Rerouting

Who are you when one of your main identifiers is no longer an option? 

We wrap ourselves in our identity; this can be anything from a job to a hobby to an athletic ability. It's our comfort zone, something we are often proud of, and something others know us for. I have always been a runner, daughter of two ridiculously awesome marathon-running parents, with a daughter of my own who also runs. Yeah, it's in the genes. Three generations of dominating a sport that serves as other sports' punishment. AKA: we're crazy. 

We all have those moments (even when we don't want to admit it) where we know we should have listened to our parents. My parents were absolute beasts in the marathon running world; combined, they've run over 70 marathons with PRs I will never touch of 3:02 for my mom and 2:44 for my dad. I never dreamed I'd run one of my own, and then, I was introduced to my crazy running friend Patty. I had only run 8 miles when I met her, and she has since talked me into running half marathons, full marathons, ultras, and even a 50 miler. I was injured with every single training season, and though my parents were proud of the running genetics they produced, their own injuries had them discouraging me from continuing. 

My mother developed spinal stenosis as well as degenerative disc disease. My father was ridden with arthritis and recently needed a hip replacement. Though distance running may not have caused these ailments directly, it certainly didn't help. As for me, I was stuck in my naïve bubble of thinking I had many more years and miles ahead of me, until I fractured my spine. 

In an attempt to avoid the injuries my parents endured, I incorporated strength training into my work out routine with great help from my Olympic and power-lifting hubby. One morning after completing a less than impressive over head lift, I felt a pop in my low back. It seized immediately, causing me to crawl from our detached garage home gym into our house, where I spent the next several days on the couch, cancelling clients, and rotating between heat and ice. After the amazing care of my chiropractors, my back got better and I went on to train and complete the Boston Marathon. I had no idea that pop was actually a fracture until years later when we moved south, where I worked for a new chiropractor who took x-rays. 

The back pain came and went, and was mostly due to some idiotic move on my part, like deadlifting heavy, or challenging my kids to some weird cartwheel dance off. It wasn't until recently when the pain became chronic that I knew things had to change.

Suddenly, I couldn't perform simple daily tasks without a great deal of pain. I signed myself up for physical therapy, where I was told to cut way down on my running miles. At the time, I was signed up and just beginning to train for the Wilmington Marathon in February. So, that went out the window fast. Once I noticed that I was struggling to even get through short runs without pain, I had to face the fact that my marathoning days might be behind me. 

Me. The runner. The daughter of runners. The mother of a runner...might not be able to run much anymore. I've identified as a runner ever since I was 6 years old and ran my first "race": a whopping loop around Worcester's Elm Park. Now nearly three decades later and that identity is shrinking before my eyes. Running brought me some of my best friends. It brought me a community. It gave me confidence because, genetics or not, I was good at it. It gave me a sense of belonging. But, as genetics have it, I was also diagnosed with degenerative disc disease and arthritis. And my vertebrae fracture is no help, either. Mom and Dad, I know you'll love hearing this, but you were right. Marathon after marathon, injury after injury...I can't say it was worth it. 

From distance running to barely running, the main thing I've had to do it reroute my mind to accept: accept doing less because it's doing more for my body; accept the days where I'm only up for some stretching and a heating pad; accept that I can't compare to the old me and my previous abilities. After experiencing many days where I was couch bound, I am happy on days where my body can move at all, and that's what I focus on; not the calorie burn, not the muscle gain, just movement: a walk, simple yoga, even house chores. I appreciate the few miles that feel good and the lighter lifts that don't cause pain. 5 years ago I would have panicked. I would have found new ways to over exercise, more ways to cut calories, and would have been 100% miserable. But today, I can see the discomfort my parents are in and feel the damage I've done to myself. Further testing will tell me more, and I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel for pain management, but I also know that even if I get to a point of feeling better, long runs and deadlifts may remain in the past. 

So, here's to accepting. To changing. To learning. To letting go of what I used to be able to do and moving forward with what I can do. And please, send my husband some beer because I'm sure there will be cranky, frustrated days ahead. For now, I'm looking forward to more answers and pain relief, and finding new ways to honor this broken bod.  

