 

Next is knowing yourself and having faith in yourself.  It seems obvious that we can't be good for one another if we aren't good for ourselves. There was a long period of time I wanted to be with my husband and he didn't feel the same.  The problem wasn't that he didn't care, the problem was that he was all set with who he was and I was most definitely not.  I had to find faith and ground myself, and when I did we came together. God knew the right time and that was it. 

Too often people allow their significant other to define them, they don't know who they are on their own, can't stand on their own, they find themselves in the other person.  But is that good?  Who are you without the other person? Marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship. I would be lost without my man, but not because I am lost myself.  If you don't know yourself and have faith in yourself before joining in marriage with someone else, you will project your self doubt onto them.  They will slowly become the cause for your lack of self worth.  We may have a life together but my life is just that.  It's my only go round the rock, and I'm sharing it with him.  I have a strong faith in myself and that helps me have a strong faith in US.

Finally, and this is big, we keep things LIGHT.  Playful, fun, humorous. Example: hubs and I are flat broke, and while he tends to be more depressive, I can always find the light. Case in point.  Bank account overdrawn $27, made $38 in an impromptu garage sale. EPIC WIN. We are on the positive baby! Of course, I could weep and wallow about how on Earth we're going to pay this and that, get this and that, when will life get easier??  It's endless, it's life. I pinch his butt, he makes dirty comments only I can hear, we geek out over scifi, we tickle our kids.  We have our down moments but they are few and far between.  We have to keep it light, darkness comes easy for everyone.  And while others may shake their heads at us, we don't shake them at each other.  We count our blessings, and they are many, even if they aren't matched by dollars in the bank.

So that's it. or at least the big reasons that come to mind.  Don't think for a second we don't do things that drive each other crazy.  I won't even mention the vacuum he bought, and I'm sure he'd have a few complaints about things I have said or done.  But nothing negative sticks because we don't let it.  

One last thing I almost forgot:)  A good friend shared a prayer for her daughter publicly on Facebook the other day that I thought was beautiful. She said "God please let my daughter find all the good people. Keep the drama, and the people who create drama out of her life, even if they are family."  Indeed, don't let the drama of others seep into your marriage.  This is something we try to avoid. Remember who you have to concern yourself with.  You can be there for people as support without being part of their issues. 

Issues are like Cancer, it may start in a specific place but it can spread quickly and to places you wouldn't have thought.  

I always interpreted the vow "what God has brought together, let no man put asunder," to be a very powerful point often overlooked. To me it means that once you are partnered with another your main concern is each other.  You are each others person and no one else may take their place, or pull you apart. 

The rest is fluff.