kizardofkoz

[kizardofkoz]

Muscle

It was a little over a year ago and we were visiting with our best friends over Labor Day weekend. I was still in my first year of new baby, knee deep in first-year-baby-love and my all too familiar struggle of *bouncing back* (which has Never been my actual experience. It’s more like a slow rolling on the ground mixed with some crying, disgust, guilt, disgust at my guilt and guilty about my disgust, very slow muscle gain and trying to figure out how many WW points are in the scones I just made - because friends, I make a mean scone) and I was just feeling so irritated with where I was compared to where I wanted to be. Our friends looked so lean, healthy, toned -and I? 

I was jealous. 

I felt soft and annoyed. While I was grateful that I carried a baby for the fourth time, I was So. Over. Losing. *The Baby Weight*.

They said the only real change they had made in their lifestyle was that they had been running. (They also only have half as many children and are in a different life stage with their ages, but we’re focusing on the health portion here.)

And so.

I began running. 

100% it was born out of a competitive desire to look and feel better and become a runner. But I actually found a part of me that I lost during quarantine, and the several year pattern of having and raising baby boys. 

I would leave my house for 30-60 minutes, put on a podcast that scared me (it was early fall when this love affair really began to take hold and I would listen to Spooked! - holy crap, it is absolutely terrifying. So I would throw in some true crime, just to shake up my amygdala) and as the weather started to cool and leaves started to turn, I found my alone time, running the streets of my neighborhood. 

And it was good. 

Necessary. 

Healing.

_______________________________________________________________________

I have had an interesting relationship with running and fitness my entire life. Exercise, up until this past year probably, was usually a punishment. A method to burn off the calories that I so painfully counted and tried to delete one way or another. (For several years -junior year of high school through sophomore year of college- that would involve sticking a finger down my throat, which is not a unique story for a teenage, American girl, yet it still feels quite vulnerable as I have never publicly mentioned it, like on this blog that has hundreds of thousands of followers. ;) I grew up sitting on a piano bench. I was never a super athletic kid (and was often told that) and things like running, and sports and physical coordination seemed like another realm that I would never know. So I would admire all of the athletic kids that looked so sinewy and strong and natural, and I would feel embarrassed and frustrated that God gave me the body that I had. I was grateful for my artsy, musical abilities, but in this culture, as a young woman especially, there is no greater skill or attribute, then to be small, smooth, and beautiful. 

I am still trying to figure out how to undo parts of this thinking. 

Stretched skin, years of confidence building, therapy and relearning that food is actually really delicious (who knew!) has helped tremendously. I wish I could hug younger me. 

But she had to learn this on her own. 

In her own way. 

In her own time.

So at this time, as a matured 37 year old, I went into running differently. I would leave my house and find new paths that had more gradual hills because you don’t realize how hilly your neighborhood is until you try to run. Or ride a bike. Or in my case, walk a bike up a hill.

But I would also allow myself to slow down. To walk. For the first time in my life I listened to my body, and if she was tired, I walked. If she couldn’t breathe, I slowed down to catch my breath. And it changed everything. I built strength and avoided injury. I looked forward to my next run because I wasn’t too sore, and because once I had quit using running as a method of torture it actually started to become quite rewarding.  My soul needed the exercise as much as my muscles.

Minus all of the true crime and ghost stories, it was kind of like prayer at times. Or some really bizarre, spooky therapy.

_______________________________________________________________________

Three weeks ago I had the absolute honor and life blessing of being able to attend a women’s retreat in Estes Park, CO. I flew there early on a Thursday morning to meet up with 20 women who I had never met to reconnect with a God that I was missing dearly and to find myself again.

Oh my gosh. 

I can’t even explain the exact magic of that weekend and I actually won’t give away too  many details because part of the retreats’ (there are two: a mens ones and they just began a women’s one last year) magic is the slight, secret-society-ish-ness of it, so a previous group won’t ruin the experience for those that follow. 

But I felt so taken care of and loved. I have not had the time and space to release and let go the way I was able to. In years. Every meal was prepared and cleaned by a woman named Jess. Every activity was thoughtfully planned yet not overbooked. I didn’t have to make a decision, make  breakfast or make a to-do list. My nervous system settled and my brain was clearer than I feel it has been in my adult life.

And my heart. 

I didn’t realize how lethargic I had become in my own faith. Of course I love God and Jesus and my faith is the most important thing to me, but was I actively doing anything to strengthen and encourage it? Negative. 

And this is where muscle comes in. 

I have been running and conditioning my body over the past year to run miles, to handle hills, build my stamina and improve my pace. I have put in the work and time and my body is stronger. Muscle memory.

In Estes, I feel like I just went through a spiritual bootcamp. I received a megadose injection of peace, love, refinement, depth, stillness and Jesus. I can either keep going and try to maintain and strengthen this muscle, or I can become apathetic, put it off for tomorrow, make excuses that were never meant to be excuses and just not prioritize this thing that I claim is the most important thing to me.

Guys. (And gals!)

I did it.

I’m doing it.

I am actually carving out time each day (mostly) and I am keeping a prayer journal and reading from a devotional (I go between Shauna Neiquest’s “Savor”  - thank you Meredith Hopping and Sarah Young’s “Jesus Calling”, thank you Mom), and I am Reading My Bible. (I’m a Message girl, which should not be surprising at all. The Poetry and FEELINGS!) And I am actually WANTING to read the bible. Like, I am finding it interesting and I actually kind of look forward to reading it the next day because I want to know what happens and not “I am reading this because I am Supposed to and because I have promised God since I was a child that I would read the whole thing and there’s no time like at age 37 to make good on a promise to Jehovah that I made as a 6 year old. That makes sense.”

I say all of these words NOT TO BRAG AT ALL BECAUSE NO NOPE NOPE NO NO, but to hopefully encourage others out there. (PS, I’m reading 1 Kings - if you’re Trump, that would be “One Kings”, I’m also praying for compassion and less judgment from myself. And that was the most compassionate way I could say that.:) I realized that just like with exercise, I often felt that if I didn’t have enough time to really sit down and read chapters of the bible, or have 10-15 minutes for a deep, thoughtful prayer, then it wasn’t worth giving God any time at all. I was being a perfectionist with my faith life and refused to not partake if it couldn’t be what I thought it would be. Or should be. 

And I don’t really think God, in the end, gives a shit. 

I think God wants any and all. God will take a 10 second, or 3 minutes or half hour long prayer. As long as it is authentic and humble and vulnerable because I think that is what God works with best and how we can refine and mature the most. I also think intentional longer prayers that include time to pause and listen (especially with the terrifying, faith building fear of But what if God doesn’t answer).  God and I have always chatted throughout the day, but overall, I realized that I was getting in my own way with some twisted perfectionism, when all God wants is my truest, most imperfect self.

Along with this, I have also been much more gentle with myself. I skipped a day the other day. (And yesterday!) And this is okay. I wasn’t able to get it in and instead of shaming myself and feeling guilty, negative and embarrassed, I gave myself love. I let myself  walk instead of run because there are busy days and hills and we aren’t made to run and dominate every single one of them every single time. 

 It is also important to note that I spent much of this weekend eating chips and birthday cake as it was our eldest’s first sleepover party. I stepped on the scale this morning and it was 2-3 pounds higher than it normally is. And you know what? I am actually okay. I am probably the most okay I have ever been in this situation and I am absolutely floored and comforted that I know God sees me and knows what I need. I know that in time I will get back to where I was, not with punishment but with mindfulness. And to stop eating the cake (it was so good though). And maybe ease off of the chips. 

And to joyfully run.

God’s grace is so wild, and beautiful, and abundant. 

I think I grew up with a bit of a childish, lopsided idea of God. I don’t know if it was my education, my church, my family or my own absorption and interpretation, but for a very, very long time I knew God was loving, but I also knew God was wrathful, jealous, vengeful and judgmental. After years of growth and exposing myself to other theologies, biblical philosophies, and finding my own spiritual and path, I have rediscovered Jesus and God in a whole new way. I have been reminded of, or relearned, God’s tenderness. 

God’s Gentleness. 

God’s Compassion. 

And I truly think if we could remember these qualities first, and also use these qualities first as Christians - to one another, to ourselves, and to *gasp* non-Christians - the world would literally be a different place.

So. 

I am going to continue building these muscles. I have worked really, really hard to get to where I am physically and I am really, really proud of it. I can run and keep up with my children, I have no idea what I could bench or deadlift but I can pick up our enormous <99% 1 year old multiple times each day and I feel like that in and of itself could be a really popular WOD. “The Kepler”: pick up 35 pounds 50 times and run across the house between each set of five. Then halfway through you change the laundry over as fast as you can and at the very end you realize you forgot to push start on the dryer. 

Repeat as necessary.

And I am going to continue building my spiritual muscle. This looks like prayer time, bible reading, (I even installed a wall light so I can read in this special spot because we know that special spots are really important to Jesus.) and prioritizing this priority to me. 

And this also looks like tenderness. 

Gentleness. 

Compassion. 

Because even God knows we need a sabbath and sometimes the body just needs to rest. 

The soul, too. 

And I am learning to be gentle with myself. To love me and give grace to me even when I skip a day. 

At least spiritually. 

Because physically, I am still doing “The Kepler” daily. 

Even more exhausting because my warm-up is “The Wyndsor”.

The charcuterie board that puts all other charcuterie boards to shame. Jess, a pilates instructor with a gift of hospitality, healthy cooking and presentation made us the most beautiful meals. And coffee. And wine. And pop corn. And fudge. I miss Jess.

I know what you’re thinking - *Now I see why they have 4 boys!* BECAUSE I LOOK SO DAMN GOOD IN OVERALLS!!

Just 20 something of my new dearest friends. I can’t wait to see them again next fall. So I can start crying every six sentences and zen out in all of God’s natural beauty coming through the landscape, the carved out time and the stories each of these women are carrying. Ready to drink around a fire with all of you again. I will try to stay up later this time. Maybe. (Who have I become??!) #Revel2021

[kizardofkoz]

The Eternal Pursuit of Emptiness

There I stood on top of the butte, with the closest of my people, and we humbly looked out over the sprawling desert. The landscape was like pieces of thrown pottery in fantastic and misshapen forms - rich shades of terra cotta, crimson and rust, and obviously, tears couldn’t help but fall, blazing small trails through the dust on my face. I couldn’t believe how fortunate I was. 

I was able to see this fraction of the kaleidoscope of nature. 

To be away with some of my favorite humans while I got to safely leave my absolute dearest ones at home with their grandparents. 

And I soaked in that dry west wind, whipping around us in warm gusts like ocean waves, leaves, and racing thoughts. 

My favorite three: 

1.) I call him my favorite. The man whose ring I wear, the father of my children, he yins my yang, tickles my brain and sometimes, when the timing is just right and we aren’t too tired, it isn’t too late or there isn’t something competing for our time on Netflix, we’ll occasionally play a round of some Chesterfield Rugby (PS - I just did a bit of a dive on some innuendos and my goodness. That is a really fun use of time. I can’t even write some of these but I am literally laughing right now. My mom reads this, you guys. And while I’ve [maybe?] worn her down a little on the curse words, I can’t go all in with the crass. 

Okay, fine. Just one: Harpooning the salty longshoreman. 

Fine, two: Nurtling. (I have no idea.) 

But I also feel it is unfair to not share Taking Grandma to Applebee’s? 

I’ve gotten off topic.

My other two loves on this trip are 

2.) My best girlfriend who I have had the honor of watching go through some of the best and absolute saddest experiences that I have humbly witnessed a human endure. And she navigated it all, and continues to go through life with a steadiness, focus, and motivation that is inspiring, still and sparkling. She has helped me move apartments, paint new walls when we moved into our first house, and paint the baseboards of those same walls on her morning off when we were selling that same house. She is fiercely dependable, loyal, she is the best damn person to travel with as she is equal parts responsible, adventurous and is a Type-A likes to research and plan things kind of gal where I’m more of the Type-B, let’s just dive in and see how we land type. We once held hands and jumped off the neighbors high dive on their dock on a girls lake trip very late one night. We’ve been to countless shows together. Gotten tattoos together. She’s one of the first people to hold my babies after they have been born and I can always count on her to order dessert. Her closet is the kind people pine after and she makes the best damn chocolate chip cookie you’ve ever eaten. She’s also married to my third person. 

3.) He is silly and kind and we have a podcast that we will some day launch, divulging our joint fascination with spooky things that make us light up and nervous laugh and open another beer as he tries to convince me that Yeti’s exist while I try to convince him to sing in church. We once started the idea of a band called “The Huggers and the Cryers” after drinking too much brandy on one of the very few New Years Eve’s that I was neither pregnant nor nursing a baby. Because he and I hug easily and love to cry. 

And don’t worry, I was back at babying the following year. Did you think I was going to go over 2 years and not have another boy? (Spoiler alert - NOT ANY MORE!!! And like, really for real, real. Grateful for IUD’s (and Steve’s eventual vasectomy) and for the four hilarious, adorable, wild, curious, loving and messy pups that we have now. 

But we have to stop. 

It’s like animal print. 

You have to find that fine balance between tasteful and too much. And unfortunately, a lot of times, a person doesn’t realize it is too much animal print, but everyone else does. This is my way of inviting an intervention if you see me starting to itch in the next few months. This is usually when we start Playing with the Box the Kid Came In (you guys, there are so damn many) so, you all have a responsibility, okay? Okay!

I have 100% gotten off topic.

Anyways.

The four of us did a smaller, summit hike on our last morning in Sedona this past month. (All of the couples of our closest tribe were invited to [crash] another couple’s 10-year anniversary trip. Three of us couples were able to swing it. And it was glorious. And very, very dry. And responsibly alcoholy.) 

So I was sitting near the edge of this butte and allowed myself to absorb the moment and then a vision came to me. (Yes, God gives me visions at times. And I also hear God at others. And I know how this makes me sound, and I have also quit caring because I believe if you are blessed enough to experience gifts like these, then you should be brave enough to admit it.) And in my minds’ eye, I saw a big teardrop shape, that was beautifully empty. 

Clear. Serene. Vacant.

And I exhaled and prayed and breathed deeply. I knew what God was telling me. That empty teardrop was empty of all worldly possessions and distractions, and in their absence, full and content. It was God in me. And I saw how I try to fill this tear drop with *all the things*; New siding, new shirts, new speakers and shoes, and magazines and schedules and technology and sports teams and equipment for sports teams and how these things pile on each other - at times inadvertently and other times compulsively and intentionally - and they become the main focus of my mind and my heart until they fill up and pile into this precious teardrop and the only part of the emptiness left is the space between all of the things.

The only part that is open and available for God, for contentment, or peace, is the space between.

The remainder.

And it is jagged and small and inconsistent.

Ironically, I try to complete my life with the things that I think make me happy, fulfilled and satisfied. Yet they are the exact things that end up taking away time, space and energy from the peace and contentment that is only truly felt when there is the empty space and quiet to focus on God.

So I exhaled and released it all. 

And I felt these earthly desires disappear and dissipate as I reclaimed that space, my sacred emptiness, that is so important to me. That is so important to God. And it was so easy, there on top of the warm rocks, accompanied by cactuses and bushes and my people and vortexes.

It is not easy, however, to empty myself in real life.

I tend to equate emptiness with negativity. 

Void of love, experience, calories, energy, connection.

But this spiritual cleansing is what I have needed for so long, and I forget to prioritize it. To protect it. 

This is the emptiness that allows space for *just being*. Breathing. For feeling God’s presence and consequently, the lack of desire for all of the other things that I constantly seek to fill that emptiness. 

A hollow holiness.

An exhale.

In church on Sunday our pastor spoke of spiritual vulnerability and the importance of confession. 

Ho.ly. Shit.

Where does one start?

Selfishness - in my marriage, in my relationships, with my time, with my children, with our money, with friendships, with my food and drink even. 

Materialism - wanting and focusing on all of the tangible, unimportant *things* of the world like new light fixtures, workout clothing, wall paper, throw pillows, hats, patio furniture, the perfect summer jean, the perfect front door mat, more peel and stick wallpaper, vacuums, planters, kids clothing, kids shoes, running shoes, house shoes, *let’s get some shoes*, drapes, ceiling fans, office chairs, boujee hand soaps, expensive skin care, swim suits & pianos. 

Gossip - Why is this so tempting??? I really try not to. I don’t really think I do. Much. And gossip isn’t like what it was when we were in middle or high school. But how tempting is it when there is a conversation about the neighborhood happening and you have hot insider information on why there isn’t a sidewalk on the neighboring street? How does one just go about their day and not share this with the person ringing up their fro-yo? I did not. Yet. Likely.

Lack of faith - Why does God keep expecting me to use faith if we both know I have it and used it last year?

Hypocrisy - Vomit. Where do we begin? Ughhkckhgh.

I would rather listen to podcasts about murder than the bible or deepening my faith. 

I focus way too much on my body and physical appearance.

I focus too much on how I want everybody to like me and if I feel like someone isn’t a Kiley-person, I obsess over it and get weird and needy and in my head and I shouldn’t really care if this person four rings out of my circle really cares about me and finds me kind, selfless and charming. But hopefully she thinks I’m a good dresser? *I AM ROLLING MY OWN EYES SO HARD RIGHT NOW*

I focus way too much on money and how we don’t have *enough-ish* even though we absolutely, 100% do have enough (non-ish) and will I ever be content and secure in this area?

I focus on what other people are doing with their time, money, lives and am left feeling jealous, angry and exhausted.

I focus on all of the things that take up residency in my teardrop, and I pray for God to take them away. For God to please forgive me for putting so much energy toward the unimportant instead of focusing the things God really wants for me:

Love. 

Self Acceptance.

Peace. 

Creativity. 

Meaningful relationships.

Connection with the divine.

Connection with my children.

More God.

Less stuff.

Less stress.

Emptiness. 

Contentment.

Enlightenment.

*Someone spent some time in the desert, can you tell?*

So I confess all of these things, yet again, to God, and to you all. And I pray that God will help me remember my desire for emptiness. To remember the importance, the value and treasure of emptying myself so I can fill it up with God’s love. With contentment. With peace.

So I can have extra time and energy to focus on the important things.

Like the eternal pursuit of emptiness.

Or for my husband and I to get to know each other better. In the biblical sense.

A terrifying and beautiful hike that sealed friendships in gold and red rock dust. We followed this 3-4 hour hike with breakfast and beers at a local, hole in the wall diner and it was my favorite meal of the entire weekend. And cheapest. I JUST REMEMBERED I HAVEN’T UNPACKED MY CRYSTALS YET!!!

Here’s my people. The hubs, and best friends Nicole & Brian. I don’t care if they don’t want their names shared. We have a constant google calendar invite to go to visit Big Sur every fall. We just keep putting it off but it makes me smile when I have to go to October in my calendar and book something.:) Some day.

I did yoga on the top of this thing like a gosh damn stereotypical basic B. But it was wonderful. But I also felt if I looked up during any balancing poses I would fall over, roll off the top and die. So I decided to look down a live. I’m a mom now so I make different decisions than I used to. 

This is just an awesome photo of summer. This was a couple weekends ago. We live down the street from the guy who used to be our entertainment lawyer for our old band. Now we have playdates on Friday nights and order pizza and drink craft beefs and our kids play together. And it’s awesome.

And this is just Keps eating pizza while getting wet from the general mist of the hose and water fights going on around him. I love this photo so much.

Surfs up, friends.

[kizardofkoz]

Mother’s Day, 2021

On this Mother’s Day 2021

It feels really nice to be celebrated and thought of for one day, different from my birthday, and taking a moment to recognize the honor, dedication, fatigue, responsibility and joy it is to be a mother. I never knew how important, fulfilling, heartbreaking and humbling that title could be.

“Mother.”

I am a mother to four boys. I have spent the past 9 years growing, delivering, nursing and raising babies. I have cried at night and angrily thrown back my covers when I had to wake up, yet again, to go nurse a tiny, crying human back to sleep. I have cried looking at positive pregnancy tests. I have cried looking at negative pregnancy tests. I especially cried the time a positive became a negative, and I wondered if I could ever carry a baby again. 

I did. 

Three more times.

I have gained and lost over 170 pounds between these four pregnancies. That’s more than I am now. I gained and lost more than me. 

Which is the wildest metaphor and understatement that I could possibly even think of to begin to explain motherhood. 

Oh motherhood. 

I never knew this love lived in me. Like opening doors to new rooms, new palaces inside of me, that I never knew existed. To grow a human and meet them for the first time, as they take their first breath of air, and to hold them on the outside, and not care that they are covered in blood and fluid and yourself, and to kiss their tiny little head and try to see yourself in their face and immediately begin soothing them, before even realizing you are doing it. 

This is motherhood. It is a reflex, an automatic exhale to the inhale and the creating, giving and sustaining of life. 

This is also God. 

Which is also Motherhood.

I know women in my life who have struggled. 