Motherhood

 It's no secret that being a parent can be difficult. We are made aware that there will be sleepless nights, temper tantrums, illnesses, bratty attitudes and so on. When we embark on our parenting journey, we concoct an idea of what kind of parent we'd like to be; whether that be the opposite of our parents, similar to them, strict, easy going, a health nut, a softy- you name it. Then, we become parents, and nothing goes according to plan. 

And that plan keeps changing right along with our children. 

Sometimes, the most difficult part of parenting is letting go of the parent you want to be, and becoming the parent your child needs you to be. 

I feel like I peaked as a parent when my girls were younger. Cuddling and reading was my motherly love language, and most things could be fixed with a snuggle and a good picture book back then. I also felt like this was when I was the most active with them; visiting multiple playgrounds, libraries, zoos, Toe Jam Puppet Band (if you know, you know), doing all the crafts. Until one day it all just seemed to stop. 

They read books on their own. My oldest became repelled by my affection. Crafts were no longer fun. Playgrounds were for babies. 

They started doing more on their own and with their friends, and after years of (admittedly) being more of a helicopter mom, I felt like I had no idea how to parent my growing daughters anymore. What comforts one doesn't help the other, and so the mother I had always been and told myself I would be could no longer fit in a one-size-fits-all package. So now, not only am I learning how to navigate a new level of motherhood as they grow up, but also trying to be two different versions of that mother so I can accommodate their separate needs. 

Some days I feel like a failure. Like there's not enough of me and the versions of myself I need to be to go around. My little one still loves to cuddle, play board games, have dance parties, and play pretend. She can turn on the water works at the drop of a dime, but is easily soothed with a long hug or affirming conversation. So, at times, she's "easier" to parent because this is the version of myself I am most familiar with. My oldest, however, would probably request payment if she were asked to play a board game with us, acts like she's allergic to hugs, and the only pretending she does is putting on one hell of a happy face when opening a gift she doesn't care for. 

It's a struggle, because I have to be two moms; one that's always prepared to cuddle and soothe and play, and another who needs to give space and have long talks and guide. It's a struggle because it's different...because it's change - and change challenges us. 

But we also grow from challenges, and my biggest challenge right now as a mother of a 10 and 13 year old is to let go of the mother I want to be - or think I "should" be - and let my kids guide me to be the mother they need. It's okay for kids to be the teachers and parents to be the students sometimes. When asking my girls what they need, how I can help, what sounds fun, I learn. I shift my parenting. I adjust.

It breaks my heart when my teenager is emotional and won't let me near her. It sucks when your suggestions for activities are met with a dramatic eye roll. It hurts to look back at all the things we used to do together that are no longer cool (despite their tattooed and pierced mom being a willing participant). I was prepared for dirty diapers and obnoxious strollers and restaurant meltdowns. I was not prepared to feel like I am losing little bits of them so early. 

I thought the younger years were so much more consuming, with all the parks and play dates to keep them occupied and out of the house for a bit. But now, listening to the tween spew off Stranger Things facts for hours on end or listening to the teen's latest Hot Topic fashion dilemma has me wondering when the hell we got here. There's a quote I'll never forget reading, that said something like "one day, you went outside to play for the last time and didn't even know it" - THAT'S how this feels. I had no warning they'd outgrow playgrounds or feety-pajamas or freaking hugs. I also had no idea how much I'd have to outgrow things about myself to better accommodate their needs. 

I miss fuzzy pajamas and picture books, but I am learning to adjust to my (sorry for saying it) new normal. My teenager and I have the  L O N G E S T  talks, share chapter books and Netflix shows, have a mutual love for chocolate and coffee, and are trying to find common ground with our needs - because I just want to hug the shit out of that girl all the time and she'd rather live in a bubble (so long as it contained her guitar). As for my little tween, I am forcibly trying to slow down time by simply appreciating her littleness; watching her play, letting her occupy my lap, wiping her tears while she lets me. 

