On Perfection

Practice makes perfect.

Is there anything more deeply, utterly false?

Lately, things have been crazy: becoming parents, moving into a new house, struggling to find time for the rest and quiet that our introverted souls crave. Ellis has been sick twice; I got to enjoy an icky 48-hour flu, which basically turned me into a miserable, helpless blob.

And the icing on the bittersweet, lopsided cake: four days after we closed on our house, the basement flooded. Like, bad flooding. Like, rip up all the carpet and pay our entire deductible and thank God we hadn't stored anything in the basement yet flooding. Apparently, tree roots had invaded the pipes--impeccable timing, tree. Thanks a bunch.

But we're human, which means we're no stranger to small losses.

We bought a dining room table on clearance, a little splurge. Beautiful mango wood, with a gleaming surface.

Within a day, we had accidentally scratched up one of the corners.

The next night, I prepared some dinner, a new recipe I was excited to try.

Halfway through, in a fleeting moment of forgetfulness, I tried to pick up a crockpot full of hot liquid--without unplugging it--and sloshed grease and broth all over my hand and wrist. It hurt (a LOT), and the burn still looks terrible; pretty sure there will be some scarring.

Today, I took Ellis for a walk on the first gorgeous day of almost-spring. My heart danced with joy; the sun warmed my face.

Somewhere along the way, I lost one of my favorite earrings, the pair that Phil got me for our anniversary. I spent ten minutes searching, but then Ellis began to fuss for milk, and I was forced to abandon the blue teardrop earring to a limbo of melting snow and wet pavement.

(Picture taken approximately fifteen minutes before my left earring was lost forever.)

And there's more. Oh, so much more. It feels like the past couple weeks have been a litany of small, unimportant, but overwhelmingly persistent disasters. Too many to list. Why does this keep happening? What about all our meticulous planning? Our carefully measured steps?

I'm learning more and more about the temporal nature of this world. Nothing stays perfect; it can't. It's not meant to. We're so fragile in this life--like cars accumulating dents and dings, going into the shop, getting fixed up each time, but everybody knows it's only a patch job. The raindrops keep falling. Pregnancy and childbirth, burns and bruises and wrinkles, scars that fade but never disappear.

Our earthly bodies are not built to last.

And that's why I'm so thankful for the reason God put us on this earth. Perfection is impossible, but it's also not the point. A neat and tidy life, a body without scratches or dents, a house full of spotless furniture like a Good Housekeeping magazine or a Pinterest board--this is not our destiny.

In my weakness, everything becomes clear. There have been so many gifts. My Madison mama coming over to take care of Ellis when I was so sick that I could barely stand. A Sabbath spent lying on the couch in my darkened living room, listening to hymns and my baby's happy squeals, being thankful, being still. My aunt Karen dropping everything to come rescue me, with a special delivery of soy formula and chicken noodle soup and a giant bottle of Gatorade. My parents--already starting the seven hour drive back to Detroit--turning back without a second thought and helping us rip out the drenched, ruined carpet from our flooded basement.

Through all these mishaps, I'm startled by a new sense of clarity. Things happen, and it's okay. I don't need comforting. There was a time when the possibility of permanent scarring would have filled me with dread. When the flooded basement and financial cost would've reduced me to tears.

But despite it all, my body is beautiful, my home is beautiful, my family is beautiful, and my God--He is perfection.

(Love this boy like crazy.)

Someday, I want to think of that one missing earring and remember my first walk with Ellis in our new neighborhood beneath the March sun, all those years ago.

I want to notice the scratches on our old, well-loved table and laugh with Phil about the bottle of wine that just refused to open.

I want to look in the mirror and delight at the scars on my shoulder and (maybe) my wrist, the new shape of a body that has brought forth a little life, the wrinkles and blemishes that come hand-in-hand with the fast, beautiful years.

God, be with us. And let it rain.

Ellis Michael Biller

I am exhausted, and so thankful.