Who have wanted nothing more than to wait the three minutes, to see the two lines, and hear the first heartbeat and kiss the warm and wet head, and instead they are left empty. Again. 

Month after painful month. 

And they still give, love, care, nurture, celebrate, bring meals, hold others’ babies, throw showers, send gifts, swallow tears, cry angrily, inject hormones, take pills, scrape ovaries, pray for miracles, wait for papers, wait for families to not show up, wait for a mother to not change her mind, wait for the cancer to stop growing, wait for the miracle, pray for the miracle, cry for the miracle, surrender to the inevitable.

This is Motherhood. Invisibly. Painfully. Intensely. 

The longing was just the same yet the blessing never came, and I don’t understand God sometimes. 

I don’t want to question and so I spend an extra second smelling my children’s head at bedtime and pray and thank God for letting me be a lucky one, completely undeserving, and I pray for my friend, that this month might be different. 

And try to hold all of it in my heart. 

Because that’s also how motherhood works.

I think of my own mother. How I think of her when I was young, how I think of her now. Still completely incapable of grasping that she loves me the same way I love my own children. She never stops mothering. Finding joy and pain in my own growing pains. We grow like time-lapse videos of plants growing and spiraling toward sunlight. Spinning and adapting, finding out how to weather the elements. Finding ourselves. When I was young she would rub Baby Magic lotion on my skin after baths. No matter what we are going through, there might be no better reminder, or catalyst for healing, than the smell of Baby Magic. 

For my boys it is olive & marula.

Oh, how this is motherhood.

I will imperfectly continue this evolution, exploration and undertaking that is motherhood. I will laugh at their giggling, their dancing, saying their Kindergarten teacher’s name wrong for most of the year, how they play like puppies and lion cubs and the absolute delight of blowing and catching bubbles on a Friday morning in the mudroom. 

I will smile when I watch them teach one another, read a book together, grow more confident in their sports, playing the piano, watching them comb their hair in front of the mirror when they don’t know I’m looking. Watching the youngest look out the picture window and take in the world. Watching the oldest ride his bike away with neighbor kids. Watching the middle two occupy that space in between. Metaphorically. Physically. 

And I will cry. At the beautiful and tender moments that fuel life in between the difficult and monotonous ones. I cry when I really remember their births. When I think of mistakes I have already made as a mother. When I worry about the future mistakes they will inevitably make and pray that the consequences aren’t too damaging, and they can walk away bruised and not scarred. 

Mostly their skin, but especially their reputation. And skeleton.

And I will kiss their heads tonight. Smell their shampoo, their lotion, sing the songs, pray the prayers, quietly shut their doors and go sit.

Exhale. 

Be still, for a moment.

Because the body needs time to be still. She has worked so hard these past 9 years. And her soul needs time for rest. 

And I’ll still and scroll through photos from today after they are asleep. And if there is a glass of wine, I will go back and watch old videos from when they were babies. Wishing I could hold and remember them better, one last time, while wishing they would mature quickly into the next phase of life. My entire struggle of the past eight years. And the fear that I am wishing it all away. 

This, is motherhood.

[kizardofkoz]

Oh. Boy.

We are tied together by an invisible rope that no one can see but me. 

And my cells. 

It looks like milk and blood and tears and sweat, pouted bottom lips, first smiles, spit up, engorged breasts, dirty laundry and sweet 3:00 am smiles between burps, after switching sides nursing in the low salt lamp light of the nursery. Because after six weeks of never getting more than three hours of connected sleep, these smiles are nature’s way of making sure that I don’t abandon my offspring. Which I couldn’t regardless because I would feel him cry from 20 miles away.

I have only been away from him for 20 minutes in 6 weeks. Maaaaybe 24. We are tethered together and when he cries, my muscles vibrate and the back of my head floods with blood and alarm and I can not completely relax until he is completely relaxed, because this is motherhood and what I signed up for. Along with the unmatched joy of love, firsts, laughter, chubby armed hugs and sticky kisses. And the unmatched fear of college tuition, physical and mental well being, and trying to decide if it is actually that important to eat completely organic because again, college tuition, and who the heck is trimming their finger nails and when did everyone’s knuckles turn to sandpaper on the verge of bleeding? Who the heck has been managing their winterized skin because it certainly is not me. Where is their mother! 

Oh. 

Wait.

Shit.

Aquaphor to the rescue! 

I have not written in eons because life keeps happening and it is so hard to justify things that I feel I want, arguably need to do. No need to interrupt with a monologue on self care. I am very aware and I also hate the term ‘self care’ and there are more important things I should be doing while you’re talking. Like writing. Or laundry. Or crying. 

Anyways. This past year, 2019, was a year to remember and to never repeat. 

JANUARY: 

I booked my first commercial! Oh, btw, for those who don’t know, I do commercial modeling now. Before that sounds insanely glamorous and braggadocious, I have to clarify that “Commercial Modeling” is the type of modeling that you do in the Midwest where basically you are being hired to fit the criteria of a stereotype. There are Allll sorts of people, sizes, colors, etc. signed as commercial models and it has less to do with a person looking like a runway model, and more with a person just looking like, a person. And knowing how to find your light. 

But it’s been a fun new venture in this chapter of life and I have really enjoyed getting to do something *new*. 

And get *attention*. 

And enjoying the *crafts table* on sets.

In January, we also thought that we wanted to expand our family. I then came down with Influenza A the day after a really wonderful couples Mexican night at a friend’s house. 

I prayed that I didn’t infect any other person there. 

I prayed not to die.

FEBRUARY!

Two weeks later I got the stomach bug followed by Influenza B two weeks after that. My body was trying to quit 2019. 

I couldn’t blame her.

We decided to put child creation on pause until the Fall, as we weren’t even sure it was the right decision for our family as we daily debated the pros (Baby! Love! Four part harmony!) And cons. (Money! Time! Laundry! The time and money it will take to do all of that laundry!)

Steve began traveling more than ever this year. And my body forgot how to be a body. 

End February.

MARCH

The day after my birthday we left for our first ever family vacation. We flew to visit my in-laws in Naples, Florida. We discussed that this trip could be a litmus test for whether or not we should expand our family. A test of *Can we really handle this?*. (hahhahaahhahhahha.) The answer to this question is always, Always, a “No”. And if you Can answer “Yes”, you’re naive, because the answer is always “No”. But that shouldn’t deter you. Mostly. 

This trip was by far a high-light of the year, and life, really. The boys saw the ocean for the first time. We went on a swamp tour, ate fresh papaya, homemade almond milk, Key Lime pie and picnicked on the beach with pbjs and rosé. We walked around the lake of the condo’s complex every afternoon feeding birds and fish, and I feel like I relaxed and soaked in life in a way that I had not in recent months. 

Perhaps years. 

There is something so healing about being near the ocean. 

There is something so healing about being away from daily responsibilities.

There is something so healing about watching an alligator eat a giant marshmallow four feet from where your family is sitting on a boat with no railing in the middle of our nation’s finest treasure swamp.

IMPORTANT MOMENT: 

During our last walk around the lake on our last day, Steve & I were revisiting our initial conversation of *Can we do four?* I said that if I were to look at the past week, assess our lives and deduce all of the information and experiences of traveling and being responsible for these three little men under the age of 6, there is really no good reason for us to expand our family. So we need to come to a firm decision together and I either need to grieve the idea of having four children, which is something, even as a child, I always thought would happen, or we need to confidently decide together that expanding is something we want and we will neither regret nor resent the other person when times get tough. 

Because times will get tough.

We decide to wait, open-endedly.

Revisit the conversation at home.

Decide in the fall after we probably move this summer.

Just then a lovely Floridian retiree who looked like he was maybe a sports-coach-businessy-man in his younger years, passed us on the walking path on our left. With complete abandon and zero reason to speak to this stranger, let alone ask such a pointed question, I began:

Me: Excuse me sir.

Sporty-Business-Senior-Citizen: (A little confused why I am interrupting his walk) Yes?

Me: (Presuming he even had children) How many children did you have?

SBSC: Four. Four boys.

Steve and I looked at each other.

And cracked up. 

Nervously. Hilariously. With disbelief. And total abandon.

Steve: Why does God always do that for you?

I think because I ask.

APRIL

No more flus! Although a wonderful lingering cough that sounds like I have smoked everything I could for the past several years wakes up with me every morning and really shines when I try to sing at church. I keep kleenexes in my pocket to accompany the sexy vibe of my death rattle and question if my lungs will ever be *just air* again. 

Around mid-April I also began to feel really tired. Like, REALLY tired. I would lay in bed with the now-4 year old after reading him his book before nap and wondered if my body was going to be able to get back up.

Huh.

Wait.

Shit.

I know this tired. 

I peed on a stick. Because I always have extra tests around the house, stashed like a crazy little doomsday pack rat worried about procreation once shit hits the fan. It will be the Walton’s in their underground luxury bunker, and me in my home, surrounded by a ton of pregnancy tests. 

Positive.

I peed on four more sticks.

Positive.

X4.

To this day, I truly don’t understand how or when this happened because I tracked everything and knew when what was happening and the only explanation was that I ovulated twice or something in March, or early April, or a miracle, or I have no clue. But we were supposed to have four children, like my bones always knew, and God defied science and time and we were pregnant again, after trying, deciding to wait until the fall, not trying, while trying to decide what is the best decision for our family, and boom. I was so relieved and elated that we never had to make a final decision. Bonus baby came, and without giving too much information, although my comfort zone is typically a swimming pool filled to the brim with too much information, for the extremely curious and connoisseurs of poetry, from what I could deduce, bonus baby probably happened on April 1st, or April Fool’s Day.

Why does God always do that for me?

Because there are few things I appreciate more than a sparkling sense of humor. 

MAY

Shoot a commercial. Boys end school. Begin summer lessons - which I think I love.

JUNE

Decide I hate summer lessons. Our house is too small, too noisy, not good for students, not good for our family, not good for me. 

Decide we need to sell house.

JULY

House goes on the market. Hemorrhage money to get the house on the market (This was our first experience selling a house - WHICH I NEVER WANT TO DO AGAIN. It is completely absurd how much money it costs to sell a house. You question how you could have even lived in it before all of the updates and repairs. Answer is, easily. I really loved that house and she served us very well.)

Steve travels a ton. 

We find out the fetus, which my friends nick-named “Quadzel” is indeed a boy. Which we all knew, didn’t we? Kozels are never on time. Kozels love pizza, dance parties, and dogs. Kozels. Make. Boys. 

4 boys. 

Four. 

Boys. 

There’s four of them. 

HAHAHHAHAHhahahahahAHAHAHAHhaha

Moving on.

Pregnancy, house hunting, home selling, money, work, parenthood, traveling spouse, about does me in. I cry a lot. And sweat a lot because St. Louis summers feel like you are inside of a dragon’s nostril, and I wonder when this chapter will ever end.

Get offer on house.

Buyers walk away.

Cry a whole, whole, whole, bunch.

Question if the water sac that my fetus is growing in is mostly made of cortisol, tears, nourished by potato chips, bananas and sparkling water.

House goes back on market.

Get offer on house.

AUGUST

Close on new house. Pack. Clean. Paint. 

Three biggest highlights of our summer: 

1.) Our nanny. She loves our boys and family as if we all share DNA. She is loving, kind, enthusiastic, an unbelievable singer, she laughs easily, cares for my family so deeply, and she puts a cross across my growing belly when she hugs me goodbye. I love this girl as if we share DNA. 

She is family.

2.) Our painter. He is incredibly smart, wildly funny, appreciates good food, my children, my chaotic inability to have normal emotions and we enjoy a witty banter mixed with shared lunches of hummus and crackers, discussing thoughts on faith, politics and paint tips, with a few Seinfeld and Jimmy Stewart impressions thrown in for good measure.

3.) Our new house. We won the lottery here. It holds us (and more!), and is a ranch (which I always wanted because our next door neighbor’s house growing up was a ranch and it felt enormous - it was also enormous - but I loved how much space it felt like there was to walk around. To hide from future children). 

In this new house there is a place for me to do piano lessons, a swing set (that needs some TLC) and my deal-breaker of finally having a fireplace (there are TWO, which makes us seem waaaay Richy Richer than we are). And my final wish-list item which is a separate mudroom. It’s divine. And has somehow become the room that I spend the most time in, because this is also where I fold laundry as it doubles as an upstairs space to watch TV since the piano took over the main living room area. This also makes us look high brow and fancy, not having a TV in the main part of the house. But then you realize we just moved the TV into the mudroom, which actually reads very desperate, thus creating a fancy-deficit.

The biggest win of all, however, is our street. There are three other families (two a little older) that have four boys. (WHAT?!) It’s like there is some cosmic, magnetic pull toward Y chromosomes to the end of this little street in this little neighborhood, and we had no chose but to move in.

And this lovely little street laid with asphalt and testosterone happens to be notorious for trick or treating. Or the night that we send our kids to bed with eyeliner whiskers stained on their faces, drunk off of sugar and an extended bedtime, while we can go downstairs, drink a pumpkin beer and eat their full size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. 

But there are kids. Lots. It feels like a bottled up moment in time where kids still ride bikes in the streets and a dad that throws a football to his sons on Sunday afternoons while neighborhood kids run from one house to the next - or stay where they can until a parent throws them out. 

Because you know what is not quiet? 7 year old boys. And eventually they are going to smell terrible. And be somewhat bad influences on each other. But for today, they make dumb jokes and play with Legos and try to impress each other and still cry when their feelings get hurt. I want to bottle up this age because time is limited and those dumb jokes are going to turn dirty, and Legos will be replaced with video games and they won’t cry anymore. Especially when they need to. 

We celebrated our 11th anniversary. Steve turned 37 the next day.

SEPTEMBER

All. Three. Boys. Are. In. School.

We are moved into the new house and I spend the next three months with free mornings painting, cleaning, unpacking, decorating, painting, cleaning, nesting, laundry, painting, nesting, laundry, eating and I am the most productive that I have been since 2012.

And we lost and found Pocket about a billion times.

OCTOBER

Pocket turns 11 and promises to quit trying to run back to our old house.

Annual lake weekend with our best friends.

Book an industry gig in Chicago for an airline. Turns out “Tired, pregnant mom” is marketable?

Eat, Paint, Love.

NOVEMBER

I begin contracting. My due date has changed eight times since our first OB appointment. By the end of November I contract every day and every day I think I am in labor. We skip Thanksgiving at my Aunt & Uncle’s house because we are afraid of going into labor two hours from home.

We don’t. 

But an alternativeThanksgiving in town at our aforementioned friends’ house ends up being a really special celebration and much needed distraction. Because who doesn’t want a 9 month pregnant woman at their Thanksgiving table, going inward while she contracts between bites of pumpkin pies. I use the plural here because in addition to this family’s gift of being warm and welcoming to us at their Thanksgiving table, they are also notorious for their pie enthusiasm. I had limited time left to eat for two so that day I ate pie for about 9.

Eat, Pray, Contract.

DECEMBER

Part of the gaggle of due dates has to do with the fact Quadzel is measuring large.

After weeks, days and prayers of choosing whether or not to induce, we decided to go ahead and listen to our OB’s advice and do a 39 week induction on December 6th. I had never had an induction date before and for my swan song delivery, I really wanted to go into labor on my own. Screw that. The amount of contractions crescendoing in the three weeks leading up to this induction date sufficed that noble desire. And the exhaustion and impatience from these three weeks made going in the morning of the 6th feel like relief and success.

At 4:41pm, air filled the lungs of our fourth and final boy. My body almost instantaneously felt relief from having him out of me, like a giant fetus sized splinter being removed. Our little 8 lb.12 oz. spud settled down almost instantly in my arms. 

Kepler R. Lumen Kozel looked like his brothers, but mostly like himself.

Our family was complete.

The following weeks were mixed with stomach bugs, snow days and Christmas, all jumbled up in every order, and we were trying to adjust to a family of six. 

And I don’t think we lost Pocket once.

In one light, my year reads quite magically. New house. New baby. New gigs. New chapters.

Healthy. Happy. Home.

In a different light, I look back and see a mother and wife who was balancing on thinning ice while watching a river of stress and anxiety rush beneath her feet. Viruses, decisions, hormones, pregnancy, stress, raising three boys, working from home, traveling husband, selling a house, buying a house, money stress, time stress, gosh damn inspection failure stress and throw in aggressively paying off credit cards, living as cheaply as possible for months, a few really painful conversations with people very important to me, and trying to be a good piano teacher, friend, sister and daughter. It was too much. I cried a lot in 2019.

And if I could change one thing, I actually wouldn’t change that stress. Or even getting the flu(s) or having buyers back down on our house. 

I would like to change my response.

I would like to acknowledge, without shame, the fear and anxiety that bubbles, boils and swirls inside of me. And I would instead take back the wheel from these emotions and after a good hug and a few deep breaths. I would exhale and faithfully consider that my life is not going to catastrophically implode, the stress is temporary, and I don’t have to live in a place where there is a pedal tone of fear vibrating underneath my hours. 

(I also have an internal struggle where I realize that all of these challenges are very privileged problems. I am lucky to have these stressors because I was born a white heterosexual woman in a family in a certain socio-economic level, in America. There are still issues within those parameters, but I feel a bit squeaky or tone deaf if I don’t at least acknowledge that I know there are so many, many people out there that wished they had my problems to deal with. But then this goes into my thought process of just how one person’s beauty does not negate another person’s beauty. One person’s suffering doesn’t negate another person’s suffering. We can call just listen to one another with compassion and empathy and respond with “Wow, I’m really sorry you’re hurting”. Or, “That seems like a lot on your plate. I am sorry you are struggling, I would too.” Or for me personally, “What coffee or champagne can I bring you?”)

I don’t know when I will learn to live in a place where I don’t react at 100 and feel my throat tighten and the muscles at the base of my neck feel like if they can contribute and hold my skeleton together, then I have more control.

Because I don’t.

And for the most part, things work out whether or not my throat and neck help. 

I could have just gone through last year more relaxed and faithful and end up exactly where I am. Which is a pretty great place. Minus the extra stress and worry. (smerky smerk)

But that feels completely unrealistic, and not even authentic to who I am. 

But I can work on authentically and empathetically giving myself space to acknowledge these stressors, and then to breathe. Deeply. Wholly. Holy.

Fear and anxiety will never fully go away, but I can at least relieve them from their driving privileges and promote myself from sitting shotgun in my own shit show.

This past year has also taught me three very valuable lessons:

I will forever be getting a flu shot for the rest of my life.

I truly don’t plan on moving again, for the rest of my life.

If we do end up moving, it will be because we have entirely too much money to fit inside of this house and we will hire people to do every last aspect of moving, from packing things into boxes, to getting a stupid fence up to code, and filling in every nail hole and repainting our walls to make it look like we never lived here. And there are tons. Because I’m a nail three times, then measure kind of girl. 

Which is probably one of my most annoying charms.  

Along with hearing from God.

And gestating enormous boys.

(Let it be known, it took actually 10 gosh damn days to write this stupid thing. There is never a complete window of time to do anything. Kepler naps about 36 seconds at a time before spitting up and shitting himself and then I soothe him back asleep. And I am tired of hearing every single person’s opinion on the Super Bowl. It happened. I nurse every two to three hours around the clock right now and I internet better than anyone. I am tired of reading about this. Let’s get back to pictures to unconsciously, subconsciously (did you like that?) make everyone jealous, posting funny animal videos and acting like we are all experts on politics. K? K! xo, KK)

My computer isn’t wanting to compute well right now and this seems to be the only photo I can upload from My Photos. Which is weird and wonderful as these are our dear friends who we couldn’t be luckier to do life with. Annual lake weekends and Thanksgivings with them. They have amazing taste in food, music, and style. Our senses of humor and interests seem to braid together effortlessly, and they are my favorite people to share a bottle of wine, Mike’s Hot Honey, or 1000 pies with.

Here is Kepler. King of calories. Poops hourly. And now smiles like a pumpkin.

These are photos from his first 24 hours, when the boys came to meet him for the first time. I cherish these photos more than most earthly possessions and we paid for them and I am getting ever penny’s worth so here are some faves.

And you should check out Crystal Bucky because she is such an amazing photographer. 

And here he is yesterday. Wearing a 6 month outfit in his eighth week of life. What a hoss. I love him.

[kizardofkoz]

I’m giving up Zillow for Lent. And other thoughts on bravery.

I felt a nag. The thought seeped into the back of my mind like sunlight slowly stretching in the narrow cracks of a pulled shade in the early morning.

 Haunting me. Taunting me. It’s been on my heart for weeks. And It’s time I face the reality.

I feel like I am supposed to give up Zillow for lent.

Please God, anything but Zillow. This is possibly the biggest sacrifice I could possibly make.

Sure, my actual realtor will send me notifications of a home that fits the exact credentials that I need as a mother of three growing boys who teaches piano lessons out of our home and would love a great backyard, four bedrooms, two full baths, and if that puppy had a circle drive, then sweet baby Jesus, I have been gifted my real estate unicorn.