So maybe I didn't "peak" as a mother when they were babies and toddlers, but I'm having a hard time convincing myself of that when it feels like you give and get so much less as they grow. For now, I will keep splitting myself in two - or so it feels - to hug one more while I hug the other less. To be fun one minute and calm the next. To keep learning and growing right along with them. I may miss those squishy baby faces and the simplicity of one-size-fits-all motherhood, but I definitely don't miss diaper bags and car seats, so I guess I'll take it. 

Us

 I could write about our love story all day long. Because it's so random, because no one thought it would last, because we were so young, just because. 

18 year old Lauren and 20 year old Eric had never met until we went to Providence Rhode Island with friends to a dance club hilariously called Club Hell. I was with the most random group of girls from high school, and technically had a boyfriend at the time. When Eric asked me to dance, I said yes despite funny looks from the rando-group. I remember him being a "respectful" dancer, keeping his hands appropriate unlike most guys in clubs. At the end of the night, he caught me outside and asked for my number. My friends couldn't believe I gave it to him, hence said boyfriend, but I was young and he was nice. When he texted me with his, I added him to my contacts as Club Kid Eric.

At-the-time-boyfriend found out about this little number exchange, and decided to save the number himself so he could be a macho-man and give him a ring. When Eric received the call, he was on a playground with a friend at the beach in Fairhaven, MA - a place I had never heard of and never knew I'd one day live. Eric, being all macho-man himself, responded to the call by saying that if he were keeping his woman satisfied she wouldn't be handing out her number. 

So that was that. Onward with said boyfriend and goodbye to Club Kid Eric.

Fast forward one year later, boyfriend and I break up. I was in Maine with two friends, planning our next Club Hell excursion. Young, immature Lauren always needed to have the next move in play, so I thought "what are the chances?" and scroll down my contacts to Club Kid Eric. I said something along the lines of "Hey, you may not remember me, we met last year at Club Hell; I'm the one who's boyfriend called you...anyway...heading back to Providence this weekend with friends and wanted to see if you wanted to meet up". Little did I know, he was in a relationship and his girlfriend had his phone when this text came through. His response was a short "Sorry, I have a girlfriend". Damn. Delete.

Life moved on. Rebound Lauren found someone new, and Eric and his girlfriend broke up. He also deleted my number, but his break up sparked an interest to contact me. He had to go through old phone records to find it, and succeeded. By the time he messaged me I was in a relationship, but we found each other on AIM (if you know, you know) and social media. He got back with his girlfriend, and I got pregnant, but we cordially stayed in touch; especially when I was up all hours of the night with a newborn and he was working late shift electrical jobs. 

When the time came for me to admit that I was unhappy in my relationship, I confided in Eric. He actually encouraged me not to leave (which he now jokes was reverse psychology) - because he believed families should stay together. But my happiness was important not only for myself but for the mother I would be to my daughter. I left.

Soon after, Eric started asking to hang out. I was an ass about it. Or a good mother. I told him I was not ready for a relationship, that I would not ditch my daughter to hang out, that meeting up would mean going for a run, or joining us at the playground. Cue our first "hang out" where he drove the hour and a half to my mom's house, after my daughter was asleep, where we drank Mike Hard Lemonades and ate all the food my Italian mother had spread out for us. No running. No playground. One super awkward teeth-clanking kiss goodbye. 

Playground hangouts ensued, where I told him the next person I officially dated would be the one I'd marry. I was ashamed of myself for having a child with someone I didn't want to spend my life with, and wanted any "dating" I did to really teach me about what I wanted and what I could give. My famous line to Eric was "I am going to go one 100 dates before I commit to someone" - I agreed to be his girlfriend two weeks later. 

No one thought it would last. That there was no way a 23 year old Eric would be tied down to someone with a baby. That this was just another rebound for Lauren. Dates continued to be trips to the zoo (Eric's first birthday gift to my daughter), stroller walks, at-home dinners. 

Then Lauren gets pregnant again. Even through two forms of protection, it happened. This turned a new, fun relationship into an "oh shit, do we really want a life together?" (I'm painting such a lovely picture of myself in this story, aren't I?) A few days after working up the courage to tell our parents, I started bleeding. The pregnancy was ectopic and I had to have emergency surgery to remove it. I'll never forget calling Eric into his Mom's back bathroom where I discovered the bleed; he went to sit in his Step-Dad's office, in the dark. When I went to check on him he had one thing to say: I want to marry you. 