Ellis is here. Phil and I have waited for him for so long, feeling his kicks and wiggles through my belly. We sang to him and read him stories as we lay together on the couch, Phil's head resting on my lap and his words moving through the womb cushioning our little peanut. As I tried to fall asleep each night, tossing and turning thanks to all the discomforts of pregnancy, I felt our baby's hiccups shake my whole middle. Sometimes I laughed, pressing my hands against my watermelon belly--other times I lay still and hoped he would stop soon, so that both of us could get some sleep.

As the due date drew closer, we became excited and (in my case) secretly impatient for labor to start. We wondered what our son would look like, who he would be.

Now he's here, and those words still feel unreal. Our son.

It has been the most amazing month ever--and yet, at the same time, the most difficult. Apparently, even when your baby is born, you don't magically become a super-mom with flawless breastfeeding technique, baby-soothing powers, and the ability to wake up fresh-faced and cheerful on two hours of sleep.

I'm quickly realizing how difficult it is to be a parent, what an insane and time-consuming job it is--the world's most obvious secret. Of course, I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew it would mean totally abandoning my own desires, putting Ellis's needs before my own.

But until it actually happened, I had no idea how HARD it would be.

(Plus, the postpartum blues are a real thing. I broke down crying because I thought Ellis's bathwater for his first bath had been too cold; I panicked when he got a cold after two weeks, blaming myself, my heart pounding fast with every cough and sniffle.)

But it was all worth it--the morning sickness and heartburn, the wild storm of emotions, the intensity of labor without any pain medications, the stitches and week-long recovery, the jiggly tummy that still remains five weeks after delivery.

It's all worth it still. The miserable first few weeks of breastfeeding, when his latch made me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut against tears. The long nights of sleep caught in desperate snatches--forty-five minutes here, a half hour there. The moments when I'm so tired that I can do nothing except sit and breathe.

Because Ellis was only the size of a poppyseed, a tiny promise, and now he's dozing in his crib.

Because our son has his daddy's nose and his mama's lips, and rock star hair, and the cutest big dark eyes I've ever seen.

Because there is nothing more humbling than knowing that this tiny, sweet baby looks to us for everything--needs us, trusts us, loves us unconditionally.

I pray that, whoever he becomes, wherever he goes, Ellis will always know he is loved--by us, by his grandparents and aunts and uncles, and most of all, by the God of all creation.

And I pray for help and grace in this journey--I'm definitely going to need it. :)

Anne Lamott, on writing (and life)

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.”

"Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you're 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn't go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It's going to break your heart. Don't let this happen."

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

550 Square Feet of Joy

As fall colors start to appear, as the air turns crisp and cool in the warm sunshine, it seems like the whole world is breathing a sigh of relief.

Our new apartment, which was nothing short of disaster on move-in day, is finally clean and settled. I wish I had "Before" and "After" pictures--the place was just not pretty. There was grime and mildew in the bathroom, food residue caked on the fridge, dirty floors, dust everywhere . . . the "clean freak" tenant who lived here before (landlord's words, not mine) must've let himself go in the days before move-out. And even after we cleaned everything, it seemed impossible that the accumulation of our lives--the endless boxes of books, clothes, kitchen junk, art supplies--would ever fit. Picture the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but with less floorspace.

Now we've been here more than a month, and the place is cozy and beautiful: thoughtfully-arranged furniture, ocean-themed bathroom, organized cupboards, warm light, all our books comfy on a new bookshelf, and the lake waiting for us right across the street. It's the perfect little nest.

At least, it seemed that way until I started to tell people about it.

Apparently, most people aren't enamored with our decision to move into a small one-bedroom when expecting a new baby. Who would've thought. ;)

Reactions have ranged from concern, disapproval, superiority, confusion, "to each her own" (thank you!), indifference (thank you!!) and genuine encouragement/agreement (thank you, so much!!)