But in reality, Zillow has actually probably robbed me hours of my life, and there is a direct correlation between the accumulating time I have spent searching the same two zip codes over and over, and the pulsating anxiety that grows over finding the perfect home (Spoiler alert: doesn’t exist). Anxiety over lusting over homes both in and out of our budget (what would $50,000 more look like? Spoiler alert: Bitterness over not being able afford homes in that price range ). And anxiety over calculating and re-calculating the mortgage calculator as if starving children in Africa would be fed if I could only find the perfect balance of listing price, down payment percentage, and monthly payment.

I need released from my Zillow prison.

My big house, big house.

Shit.

SO!!!

Let’s Re-cap!

I’ve been busy!!

It is amazing what I like to think about and do when I’m not pregnant and new-babying! In January I decided I was really going to go after some dreams. 

Business Concept A.), which I found a partner for at a funeral. Where all of the best business partnerships are formed. 

B.) A Podcast, which basically feels like a funeral right now as it is taking a back seat to taxes and Business concept A. 

And C.) I signed to an agency a few days before Christmas last year and have been working on getting some print and commercial work. “Commercial Modeling” is different from “Runway Modeling” because the commercial world is composed of women under 5’8” who can still love and eat pizza. Which is perfect because those are two of my most qualifying credentials.

But I have been very intentional recently with what I am seeking, putting my energy toward, and I have not ceased to be floored at the opportunities that have been opened up because I quit thinking “Maybe someday?” and I started asking “If not now then when?”. Literally. It’s a mantra.

It’s even applicable when I’m in the parking lot of a place and I just can’t bring myself to go inside and run another stupid errand. The number of times I’m literally in the parking lot of any store and the idea of going inside seems about as hard as running 5 miles, or emptying the dishwasher. But dammit! Probiotics, razors and pancake mix aren’t just going to go buy themselves! I’m a trailblazer. For myself. Doing crappy things that I don’t want to do.

And awesome things that I do want to do…

I was randomly sitting eating my lunch this week at a local restaurant and decided to eat in their lower level as I know it’s less crowded and I wouldn’t be taking up a full table by myself, because I am an insanely selfless patron.

The owner was downstairs having a meeting with two other women about an event they are putting together. I was very focused on my work - I had a 10:00am appointment with my C.P.A. the following day to go over my 2018 taxes. The 72 hours leading up to my CPA executions appointments, are a very weird time where I am in this dreamlike oblivion where I don’t know if we are going to feel the sweet and exotic relief of a tax refund, or the more familiar dread of needing to scrounge up a lotta coinage to begrudgingly give to Ceasar on the 15th of April, this Christian Calendar year. I am in a self-employment purgatory, warded by an all-powerful tariff sheriff. Basically I’m picturing Jafar as the evil genie at the end of Aladdin demanding my quarterly payments, receipts, write-offs and then laughing as he says I owe 10% more as if *I* was the crazy one even though he’s the one who chose to be a serpent. Dumbass.

Anyways.

So I was sitting, eating my lunch, refiguring for the 57th time what my income was last year (where did it go?! Tar-get…) and these lovely ladies were talking about their event. The theme, intention, needs, location, keynote speakers, ideas, *record scratch*, heart race, look up, “What kind of keynote speakers are you looking for?” Sometimes, before Head-Kiley even has a chance to filter the way a normal person would, Heart-Kiley is already on the fearless train. Bags packed. Talking to strangers. 

After a brief exchange of information, niceties, and the 3 seconds of courage that any scary situation requires, I offered myself up as a keynote speaker.

WHAT?! 

HAHAHHAHAHHAHHAahhahahahhaaHAHAHAHAHA

But.

It’s something I always wanted to do. Ever since church camp when I was younger, I always pictured myself some day speaking in front of a crowd. Sharing personal stories. Combining some of my favorite things: vulnerability, authentic real talk, inviting people to laugh at the hilarity of life, and being the center of attention. 

:)

In my mind, if I ever became a keynote speaker, it would eventually come from writing in my semi-annual blog (eat that Victoria Secret Sale), or from growing my other entrepreneurial endeavors, or maybe even a really bitchin viral video of me breathing fire (Yes. Yes I can.) while folding a fitted sheet. 

Just kidding, no one knows how to fold a fitted sheet.

But there was an opportunity. And I saw it and I spoke up. 

Because this is the year.

I’m almost 35, and “If not now, then when?”.

This component of my personality completely baffles and frustrates my husband. The Emperor of Excel, planning, editing, and thinking things through until he talks himself out of any given action, he is completely mystified, and even annoyed, that I can sashay into any situation, and operate with the most potent and confusing cocktail of unabashed unselfconsciousness, unnecessary confidence that is pretty much entirely fueled by complete obliviousness to how society typically operates. 

I think of it more as this very real and visceral feeling that on a daily basis, I subconsciously keep a baseline awareness that this is the one chance I have at life, and I don’t really care too much about taking risks and failing.

 It’s not that things work out for me because I have a weird magic, good luck, and opportunities that others don’t, it’s that when I see a possible opportunity for good luck, my only weird magic is that I could kind of give two shits if I fail.

The worst case scenario in any situation is that I don’t try. If I don’t succeed, I end up in the exact same place as I would if I didn’t try in the first place, only with the core-cleansing content exhale that I was true to myself. I took a risk. And at the very least, I probably have a really funny story that came from all of it.

I don’t know if anything will come from my weird self-proposing-speech giving. Honestly, I don’t even care (a ton) because I’m really just proud of myself for speaking up for something that I’ve always wanted, when the opportunity presented itself. How lame would it be to write about when I wanted to do something and I didn’t. Instead, I get to do stuff and laugh at how ridiculous it is. And it gets remarkably easier the more I do it.  Heart-Kiley: 1

A practice of tenacity, spunk and fearlessness.

To me, that’s kind of what life is. A chance to practice being our most fearless, spunky, wild selves. And day after day, we have chances big and small to practice ceasing opportunities, and making choices. From the breakfast we eat (I actually choose the same one every morning - sautéed greens, two fried eggs with a slice of melted American cheese on top and black coffee. It makes me so happy. Ambrosia.). To even being fearless in choosing what we will wear. Plaid? Florals? Sequins? Only if it’s all together! 

And bigger choices of fearlessness, like choosing (or not choosing) our partner. Choosing the number of children to have (and may I recommend all boys?). Or choosing whether to buy the $6.99 bottle of champagne because it’s on sale from $9.99, or do we buy the $9.99 bottle because it’s on sale from $17.99? Spoiler alert: They are both going to do the job so just pick the cheaper bottle because this year we are also focusing on our finances and the extra $3 bottle isn’t going to change your life.

It’s not like when you are sitting eating your lunch and doing your taxes and eaves-dropping and then insert yourself into a meeting and suggest that you are what the people are looking for.

But I do think champagne would be very helpful in that scenario as well.

Maybe to celebrate.;)

And if that opportunity doesn’t pan out, another one will. 

And it will still require courage. 

Spunk. 

Tenacity. 

Either the courage to speak up for yourself and say “Yes. I should be the person for this opportunity.” Or perhaps, the even braver courage to say “No, Zillow. I know I’ve had two glasses of wine and at this point you are whispering sweet nothings like “Fireplaces”, “Finished basement”, and “padded kids playroom you can lock from the outside” but I see through you and I am not giving you an undeserving 23 minutes of my life and then 6 more during the next commercial break, because you will leave me feeling both indulgent, deprived, and with an unscratchable itch to try out a new down payment percentage whilst simultaneously looking up mid-century color pallets on Pinterest, because ‘It’s good to be prepared.’ BUT NOT ANY MORE!!!!” (Or respectively, March 6th-April 18th, Happy Early-Lent, everybody.)

Plus, I’ve got keynote speeches to not give.

And Jafar-Ceasars to revolt against.

Nor will that $6.99 bottle of champagne drink itself.

Now.

Time to get back to Business Prop. A.

Because If not now, then when?

Taxes

This is just a great photo of Blair in his chameleon costume climbing off of the couch.

Did you know when you apply at a modeling agency, you have to have photos of you with no make-up and natural hair? Yeah, neither did I and thank God my endlessly talented and selfless friend Heidi Drexler met me in my driveway and took pictures of me while I wore a black tank top that I bought and returned to Target the same day. Because when you see an opportunity, sometimes you ask favors and hope the people along the way know how endlessly grateful you are. 

And you BRING IT.

LATER!

[kizardofkoz]

Pre-Christmas Proposal

I got up early today to workout.

We went to bed late last night and I had every intention of sleeping as late as I could, and my husband’s phone alarm (which allegedly detects when he is at a shallow point in his sleep cycle and takes that cue to gently usher him into the day) woke me up. He rolled over to go back to sleep. He will defend that he did not actually fall back asleep. I’m awake. We both lost.)

I had every intention of doing yoga. It’s what I do now. 

I know. I feel as elite as I sound. 

But I just can’t this morning. I need to write. And so am taking the remaining minutes of quiet in my home to write in a blog that I mentally write in daily, and physically write in yearly.

Here we are! It’s almost Thanksgiving! I think the last time I wrote in this was last August? Or the one before that? You guys, I’m super busy.

:)

BUT. I feel like I may actually start being more intentional with this thing, and step one of that is smaller posts. *Simple Starts* is my motto. One of them. Others may include “We aim for passion, not perfection.” and “If you’re going to have a baby, try a boy!” (By the way, I feel it is important at this time to tell you that my brother and sister in law are pregnant with the 8th grandchild of my family. It’s a boy. There are still zero girls, and 8 grandsons.) 

We are science. Gone wrong.

So right now, it is a lovely and quiet November morning and I’m in that place before the holidays begin, where life is still simpler, easier, and I truly think I’m going to be very intentional and minimal with our holidays this year.

It’s so cute.

But I’m for real this time. (Pretty sure.) And we have simplified our life going into the holidays. 

UPDATE: 

I no longer work until 9:00pm , just Mondays.

We just hired sitters (last week) to be here and hang with the boys three days a week while I am doing lessons. (My husband has been working insanely hard -whole other future post- and opportunities at his work have allowed me to be able to simplify things on my end. Which I am so very grateful for, yet there is always a sacrifice somewhere and that now comes with less time together, occasional travel, and me picking up on house work. Which is kind of a joke to a mother who is part-time (full-time) stay at home mom, and part-time (full-time) self employed and works out of the home. I am always doing laundry, I have always just vacuumed, and I am Always. Doing. Laundry. (Dazes off into the mid-distance, imagining a rolling field blanketed by mounds of laundry. The female lead frolics through the field with a pinwheel in each hand. Slowly, she shifts her head, looking straight into the camera, as the pinwheels spin out of control, shooting pyrotechnic sparklers like comet trails, while the mounds of laundry go up in flames. Wild sparks flare up from the ground like an 80′s metal show, and she laughs manically leaving the audience wondering who is in control of Laundry Hell - The ingénue or the flames.) 

And my Christmas recital is going to be breaking grounds in November this year. Thanks to the stroke of genius from another teacher who uses November as her “Christmas Kick-off Recital” and can use December to maintain her sanity. Or for me, what remains. We piano teachers all have a little (or a lot) dose of wacky, they way you imagine we would. I sometimes feel like I’m about one animal print and kaftan away from having lipstick on my teeth 24/7 and somehow talking in an accent somewhere between a Kennedy and Kathleen Turner. I feel if you threw Janis Joplin into that cross section, I may have just nailed down my exterior in a pretty unexpected and accurate way. Good morning. The oldest two are now coming down the stairs.

We all want simpler. We want easier, less stress, more special, more magic, less unnecessary stuff, more love, and gifts that when received, ignite an appreciation and connectedness - because the recipient felt *got* and the giver walks away feeling like their efforts and love were not only seen, but appreciated.

Isn’t this all we really want?

Feeling seen and appreciated.  Feeling valued and understood. If I could wrap *that* up and give those feelings to those I love for Christmas, it’s all I would ever give. Instead I continue to give different versions of the same gifts each year. I don’t know if it’s because it’s what I like to give, it’s easy, it’s what people like to receive, or some trained and expected infusion of the three. 

I was listening to “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” on my way home from dropping the older two off at school this morning, and naturally I started crying. The line “Next year all our troubles will be miles away”. Lyrical diamond mine. The past few years around Christmastime, I recall feeling so stressed and anxious and then feeling guilty that I was feeling so stressed and anxious and it was a delightful Catch 22 made of bad feelings, wrapped in spending too much money and eating too many carbs. (This may also be America’s tagline.) My closest girlfriends and I would lament to one another of how spread thin we felt, pondering how to focus on our faith and our families, without the fatigue of fighting the break-necking pace (I love that phrase) of the culture of an American Christmas. 

We can do better. 

We deserve to do better. 

My family is happier and smoother when I am happier and saner, and that comes from having a pace that my soul can live in. Having a bank account that reflects our contentment and not a desperate need to spend and give out of a spirit of anxious consumption and subconscious competition. By having boundaries with our time, money, and energy, so we can keep the stress and external demands at arms length, while keeping our most important assets safe in our arms. Preferably on the couch, in pjs, while watching The Polar Express (I have never seen it!!).

So I challenge myself. 

And you.

 It is not new, but it is a lesson we all seem to keep forgetting each Holiday Season, and all the ones in between. Consider this our Pre-Christmas Proposal: How can we be intentional with our time and money, while keeping the magic and significance of Christmas? 

Or is it because we will be more intentional with our time and money, that Christmas will then be more magical and significant? 

(Cue that video where kids are interviewed about what they want for Christmas and every one of them  just wants to spend more time with their parents. Cue the 10 minutes of crying following said video. And the 30 minutes after that to recover.)

Who’s in? How do you plan to do things differently this year? 

I will be:

A.) Planning a thoughtful budget and sticking to it. Because that extra candle, beard conditioner, or puzzle won’t love the recipient more than my excel spreadsheet loves a positive number.

B.) Beginning a movie watching tradition with our boys, starting with a few very important holiday movies. Likely The Grinch, Meet Me in St. Louis, and Elf. While every night I will alternate watching Home Alone I & II, throwing in Christmas Vacation every fourth, just to mix up the cadence. And ecstasy.

C.) We will give four presents (Nothing new - “Want, Wear, Need, Read”, but like REALLY only four and not seven inside each box.) And Santa gives three presents because Jesus received three presents. I know of multiple families who do this. Plus, one of our mottos is “If it’s good enough for Jesus...” This mainly refers to swaddling blankets and cheap wine.

D. And conclusion:

Perhaps this is not simplifying but definitely making Christmas more significant-

I am hosting a Christmas Carol night around my neighborhood. And I want to explode I am so happy about it. We used to sing at nursing homes at youth group growing up and I absolutely Loved it. At least one time I remember my family and some neighbors caroling around our neighborhood when I was younger. And each year, our show choir would walk around and carol at the end of our Christmas party. I. Love. Caroling. And so I put out a Facebook post for a humble little inquiring invite, and friends from all stages of my life signed up. Over 30 different friends and families reached out to join in. Friends from high school, college, church, other church, other church, pre-school, Crossfit. Even friends from out of town who at this point I honestly don’t even know if they are joking...

People want special. 

People want magical. 

We want to feel connected, and create music and beauty and share connectedness and music and beauty. This resonates with Everyone, and I think people are hungry for an opportunity to experience it. I can think of friends and families in my life (some partaking!) of all different faith backgrounds (Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Catholic, Athiest, Agnostic, Crossfit) and all of these friends and families share the same desires as I. (And they will likely get caroled to - with the appropriate religious connotation, sensitively chosen at their doorstep.) 

We all want love, happiness, good health, deep and meaningful friendships, a warm and safe home, and a happy holiday season - just some celebrating with more alcohol than others. I truly feel that these human needs and desires bind us more to one another than any religious differences divide us. These gifts, values, and sentiments, are important to people everywhere. Security. Love. Feeling seen and appreciated, valued, and understood. So lets bind the over spending, the over committed schedules, even the over indulgent consumption of food and drinks (perhaps even my biggest holiday [and every day?] struggle yet) and in that place, loosen the spirit of generosity, love, ease, and focusing less on stuff and more on the Magic.

And I think the first way I will begin all of this is by cozying up on the couch and watching a movie. Likely starting with Meet Me in St. Louis.

 Plus there’s a song in there that I know a group of singers are probably going to be singing very soon...

Remember when I always did three pictures? Me too! Let the tradition live on!

Here is a recent picture of a typical meal at our house. I can not tell you that this was for certain breakfast, as on Saturdays the older two typically spend the entire day in pajamas, when possible. Less laundry for me. Lovely.

Also, any minute of any day. It should be noted, while it may not be obvious, they are actually all happy here. Also note - pajamas. And why is there a pumpkin under the drawers?

A recent photo of the husband and I. We went to Europe (!!!!) and I apparently got real shiny there. This trip was also so magical. We will go back. Maybe with all that extra scrilla from not overspending on Christmas presents. Over the course of ten years. 

BYE BYE BYE!!

[kizardofkoz]

I used to be cool. And other thoughts on surgery.

It was a very specific type of exhaustion. 

Tired muscles, tired brains, tired feet carrying heavy equipment up and down stairs in high heels at 1:30am, buzzed from the drink tickets and the ecstasy of playing on stage.

My husband and I used to play in a band.

We toured and played shows on a regular basis.

It was really hard at times; No steady income, sleeping on floors next to cigarette butts and cat piss, playing shows to hardly anyone, hours in the van on the road. But there were also shows where crowds knew our lyrics, where we were asked for encores, there were countless inside jokes, beers, coffees, Thai food and Taco Bell, and some of the best nights of our lives including memories that we still giddily open like presents when reuniting with other former members.

I recently ran into one of these former band members at Target, naturally, and we both were saying how being able to have those years of playing, performing, and touring, are what makes us able to do what we do now:

Parenting. 

And I kind of hate the word adulting like I how I hate all cheap trendy language, but in this case, it’s so true.

Adulting.

Like, the hardcore adulting shit.

It was a very specific type of injury. 

We had an afternoon band rehearsal that my husband and I  were running late to, naturally, and I was hurrying down the stairs of the house we had moved into only a few months prior while I was literally trying to push a birth control pill out of its lovely little tin and plastic home. My foot slid and I fell down the bottom half of our stairs, ending sitting in cross-legged at the bottom, and completely freaking out that I could no longer feel my right hand.

Ulnar Nerve Entrapment are three words I have now come to say so naturally and regularly they are part of my vernacular like “Wash your hands!”, “Stop touching him!”, and “More champagne, please.”. 

Basically, the nerve that runs to my pink and half of my ring finger on my right hand has been out of place since 2010 and those fingers have been asleep - pins and needles, and partially numb. The worst, inevitable case scenario for people who suffer from this are the scariest three words on the planet: “Irreversible muscle wasting.”

FUN!

This past spring, while at my beloved hair salon, I stumbled into a completely random and coincidental (God) meeting with a girl who was getting her hair colored at the same time as me. We became instant friends, bonding over shared political views, both growing up in rural Illinois, and she possessed the wit, energy, and even similar looks, to a young Leslie Snopes. Instant friends. 

She also happens to be a miracle-angle-worker and months later after I realized that her job as an Occupational Therapist does not, in fact, mean that she helps people with, Jobs, she explained that she works with patient’s arms and hands and her office happens to be next to one of the top surgeons in the world for Ulnar Nerve Entrapment, and she managed to get me in (bypassing the politics and red tape of an intense waiting period, and petitioning to get to be seen by this expert surgeon), and now this Wednesday I am going under and getting surgery on my right elbow, arm, and wrist.

!!!!

I am going to be in artifical sleep state, without anyone bothering me, needing me, or asking me questions.

This sounds like a fantasy.

And when I wake up, I should be able to feel my fingers again.

Sweet baby Jesus this is the miracle of a lifetime.

And thanks to my last miracle 6 months ago, my deductible is met and we won’t have to endure any extra financial hardships.

“More champagne, please!”

This is all actually quite a round-about way of saying how we used to be cool.

We partied and performed, we played music festivals and had radio interviews, photo shoots, I was the luckiest girl in the world to get to do it all with my boyfriend, fiance, and eventually, my husband.

 We kept Urban Outfitters in business and drank PBR like water. 

Gash dammit we were cool.

Yesterday afternoon I played music at a child’s birthday party.

Immediately following that we ran to a wedding shower and then a fundraiser at our boys’ preschool (Where I may have accidentally bid on a catered dinner for 20 from Chipotle in a silent auction.

And won.

And now we’re buying a deep freeze. Which is kind of a nail in the coffin of domestic dominion.

Being able to have those years lets me do what I do now.

I don’t feel like I missed out. I don’t feel like I didn’t get to be wild, or creative, or imbibe or just do whatever the hell we wanted because we were young and that’s what you do.