This was just four months into our relationship, but being forced to make the decision of whether we were together for a pregnancy or together for love made us realize the ladder. Eric went to my Dad's house to ask his permission and receive the ring my Grandmother had left me, and less than a year later we were Mr. and Mrs. Dorschied. 

I have to admit, to everyone that told us we didn't know what we were getting into, that marriage is a life long commitment that can't be based simply on love, that it takes endless hard work - you were right. We had to learn through some hard years exactly what that effort meant, and we are so lucky we did. 

Looking back on all of this is absolutely wild. Club Kid Eric, who I met at age 18 with a boyfriend, who I gave my number to on a whim, is now the father of both my beautiful daughters, and providing our dream life in North Carolina. We always say that if there was ever a meant-to-be, we are it. If we don't work out, it doesn't exist. If one of us didn't go out dancing that night, if I didn't give him my number, if I never reached out a year later, if he didn't go through those phone records...

12 years together today, and I wouldn't change one thing. 

12 Years Ago

 

I remember this day so clearly. I was sitting at an oversized dining room table in my very first apartment, having made the tough decision to leave Lyla's biological father. So many feelings of guilt and failure plagued me. Though my pregnancy with Lyla was unplanned, and I was so young, I wanted to make it work. I didn't want to have a broken family, I didn't want to be a cliché, I didn't want to be judged. I remember telling my dad, randomly, on his back deck while Lyla splashed in the turtle kiddie pool. I put on such a good show of happiness that he seemed blindsided by the news. 12 years ago in that apartment, tears streamed down my face with each friend or family member I told, and sweet 10 month old Lyla crawled up to me, cuddled me, and gave me her binky. I was sad for her, but in that moment I also knew I was doing the right thing. 

Her father was not mean, he was not negligent, he wasn't a bad father. He simply wasn't the one. It took 9 months of pregnancy and 10 months of Lyla's life for me to see that the happy ending I desired would not be with this man. I had moved out of my childhood home at 19 to gain independence with my new family, and moved in with my mom at 20, new mom, lost. I don't remember how I told her bio-dad, but I do remember standing in Lyla's nursery with him, staring at her perfectly hung, tiny articles of clothing, us both crying. No matter how unhappy you are, it sucks to hurt someone. Even worse when that hurt means breaking up a little family. His hurt turned ugly and cruel, but that first night Lyla and I settled into my mom's condo, I knew it was the right decision. I could breathe, and she was happy. 

As I reflect back on that time 12 years ago, I am proud. What a messy thing to have to do at such a young age, but even that young, I knew that the best mom I could be was a happy one. I deserved that, and so did my daughter. When Eric came into our lives, they changed forever. My marriage is the thing I am most proud of. We work hard, we love hard, we have fun, we work things through; what an example to set for our daughters. An example I could have never given if I stayed with someone else for the wrong reasons. A love I would have never experienced if I never left. I'm here to thank that young, scared, but strong new mom from all those years ago because her decisions are the reason my life is so blissful today. 

I could have let the embarrassment of what others would think or say get the best of me. I could have continued to post a fake happy life on Facebook and deeply yearned for more every single day. I could have "done the right thing" and marry that man for the sake of a baby, and came pretty darn close. I could have kept telling myself that he doesn't hit me, that he financially supports us, that he's a good person, but man - am I glad I didn't. I had every excuse to stay, and I didn't use a single one. My girl and her binky, 12 years ago...we changed our lives by choosing happiness. 

F*!# Comparison

I was initially going to post this as a Wellness Blog but it ended up being more of a "Lauren's Story" kind of vibe. So here we are. 

Freaking comparison. It can be a good tool in some instances, but for the most part it makes us feel like shit and prevents us from accepting and loving who we are, how we are, and where we are. 