Truly, I'm not annoyed at those who don't understand, or just don't agree. I know everyone is different. But I didn't expect such a strong reaction to our decision to live simply and cut costs for a while. So for those who don't understand how it could be possible to intentionally downsize to a 550-square foot one bedroom in the months before having a baby, here is, without further ado:

Tips on preparing a tiny apartment for a year of baby-themed chaos

1. Secure the bookcase to the wall. (This is called baby-proofing.) Arrange the closets so that you aren't crushed beneath an avalanche of coats and basketballs and guitar cases EVERY time you open the door . . . only every other time. (This is also called baby-proofing.)

2. Store overflow items, like posters and yet-to-be-used baby toys, in the kitchen cupboards. You don't buy that much food, anyway.

3. Buy curtains. These will make the space feel more grown-up and less like a dorm room.

Money-saving tip: If you can't afford real curtains, go with the $7 white sheers that are supposed to hang between the real curtains and the windows. Let's be serious--you live a few blocks away from students who use milk crates for coffee tables, who drink beer that costs $2 for a 6-pack and tastes like soapy water. Nobody will expect real curtains.

4. Abandon the illusion of personal space. It will only confuse you later.

5. Find a willing parent or relative, and give them your extra stuff to put in "storage" (i.e. their basement).

6. Door hooks. Everywhere.

7. Make a detailed list of where you will store everything: crib, baby swing, stroller, car seat, play gym, toys, etc. (It's okay to throw some things away, in blind panic. Or just to throw things.)

And as a bonus....

How to respond to people who think you are crazy, or attention-seeking, or both:

At first, when people ask if you've moved to a bigger place yet to prepare for Baby's arrival, tell them cheerfully that you've actually moved to a SMALLER place . . . because a simple lifestyle is worth pursuing. Because you don't even need a baby monitor when you can get from one side of the house to the other in six steps. Because we all know that, no matter how much space you fill with vintage wooden toys and Fisher Price play sets, your baby will probably still end up playing with a shoebox.

When people still don't understand, when they keep asking the same question, try to defend yourself: it's only for a couple years, while we pay down my student loans and save up for a down payment. There's still plenty of space. Gradually, start to worry that maybe they're right . . . maybe you've made a catastrophic mistake . . . maybe you'll spend the next two years sobbing on the floor amid a mountain of toys and diapers and Phil's random stacks of paper. (No home is complete without random stacks of paper.)

When people ask a third time, "So, have you moved into a bigger place yet?" just smile and nod.

The living room. (Actual size.)

The kitchen. (Look at all those cupboards! Compared to our last place, this is luxury!)

The bathroom. (Amazing shower. OMG. It doesn't randomly turn ice-cold, or lose water pressure, or spurt water at the ceiling. The shower makes the whole place worth it.)

This is not okay.

So. Where to begin. Last night, I decided to walk from our apartment to Mother Fool's--a fifteen minute stroll down Paterson and Willy Street--to get some work done.

This was an exciting prospect. I love coffee shops. And especially, with Baby all comfy inside me, coffee shops that offer decaf espresso.

But as I approached Mother Fool's, I saw a middle-aged man at the corner, sitting on a ledge on my side of the street, just . . . staring. Of course, I tried to act like I hadn't noticed. The whole thing felt very icky, very uncomfortable, but it would've been too obvious to cross to the other side of the street to avoid him. Especially since my destination was on this side of the block, literally twenty feet past the staring creeper.

I thanked God for my sunglasses, so he couldn't see where I was looking. I prayed, or maybe just chanted to myself: please just don't say anything. Please leave me alone. Please surprise me.

But as I drew closer, he leered at me--an ugly, rude sort of leer--and flashed a big thumbs up. "I'm giving you one of these," he said, still with an open and hungry-looking stare. "Yeah. You earned it."

I mumbled something stupid and kept walking. I felt disgusted, embarrassed, threatened.

But not surprised.

And before anyone starts asking, well, what were you wearing . . .

YES. I was wearing a sundress. It was bright and feminine, with a swishy skirt. It wasn't high necked, or formless and baggy.

But it doesn't matter.

I am tired (read: exhausted) of things like this happening. Just drained, saddened, wiped out.