You wring out every last drop of freedom that you can and then you lick it off the table next to your green curry chicken and cheap beer, and absorb that feeling, that time, and that elation.

And then you begin and evolve into your adult life. 

And it is incredibly exhausting and unbelievably rewarding, and you had no idea that the enthusiasm that you used to enjoy a completely open weekend, you now feel for visiting parks with friends and having dance parties in the kitchen, or chasing each other around the trees at the ice cream parlor after an impromptu 5pm dessert run. 

We collect these memories and these moments and watching the oldest begin to read and sound out words and play the piano and draw pictures of trucks, and birthdays, and trees. And watching our middle do power yoga and transform everywhere he goes and how the softer shape of his forearms and the long slope of his forehead are still more resembling that of a baby or toddler, but I know those days are limited and I want to drink it in now. And watching the actual baby cut his first teeth, and how his smile could light a city block and how he can scoot from one end of the room to the other, and how he nuzzles in at night as I sing the Beach Boys.

I want to wring out every last drop of this and then lick it off the table next to our leftover, crockpot dinner and craft beer, and absorb these feelings, this time, this elation.

(And now, because, Truth, I have had to go upstairs three separate times in the past twenty minutes for post-bed potty breaks, water-drinking emergencies, and whatever bull-shit interruptions my spawn can manifest, and it has been a pretty convicting exercise as I reflect on the sweet wonderfuls of parenthood while in reality I don’t want to see or hear my children until tomorrow morning, after 7am preferably…)

But overall…

I love it.

Truly.

I am supposed to be a mom. I honestly think I’m pretty good at it. 

Most of the time.

I sometimes make mistakes, just like falling down the stairs - which I have also done holding baby Brix. 

And baby Blair.

 So far things are looking good for ol’ Wynny Bear….

But I am still happy to have this life

And it may have been no coincidence (God) that I was the only girl in a band with 6 other guys.

God was preparing my greatest gig yet as the matriarch of these little men.

Staying up all night?

Not showering?

Eating entirely too much pizza?

Drinking entirely too much coffee?

I was born for such a time as this.

I was made to be in a band.

I was made to be a mom.

And I thank God for making a very special man that has been able to accompany me through all of these chapters.

I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to do this all with him.

Plus, I need someone to drive me home from my surgery and I’m sure he’ll be great at that, too.

I am ready for this new chapter to begin.

Continued adulthood, parenthood, wifehood, but one where I can finally feel All of my fingers fully, again.

This feels like a call for celebration!!

More champagne, please.

(And a little more after that...)

One of the boys. (Photo cred. Kathryn Moore)

When they make each other laugh - Pure. Ecstasy.

Just because I love him and he’s beautiful. (Photo cred. Crystal Buckey)

How I imagine Wednesday will likely go.

[kizardofkoz]

5 Months

If we were in a crowded room, would you know who I am?

Would you know my voice, the cadence of my words and breath?

There must be a timbre or rhythm to my speech that your cells recognize as a lullaby, and you in fact would know it was me.

Would you know my skin?

Outside in?

How it bathed, covered, and held you for most of a year.

You slept next to my organs like they were your siblings, because they were your siblings. Because you are me and I am you and we wore bracelets that said so, because our blood says so because my heart said so.

Would you know the way I hold you?

The way you feel in my arms and on my chest, and on my breast, and how the rest of me has stretched, seized, suffered, and softened because I needed you, because you needed to be. 

Would you remember how I held you inside?

Would my muscles and bones feel like a nostalgic first home?

They say you left cells me in that I’ll carry forever, but science didn’t need to tell me that.

I will drink you. And plant you. And study, shape, and sing you.

Sweet baby boy. I’m so glad you came into our family.

One year ago, two days ago, I found out you were in me.

One year ago, two days ago, I cried the fourth time with happiness.

You are blonder than I imagined.

And your smile could light a city block.

And by that very smile, and how you soften into my soothe, I know that our cells know each other. Undoubtedly.

And you know me.

My little, blessed, kismet.

[kizardofkoz]

Life Robbers

My now-middle-child sits three feet from me, wearing a ridiculously cute alligator pajama top, holding a juice box of apple water (yes, this apparently exists for the crunchy parents’ juice-box solution), completely transfixed on, and interacting with Diego and Dora - or the two most annoying voices on television, while he is naked from the waist down, sitting on his training potty. 

When he stands, there is a red horse shoe around his bottom from sitting on the training potty for so long. And we wait. He drinks liquids, and we wait. There are the remnants of blue face paint and silver glitter on his left cheek from a birthday party yesterday afternoon, which looks more like he spent a rager at Studio 54 last night - because if we had a kid who did that, it would be this one. He drinks more liquids. And we are still waiting. He has no idea what he’s doing but he’s so damn cute doing it. Blair is the embodiment of effervescent joy mixed with hilarity, roaring, and fuzzy, light. Potty training is definitely challenging, but this moment is actually quite amazing. 

I am present and I am grateful.

For now.

I feel like I am continuing to have the same theme and conversations repeating in my life right now. I read once how God will keep giving you the same lesson over and over again until you learn it. Well, I’m finally listening to you, Oh Beautiful Relentless One, so you can cut the crap, because I’ve got it:

Life Robbers.

*Side Note: At this chapter in my life, it takes about an entire day to write, edit, and post one essay, because, damn, life. It is now 3:01pm in the afternoon. The two youngest are napping, the oldest is enjoying a day and overnight with cousins at Gemmy & Pop Pop’s, and I feel I have probably a precious 30 minutes, 1 hour max, to pump this bad boy out. The REAL reason I write this excerpt, is to say: Friends! Blair has successfully peed AND Pooped in the potty! Holy shit!!! (Emphasis on the later) The excitement I have felt the first time my sons have peed or pooped when potty training, is possibly one of the biggest highs of my last 5 years. I don’t even care if that is pathetic because to me it was pure elation. And it is equally as amazing to see your child so proud of himself. And by proud of himself, I mean also very excited because he knows if he poops he gets a cupcake.

 I am trading in size 6 diapers for type 2 diabetes, and I am perfectly fine with that.*

Anyways!

LIFE ROBBERS:

Life Robbers are the thoughts and feelings of pain, disdain, disappointment, and jealousy because you feel you, your life, your possessions or job, are not enough.

We get so hyper focused on enough, and more, and how much income, how much house, what kind of car, obsessing over clothing, shoes, obsessing over our children’s clothing and shoes, the new rug, instrument, gadget, vacation, what gym, what school we send our children to, what nice restaurant we go to celebrate after getting into that school, what amazing meal to order, what freaking mattress we go to sleep on and what white noise machine we need playing in the background as we are trying to fall asleep, looking at our phones, surveying and measuring ourselves against other people’s parades and photos of all of the things they had obtained, and we are subconciously seeing who’s winning. And the answer is no one.

As a culture, we are spiraling one another into a complete obsession of what will make us happy only by comparing ourselves to what seems to make everyone else happy, and we have become this massive ouroboros. 

We look at what our neighbors (Facebook, Instashit, etc.) are doing and buying and vacationing and experiencing, and then we can’t help but feel like we aren’t happy or successful enough. And the crazy thing is, the very people we are comparing ourselves to, have quite possibly done the exact same thing to us. And I have literally allowed hours and afternoons be robbed from me because jealousy is a beast. And she’ll rob you blind.

I didn’t even know I was unhappy until I had gotten on Facebook.

And I know I am not alone.

*Side note, it is now FOUR DAYS LATER. !  In this case, my life and time have been robbed by, life and time. And work and boys and nursing and meals and one really hard workout that my legs are still paying for, a dinner with some new friends, lots of sausages (you can interpret that in any way you want and it’s likely accurate) and zero alcohol. !!! Mama’s gone back hard-core, on the Paleo wagon. I’m driving that bad boy. Or perhaps, I’m pulling that wagon behind me as part of my daily W.O.D., while I sweat, cry, and shake from muscles that are so confused by my 5 year pattern of pregnancy, getting into shape, repeat as desired. And those damn simple carbohydrates that I worship during pregnancy, happen to be the #1 enemy of baby weight. So now I have to act like I don’t even like them anymore while I consume all things protein, veggie, and coconut. Except for Saturdays. CHEAT DAY. When my heart rate and insulin levels try to match my enthusiasm.

Donuts, champagne, cheese, or pizza?

OR?

ALL!!! 

FOR BREAKFAST!!!*

ANYWAYS!

I have been having repeating conversations with other women in my life about this same struggle of feeling like crap because our lives aren’t measuring up to what we think they should be. Or often, we didn’t realize they weren’t measuring up until we saw someone else’s.

I am so guilty of putting wealth and things on a pedestal. I don’t know where this comes from, but one of the saddest, deepest parts of me is so enthralled by sparkly, beautiful, interesting, vapid, material things. I do, however, also possess this marrow that also craves minimalism, ease, wants to live off the land and wear nothing but linen and hemp. I will say, I actually feel like my *style* rather reflects these two worlds, in what my husband likes to refer to as “global glam” when he’s being kind, or “art teacher chic” when he’s being honest. In his defense, I’m always about two strands of turquoise away from being the woman that you picture listening to NPR while painting watercolor in her library.

So unfortunately, the More-ness-Life-Robber-Beast comes in many other forms, not just the insatiable need for material things. A girlfriend opened up about the hurt and jealousy she felt when she saw a group of friends from her past had met up without her. That all-too-familiar feeling of 6th-grade ache and agony sucked time, energy and happiness from her day. Which is so ashamed, because this girlfriend is one of the most caring and selfless people I have ever met, and that group should have felt robbed of the joy of getting to hear her laugh.

And all of this, I believe, is a byproduct of the gash damn social media bullshit.

This was not an issue for our mothers and I think that is part of the disconnect in our generations. They have no idea what it is like trying to be an adult woman and parent in the world that has Nothing But Exposure to:

 The grossly demonstrative overshare of what everyone else is doing (which people tend to naturally only share the best parts)

Status, wealth, and luxury, and how the middle class can, could, and should be striving to obtain this - or at least exhaust ourselves trying

 A complete myriad of blogs (Why, hello there!), articles, journals, websites, and endless information of how to live, raise thriving children, and exist in this world that is constantly trying to tell us that what we have is never enough and shame us for feeling like that, at the same time.

We praise metallic Birkenstocks, Farm-raised-anything, rose gold everything, exercise, Madewell, and mindfulness, all in pretty much the same breath.                         Or Prayanama.

It is completely exhausting and we are the byproduct of this technological avenue of awareness -- and it makes me even more scared for our children, and what type of technology will exist then, and what kind of pressure that will place on their lives, hearts, and relationships.

We are already robbing their lives every time we show them that we value things, our phones, and our money, more than we do them. 

And Ourselves.

So what do we do?

(*I DON’T TOTALLY KNOW*, but let's just start by being honest...)

1. Get Off Facebook. Get off Instagram. Take a step back to breathe again, and reset the priorities for our lives. I took an unplanned week off of Facebook a week ago, as did another girlfriend. Each day I felt lighter and happier. I had no idea how often I reach for my phone to kill time on that damn app. I was way more content with my life, not comparing my lack of vacations or experiences this summer to others. And I wasn’t trying to capture the perfect photo of the favorite moment of my day to share. In the morning when nursing, instead of scrolling through my feed, I prayed.     Holy shit what a novel idea.

I was free. And it felt amazing.

(I have also since returned to Facebook, but already use it much less, and I feel way more relaxed and removed -- which is exactly how I want to feel when regarding media and the internet. And AI.)

2. A few weeks ago we stayed home from church for a reason I can not remember but I’m sure it was completely valid. To redeem our souls, we decided to spend a little time reading, meditating, and praying. Pretty positive we were 1 for 3. It’s not like gestating boys.

However. My husband read this to me and it was one of the most profound, overwhelmingly reverberating passages I have ever come across in my life.

The Encheiridion (or Manual)

by,

Epictetus (FANCY!)

Of things some are in our power, and others are not. In our power are opinion, movement toward a thing, desire, aversion; and in a word, whatever are our own acts: not in our power are the body, property, reputation, offices, and in a word, whatever are not our own acts. And the things in our power are by nature free, not subject to restraint nor hindrance: but the things not in our power are weak, slavish, subject to restraint, in the power of others. Remember then that if you think the things which are by nature your own, you will be hindered, you will lament, you will be disturbed, you will blame both gods and men: but if you think that only which is your own to be your own, and if you think that what is another's as it really is, belongs to another, no man will ever compel you, no man will hinder you, you will never blame any man, you will accuse no man, you will do nothing involuntarily, no man will harm you, you will have no enemy, for you will not suffer any harm.

What I feel this is so brilliantly saying, is that we are released from the pressure of responsibility or obsession that we feel to make our lives as perfect as possible. The idea of “the body” not being in our power is a beautiful and mind blowing philosophy, yet echoes the several moments in the bible when we talk about how our “flesh is weak”.

And I feel this so poignantly puts how I have been feeling:

We can be free.

Other people’s possessions were never ours, so why give them the power to weigh us down? We no longer need to feel the weight or pressure of what others have acquired or obtained because we have no ownership over it.

I truly belive by choice and practice, we can have freedom from:

A.) Jealousy and worry, that we don’t have enough, or the newest, most interesting, cool, or clever, etc. bull shit.

B.) The universal need to gratuitously exhibit our lives. It kills me to think that someone ever looked at my photos or life and felt jealousy or longing. 

Our affluence isn’t the kind that brings valuables into our lives, but our riches are the kind that make our lives valuable.

(Like what I did there?)   

I have a husband who loves me, even when we can’t agree on the importance of excel spreadsheets. 

I have three healthy boys that are the cutest and hardest creatures that I have ever encountered. 

I have a house with a working air conditioner the St. Louis summer.          And sometimes fall and spring. And likely the winter. 

And I have a tribe of girlfriends that are perhaps one of the best daily displays of God’s love, humor, and armor for me.

I am actually implausibly wealthy.

At the same time, I have loads and loads of laundry that needs to be washed, folded, and heaven forbid, actually put away.

I have a baby that 95% of the time, can not nap longer than 45 minutes because of his horrible reflux and gas.

We have a backyard that is likely 70% identifiable and unidentifiable species of weeds and plants we did not plant, or that we neglected and they took over - which, I get it, they earned that real estate.

There are very likely at least three things that are rotting in my fridge at any given moment.

I am scared of switching to my fall schedule where I will *mom all day* and then teach piano lessons until 9:00pm at night.

I am scared of paying for the preschool tuition for our older two boys and how that will undeniably affect the rest of our month / lives.

I am scared that the part of me that has struggled with weight and body image issues since I was 8 years old will still be anxious and unsatisfied when I’m 80.

Will we ever live in a bigger home where I can have my own, physical, studio for my business?

Will money ever not feel tight?

Are we raising our boys to be empathetic, kind, compassionate, and confident - while instiling the responsibility and maturity to know how to possess and demonstrate those virtues?

Will Blair’s hair ever change? I both really hope it won’t, and I also really want him to have friends.

These things, these are also my Life Robbers.

The bone in me that is industrious and strives for success and hustles and runs businesses, it is the same bone that lies awake at night worrying about all of these things and so much more. 

And I fear it’s starting to break from the pressure.

So now, when I am online, and I start to feel the sensations - usually beginning with a heat and tightness in my throat, a bit of lightness in my head, and an uncomfortable weight in my chest, I will recognize that jealousy, hug her, and let her go. Because that ungrateful wench has never really done anything nice for me anyway, even when I bought her so many beautiful things.

Or at night when I want to cry from the anxiety of imagining how I am going to make our future work with my lesson schedule and being able to both afford all of the opportunities and activities that will spark my children - make them feel excited, strong, and proud, and how will I ever attend a practice, game, or performance when I am stuck behind a piano bench because of my work hours, especially when I need to work to pay for the very practice they are attending... I will take that anxiety, embrace her as well, and exhale her back into the night.

First like a dragon, and then like the ocean.

All of these concerns, while they are in my periphery and path, they are not completely in my power. 

And I daily and hourly remind myself that there is a Greater Power that I can breathe my faith, energy, and concern into.

And I know I no longer want to sacrifice minutes, hours, or days to my Life Robbers.

I absolutely no longer want to sacrifice a single minute of sleep to a Life Robbers.

Because this mama has way more important things to focus on.

Like pretending I am going to do laundry.

And potty training a bubble.

And even after all of that, I still post my photos. Because, tradition.

Imma need this cookie and lightning bolt to match my shirt, 100%.

Sorry, Brix. You get a slumber party with cousins, we get delicious ramen. 

Steve’s eyes, Brix’s lips, Satan’s gas.

Christmas pjs in July? I’m sorry, do you not like to party?

[kizardofkoz]

Maternity Heave

I find the all-powerful traits of the double dragon are what really make it so memorable and robust for the person it has chosen to execute its venomous, monsoon. 

It’s as if the invisible hands of the universe are wringing out your body from your inner core, so every drop, morsel, tear, prayer, and poison, have exited your person, with great violence and force, into the trash can on your knees, and the porcelain coffin you are sitting on. Simultaneously. You body surrenders to this beast as you convulse and cry, praying for this time to be the last, and you vow to never eat food again.

Clean up.

Bed.

Repeat 10 times, every 30 minutes to an hour.

 Soooooo….

It was my last week of my maternity leave this week and I spent it obtaining, and recovering from, the stomach flu. 

Or bug. I don’t even know what to call it other than Satan, but here I am, eating solids again, sitting upright, and six pounds lighter. So. Take that, stupid Beelzebub bacillus. My final days of getting to soak up and learn my newborn, I spent them vomiting (and more!) until my body had nothing left to give. Fantastic!

 Good things that happened this week:

Again, I’m six pounds lighter (hhheyyyoooohhhhhhh). That’s at least a fun little jump start to losing baby weight.

I am writing again! Two weeks in a row, life! Suck ON THAT!

I picked up the basement and took five (?) boxes to Goodwill. Enjoy! - New owners of candlesticks, home decor, wrist weights, a hamper, and other fun artifacts of the Kozel-house heritage, est. 2010.

I have successfully hung every picture frame in the house! And at least half of the frames have pictures in them! At this point though, I honestly don’t know if people would find it odd, or even notice, the stock advertisement inside the sprinkling of Ikea frames around our home. I think they would put it in that *Huh,...? Kiley…* category and then go back to making eye contact with me and finishing up our conversation on probably food, ghosts, or baby Wyn’s gas.

 I go back to work tomorrow.

I’m pretty much terrified.

I have the incredible fortune of being able to work at home and Be With My Baby; I have built-in, 3 hour breaks so I can nurse him, I can see him, hold him, let others admire how precious and unique and delectable he is, while people Come To Me, and Pay Me, to spend time with their kids and teach them how to love the piano. It’s kind of the best thing ever when I write and read it that way.

 In reality, I am going back to work with my 2-month-old because when you are self-employed, you are not making money unless you are working, and saving enough money for a three-month maternity leave was completely implausible. I will be taking care of my 2-month-old, while trying to run, and operate my piano business that I have worked Very Hard to establish, and I am Very proud of the success I have had- so let's not jeopardize anything there, ok???. 

Instead of eating every three hours, Wyn still wants to eat every two -- Especially since I was sick last week and my supply has decreased, he is naturally FAMISHED by the time 120 minutes have rolled around since the last time he was at my breast. 

He wants to fall asleep in my arms, with a pacifier in his mouth. He wants to wake up every 45 minutes, maximum, fussy and still tired, but once we’ve locked eyes He Is Up And Ready To Party. Or eat. Or cry. Or likely burp. All the while I am supposed to be teaching my students the skills it takes to read music, play the piano, and fall in love with the beauty and expression of playing an instrument…

 Somehow I have done this with Brixton and Blair. 

And I went back to work and Made it work, but for some reason, this time it seems Much more daunting. Granted the circumstances were different with Brix as it was fall, and people began their lessons after school and my husband’s Insane Work hours at that time allowed him to come home early to be with Brixton, while I listened to the rocking chair creak the floor above the living room, whilst my beloved Brixton cried because he was hungry, tired, or Alive, all the while I was trying to direct all of my focus and attention toward whatever lucky student was sitting on my bench at that time. Sign me up!

 Blair was easier. Blair came into the world easier and has left a trail of light and glitter everywhere he’s been. I could put him down, and he would sleep. He ate every three hours. He didn’t like the changing table, he would make his *crazy eyes* face, and he shat about every 2 hours, but he was predictable and uncomplicated. And That Hair.

 And now I have Wyn, whom I feel I haven’t even gotten to Really Know yet since my Emotional Beloved, and Glitter Butt take up so much focus, I feel like I have yet to Know Smiling, Sulphur Bottom. (These were all reject-names of OPI’s Spring, infant line.) I also realize he is only 8 weeks old and I am Very likely expecting too much of him and myself -which is admittedly, a chronic condition which I suffer from.