As a new-to-competitive-running 9th grader, I had no idea my running form was different. I had never seen myself run in a video or mirror, and my funky-form was never pointed out by parents or peers. I found out in a hurtful way when I overheard my coach telling other teammates I ran like the Scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz. I still didn't know what that meant, other than that I was, in some way, different. I noticed it "for real" by watching my brother - who has similar wonky form - run by me one day. I remember asking my dad if that was how I ran, and he said yes, but that mine was slightly worse. Great. The good news was that the fact that my hips rotated in a way to create a windmill-like leg kick-out made me pretty damn fast. The bad news was it also caused me to be constantly injured. And also, fuck that coach for not even trying to help me in the slightest way. Anyway - I think this was my first taste of true comparison; beyond wanting to buy Abercrombie because everyone else was, but wanting to change something about my body. I started noticing everyone else's legs that didn't bow in or their feet that didn't angle out. I noticed their beautiful running strides that didn't cause them hip or knee pain. I got so down on myself that I relished in every slight "injury" I had and didn't finish a single Cross Country season beyond 9th grade. 

I got back into regular running after having babies, and mostly forgot about my windmill legs - perks of not being able to see yourself when you run. After a short time, running became something I truly loved and relied on, and so when people did notice my stride and decided to comment on it, I realized I had a choice: quit once again, or own it. I chose the ladder. I will be the first to introduce myself to you as "the one that runs funny", and even though there are still times I wish I were different, or times I get insecure meeting new people to run with, or feel that hurtful sting when people point it out to my husband, it's me. And it's how I was born and built. (I wrote my college essay titled "Born To Run, Built To Break"). The only way I am able to keep up with running is by letting go of comparison, because it won't change a damn thing. And thank goodness I did, because running has brought me some of my absolute best friends. 

Onto lifting. CrossFit bodies are AMAZING. I could watch badass women lift serious weight all day, totally in awe of what their bodies can do. Years ago when my husband started CrossFit himself, I was smacked with some serious insecurities I didn't know I had. Society had always told us to be thin, and this born-runner nailed it without effort. But suddenly my thighs that didn't touch were nothing compared to these other muscular masterpieces. An injury prone, lanky runner was not made for CrossFit, despite dropping into a few classes with the hubby. Having a funky running stride but still being able to run was one thing. Not having thick thighs or any upper body strength and not being able to do something totally sucked. I wanted so badly to be a part of this kickass world that I started lifting on my own and insisted on calling myself a "CrossFit Dabbler". Not even close. Sure, I was lifting, but hella light weight, super slow, and no where near CrossFit status. I'd look at what others were lifting, or how often, and feel terrible about myself once again. Damn comparison. But, I loved the way I felt when I lifted. I loved feeling myself get stronger. I loved the way my body looked with the miniscule amount of muscle I put on. And so once again, I had a choice: stop lifting because I would never be a CrossFit girl with a CrossFit body, or simply do what I could. I am no where near the PR's of some of my badass friends or influencers, but I'm also so much further than when I struggled with an empty barbell. Shutting out comparison and focusing on the body I was given and it's abilities - even the limited ones - has been freeing. 

Letting go of comparison in these two situations wasn't easy. But it was so worth it. Accepting myself in my own fitness world has spilled over into so many aspects of my life, allowing me to live in an intuitive manner. When you feel good about yourself and the choices you are making, you are a better person - trust me. I am kinder to myself and in return kinder to everyone around me. These are two examples of oh, so many, where comparison can be evil and dictate your life if you don't shut that shit down. So I'm here to say hey, I'm Lauren, I run funny and love to lift weights. And I hope you conquer any comparisons you are struggling with, because we will never be anyone but us.  

Ouchie

We are lucky to be able to say that those we are closest to are still alive; our parents, our siblings, our close friends. Because of this, we've yet to experience that true, heart-wrenching loss that takes your breath away. So, when we put my sweet, 15 year old mini dachshund to rest yesterday, it hit me with a pain I didn't know existed. 

Mourning over the loss of a pet can seem irrelevant when there are people losing loved ones daily, but fuck, it's hard. I remember one miserable spring where our family dog and my grandmother passed away in the same week, and my father said "I think I cried more over the dog than my own mother". There's something about a dogs unconditional love, their sweet little faces, and the fact that they are helpless without us that makes losing them so difficult. 