And I am sick to death of some Christians pointing out that, well, if you don't dress modestly, what can you expect?

I try to dress modestly. I care about finding clothes that fit my style and make me feel fun, colorful, and comfortable without showing too much. But in situations like the above, it's deeply irrelevant. I've been hit on while wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a cute high-necked dress, a cute scoop-necked dress, a baggy jacket, shorts and a plain tank top, whatever. It doesn't matter.

I truly believe that blaming a man's rude, harassing behavior (or other, much worse things) on a woman's appearance is just silly and ignorant.

If a man (or any person) got their Corvette stolen, would the police file a report and look for the thief? Or would they say, "Well, why the heck did you buy such a nice car? What were you thinking, going out in something so flashy? Shouldn't you have realized that someone would want to steal it? If you didn't want this to happen, shouldn't you have just kept your Corvette locked up in the garage, where it belongs?"

That is victim-blaming, and to be perfectly honest, it makes me really sad.

So please, please, stop it.

I believe that modesty is beautiful. And my attempts to dress appropriately--which, for me, means the fingertip rule for skirts, the ol' lean-over-and-check-out-the-view test for tops, and not wearing a bikini around anyone except my hubby--are largely out of respect for guys.

Boyfriends, husbands, or just guys in general.

Because I'll admit it--it can make me a little unhappy when we're walking downtown and I notice a girl whose teeny-tiny outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. I don't have anything against that girl; I don't feel anger toward her, or jealousy. But if I couldn't help but notice, of course my hubby would notice. Of course other men would notice, too.

I attempt to dress modestly because I don't want to be that temptation to other guys, and that source of discomfort for other women.

HOWEVER.

Guys noticing a woman and guys harassing/catcalling/hitting on a woman is 100% different.

Noticing a woman is natural.

Harassing her is not natural. It shows a lack of respect, a lack of self-control, a lack of human decency. It's just not okay.

I guess it's tricky, because not all guys have bad intentions. And even though I don't really want any of it, not all flirting is created equal.

A guy at the grocery store once said, "Damn . . . your smile is gorgeous." He gave me a sort of embarrassed grin, and then walked away and didn't bother me again. If I'm totally honest, I didn't mind that one too much. It didn't feel dangerous or creepy.

But there are times when I feel unsafe, angry, or violated. Sometimes a combination of the three.

So what can we do about this? I suppose my impending pregnant belly might deter some of the attacks. :) But still, after years of dealing with the weird misogyny that all other women deal with, too, I haven't figured out a way to respond that leaves me feeling strong and not disgusted/embarrassed/icky.

For now, obnoxious guys of the world (none of whom, I'm pretty sure, will ever read this blog), here's a deal:

I'll dress modestly, because I respect you.

I'll try to give men the benefit of the doubt, because there are some truly amazing, humble, strong, and kind-hearted men out there. My hubby is one of them. I'm blessed to be friends with so, so many of them.

But no matter what I wear, completely regardless of my choices, you don't get to leer at me or shout profanity in the middle of the mall or cackle rudely when I tell you I'm married.

And you don't get to blame my clothes for how other people treat me.

Whew. /rant. Luckily I've got a hubby to walk places with me and offer (jokingly, for the most part) to throw rocks at obnoxious harassers.

There's always a silver lining.

December Baby

It's almost summer, which means it's time to come out of hibernation!

And also, time to redecorate my little corner of the internet. This is definitely a season for wild unabashed color, and cute little birdhouses, and fancy fonts that may or may not be destined to go the way of Comic Sans.

Because WE ARE PREGNANT.

My soul is in full-on joyful, singing, splashing-through-puddles mode.

At our latest ultrasound, the sweet pea was 13 weeks old--so not really a pea anymore. Closer to a peach, or a kiwi. (Babycenter says pea pod, so maybe the sweet pea analogy still works!) It had outgrown the adorable "melted gummy bear" stage (thanks, Davy, for that one) and moved on to the snuggly miniature baby stage. Oh, so stunning.