 But all of this is to say that tomorrow, this will all come to a head again, and I must find some delicate and enlightened balance of teaching individual piano lessons, while mothering my 8-week-old, being sensitive to his queues, so I can Finally figure out Some Semblance of a Schedule, all the while I continue to lose that baby weight, print those Gash Damn Photos for My Empty Ikea Frames, and spruce the shit up, out of our basement.

 I am broken. I am breaking. I am flawed. 

I feel like my confidence as a mother and teacher have disintegrated into a pile of fine dust that I am trying desperately to sweep into a pile, and every thirty minutes somebody turns a fan on.

 Breathe.

Self Grace.

Jesus.

 The sermon today talked about God using Peter as the base of Christianity because of his brokenness and willingness for God to show and utilize his brokenness. (And willingness.)

I was having a conversation earlier this week and the person was saying how they feel mothers nowadays constantly complain about how hard mothering is. (See, um, my entire blog…) The narrative on social media is how challenging and complicated raising children is. I have been thinking about this and then I started thinking about people who write. People who are compelled to share their story. It’s people that have to process externally what is happening internally. So perhaps there is a Very Good Amount of people that Have found their parenting and life flow, but they are all boring, uncreative, introverts, so the rest of us are the ones left vocalizing, documenting, and writing the history books on how challenging life is. (I also realize, when these personality traits run on the more annoying end of the spectrum, and you’re swimming in the same pool with people that leave comments on, Anything, and post and respond on parenting forums - of which, yes, I can not quite stand to read about your EBF LO who accidentally grabbed your organic shaman crafted cup, and drank some of your fermented hemp milk LOLOLOLOL.)

 But I think the brokenness is the essential part of it.

I think I have to write because God put this brokenness in me and this insatiable need to do something creative and connect and I don’t know how to differentiate the two. To me, this is playing the piano, the self-expression that happens through the years and years of learning how to play and speak through this instrument and by knowing the exact weight to play two notes back to back. It’s the quickening and glow I feel when I sit at this keyboard, excited and hungry to feel the flow of words coming out of my heart and extremeties. 

And as I write all of this, I realize, this is how I want to know my Wyn. And I am expecting myself to perform a piece on an instrument that I have only just begun to play.       I suppose the worst thing that could happen this week, would be that my entire studio decides they are over it - they are no longer coming to my home for piano lessons and I no longer have income, we have to sell our house, pull Brix from his Montessori preschool, and I can no longer buy orange juice from Lucky’s.

Or.

I have to trust. I have to trust that my families will continue to come each week.

I have to trust that they value our history.

I have to trust that they still value my mind, experience, and my history.

I have to trust that, perhaps, part of the experience and value of coming to my home, is that it Is a home. That part of the charm is the chaos and love of family members being present. They smell the dinner I made earlier that day. Or the damn bacon smell that has lingered about four hours too long.

I have literally prayed over the walls of my home, that those who come in are met with light, and love, and feel ease and peace here.

I want people to leave here happier. Loved. And ideally, like they know music better than when they came in. Especially if they paid for it.

I need to trust God that he gave me Wyn because I am supposed to be Wyn’s mommy.

And God brought me my students, because I am supposed to be their piano teacher.

And I need to trust that God will provide a way to let those two worlds exist simultaneously.

Like a happy, gentle and adorable, double dragon. A two-fer, fluf-fer.

 So I will hopefully, re-enter my work world tomorrow with a little more self-grace, to know that it is not the end of the world if Wyn does not establish and obey a schedule tomorrow.

Or anytime soon.

He is a baby and babies are inherently, shitty schedule-keepers. I need to trust myself that as a mother, I have done this before, and I can do it again. God has yet to give me a mountain I haven’t climbed over, and it’s not going to start tomorrow. I can do hard things.

Wynny Bear and I are going to figure this thing out, and I am going to trust God that he brought This baby, and These families into my life for a very special reason. “God trusts me with Wyn, God trusts me with them.”

And in that moment that I am most scared of: Having to teach a new student - which requires a whole bunch of energy, attention, and sensitivity - and baby Wyn screaming and not falling asleep - which requires a whole bunch of energy, demands attention, and begs for whiskey - I am going to practice exhaling, and in my head, repeating “God trusts me with Wyn. God trusts me with them.” 

And to know that it is temporary. 

And to repeat as necessary.

And breathe.

And self-grace.

And Jesus.

 And champagn. At 5:01pm.

Some of my favorite crazy-eyes pictures!!!

And the adorable little trouble maker I am so worried about:

John 16:33

[kizardofkoz]

So I’m an Adult

I simply loathed it. I don’t think I can hum the music from memory, but if it started playing, I could sing along while scream-crying tears of blood. 

(How’s that for an opening?)

 The call waiting music at my pediatrician’s office circa 2012, was my absolute least favorite sound in the world. 

I assume it still is, however by the result of An Actual Miracle Happening, the music has since been replaced by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I no longer feel the need to crumble-twitch to the floor, to the sound of some really shitty, dated, trumpet-synth-pad that sounds like happiness being flushed down the River Styx.

 I would call daily.

“How do I get him to sleep?” “How can I get him to take a bottle?” “How can I get him to take a pacifier?” “He still isn’t sleeping.” “Yes, of course he’s overly tired because he doesn’t sleep.” “Can I get a redo?” “He wakes up and cries EVERY 33 MINUTES FROM NAPPING AND I AM LOSING MY MIND.”

 Our firstborn was a challenging baby. He didn’t take a pacifier, a bottle, he was colicky, he didn’t sleep well, and those were his charming qualities. I called that damn pediatrician’s office several times a week, desperate for someone to give me some magical key, some better wording of a sentence or a trick that would bring some sort of relief or stability to our lives at that time. I needed an expert. 

I needed an adult.

 I still do.

 I constantly find myself in a challenging life-situation, looking around for the grown-up.

Shit.

It’s me.

When the hell did that happen??? Anytime I have to call to make an appointment, for anything, anytime I have to call the freaking insurance company, when my kids get sick, when they are throwing a tantrum, when a tire blows, when my glasses need cleaned, when I need my beer opened, I feel like there is a more capable adult out there that could and should be doing these things for me. I also feel like they should help me wake up in the morning and make sure the to-do list gets done and bring in money and let me know I’m doing a good job -- but unfortunately in grown-up land, that all is just supposed to manifest, live and die, on the inside of me.

Adulthood is maybe the biggest crock of shit I have ever seen.

 BUT, I don’t have school finals.

 The end.

 SSSSSOOOOOOOOOOOO, let’s back up, shall weeeeee???

 I have not written since last August - since, doing things is Hard. And I have been super busy being a grown-up, so let’s catch up a bit.

 Some Google Calendar highlights since August 2016:

 9/16/16: Brixton turned 4 years old!

9/17/16: I remembered to cancel our Blue Apron account

9/29/16-10/2/16: Our second, annual lake trip with our very good friends*

10/13/16 & 10/15/16: Started a new business called Baby Grands (it kicked ass, naturally)

10/19/16: Oil Change

11/6/16: Froze gym membership (screw you fitness)

11/14/16: Super Moon

12/1/16-12/4/16: Friends’ wedding in Los Gatos, California*

HOLIDAYS - just, All of them

1/3/17 Steve started new job

1/9/17: Sold car

1/17/17: Paid final quarterly for 2016, fiscal year (Self employment microphone drop - or more like a PA punt kick.)

2/20/17: Brixton went to the dentist

2/25/17: Boys began swimming lessons

3/10/17: Met with CPA to review 2016 taxes

3/18/17: Turned in formal submission to cancel boys’ swimming lessons

4/6/17: Blair turned 2!!

4/10/17: Blair wellness check up

4/11/17: Gave birth

5/13/17: Thing in Wildwood

5/20/17: Boys’ haircuts

 There are a few things we should turn our attention toward.

 You need to schedule to remember to cancel the things you no longer want to pay for.

 I FREAKING HAD A BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*

Life just keeps going. It doesn’t care that you are pregnant or had a baby - there will be school functions, baptisms, parties, play dates, doctor’s appointments, work things, work travel for your spouse, making dinners, making breakfasts, making lunches, making snacks (why must everybody EAT?), giving the dog medicine, remembering to make the dog's annual round worm prevention visit (won’t make That mistake again, disgusting nermotoid -- whatever it is, I just looked it up and forgot what it was on my way back.)

 I am exhausted, I am tired, I have one week left before beginning work again. 

I have 20 pounds left until I will fit into my clothing again, and I have a list of things I would like to see through before the end of the summer, and none of them unfortunately include drinking champagne and eating carbohydrates and cheese - which I feel are the areas where I can really shine.

 BUT.

 I am feel convicted right now to start getting into action. I can’t sit around and wait for this magical adult to appear and do all of this shit for me because, wow, I am an adult. And people say my laugh is magical.

Ok, my husband says that.

He doesn’t use those words though.

 I was sitting in church today, thinking about the things one thinks about in church:

I really need to start writing again. Like, I Really Need to start writing again.

I Really need to reorganize the basement again. Like REALLY Need.

Baby Wyn, please stop burrowing your head into my sternum but you smell like angel dreams and love, and burrow away sweet baby because you are only this little once. Okay, you might be giving me a rash. Or me to you. I don’t know, baby skin is so darn sensitive and I love you so much...

 And then I had this grand epiphone:

THINGS DON’T HAPPEN UNLESS YOU DO THEM.

 I’m going to say this again for the reasonable seats in the back.

 Things. Don’t. Happen. Unless You Do Them.

 The end.

 When I picked writing back up again at the beginning of last year, I started off with my 2016 goals / resolutions / a list of things to be depressed about, upon reflection in 2017.

 Let’s check in! 

Goals for 2016:

1. Write a letter once a month - I’m sorry, what?! Did I really think I was going to have time for that? Wow.

2. Stop multi-tasking -  HAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHHAHH (I wrote that while making a grilled cheese and updating my Intuit entries.)

3. More yoga - Eeeeesssshhhlllll, Maybe???

4. Less dairy & carbs - It’s like I don’t even KNOW this person

5. Continue theory class & add a new one next fall (professional goal) - YES!!! I DID THIS!!!!!!!

6. Interior design at least one room for one person - UGH. One of my biggest regrets of 2016. A friend actually Gave Me The Opportunity to do this at her house. But. LIFE. Feeling a giant hangover of regret right now. Boo.

7. Meditate more - I think I did this once, so. YES!! I did!

8. Visit McKinley & Adam / NY trip / Natalee show?  NEXT.

9. PURGE THINGS (home-speaking) -  I have actually gotten quite good at this.

10. Clean basement - build shelving / paint ceiling - One thing at a time, antsy-pants.

11. Be still - Just. No.

12. Visit Harmony more - HA!! DID THIS!! (They were also paying me as I was employed there for most of 2016…)

13. Stop comparing myself to others (THIS SHOULD BE #1) Admirable.

14. Become a tourist in STL - I will say, we did do More things last summer with the boys. Nap prison wins every time.

15. Seek experiences - Probably not in the way I was hoping. (Wow, what the hell does That even mean?)

16. Watch less TV - My husband would laugh at this.

17. Evenings for self improvement - See Above

18. Travel. B+

 So. In a really pathetic (or predictable) pattern (because it worked so well the first time), I am going to do it again. I shall publicize another list of my goals. Because underneath it all, I really Do believe in accountability. 

I believe in the power of change. 

Of new. 

Of multiple chances. 

And having opportunities and encouraging oneself and others to change the narrative if they don’t like it.

I called a nutritionist the other day for a consultation (because I am DETERMINED to lose the baby weight faster this time. I refuse to not feel like myself or confident for more weeks or months than I have to...) 

But we talked about how major change happens because one small behavior is changed, slowly, and one at a time. A big result is the byproduct of making one small change over the course of an extended period of time. Basically, setting yourself up for success. I know this philosophy inside and out when referring to piano lessons, and learning to play piece of music - one would think I would be able to more automatically apply it to my own life. But. Life.

So. Here is the list I just wrote before I began typing today. It’s waaay less ambitious than whomever that intoxicated, enthusiastic 2016 Kiley’s was. This list is missing that electric charge that January tends to bring. However, perhaps the stability and sunshine of the middle of the year is a more successful starting point than stupid, cold, January. Which everyone just spends feeling fat, poor, and dreading one of the worst occurrences of our existence - February.

Thank God for Puppy Bowls.

Anyways.

Here is my 2017, June 4th (yes, I just had to look at my phone to see what date it is) list.

This thing is clearly off to a great start…

 1. Write More (Already winning)

2. Change Blog site (stay tuned…)

3. Print business cards (for Baby Grands)

4. Print and frame pictures (because my friend Crystal Buckey is An Absolutely Insane photographer and I want just enough of her photos around my house that it makes me feel happy when I look around, yet I don’t seem narcissistic when others come in.)

5. Purge Basement (sonofabitch why is our basement always such a big deal??)

6. Paint ceiling in Basement

7. Hang Curtains in Basement Perimeter (So if you can not tell, our basement is not finished. Our house, while I Truly Love it, it is obviously starting to feel smaller because we just keep adding people to live here. We need more space for the boys, which at this point, the quickest, least expensive option is to make a few changes to our basement to make it nicer, safer, and easier space for our children to use. They still play down there a lot. It just looks like a storage monster vomited kids shit and camping equipment everywhere. Meanwhile, the switch on the furnace and the gauge for the hot water heater happen to be at the exact height of our two year-old’s eyes and we regularly have to turn the switch back on once we realize the house has gotten stuffy. Or that we have not had hot water for a day and a half. Which is all intrinsically linked to my third biggest fear of the hot water heater (or anything) shooting like a rocket out of our house. I was certain the washing machine was going to do this the first time I heard it’s spin cycle. I stood on the opposite side of the room on the main floor, just to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally ride it when it burst through the kitchen floor. Other fears are #1. Tornadoes, #2. Spiders. #4 would be somewhere between living in a post-apocalyptic world and there being no more champagne. Potato, Po-Tah-to.

SO.

There’s my list. I think right now, in my state of sleep deprivation, high hormones, emotions, new chapters and new family members, I need to remember a few things to help me through this time:

1. I actually am an adult. And I don’t suck at it always. I even watered my plants yesterday AND folded a ton of laundry and went to bed before 10pm after only having 1 glass of wine. And shockingly, I didn’t need to cancel any monthly fee to anything. But most importantly, I am an adult to the three most important little dudes on the earth. And they Need me to be an adult. And they deserve me being an adult. As do I.

2. If I want to see a big change - be it in losing my baby weight, or chipping away at my current to-do list, I will be the most successful if I focus on changing one small behavior, or managing just one small task at a time. I am literally nailing the first thing on my list at this very moment, and perhaps if I also Just Wrote Smaller Entries, that would result in writing more, as well. 

Suck on that, Socrates. (No clue if that was applicable.)

I would probably be a lot happier, or at least feel a lot less stress, if I offered a little more grace to myself. I will mess up all of these things. Not because I “pulled a Kiley” (that’s a whole other blog post) but because I am human. And. Life.

And that’s okay. Because I am a human. And I will get back on my horse, or rocket ship water heater, and ride again. Try again. Do again. Slowly. One step or one behavior at a time. And I hope by the end of the summer I will be able to report that our basement is a little better off than before, that I have business cards to hand out to people instead of writing on the back of whatever scrap crap that is bunking in my purse. I hope to share that I have printed, framed and hung a tasteful amount of pictures around my house that bring such love, pride, and awe for my family. And that if our air gets turned off, or our water quits getting hot, it’s because I Chose for it to be that way.

Because I’m an adult.

 (And now I’m going to go play the alphabet game on the trampoline with my husband.

Because he is, too. And. Life. ;)

The End.

PICTURE TIIIIIIIIIMMMMEEEE!!!!!

Some of the best people in the world. Our yearly Lake Chateau weekends are becoming a highlight of my year. This will also give us plenty of photos for the slideshow when Brixton marries that little cutie strapped to her daddy’s back.

This is from our friends’ Beautiful wedding in California. I chose this photo because I loved that dress and I like remembering feeling nice when I was pregnant. Fun Fact! After the ceremony, I went to the restroom and when I stood up, I realized the belt of my coat had fallen into the toilet and I had peed on it. THAT, my friends, would be what people would call “Pulling a Kiley”.

Baby Wyn!!!

Wyndsor D. Kismet Kozel was born at 11:00pm on April 11th, 2017. A giant, 22 inch, 8 pound, 9 ounces of cuteness, spit-up, and gas. He is so stinking cute and has brought out an amazing care-taking side in his oldest brother that we had not yet seen.

Wyndsor D., A.K.A. Wynsy D, A.K.A. Wynsy D-zy, A.K.A. Wynny Bear, Wyn, Baby Wyn, and sometimes, in my head, I do “Wyn, Lose, or Draw”

[kizardofkoz]

An Ode to our 8th Anniversary

It was 8 years ago, almost literally to the hour, that my father looked at me and asked “You ready, Barn Burner” (one of my Many nicknames growing up. Others included but not limited to, are: Bake, Baker, Baker-Smurf, Wops, Wapperly, Barney, and my favorite, Rip-Snort-Spit-Fire…)

And with the confidence and wisdom that fathers just seem to calmly exude in moments like those, he walked me, an Extremely excited, anxious, kind of about to bubble out of my skin- bride, down the aisle, while Sufjan Stevens’ Chicago, played in the background.

The ceremony was magic. Completely full of love, humor, God, which are essentially, three of my favorite things, followed so closely by champagne, fall, and when someone talks with a bubble in their throat. The ceremony ended with a hug and hello from every person who attended. We took photos all around Forest Park and made our way to our reception.

Food, emotion-driven speeches, dancing, photos, videos, hugs, and that surreal moment when you know you are actually living in a peak moment of your life.

I hate the word perfect. But that day was pretty darn perfect.

8 years later.

Do you know what is not perfect? Marriage. 

Do you know what makes life, marriage, everything so beautiful?

The imperfections. The pain.

The healing, growth, refinement.

The perspective.

The laughter.

Steve and I have actually been together for 13 years (Yow), with a couple bouts of *Off-Time*. 

The first because I knew I wasn’t going to marry him, and I was going to leave him to study abroad on the other side of the world, so it made the most sense to break up so I could get over him on a Thai beach, drinking Singhas, while drinking in the world. 

And there would likely be other boys there that would help the healing go faster.

And there was.

And I tried.

And I knew there was something about this man that I couldn’t drop. 

I couldn’t heal.

And when I came home that summer from my 5 months abroad, we immediately got back together, at the airport, where I reunited with him and my family. Afterwards we all went to Denny’s for my first meal of real, American food. This is also where my father briefly had me convinced that the United States had quit using pennies while I was gone and they were no longer regarded as a valid form of currency. Yet one more example the gullible falling victim to the predator of the unvirtuous.

The second break up was because I knew I wasn’t going to marry him.

I like patterns.

I had dealbreakers and I needed a “Christian Man” to be the head of my household.

Throughout the months-long ordeal, we had many really important conversations, we wept in each others arms, and we went through the very long, very necessary, and very painful process, of transformation. 

Both Steve & myself.

And today I look back and want to laugh, or cry, at all of the worry, anxiety, pain, and concern I had over Steve and our future, because I think it was actually me that “needed to be saved”.

And I needed to give up trying to control and worry about him. 10 years later, Steve is one of the wisest, deepest thinkers, who actively tries to learn about God, theology, himself, his relationship to all three, and that relationship with others and the world. At his base line, he is better person than I am on my best days. He is selfless, helpful, dependable, cares more about the world and others than anyone I have ever known. And he makes really great scrambled eggs. I freaking love him. And I like him a whole bunch, too.

I first knew he was the one when we were in our first apartment after we were married. Yes, I know the discrepancy of the timeline, and of course I knew he was for me, but like this was one of those concrete, earth-shaking, core-jolting, you are divinely chosen to be with me, moments.

We were in the kitchen and he was getting paper plates out of the pantry. He held one up, and yelled “Play-per Plate!!!” ala, “Flav-or Flave!!”, and I thought it was one of the funniest things I had ever experienced. Ever. 

This was like when my friend Scott flipped and fell off of a swing and got mulch on his chin. Or the other day when Blair somehow fell in not one, but TWO different drainage ditches in our friends’ back yard. He of course was crying and I was laughing Very hard. And then laughed multiple times the next day picturing it. In church.

Another time when I *KNEW* this man was made for ME was last year when we went to the Apple Festival in my home town -- yes, this is just as small-town, charming, and quaint as it sounds.

The festival smells of kettle corn and another tent of fried delectables and pot-luck-esque food, that small towns just seem to OWN. There were tables of homemade crafts, a bounce-house, a small track for children to drive slow go carts, and there were tours available as the festival was being held on the grounds that house a handful of the most historic sights in town. It was a perfect fall day, crisp, chilly and overcast. 

The perfect weather for encountering a ghost.

Yes.

A freaking, ghost.