Petey was always a pain in the ass. He was rescued from a puppy mill where his cage was also his bathroom, making it tough to house train him. He used to walk around our dining room table and piddle as he did, leaving an irritating stream of piss everywhere. We drove to get him from the mill - that was later closed for mistreating pups - when I was 17 years old, in a snow storm, the day after I had knee surgery. We tried crating him that first night which only lead to endless barking, and I begged my dad to let me sleep with him. I remember him telling me that if I started that habit now, it would be hard to break later, but I put him on the recliner with me where I recovered from surgery and he was my constant lap dog ever since. 

He barked at every little noise. When I had my babies, it was hard to get a newborn to sleep only for the wind to blow loud enough to send Petey into a barking frenzy, and so he took turns living with my parents for a few years while I adjusted to parenthood. During his time with my dad, he got lost. They were walking in the woods a mile or two from my childhood home, got skittish around another dog, and pulled the leash from my dad's grip. My dad called for him for hours, and decided to head home incase the little guy made his way back. He didn't. My dad looked for him for days, and we dubbed him a goner. Until one morning, 8 days after he ran off, he managed to get out of the woods, cross a 4 lane traffic road, run down the side street and along the busy road home. He showed up at my dad's front door skin and bones, with his leash chewed to a nub. To this day I wish he could talk so I knew what happened to him in those 8 days, but it was a miracle to get him back, where my dad nicknamed him The Wonder Dog. 

One summer, we took him camping on our family trip, where he decided to have diarrhea inside my sleeping bag in the middle of the night. 

In recent years, his accidents in the house became more frequent. He would bark in his crate every couple of hours during the night to be let out - it was like having a newborn all over again. We knew if we left his crate open he would leave us gifts all over the house, but I needed sleep, so we came up with a bedtime routine. Every night, we would move the coffee table off of our living room rug, roll the rug up, lay our dining room chairs down on the floor to barricade the hallway, and play white noise in hopes of him sleeping a little more soundly. I started every morning by turning on all the lights and search for the piss-puddle I knew would be there. Sometimes it would spread the length of our entire kitchen. As his back legs worked less and less, he would tip over into his mess, and drag all the way back to his crate. My floors got washed every single morning. 

Waking up this morning to an intact living room and no pee to clean up was weird. 

He started to get really disoriented in our home, struggling to find his way to the door and randomly staring at walls. He was still eating, but less. He slept all day. 

I made the decision to put him down early last week, when his back legs were really bad and he began whining in pain. I cried when I made the appointment, and every single day leading up to it. It's a guilt ridden thing to be able to choose your dogs death date. After years of him living off and on with us, and being frustrated by his barking and mess making, I just wanted him to know how loved he was. I would come home every day from work, lay him on my chest, and cry for hours. I've never said "I love you" more in my life. Naturally, this past week, his legs seemed to work fine, making my decision that much worse. But I knew more painful days were ahead of him, and we went ahead and brought him in. 

I took him to the beach where we spread out a blanket and cuddled. I fed him chicken sausages and string cheese. He got up and staggered to the ocean, where his tiny tail would wag anytime the waves lapped him. Strangers came up to pet him, causing me to lose my shit. The kindest woman and her daughter overheard me, and she came right over and wrapped me in a hug. She stayed with me, shared stories of a dachshund in her family, and offered to take photos of us during his last few hours. It was one of the kindest moments. From there I took him for ice cream, where I barged in unaware that they weren't open yet. They kindly gave me a doggie cup for my boy, and I sat outside with him wrapped in a beach towel while he enjoyed his treat. The workers came out a few minutes later and gave me two gift cards for free ice cream cones. 

Coming home for that final time was tough. Watching the girls say tear streaked goodbyes was tougher. On the drive to the vet, I wanted nothing more than to turn right back around. He wouldn't have to suffer if I just held him 24-7, spoon fed him soft food, and camped out on the couch with him each night. But I knew that wasn't realistic. I sobbed, and repeated "oh, fuck" the entire ride. The vet gave him a quality of life evaluation, where she agreed it was likely time to let him go. Hardest moment I've had to live through yet.