We'd come for the first trimester screening--an ultrasound to measure the fluid that forms naturally behind the baby's neck. And the tech was really struggling to find it.

"Your baby likes to be tucked up," she kept saying, almost indignant. "It's all curled up in a ball."

The other ultrasound tech, after trying for what felt like hours (but was probably only ten minutes), said the same thing: "Your baby's a snuggler."

It was true, and so delightful. Sweet pea looked perfect, all curled up and cozy. And when he or she started to move, I couldn't keep from laughing--which, of course, messed up the ultrasound picture. Out of kindness for the poor techs, who were gently coaxing our baby to roll over, I tried to keep a straight face. But seeing the sweet pea move for the first time, and knowing those movements were happening right inside of me, was so crazy and beautiful that I just wanted to laugh and laugh.

"Roll this way, baby!" the techs kept saying.

While they tried various approaches (drink 24 ounces of water! roll back and forth! try coughing a few times!), Phil and I kept watching. Those long, graceful stretches--those hopping hiccups--and always returning to a cozy little ball. We were transfixed.

After the appointment, Phil pointed out: this was the first time we got to see a glimpse of our sweet pea's personality.

And later, when I told my mom, she seemed amazed. Apparently, when she was pregnant with me, I was the same way: always resting and curled up.

Congratulations, our sweet little snuggler. You're being born into the right family!!

Oh Winter.

As I drove home today, my car indicated that it was 1 degree outside.

1 freaking degree.

(presses pillow to face) GAHHH:OIF:OWEIUF:OIWEH:OIH

I'm trying my best to fight the seasonal blues this winter. But I am a creature of warmth. And really, if you want to get technical about it, aren't we all?! We could survive naturally in the heat of July, as long as we could find some water and shade. But without furnaces and big warm houses and puffy marshmallow coats, we wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in Wisconsin winters.

(Okay, so that appropriated saying didn't quite work here, since snowballs actually stand a pretty good chance in this weather. But you get the idea.)

The winter slows me down. Sluggish, unmotivated, moody. Sometimes I feel like a sloth, inching along a tree branch and then resting for a few hours, because jeez, that was hard work. Or like a little brown bear, hibernating in my warm cozy den. I'll see you in April, everybody.

 Eeek! I'm cold!!!!!

More seriously, it's a little scary how drastically this weather affects my mood. I don't always notice the darkened feelings until the world starts to defrost. But on those rare warm, sunny days, I walk down the street and suddenly feel overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude for being alive, joy in my surroundings, general optimism, etc. And those lovely feelings make me notice how drastically they've been absent.

For me, it's harder to find those random bursts of thankfulness and joy in the deep frost of winter.

Once, walking home from the library, the fresh snowfall around me sparkled so beautifully that I didn't even notice how cold it was. Then again, that was back in home sweet Ann Arbor, which tends to be at least 10 degrees warmer than Madison. At this very moment, Ann Arbor is 18 degrees and Madison is -2.

Okay. Stop being negative.

Trying to remember the beautiful things about winter. Let's see.....

1. Hot chocolate and cider and cinnamon lattes.
2. Cuddling up beneath blankets and keeping each other warm.
3. Christmas movies and colorful lights and COOKIES.
4. Cute scarves and hats and big knit sweaters.
5. Pretty snowfalls.
6. Um......running out of ideas....
7. The joy (and painful prickling feeling) of coming inside from 1 degree weather?
8. Help! Need more ideas!
9. Fireplaces. Yes. Those are good.
10. Coffee shops with fireplaces.
11. Camping out with Phil in a coffee shop with a fireplace while pretty snow falls outside.
12. Wintery music. You know what I mean. Bon Iver, the National, other pretty things.

God, help me to focus on the good. Help me to find the warmth and sweetness of winter, to pluck the fruit when it's ripe, and not just hibernate until the summer awakens my soul again.

(But still, keeping my fingers crossed for a winter of 20+ degree temps and light, fluffy snow that does not clog up the roads and an early spring!!!!!! You never know.)