We brought the boys home for lunch and naps because skipping naps Is Not Ever An Option because we enjoy sanity. 

There were still two tickets left for the tours, and I wanted to go back to visit the Cheney Mansion. I had not been there since I was on a field trip in grade school. I figured my adult sophistication would now appreciate the design and antiques that the house so beautifully boasts, while the completely un-adult, and more-so, childlike part of me has a rather tumultuous interests in all things paranormal.

Steve and I went to the mansion. The sweet teenage boy there walked us around the main floor and I think he could tell I was just entertaining his commentary until he took me to the basement.

THE BASEMENT.

The Cheney Mansion was actually part of the underground railroad back in the day. Legend has it that there is a ghost that occupies the basement, and he has been known to pick on, torment, and even physically attack white men. 

I was salivating.

The basement was large, as it was the basement of, a mansion. And there was this one small room that you enter by ducking into maybe a 4x4 foot opening. The room was round, maybe 5 feet in diameter, and it is said to be the room where there slaves would hide. There was a trap door at the top connected to the kitchen where food could then be discretely lowered down to the slaves.

And so I ducked inside.

Still crouched, I saw nothing.

I stood up.

There was maybe a two-foot, negative space between the where stone-laiden walls ended, and the wooden beams of the ceiling began.

And that is where I experienced only what I can explain as *I felt like I could feel what static electricity sounded like*. My legs went weak, my mind went into Flight mode, and my body needed to Get The Frost Out. There was something in there and I could not physically be in there any longer, experiencing what that something was, or could become.

I hurried over to Steve and in my most urgent, I need you to understand I just experienced a ghost and I’ve always wanted to but now I wish I had not ever, and I can never drive by this house again and I might throw up or fall down, and I told him we needed to leave.

We walked to the car as I basically avoided eye contact with everyone because I had now been marked, by this terrifying, static-poltergeist, and we drove home and I wanted to cry.

Because I am a super mature, sophisticated adult.

And I am super easy to be married to. (PS, if someone says that, you can slap them. It’s like when Monica said she was “breezy” on Richard’s answering machine. If you have to verbalize what you are, you probably are not actually *that*.)

We drove back to my parents’ house, walked in and told my parents what had happened. Dad was fascinated. Mom was annoyed by me acting on and entertaining my insatiable intrigue with those things that scare me.

I am a conflicted person. I come by it naturally.

That afternoon I was looking out the glass door in my parents’ kitchen into the backyard. I felt that that day had changed my life forever and there was no going back.

Steve came up behind me and put his arms around me and said:

“I know you think you brought the ghost home with you…”

HOW DID HE KNOW THAT??????

That was EXACTLY what I was afraid of. I was scared I had brought that damn ghost home to my parents house, or that I was then going to take it to Our house, and this clingy phantom was now MY, clingy phantom, and this was my life. Me and static-ghost. Shit.

I saw a Maury Povich one time where a couple had visited a haunted house and weeks later they were having weird paranormal activity around them.The supernatural expert on the show then went on to explain how that they had actually brought an entity to their home. Sonofabitch.

I had never said any of that to my husband. My concern, my thought process, Maury Povich, Any of it. He. Just. Knew. He knew my Maury Povich conflict. I hope every husband eventually knows his wife’s Maury Povich conflict.

I am endlessly amazed at how we complete each other.

(Let it be known, I woke up the next day and felt Much better. No ghost followed me home. No ghost at my parents’ home. Although I will not be going back to the Cheney Mansion any time soon. Just in case it recognizes me. Static ass.)

Much like a ghost-free home, marriage is worth fighting for.

No one really verbally, defends marriage. Everywhere in our culture, we make jokes and exhausted deliveries about “the ball and chain”, sarcastic eye rolls, knowing nods and looks about the strains and limitations of marriage.

But I think marriage is one of the best things I have ever done. 

We together are far better than the sum of our parts . (That sentence is odd when pluralized.) We have invested into this marriage for 8 years now - some years better than others, and definitely true when referring to months, weeks, or days. At times marriage can be painful, daunting, and fatiguing, but it can also be the richest, most rewarding, and comforting part of this world. Steve recluses in times of stress while I hailstorm, and our actions only push one another more into those natural tendencies. We are still learning how to communicate, how to be more selfless and empathetic. How to say “It’s really important to me when…” instead of beginning a fight with a reckless, loaded statement that you immediately want to retract after you felt the release but instant remorse of saying it out loud.

I will fight endlessly, tirelessly, and fervently for what we have. 

We’ve fought for it before, and we will go out with war calls, equipped with weapons, a history of memories, stories, and the inside knowledge you only get from loving and living with someone for so long. Like the sweet face he gets when he reads something thoughtful, how he looks at our boys, or when from far away, sometimes in public, I still check him out, even before I realize he’s my husband. (*Insert sexy, cat-purr, sound, here*)

On our 8th anniversary, our “bronze” anniversary, here is my re-commitment to my husband. In a blog, because we are so modern like that. 

I love us. I love our marriage. I love marriage in general and think it’s worth fighting for, worth nurturing with conversations, date nights, active sensitivity, prayer, humor, counseling, good food, new activities, and whatever else makes your marriage work.

Here is to you, my husband, my favorite, my rock, my best friend, lover, and father of my children -- you are one of the best things that ever happened to me.

And thank you for being patient enough when it’s me, who needs to transform.

For being strong enough to fight off my ghosts.

And for making the perfect cup of coffee.

And scrambled eggs.

And for fertilizing mine.

Happy Anniversary, SRK.

Never. Gonna. Give. You. Up.

One of my absolute favorite photos of our wedding day.:) And maybe of us ever. Probably because since that day we only have maybe 15 photos total of just the two of us taken.

I think I posted this in another blog. Ahwell. This was taken the afternoon of the Cheney Mansion. This photo was taken after Steve insightfully acknowledged and assured me I had not brought the ghost home. 

You can tell because I am smiling.

Best damn eggs we ever made. 

[kizardofkoz]

Mountain. Top. Moments.

And so I left them there, sitting on top of a box, on top of an overflowing trashcan, in the parking lot of returning rental cars, in Denver, Colorado.

I had purchased those hiking boots, at a $10-Bag-Sale from a second hand store, 11 years earlier. I only bought them because my boyfriend at the time (spoiler alert, we got married), said that they were really good boots -- and he may have mentioned something about looking hot in them with my hair in braids.

He puffed my ego with flattery, and thus I became the apathetically proud owner of a used pair of tan, Hi-Tec hiking boots. Multiple hikes, a camping trip, a lake house weekend, and that one time in Africa, those boots had served me very, very well.

Until that one time in Colorado...

Two weeks ago, this boyfriend-husband-man of mine and I pulled the trigger and booked a trip to Colorado, on a whim, which is not something we normally ever do. 

The particular weekend had been set aside since the summer, as it coordinated both with days off preschool and was also after Blair turned 1, so I thought the weekend getaway could double as a “Weaning Trip” (although we all know how That was an unnecessary factor). The grandparents had given the thumbs up for watching the boys, the hubs and I took that particular Friday off, and we were going to plan a small getaway for the weekend.

To Arkansas.

Four weeks ago, when discussing our upcoming “trip” and how we had done absolutely ZERO planning for it, Steve nonchalantly said something about *“Or we could go to Denver,” and thus a seed was planted in my extremely anxious-to-get-the-hell-outta-here mind.

*This statement also became very important evidence later on during a couple of our pre-trip arguments, as the defense wanted to bring up such inquiries like:

Why we were taking a trip

Why we were going to CO *See stenographer’s log above for the offense’s rebuttal.

How we were not prepared

Our little three day road trip to Arkansas matured into a four day *Flight and Rental Car (how grown up!) Trip* to the great state of Colorado.

Bigger trip = more details, more planning, More Money, More Stress = Inescapable contention.

It is basically a prerequisite for any romantic getaway to have one, last, acrobatic, argument (This word needs Two ‘E’s), the night before you leave.

A sort of Marriage Mandate, if you will.

But thank God though for small moments of humility, compassion, and the inevitable moment where one of us ends up laughing during a really, heated argument because it happens almost every single time during the stronger ones - the person who is not the laugher, however, usually gets even angrier, and then eventually breaks. Because it’s All. So. Trivial.

I think the laughter is the byproduct of our emotions becoming so intense, that they begin to short-circuit and crosswire, thus compromising the ability to take ourselves, or each other, arguing, that seriously. 

Thank God.

And we resolved our fight over Trippel New Belgium Ale (if farmhouse ales were a man, Steve would think twice before entertaining fights with me -- driving me into the arms of yeast, malt, and love), and we packed our bags, listening to the Beatrix Potter episode of the Dead Author’s Podcast. Which was, EXACTLY what we needed.

(And Very, highly recommended. If you like laughing.)

We woke at 4:00am the next morning to catch our 6:00am flight to Denver. 

We managed to catch our flight by the skin of our teeth with a little special treatment along the way, thanks to priority check-in.  And zero thanks to us, as our trademark of running late forced us to miss any opportunity for coffee or breakfast.

Let the Great, 2016 Caffeine & Altitude Headaches commence!!

(You choose your consequences.)

After a rather short and uneventful flight, and eventually retrieving our rental car, we made our way to the nearest restaurant for breakfast in Denver, Colorado.

Alas. 

Decadent ambrosia in the form of multiple cups of coffee, huevos rancheros, beautiful weather, and that long awaited hiss of the pressure valve releasing on our lives -- jobs, parenthood, marriage, stress, money, everything. 

The stress began to evaporate from our cells, shoulders, and conversations, and we happily filled it’s place with even more coffee (caffeine junkies need their fix too), and uninterrupted dialogue (!!!), and if our trip had peaked there, I still think I would have been happy.

I am sure the same could be said about me, but my husband becomes a different person when he has the chance to get away. When the stress, deadlines, responsibilities and pressures are absent, I get to watch him come alive. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to get to witness him in this way, and to be on the receiving end of it. I love this man with every cell of my body, and often times I like him the same, but in these moments, on these trips, I am inebriated with the joy of being his partner. His wife. His Saison.

It was maybe 10am and we had already had one of the most memorable days we had had in a long time.

Before leaving the restaurant, Steve had me download “Waze”, a navigational app, with a bit of a competitive / game / edge to it, that helps people like my husband feel like he is both winning and contributing to society, while trying to find the fastest route to get to wherever he is running late to going. With Waze, (can you tell someone figured out how to use links?!! This is the most technologically advanced step I’ve made since I realized you can swipe between apps on my the iPad. Okay, a baby taught me that, but it was still a big moment. Big. Moment.)

ANYWAYS!!!

[...On Waze] you have the ability to add little traffic hiccups like police traps, pot-holes, stalled cars, etc. Other Waze users can “like” what you add, thus giving you points. Or in Some cases, an unnecessary ego about having a high score on an app... called “Waze”. …)

Upon downloading the app, you are given a little smiley icon of a pink, speech-bubble-ish shape, which reminded me of an appendix, and so I made my user name, “Appendizel”, (Appendix + Kozel = BRILLIANT) because, Privacy, you know (as I now publicly write about this -- looks like I’m changing it again…). Steve laughed the way he does when he loves my weirdness, as we set the destination for our hotel in Estes Park. We began the beautiful drive out of Denver - completely intoxicated by our surroundings; the colors of the rocks, all of the trees, the MOUNTAINS, and the architecture. (Even the suburban, subdivision homes we saw could kick the ass of some of the cooler neighborhoods around here.)

Our love affair with Colorado was growing in speed and intensity with every mile we gained, and every worry we lost.

After checking into our hotel, we anxiously changed and gathered our supplies for our first day of hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park, a giant, on-earth slice of heaven, protected and preserved by our national government -- Thank you, Teddy Roosevelt.

It’s a rather short drive from our hotel to RMNP, sewing you through the main street area of Estes Park (reminds you of a Christmas town - whatever that means to you). However, the most significant and unbelievable gem we discovered on this drive was an Inn that we passed. My laughter was a loud as Steve’s dumbfoundedness. (Hey! That’s a word! - I was for sure spell check was going to give me the *red chevron line of disappointment*.)

“The Appenzell Inn, is a Rocky Mountain hotel with a special Alpine flair, expressing the best of our Swiss heritage here in Estes Park, Colorado.”

How the hell is there an inn named “Appenzel”! It’s not like they knew we were coming and didn’t want to name it “Appendizel” -- because That would be too obvious.

How did they even come up with that name if they Weren’t trying to combine “Kozel” and “Appendix”.

Do they know Steve’s ancestors?

Have they even thought about this before? 

What IS an Appenzell?

Friends, it is moments like these, that I think, YES, God is very real. And I am so glad the Divine has such a bizzarro and robust sense of humor that I can appreciate.

I have to think Jesus was actually a pretty funny guy, but they had to cut the comebacks and jokes out of the bible for the sake of efficiency and driving home a more focused, sanctified, point.

Constantine: But I think if we left that in there people would not take Jesus as seriously.

Bishop 1: Yeah, but when Jesus and James table-top John, I actually think a lot of people could relate to that, and enjoy a jolly chuckle.

Bishop 2: Well, what if we take that out, but leave in the whole, water to wine thing?

Bishop 1: We’re all in agreement on that.

Constantine: Ok good. If there’s one thing people love more than miracles, it’s wine. And if there’s one thing they love more than wine, it’s my haircut.

Bishop 1:...

Bishop 2:...

Constantine: I said, My Haircut.

Bishop 1: Oh! Yes! I thought you said (mumbles off…)

The End.

The first hike of our trip was to the waterfall closest to the entrance of the park

Things we planned for:

Dehydration

Hunger

First Aid Accidents

Altitude Sickness

Getting Hot or Cold

Special little bracelets with a compass, flint and steel fire starter, and whistle, JUST IN CASE

Things we did Not plan for:

Snow.

It’s April. Spring, if you will. The sun has been shining, tulips have bloomed, and the dogwood trees have already released their weird, sex-gland-badness scent into the air, making your wonder why it smells like fish every four feet.

St. Louis, MO exists at 465’ above sea level. This is how we do spring.

Where we began hiking in RMNP, it was around 8000’ above sea level.

It was sunny, clear, high 60s, and there was over 2-3 feet of snow on the ground in some places.

The snow was packed in, and you could still hike on it, but the work and effort factor went up exponentially.

As did the fun, naturally.

It was absolutely incredible to be on the snow and have nothing but a light jacket or tee shirt on. I felt like we were in a movie, or a postcard, or a Northface advertisement. It felt Amazing.

Unless you got too close to a tree. Because you would instantly sink down until the snow was above your knee, and it took a bit of looking like an idiot, a good dose of laughter and humility, and some nice core work to get back out. -- Not unlike wrapping up a Kozel fight.

We had made our way up to our first destination, Alberta Falls.

Here, we were met again with the same truth that we encountered before, regarding details like weather, and science.

Guess what is frozen at this high an altitude and under feet of snow?

The waterfall.

Guess what you can actually climb on, at this high an altitude, under feet of snow?

The waterfall!        !

And there was the most spectacular area where the snow had been brushed away from the ice and you could actually see the waterfall running underneath. This waterfall-ice-window was one of the coolest things I had ever seen in nature, and all of the hikers were excited to tell each other about this little anomaly.

This also lured Steve and I up to a clearing just above the falls where we had our first of many, unbelievable and pure, mountain top moments. We sat up on the clearing for a bit, reflecting, (And catching our breath) and just being in awe of what was around us. A few years ago my husband was in the same park for a men’s retreat, which was when he first fell in love with these mountains.

“If we see a Clark's Nutcracker, we’ll know God’s around.” Which practically made me want to pounce on him right then and there as he normally doesn’t use that type of rhetoric.

There is something so tangible, and healing, and energizing about connecting to nature. For Steve and I, it’s the mountains. (Unless I’m at the ocean, then it’s the ocean. But I still think then it’s also the mountains.) The height, the air, the trees, the Blue Sky, the work and effort it physically takes to climb higher, and the reward of experiencing all of those elements - it is euphoric.

I find it very significant and very grounding to feel That Small. 

When I was really young (birth through age 6) my family lived in a very small, rural town in Illinois -- before we moved to what felt like a much bigger town, (still a small, rural town in IL), in the first grade.

Our home and life there exists in memories, photographs, and the handful of home videos that were taken - specifically in 1988-1989, during my brother’s first year on this earth. The main theme of these videos are scenes of our baby brother, with the off camera voice of the cinematographer telling my sister and I to “get out of the way”.

It’s actually very funny.

Now.

Especially over coffee and tears at my therapist’s office.

But our parents also were lucky smart enough to capture the best part about where we lived; Turtle Lake, and the summer afternoons swimming and winter afternoons ice skating.

We lived out in the country, on this little lake that my grandpa would fish in when they visited. I think he liked it because A) he loved fishing, and B) he could smoke his cigarettes away from us grandkids -- I am just now putting that together, by the way.

There were only a few more houses at the end of our road, and the rest of the area was surrounded by woods. We, the children of this kind of backwoods, subdivison, (5 or so of us), would daily, go explore the surrounding woods. We would build trails, make an Obscene amount booby traps, and spend hours walking, climbing, digging -- it was possibly the best place ever for a young child to live. (Point 1, Parents).

We were never bored, we were constantly outside, and while there were small prices to pay like ticks, chiggers, and filth, there was absolutely no better playground than our neighborhood.

I forget that that little, sweaty, blonde girl with the pageboy haircut still exists in me.

She still needs to be outside.

Her roots began forming in nature, and that is where they thrive.

Being in the woods again, in the mountains, I got to tap back into that rapture.

Just a lot less booby traps and Way better views.

As we decided to wrap up our first day of hiking - our boots and socks were completely soaked as we hiked, and foot-skied, down the paths, back to our car. I was literally just about to say “I feel like my boots are falling off my feet they are so heavy and wet.” that Steve said, “Oh no, your boot is breaking and the sole is falling off the bottom!”

Shit.

Both of us have had a sole break off a shoe at the most inopportune moment.

Steve, had a shoe sole fall off of a pair of vintage loafers at a waspy, Fourth of July, golf course / house party. Lots of well dressed people, nice food and drink, and my handsome, flustered, husband, trying to nonchalantly, stanky-leg-walk back to the car, hoping his shoe wouldn’t break entirely. 

(The following year, at said annual Fourth of July party, we temporarily lost Blair’s pacifier. In the koi pond. Someone fished it out with a net. What a fun game to hypothesize what shenanigans we will get into This year!)

And now I, had my vintage hiking boots break after our first hike on our weekend of hiking trips.

(Perhaps we should quit buying vintage shoes.)

We rounded out our evening with local pizza and mini champagne bottles bought in town -- That we realized we left two of, in the fridge. You’re welcome housekeeping.

And we devised a plan of boot-remedying for the next day.

Do we see if someone can repair them in town?

Do we rent?

Do we buy?

How much will this cost?

This was neither in our plan or budget and was a crap time for a boot to break.

Take me away, mini champagne bottle...

The next morning we went to an outdoor boutique and rental shop and ended up renting a pair of hiking boots for the day. Steve called the national park service that morning to get a current weather update on the trail we were going to do (not going to fool us a Third time, Nature!), which influenced our decision to also rent microspikes -- which may be my favorite invention. Ever.

We went to breakfast and had the restaurant make a sack lunch to take with us -- which is a practical and adorable option at many of the local restaurants. We drove to the entrance of our mountain, parked the car, and took the obligatory photo at the trailhead. 

This was our first ever summit hike, and while it was not necessarily Huge in height or distance, with the snow, ice, and our own greenness to these excursions, it offered the perfect balance of challenge and aesthetics.

I like to think Steve thinks of me the same way.

I don’t know if the weather could have been more perfect. 

We began our ascent, enthusiastic, excited, anticipatory and high off of the stellar beauty around us, (and perhaps the slight decrease of oxygen in the air). I was frequently humbled at how often I was panting and had to pause to catch my breath. Not like I am necessarily the prototype for excellent health and physicality, but I at least thought I was in good enough shape to set and keep up a decent pace for maybe 30 minutes to an hour, or so.

But do you know what doesn’t care about pride?

Lungs. And hearts.

And they needed to rest. Somewhat often. But it’s okay, because it was just an excuse to soak in the views.

Gulp them in, really.

About 30 minutes or so into our hike we began to realize our trail was starting to get Really challenging. We started scaling the back of the mountain, searching for places to put our feet and hands amongst the trees, rocks, and loose patches of ground, etc.,  while trying to find some semblance of a trail higher than us. We knew the trail was up and to our left, because of other hikers we saw resting in that direction earlier, but we had managed to find ourselves somewhere off and to the right., confused, and exerting Way more energy than we needed/wanted to.

Steve paused, scanned the mountain, and was able to find our trail again. He said we had missed the last switchback on the trail - probably because of a distractingly hilarious part of whatever story I was telling at that time.