They gave him a sedative that took 5 minutes to fully kick in, where we cuddled him, cried with him, told him how much we loved him and what a good boy he's been. Once he was asleep, they laid him on the table in the fuzzy blanket we brought him in, and gave him the final injection. I can't get the image out of my mind of the vet holding the stethoscope to his chest and telling us he's gone. I kissed his sweet little face one more time even after he had passed. 

That night, everyone left. I wanted to be alone to ugly cry and mourn my dog of 15 years. I cried like I've never cried before. My chest hurt. I missed him with a deep pain that physically hurt. I spent hours laying in front of his crate, snuggling his blanket, and missing my cuddle buddy. He was my first  baby. He came before kids, before marriage. He has lived so many lives with me and now he's gone. I sat our under the stars, wrapped in his blanket, crying "I'm so sorry" to the sky. 

This morning when I came down the stairs and saw his empty crate, it hurt. I feel guilty, sad, heavy. I've never had a loss like this, and it truly sucks. I'll miss him forever, but am so thankful for all the years - especially the last few where he really slowed down, causing me to be more present with the little guy. I want him back, I want one more cuddle, one more adventure, but I know he's not in pain anymore, and is hopefully playing games of fetch with my grandpa up there. Loss sucks.  

It Worked Out But I Missed Out

 My life has unfolded way out of order. 

Baby before marriage, falling in love with someone other than the father of that baby, married years before my friends, honeymoon baby to follow. Now, at the age of 32 with a nearly 12 and 9 year old, an amazing husband and new life in North Carolina, I am happier than I've ever been with no regrets. However, I can't help but feel like I missed out on the positive attention people typically receive with these life changing moments. 

Becoming pregnant at the unplanned age of 19 in a very new relationship wasn't exactly a recipe for "congratulations". Instead of being showered with hugs and excitement, I was asked if I would keep the baby. Sharing this news was ridden with anxiety, nerves and fear of the opinion of others. It was a "sit down, I have something I need to tell you" situation, rather than a love-filled exciting moment. Despite always wanting to be a mother, I felt like a disappointment to my family, a problem to worry about to my friends, and a failure to my unborn daughter who was conceived with the wrong person. 

Leaving that relationship and falling fast for my now husband came with its own set of judgment - especially when conceiving and losing another baby, and becoming engaged just 4 months into our relationship. The true excitement came from my parents who had grown to know and love this man, but everyone else had their own opinions; we were moving too fast, we didn't understand love or the commitment of marriage, we were too young, we were naïve, why not wait? When we called to tell people our news, they asked if we were sure instead of screaming into the receiver while jumping up and down with joy. We even received messages telling us not to go through with it. 

With my older daughter being 2 years old at our wedding, we decided to give her a sibling sooner than later, and tried (and succeeded) for our 2nd daughter on our honeymoon. This was the one I thought I could actually share with joy; now a married family with a planned baby on the way, I hoped to finally get the positive attention I so craved. Instead, the news was more often followed up with "was this planned?" Or worse, when sitting down to share: "please don't tell me you're pregnant". 

As I got older and friends my age were finally getting engaged and having children of their own, I couldn't help but feel jealous. Their families were so excited, their friends planned big events for the occasions, an outpouring of love was splashed all over Facebook...and as much as I shared this excitement for them, all I could think was "man, I really missed out on this level of joyous celebration". People felt bad for me. People doubted me. Looking back, it was like there was a black cloud over these moments in my life instead of sunshine and rainbows. 

I believe in the cliché that everything happens for a reason. Being such a young mother and wife made me try extra hard, even if it was driven by the opinions of others. This effort has shaped two amazing girls and a healthy, communication filled marriage. I was able to be the person my friends called for advice with their first pregnancy, baby, or marriage problem. I am so fortunate to have been done with massage school before pregnancy, to have found a man who loved my daughter as much as me, and to be a young mother because, as I always say, "I get you for longer". My circumstances worked in my favor, and for that I am thankful. I can also look back and recognize that we did things on our time line, no one else's. But, because of this, we also really missed out. As much as things truly worked out and we created a dream life for ourselves, there will always be a part of me that is sad, jealous, and envious.  

No regrets, just the feels.