And so we made our way back onto the trail, and discussed a sermon we heard our friend Chris make many months before, on his reflections on hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and the emotional, mental, and physical need to follow the path and the footsteps of those that have gone before us. There are times to be trailblazers, but when it starts to feel *not right*, you have to listen to that voice, and see if, and where, you got off the true path. For us it was when we were heaving and trying to climb an un-navigated part of a mountain.

Unfortunately, real-life isn’t so obvious sometimes.

We eventually made it high enough to where the mountain was capped in snow.

Nirvana.

We put on our lovey-wonderful-ice-cleat-angels and continued hiking up the snowy, icy, path, bursting with joy and intelligence for thinking to call the RMNP to see what gear would be best for our hike. About every ten minutes or so, we would pass other hikers on their way down that were either in plain tennis shoes, or hiking boots, or the poor guy that was Decked Out for a hike up, but had left his microspikes in his car -- or perhaps we felt more sorry for his friend accompanying him, who didn’t. But everyone commented on how smart and prepared we were to have the right gear for the climb. I felt equally sorry for them, as it was definitely quite a trek to even get as high as we / they were at that point, and then to have to turn around without ever reaching the top - but I also felt like a Badass Mountain Queen, (with a heart of gold) and I wished I had an endless supply of cleats for all of the rustic hikers.

And then there was the fairytale.

There is a part in the trail where the path is surrounded by the woods on both sides, and it feels like you are in a freaking fairy tale and it is now perhaps one of my favorite places on earth.

I cried.

I could not take how beautiful it was. My heart (and eyes) wept at such beauty, peacefulness, it was art. The picture before me was surreal and sublime and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be there in that moment. I was falling deeper in love with the world. With nature. With my husband. With God. I think I then moved onto giddy laughter and said the words “fairy tale” about 25 more times as we went through that life changing part of the path.

We were maybe 45 minutes to an hour or so from the top by this point. The air and snow were only making our climb more challenging. The snowy path was not 100% trustworthy as certain steps were strong enough, but there were many where you would immediately sink 1-2 feet into the snow and had to climb back out to do it again on your next step.

But alas.

After thousands of steps. Countless moments of laughter, conversations, a few tears, two and a half hours of climbing, three miles, and one forest-pee, we made it to the top of our mountain. The wind whipped and swirled around us like a massive, welcoming hug to the apex, and the view was completely breath-taking. 

Much like the air.

We found an area of rocks on a ledge where we stood and absorbed this most amazing moment together. Steve took photos and I cried.

Words fail to describe how overwhelmed I was by the splendor of the mountain ranges and sky that were rolled out before us. I imagined the wind playing the trees and land below like harp strings; Pitches determined by the height of the trees on the mountains and hills.

Forests wailing glissandos and arpeggios.

I think God hears music from the earth like this.

I think the earth can’t help but make music like this.

I was overwhelmed with splendor of the connectedness and love that was pouring out of my heart for my husband and our life together. And what better way to celebrate that moment than with deli sandwiches and kettle cooked chips, packed by our cafe that morning.

We sat there, on the edge of the top of a mountain - eating, resting, watching what we couldn’t determine if it was rain or snow falling from the clouds, one mountain range over.

And then, Steve looked up, and on the last little tree on the edge of the mountain to our left, sitting on one of its’ branches, was a Clark's Nutcracker.

There’s a good chance I cried again at this point too.

The mountains had a way of making me feel intensely high, hormonal-ish emotions, but instead of feeling crazy and out of control, I just felt like I was going to burst with love for Everything In The Whole Wide World.

AND THEN.

A chipmunk popped up. Cocking it’s head, cute and curiously, and then it disappeared. And then Reappeared, right by me feet.

I was going to give this chipmunk a chip.

I Needed to give this chipmunk a chip.

And I broke a small piece off, and left it on the boulder between he and I. Mr. Chipmunk grabbed it, scurried to another rock, and sat there and ate it in what was perhaps the cutest and funniest, icing on the cake moment, that I could have ever asked for.

And then he showed up, again.

Now I am not so dense to think that:

A) I know I should not be feeding potato chips to animals in their wild habitat on the tops of mountains. And,

B) This little chipmunk was almost a little Too friendly, and he probably does this to exhausted, nature-drunk hikers every day - making them feel super special and giddy, and he gets some sweet nosh out of the deal.

I did not care.

This time, I held the chip in my hand, and he came and grabbed it from my fingers, and ate it right in front of us.

Was there a third time? Of Course there was a third time!

And he came up on my lap and ate it there as well.

Was there a fourth time? Well by this point we were slappy with the amount of animals and outsideness we had experienced, and Steve suggested that I try to feed Mr. Chipmunk from my lips. I got nervous, and then I got excited, and then, by this point, Mr. Chipmunk had been satiated enough by starch, oil, and salt, that he was no longer interested in eating my chips. From my lips.

I told Steve later, that I actually think the universe was protecting me,  because if I had that moment when a chipmunk ate a potato chip from my lips on the top of a mountain - my life may have peaked. And I would never again feel ecstasy or elation in that way, and I don’t think I could have handled it.

Unless we have another baby or something.

But those things get in the way of my mountain climbing career.

We packed up and made our trek back down the mountain - which was DRASTICALLY  easier than going Up the mountain, because, laws of physics. 

We of course paused at my Fairy Tale so I could hug a tree and breathe it all in one last time.

We paused at other places, too. To watch birds. To watch the clouds.

To stand there with an arm around each other, facing the mountains.

To me, that is marriage.

There are mountains. There are snowstorms and rainstorms, and the wind isn’t always at your back.

Marriage (and partnership, and Life) takes effort, and work, and time, and stamina.

It takes arguments and sussing, and painful conversations.

The elements will seem more powerful than you expected.

At times it will all be harder than you thought it would be.

But you’re facing it all, together.

With one arm around each other, together.

Helping one another up and down mountains, when you sink two feet deep into the snow, or when you drank all of your water and your spouse selflessly hands you theirs.

It is weathering through the difficult and the taxing, to have moments of pause - soaking in the agonizing beauty surrounding you.

Marriage requires intention to spend time together.

Marriage requires attention, to know you need to spend time together.

To appreciate one another.

To learn that sometimes the biggest act of courage is actually to be vulnerable and humble.

To learn that while my love languages are Words of Affirmation and Physical Touch, Steve’s are Acts of Service and Excel Spreadsheets.

Marriage is celebrating shared interests -  what makes you come alive, what brings you joy, what sparks and intrigues your mind and smiles. And accepting the differences, sans judgement. (Still working on that. Steve... and The Real Housewives of everywhere...)

Marriage is saying “Thank You for planning this trip.”  Outloud, and unprompted. Because it feels good to feel heard, noticed, and appreciated. 

There are mountains, and boulders, and moments of peace, and other times you find yourselves scaling the back of a mountain, but these moments offer opportunity to built strength, unity, and ideally, some really beautiful - and hopefully some hilarious - reflections in the end.

There was no way we would have made it to the top of that mountain if we didn’t have the right gear.

There was no way we would have gotten the right gear, if the parts I came with had not broken.

Sometimes, in order for something really beautiful and good to emerge, you have to be allowed to be broken, first.

There is healing, strength, and growth, from brokenness.

And eventually, that strength will build and you can find yourself literally, climbing and experiencing, mountaintop moments.

The Spirit has an amazing knack for working best with what is broken and malleable.

And if you’re really lucky, you may even get a visit from your spirit animal.

Like a divinely, present, Clark's Nutcracker.

Or a potato chip eating chipmunk.

This felt like a *YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE* moment. And a special hug and love to whomever this K & S are who came before us. 

Oh no big deal, we Just Climbed A FREAKING MOUNTAIN!!

And because when you are away from your kids, Everything reminds you of your kids. Like this lovely representation of our family in the form of pine trees, Steve, Kiley, Brix, & Blair Bear.

later lovies.

[kizardofkoz]

Tundras & Transitions: Part II

Weaning & Cleaning

Honey, it’s my birthday weekend -- Let’s get my parents to take the kids for a long weekend, so we can finally CLEAN OUR BASEMENT.

Stupid.

The last post I wrote was on my metaphorical trek through a spiritual and emotional tundra. A challenging journey, cold and strenuous, with kind of boring landscape.

In reality, I have been enduring another emotional trek & transition, through the process of weaning our youngest.

And cleaning our closets.

Fab.

WEANING

Blair was ready before I was.

My supply this time around had been consistently weak. Much weaker than with Brixton.

I pumped like a maniac with Brix. Mixed with the fact that his colicky little self Was Only soothed by my exhausted breasts every 1 hour and 38 minutes on the dot, my body couldn’t help but be in over-production-lactation-domination mode.

Did I ever mention Brix never took a bottle? Or a pacifier? 

I would pump for relief. I would pump, Willing him to take a bottle.

With tears, in my eyes, I pumped, while the stupid cadence of the pump vacuum sang these annoying little rhythms that I swore morphed into audible words at times - most commonly: “For Glen Close. For Glen Close.”

What the hell?

(I feel this information might be important upon admission into a Head-Hospital, at some point, if someone wants to write this down to hand it to a staff member when I arrive.)

But I continued to pump, hoping that he would EVENTUALLY take a bottle, so my husband Could Take Just One Gash Damn Feeding, and I could get more than a three hour radius from my baby boy.

Or three hours of connected sleep.

Or have three hours of Booze in my body. That sounds, not good.

By the time Brix was 4 months old, I had a Mad Max-wet nurse, back stock of breastmilk in our freezer. 

Which is how I accidentally stumbled into a pretty amazing story. (Because isn’t that how it alway happens? What good story begins with “So I had everything planned and everything went exactly how I expected and then this awesome thing happened because of type-A-ing.” Nope. Never.)

(For those keeping track, we are going into a story inside of a story, inside of a story. Enjoy the ride!!)

Basically a good friend of mine, her good friend had found out she was pregnant with her daughter right around the time I had learned I was pregnant with Brixton.

This was also right around the time that she was diagnosed with cancer.

After it was decided that she was safe to carry her baby Because The Placenta Is The Most Amazing Thing On The Entire Planet and it is capable of growing a human being whilst simultaneously filtering out the very chemo pills that she needed to survive. 

Unreal.

So she was able to carry her baby to term and have a normal, healthy, baby & delivery. THANK GOD. However immediately after having her baby, she needed to begin radiation, which means, no breastfeeding. Our mutual friend was telling our Coregroup this all one night and she mentioned how her friend (who lives out of state), was coming to STL to pick up a batch of breastmilk from a donor. I then of course thought of my own stash that would never get used and how much I would love to donate that to her too -- because the Only thing that might be worse than wasted breast milk to a mother, would be wasted wine.

This whole story was so incredible and I felt so humbled to be a part of it, and I had this moment of God saying:

“It’s okay. The pumping was not in vain. I needed that milk too, just not for Brixton.”

2 years later, we were blessed with a baby that Did take a bottle.

And pacifier.

And naps.

And it was AWESOME.

And then he decided, Screw That, I ONLY want the bottle.

*Hits head on table, waves white flag, busts out a brown-bagged bottle of champagne and laments that there is no weaning-bitmoji.*

I had Completely forgotten about the hormonal HELL of weaning. And I had a very real, David-after-Dentist moment of, “Is this going to be forever???!”.

It’s not. I forget that with hormones. Because it Feels. So. Real.

(The absolute madness of hormones -- knowing that what you are feeling is completely valid and real, however it is Not rational, or controllable. And it Is temporary, but you are left to your own skewed devices, second guessing your reactions and then you become angry that this is the third commercial in a row you cried during and it’s for Enterprise, and is the house always this dirty? Why clean? Why shower? Where’s my phone? Where’s the baby?)

Your body is not your own.

Nursing, at it’s best, is one of the most natural, automatic, sacredly primitive, beautiful and bonding things a mother and baby can experience.

At it’s worst, nursing can be physically painful, making you a prisoner to the feeding schedule of a newborn, there is engorgement, pumping, for the really lucky ones, the giant misfortune of mastitis -- or super-painful-boob-flu (I had it FIVE TIMES with Brix), and the icing on the cake - you have to limit your alcohol intake. Still.

Your body is not your own.

But I loved nursing. And my body just wasn’t making enough milk this time around, and eventually Blair Bear was more satisfied with the bottle.

*This is the first step he’s taking away from me.

And his entire life will follow - from here on out, as he will be taking steps away from me.*

Which is what I want, and want to raise -- but on My timeline.

I don’t know when God will ever learn this lesson.

I had drinks and brussel sprouts with a good girlfriend the other day. She’s smart, Hilarious, tall, thin, pretty, (annoying right?), Super-creative, selfless, spiritual, and she stole toilet paper from the bathroom because she didn’t have enough at home.

But we were discussing child-rearing (she has actual “kids”, closer to “tweens”. While I am watching Brix transition from toddler to pre-schooler, and Blair transition from baby to 1 year old. He’s in that yummy, drunk-baby-puppy-toddler-stage. Falls a lot, you can’t understand what he’s saying, but that kid is a good time.)

So we were discussing how our job as parents, is to basically *guide*. These children are not OURS, but we are trusted with them -- which is simultaneously a relief, and yet almost an even greater responsibility. After Blair was born and my heart volcanoed with love for this new person, a little line kept playing in my head:

“Thank you, for these children. Mine to protect, not mine to keep.”

Or something very similar to that.

I was incredibly sleep deprived and drunk on soft, baby head.

Now I am still sleep deprived, and that soft baby head has grown into Bonkers, cotton-candy-hair.

Perhaps the hardest part of weaning was not knowing it was going to be our last. Not knowing he was actually weaning. And how the not knowing will translate to future milestones and maturities.

There will come a time when Brix no longer needs me to kiss and rub his head when he “konks his noodle”. And I won’t know that it’s the last one.

There will come a time when Blair no longer needs both, or even one hand to walk. And I won’t know that it’s the last one.

There will come a time when neither boy will want to kiss me on the lips.

And I will force them to anyway. Because perhaps the best weapon a mother has in her arsenal is guilt.  And I have preplanned to use it in this category. 

And wine for all of the others.

Savor the boys. Remember the bad is temporary. (I am constantly working on this.) Put down the phone. Write down their quotes. And wear sunscreen.

I came. I saw. I weaned. AND I CLEANED.

In transitioning from my now, lactation-less life, into one where I am TRYING to gain control on everything (because that is totally doable) - I have hired a home organizer.

*Brushes dirt off shoulder.*

She is a client of mine actually, my newest one, and she is sharp, focused, encouraging, and equipped with an extremely motivating drive, and an unexpected sense of humor that starts to wickedly slip out behind her composed, Grace Kelly meets First Lady exterior. She has ran her home organization business for two years now, and after the infamous Marie Kondo book, “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up” debuted, she adapted her business into that framework and now lovely people like myself don’t have to read that book because we can pay someone who has.

I win this time, life.

Phase One: Clothing, jewelry, accessories, shoes -- Identity.

I could spend about ten pages writing on this event, so let’s do.

Basically, you gut your entire closet, wardrobe, dresser, and any other place in your house where you may have been stashing a clothing item, and you dump it into your bedroom until you feel like you are going to lose your sanity. Then, your organization guru guides you, as you pick up Every Single Article of Clothing, and ask “Does this bring me joy?” - not necessarily out loud, but I am pretty positive that’s how I began.

If said item Does spark joy, back to the closet it goes. If the clothing does not spark joy, you can thank the clothing for it’s service, and bid it adieu.

You Can have a “Maybe” pile, but it’s at the expense of judgement from your organizer guru -- because she will make you go through that bad boy later and she will trade in her gentleness for a bit sharper, more heavy handed, “guidance”:

“The look on your face seemed hesitant when you picked it up.” “It’s awfully pilly.” “This skirt is ripped.”

I know it is.

Because I ripped the sides of it so it wouldn’t cut into post baby, muffin top.

Bye-bye, skirt. 

And pride.

Over the entire process I donated TEN BAGS of clothing (I can’t even really get into the other dimension of guilt here that I Actually Have Ten Bags of Clothing I Can Donate because there are many MANY people on this earth that can’t even fill One. I know I am privileged. And the gut twisting pain of donating clothing that I had never even worn, because the only joy it brought was maybe a little excitement the hour that I purchased it. I spent a lot of money on that lesson, but I can say with pride (more like, earnest humility), that I don’t believe I will make that same mistake again. Ever. Too expensive. Too painful.)

Organizer-Boss-lady-guru made the comment to me, how “Your clothing is really the only thing that is 100% yours.” And after sharing my body off and on for the past few years, and stretching my role of mom, wife, existing human, etc., those words were very powerful to me.

And it was at times a very painful process.

The dress I wore the first time I ever talked to Steve.

Dresses I wore on stage in our band days. 

(This will come up later -- for those who only know us in our current roles in this world, Steve and I used to be in a band together. It was a pretty giant part of our lives. There is definitely space for future blogs on that topic and chapter, but know that it was a big part of us, it ended poorly - as bands often do - but I think it had to or we wouldn’t have known when to leave. And so we traded in our touring and show days for a mortgage, two boys, and dependable income. Another example of life making difficult decisions for you that you may not have the courage or foresight to be able to make yourself. And then you also realize How Nice it is Not sleeping on floors. And having babies.)

Anyway...

Clothing from high school. College. After Brix.

The skirt I wore touring, in a press photo for the band, and even wore it through Blair’s pregnancy. I literally teared up as I kissed the skirt, thanked it, and handed it over to the donate bin.

You don’t realize how emotional the process of going through your wardrobe can be.

All of the sudden you are facing the most external part of your identity, and deciding what to edit. You are kind of forced to face all your demons at once, from body-conscious, self-hating ones to the materialistic, greedy ones. Then mix those bad boys with the practical voice of but you paid money for that, and what if you need a black blazer, followed by, but that shirt never really fit the way you want, and that collar is kind of scratchy. At least there are a few easy choices - like how there are few things I love better than that blue, sequin, frock.

It’s. Exhausting.

The second day, the Guru came back and as she sat in my foyer, taking off her shoes, she was commenting on how the day before during The Big Purge, I kept complaining that I felt like I was getting sick. 

She remarked: “I am not really spiritual or mystic, as I gave that stuff up a long time ago, but I too was starting to feel *something*, a sickness, an illness, by the end of yesterday as well, but after I took a shower, and saw your text that you had donated the bags of clothing already, and texted the picture of your empty closet, I actually felt lighter, and better.”

I completely get it.

This process supersedes the practicality of having an organized closet -- clean, tidy, blah blah blah. And while she tends to not believe in the things we don’t see, I, on the other hand, basically believe that Everything Is Connected, and Everything Is Spiritual.

And after three days of working through my closet, my muck, my identity, 10 bags of donations, 1 bag of trash, and way less clothing and possessions, I am more content with my wardrobe and belongings than I think I have ever been in my life. My closet is full of things that I love.

Items that spark joy.

I am literally excited to get dress in the morning and I am legitimately happy to go into my closet. I didn’t even know I Wasn’t happy going into my closet until I realize that now I am Super Happy going into my closet. It is clean, organized, pretty, and I know where everything is. My less is my more, and I realized the pain and absolute Pleasure of purging. And so we began the next great purging project.

The Basement.

This beast of a project had been on our calendar for months - as we coordinated our basement cleaning weekend with Brix’s Spring Break and coincidentally, my birthday, to maximize a weekend away at the Grandparents’ house.

The euphoria and lightness that I found upstairs in my closet completely dissipated on the dissent into the basement.

A different area of cleaning, organizing, purging, a different area of life to filter.

“Basements are basically the place where you put things that you aren’t ready to have closure with.” Said my husband, as we reflected on the crappy weekend we were having.

The closet was EA-SY compared to this.

Steve and I were sifting through boxes and bags of our past 8 years of marriage and prior. We were sorting through office supplies, DVDs, CDs, books, sentimental knick-knacks, papers, important papers, papers that should have been thrown away in 2006, home decor, dryer lint, camping stuff, sports paraphernalia, tools, holiday decorations, china, furniture, BABY AND KID EVERYTHING, and alas, band stuff.

It felt like we were editing our pasts and ultimately our future.

Do we keep this gear for a future studio, or buy new everything? Will we even be able to afford new everything? Will we ever be able to afford x, y, & z? Do we keep these cameras for our children?

Will there be a need for film ever again? If the world goes to shit, as it inevitably will, will we NEED film cameras then? Pre-apocolyptic (or post, depending on your views of the Roman Empire), in the boughs of survival, what if we need this 35mm Canon camera?! There will certainly be some crazy shit we will want to document...

Wanting to save these objects that will offer a chance to be creative and show parts of our past with our children, yet understanding that they will never fully get the importance and essence of what these items were to us, this was basically our crossroads with almost every object in our basement. Not Every. Like the ceramic coin dish Steve made in junior high that is shaped like a face-toilet, That you keep.

But now, instead of being able to share and convey the shows and tours and memories attached to each keyboard, quarter inch cable, microphone, and road case;  How we lugged those items around, with 6 (later 5), other members of our band -- towed in a trailer behind a large van, treking around the country. We carried that gear up and down flights of stairs [often in high heels], in and out of dive bars, rain, snow, sun, music festivals, house shows, recording studios, radio interviews, practices, Christmas shows, and one time on a U-turn on the Queens Bridge in New York City. (I will write about that at some point in the future.) This part of our lives, our identity pre-house, pre-children, these items represent some of the most fun, creative, care-free, and electric weeks, months, and years of our lives. And they now sit down stairs, lifeless and dusty, like cold gravestones, sitting against the back wall of our basement.

Most of this gear now needs repairs before it could even work properly, which kind of feels like a metaphor for Steve’s and my creative / music life.

What was supposed to be a productive weekend of *rah-rah, clean, organize, purge, label, and order our basement*, it felt more like the final, painful goodbye to a chapter that we had no idea how hard it was to say goodbye to.

We managed to get everything finished (enough) one day earlier than we had planned - because while we were trying to process and find closure with our histories, our present was an hour away, and missing us.  

Our boys did great with their grandparents, but with each afternoon and bedtime that went by, going to bed became more and more sad as the longing for mommy and daddy increased. And how the bed in my sister’s old room doesn’t compare to the comfort and familiarity of a toddler-sized bed, spilling over with stuffed animals and blankets, and sealed with a kiss on the head and the first two stanzas of Yellow Submarine.

They boys needed me. And I needed them. And at that point, I was ready to say goodbye to the past. With the same red sharpie that I labeled every box and bin we kept downstairs, I think I was finally ready to label The Past, and bid adieu to that chapter, kiss and thank that book, and place it on the shelf - in the “Sentimental Section”, of course. 

The past couple of months have been a process and evolution of trying to organize and sort through each corner and closet of my head, heart, and home. It has been quite challenging but definitely rewarding - which is rather annoying and not very unique.

My closet, is now clean and full of joy and appreciation.

Our basement, is now clean, functional, and Brixton has actually Played Down There the past three days.

My knockers, are now clean out of milk, and ready to remain this way, for the next chapter.

Or two.

Because as much as I try to clean, organize, order and control my life and especially my home, I continue to face the beautiful power and bittersweet reality of being a mother / wife / woman, and I exhale. 

My body, and home, are not my own.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Yayy!!! Pictures!!!

Check out Fuzzball-McGee. THIS HAIR. It will have its’ own post. 

It DESERVES its own post.

Closet looks even better now - more black velvet hangers. 

Believe in the power, of Black, Velvet Hangers.

The single only good things of that weekend. Birthday wine and donut at Lucky’s, and an impromptu game of tennis on the courts behind. Neither of us know how to play tennis. Like, at all. Pocket won.

I just friggen LOVE THIS PHOTO.

Cheers, all.

[kizardofkoz]

Tundras & Transitions: Part 1

“Ms. Kiley Kozel is a 31 year old, Caucasian, right-handed female with reported attentional difficulty, increased disorganization and memory issues.”

Tundras & Transitions: Part 1

Mountaintop Moments

Christians love saying Christian things. We have unintentionally (hopefully) invented “Christianese” (but maybe we could all do the world a favor and try removing “Loving on” from our vernacular. I really think the Higher Up’s would even back me up on this one...)

As ridiculous as some of these terms are, others actually seem to quantify and explain little Christian anomalies and experiences better than all of the other words and phrases in the English language.

What a gift.

Or blessing.

One of these terms that you will hear if you hang around the church or other Christians long enough, is “Mountaintop Moment”. This is when your faith / your spirituality / your life, all of the sudden have a breakthrough of overwhelming peace, clarity, and joy -- a moment of enlightenment, if you will. It is a spiritual high that is as special and important as it is difficult to explain, and so we use the words “Mountaintop Moment”, and then other Christians know, the hugeness, the emotion, and the “Hhhhhaaahhhh!!!” of your experience.

(Note: I completely believe non-Christians have these as well, as they are, Human, and we are wired to Receive, to Experience -- I just call it “God”.)

I have had them. They are incredible.

And on the flip side of these amazing, spiritual highs and moments of heightened connectivity and love, I am currently in, what I would describe as, wallowing through a spiritual “tundra”.

I don’t quite know how it all happened, what the complete genesis of it all is, but it kind of sucks and I am ready for spring. -- Which is apparently now because the midwest has had a complete identity crisis this year. I can empathize.

Let’s get real.

(This is where my mother starts shuttering; “Please don’t overshare or cuss to much.”)

She knows me well.

In December, my psychologist casually, (or not so casually), diagnosed me with, or suggested that I have adult ADHD. The air left the room.

(NOTE: “ADD” no longer exists. Instead, ADHD is the only term currently being used. You are either diagnosed with “ADHD” or “ADHD without the ‘H’”, which is what I was given. Apparently the brilliant minds of the scientific / behavioral health community need to do a little word-math, because literally, “ADHD, without the ‘H’”, is ADD. Efficiency…)

I am completely aware that I was still 100% the same person who walked into that 1:00pm appointment as I was when I walked out at 2:00pm, however I felt like my axis just disintegrated and my entire view / past / thoughts just got sucked into a vacuum of hyperawareness.

Major memories, feelings, events, current frustrations, issues, everything was now going through this dominant filter, in an effort to dissect, examine, offer light, explanation, and insight, as to why I am the way I am. However instead of feeling validation or understanding, it felt more like I had this incredibly anxious and painful commentary, documenting and highlighting to me Just How Often I Forgot something, messed something up, failed, struggled, etc.

And it felt like absolute shit.

I know ADHD is not a big deal. Thousands (Millions?) of people are diagnosed, but i had one of those weird shifts - where before, I could make a joke that I was ADD (“H” be damned), and those quirks were just kind of charming on me. But to have it decreed from your trusted health care professionals, the control was ripped from my hands into someone else’s mouth, and it all began to feel a lot less adorable.

The psychologist referred me to a psychiatrist who referred me to a Neuropsychologist, (which was also STRONGLY suggested to me by a very good friend of mine, who is also a psychologist. She basically said she would never let herself or a family member take any of the ADHD medications unless they first underwent the neuropsychological testing.) And so I underwent three hours of brain testing - think of it like spending three hours, wringing out your brain into a bucket - and then last Wednesday I went back to hear my results.

Diagnosis:

“Rule out Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder-Inattentive Subtype.”

The gist of the follow up meeting was:

I have above average IQ (sexy wink and smile to camera)

I performed very well on most tests, between above average to high average range -- with a couple of exceptions.  The worst performance was on the DREADFUL test at the end where you have to hit the spacebar after every letter except an “X” for 15 or so minutes while your soul and happiness pour out of your ears into a puddle on the floor - later to be mopped into the brain-bucket, to make an “Important-parts-of-me, stew”.

Her analysis was: Low range performance... “Suggestive of activation / arousal issues.” Well no shit.

She said while I definitely display some symptoms and exhibit certain traits that are congruent with ADHD, I do not seem to have and portray all of them, or enough to make a firm and clear diagnosis.

She suggests doing a round of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy as well as trying to make some changes at home because I basically have too much stress and stimuli going at any given moment, making my brain incapable of computing information at a maximum level because it is competing with, my life.

(It is an absolute blessing - both emotionally and financially - to not Have to put my children in daycare each day. I work out of my house, and I have such incredible families in my studio who help watch and entertain our dudes when they aren’t napping, or if Brix is not at daycare.

But the ideal-ness of that situation also means sacrifices in others:

I never take off the mom hat when I go to work.

I never get out of my house to work in a different environment.

I never take off the work hat when I’m at home.

I am always mom, wife, teacher, housekeeper, and there is never a clear break from any role. 

I am sure that if I was given the opposite situation as an option, (going to a workplace for a 9-5 and put babes in daycare) I would choose what I have. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard [very hard, sometimes], and at it’s worst, is taking my sanity.)

Back to the results:

While I still have every symptom listed in that lovely, DSM book, I actually felt immediate and enormous relief to be clinically, Un-diagnosed. I am sure on some level, I Am Something, but I no longer feel the burden and pressure of psychoanalyzing every event and nonevent in my life to see if and how it fits into the parameter of ADHD.

Besides, I paid someone to examine that for me. And she basically just confirmed that I’m a right-handed genius.

I feel such alleviation not having to worry about if I really Should medicate, and which medication, and finding the right dosage, and going through that whole saga.

And it’s also quite alarming to think that I could have gotten a script for stimulants and could have been using them for the past three weeks. The psychiatrist verbally diagnosed me in addition to my psychologist, and she offered to write me a prescription that day. I can’t believe how easy it is to get these prescriptions.

I can’t believe how dangerous it is to get these prescriptions.

I was terrified of going on the stimulants.

And liking them.

(I asked my psychologist if part of the reason the meds work is because by increasing the production and flow of dopamine and serotonin, any activity or situation that was normally difficult, anxiety-inducing, or taxing - once medicated, you are basically now able to recondition your brain to tolerate and do these tasks by synthetically affecting your brain chemistry to make them “feel good”.

“That’s a valid point.”)

Although I can not tell you how tempting it is to fantasize about popping a couple of Adderall and finally going to town on our taxes.

Guess I will just do it the old fashioned way, with exorbitant amounts of coffee and crying.

Meanwhile, a few weeks ago:

My church had a Women’s Retreat. I was looking VERY forward to going; To have that time carved out for myself, for my spirituality, for friendships, for Uninterrupted Sleep for a night, God, and to just escape from life for 30 hours.

I was salivating, looking forward to a Mountain Top Moment.

I didn’t get it.

And. It. Was. Frustrating.

I was in a fog, in a funk (with a capital F.U.), I was preoccupied, frustrated, everything, and while I did have a few pretty amazing moments, overall, I watched many women around me have restorative, transforming and moving experiences, and I was left envious.

 I was alone in my tundra - crying and praying, begging for God to deliver me from my own headspace and heartache. 

Sometimes, you just don’t feel God. There are times in life where God’s presence, love and direction are so crystal clear, and there are others where I still believe in God, but I feel close to nothing. I cry, I pray, I still go to church, but what the hell has happened? I think in these moments, it’s okay to feel this way. It is okay to question, feel the ache of distance, and to look at that season as a time of refinement. I was praying a handful of weeks ago and said something along the lines of “Where are you and why am I not feeling you!” and before I could even finish that question, that Voice inside said so gently, “I never left you.”  The first feeling of the wind at my back in a while.

I remember talking to a very good friend of mine at the retreat, she kept tabs on me throughout the day because she knew I wasn’t feeling right. When hugging me one time, she said something along the lines of: 

“If this doesn’t feel right, if this doesn’t feel good: This is not from God.”

And I played and replayed her words over and over that day, and have been ever since.

My anxiety, my frustration, my pain, my everything negative -- that might just all be competing for my attention to ensure that my attention has no more room for God. 

It’s like the spiritual version of my actual reality of attention issues. So Jesus-meta.

*These challenges can be used in my story, they can be made lighter, they can offer experience, refinement, and maturity, but all of the negativity in my life and my need to hold on to an analyze each dose of it-

*THAT* is not from God.

*That is keeping me from feeling love and light.

*That is weighing me down from climbing my mountains.

*That is my frozen, fruitless, tundra.

You should also know that at 9:45pm, later that same night, in one of my more *High-Attitudinal* moments, this same friend led women in “Beyonce Blacklight Yoga”.

Friends, even if you don’t believe in God, Jesus, or any higher power,

BELIEVE, in Beyonce Blacklight Yoga.

(Wrapping up)

I know the ADHD diagnosis, it was just words, and those words didn’t change who I was, except for when they did.

I have spent the past two and a half months, letting those words define me.

I gave them power, and I was letting them reframe my identity --

“Kiley: wife, mother of two, piano teacher, business owner, quirky, musical, creative, unorganized, loves champagne, cheese, Jesus, jokes, and sea otters.’

TO:

“Kiley: Adult ADHD (without the H)”

It was exhausting, painful - I over analyzed and processed every hour of my day. This has been an ENORMOUS, humbling, and powerful lesson on how I want to live my life.

How am I going to define my happiness.

How am I going to allow myself to be defined.

In the future, when faced with some sort of situation that challenges my *ME*, I will look back at this and remember that the World’s terms and classification system, doesn’t have to be mine. Those words need no more power than my own, and they can’t bring texture and tangibility to the spirit, soul, and actual essence, of Who I Am.

I am Kiley.

I forget things Very regularly.

I am driven wildly by my emotions (see: entire post).

I enjoy new, arousing, exciting, experiences.

I am attracted to imagination and inspiration.

I have a difficult time staying organized.

I know how to put people at ease.

I am aroused by change and enticed by things that scare me.

I believe in human touch.

I believe in God.

I believe in the uncanny delight of hearing the “pop” of the champagne cork.

I believe in deep, painful examinations of ourselves.

I believe in self forgiveness.

I believe in compliments.

I believe in friendships deep enough to challenge you, and gentle enough to cry with you.

I believe in vulnerability.

I believe in the incredibly healing power of laughter and writing.

I forget things Very regularly.

I Believe in Beyonce Blacklight Yoga.

I believe I have to go through my own muck in order to get out of my own muck. I can’t short-cut it or streamline, but I can crawl, wade, cry, drag on, and strengthen myself along the way.

I believe life is entirely too short to take all of this shit so seriously, and I also believe that life is too precious to not give weight and sacredness to those things that resonate and vibrate the very fibers of our core.

I am day by day, making my way through this tundra. 

I honestly even feel lighter after writing all of this out. I truly believe that every doctor, psychologist, and psychiatrist in my path has had nothing but the absolute best of intentions..

They were trying to aide and support me as best as they knew how.

However, what I had to do was go on my unpaved path; Pioneer through my tundra, leaving footprints of humility, honesty, courage, and just enough insanity to dig in and do some core-self-examinations.

I am multi-dimensional and I am stressed and I would benefit from some therapy, but I don’t need a PhD or diagnoses, I just need some soul-cleansing, rest.

Because sometimes, these chapters, these uphill battles, while painful and arduous, they help us ascend to a higher place where we can gain a deeper understanding, a new vantage point, and a renewed mindset. 

Able to exhale out the fog, the frustration and finally release the weight of the armor from current personal battles, and now able to inhale new, crisp air; alive with the peace and illumination that comes from revelation, accomplishment, and insight.

And the realization comes, that if it wasn’t for the tundras and the uphill battles, there would be no need to climb higher, to move forward, and and ultimately find yourself stumbling upward and experiencing, a Mountaintop Moment.

[kizardofkoz]

That time we called John Mozeliak at Waterway

3 Things!!! It’s Baaa-aaaacckkkk!!!!!!

A side-note amuse bouche, just to whet the palate:

Just met this morning with one of my life mentors. If you don’t have a mentor - I strongly suggest getting one. I was fortunate enough to meet with my spiritual one this morning and I am left feeling like I just took a bath in green tea and love. I have mentors for spirituality, my career, the crossroads of both, and I feel unbelievably lucky to have such wise, powerful, caring, generous, and Smart women who are willing to give me their time and counseling, in exchange for a coffee, my endless appreciation, and an occasional deep laugh.

Thank you, ladies, you know who you are.

Thank you God, for placing such Amazing women in my life.

And for coffee plants.

Now for the appetizers:

1. It was Ash Wednesday yesterday.

Do you know what you don’t wear on Ash Wednesday? 

A cream, printed, sweater that has tiny little black crosses all over it. It was as if my face was trying to zebra itself in with my torso. I didn’t even realize this sacred faux-pas until I took off my coat and my friend, who is also the pastor who gave me my cross, said something along the lines of:

“Holy Ash Wednesday Sweater!” 

My subconscious and the Holy Spirit dressed me yesterday.

The Holy Spirit:

Strengths: Discernment; Providing comfort.

Weaknesses: Visibility

Hidden talents: FASHION

2. Blair-bear is teething. It is sad and sweet and I could not love that baby more.

Until tomorrow.

Then I will probably think I loved him more than I did today. Yum yum yum yum.

We have these plain, smallish, breadstick snacks from Lucky’s that I will let him gnaw on because they are easy to grip, they don’t require molars, and they can hold up to 10 month old’s man-handling fairly well. The other day I grabbed a few out of the bag, and I handed him one while I ate one myself. I was quite surprised and confused at how savory and tangy the breadstick was, as I know I grabbed from the Plain bag, but I didn’t think much of it and it was actually kind of delightful, unexpected, surprise. (The company also makes a spicy, chill-pepper and a honey mustard breadstick -- highly recommend all three. So I thought that maybe, somehow, one of those flavored breadsticks got mixed in the “plain” bag. Quick, effortless, rationalizing.).

Then I literally stopped walking and chewing at the same moment when I realized:

I was enjoying the leftover residue from scooping Pocket’s dog food.

I didn’t wash my hands between dishing Pocket her food, and getting myself and my baby a snack (sorry, Blair), -  and I transferred her savory, dog-food-flavor-surprise, onto my breadstick.

And I it was delicious.

We can only go up from here, folks.

3. A completely overwhelming thank you hug for the wave of love, support, sharing, community, heart-breaking-and-filling-bubble-bath-warmth, response from my last post. People from all walks of life sharing about their experience with miscarriages, lifting up one another - it was a really incredible web of love that I was able to witness. Thank you all for reading, for sharing about yours, and for supporting me (which was a very kind consequence - that post was more to share an awful time in my life because I know others have gone and are going through it too) - and one another.

Imagine what would happen if we actually used networks and the internet for things like

-Being Super Positive

-Providing comfort and community to one another

-Offering a space for vulnerability and healing

Instead of posting things like

-Photos of our status-restaurant meal

-Trolling

-Whether we realize it or not, posting an arsenal of vain selfies, trying to be like celebrities… News flash. We’re not. And I have a theory that the celebrities that Do post a plethora of selfies, have this very real, insecure fear, that maybe if they stop taking pictures of themselves, so will everyone else.

Now who’s trolling? Geesh.

aye yai yai

*by the way, one of my best friends was in town last week - he is a super talented photographer (what’s up work for Burberry, Busch, and other awesome companies that don’t necessarily start with a “B”?!) and we did a small, impromptu photo shoot as well, and took some super vain photos of me. Not really. Maybe, kind of…

 I am no better…

*Sighs. Pounds a handful of dog food, cup of coffee, glass of champagne, and gets back to writing.*

Let’s lighten things up a bit, shall we?… 

And Now It’s time for the main course! (And I promise to never do the menu thing again.) Ladies & Gentlemen, without further adieu:

That time we called John Mozeliak at Waterway

There is only a pocketful of really great stories that I have.

In my mind, I carefully and cleverly trickle them into conversations with fancy strangers that I am charming the socks off of at cocktail parties. As I walk away to get another flute of champagne, I hear these adorable strangers all laugh again, repeating the last line I had said.

I prudently make sure to not release these story-narcotics all at once, but I give my listeners just enough to give them a fix, to keep an edge of mystery and humor, making them want to come back for more - inebriated off my hilarity.

Unfortunately -- Screw That! I’m a piano teacher and a mom of two under 3. The most regular “cocktail parties” I have right now involve my husband, me, Serial, & a bottle of wine on a Friday night.

And we’re in bed by 11, anyway.

And so you, dear readers, are my swanky-cocktail party, audience.

So grab your libation and get comfy!

I was telling this story to someone the other day and thought, yep, time to go public, and hopefully this doesn’t do anything bad…

Through a series of details that will remain confidential, as to protect the nerves and identity of someone who is a giant rule follower, and who possibly did something they shouldn’t have:

Someone my husband and I know, was in a room with a rolodex that contained the contact info of many important sports figures, and those involved with sports (can you tell I am a music major?).

And that little voice that sometimes takes over in moments like that, because:

When Will This Opportunity Ever Present Itself again, and YOLO!!!... this person acquired John Mozeliak’s private cell phone number.

And then we acquired it from them.

#1. I have had a handful of famous people’s phone numbers in my life.

It started with The President of the United States.

Yes. You read that correctly.

A friend of mine and I were outside the dorms one night talking - he had been an intern at the White House and through that job he gained trust, increased his responsibilities, obtained more privileges (never spell this correctly the first time), and he gained access to more serious information, like a direct line to the White House / President / IMPORTANCE, that pedestrians like you and me, do not. 

Did not. 

And so I asked him what the number was. He was very reluctant but I assured him that there was no way I would remember the number (lie), that I didn’t even have my phone on me (true), and it’s not like he would ever get in trouble (sure).

He said the number out loud and I spent the next several minutes trying to look engaged in whatever conversation we were having, while I played and replayed the 10 digit number in my head.

We walked back up into our dorms and I shimmied into my room, found my phone, and released those weighted numbers into my sweet, silver, 2002 Nokia cell phone, and sighed with great relief as if I had just been able to use the restroom, after hours of holding it in.

I may have even shivered.

The number was saved in my phone, un-cleverly marked as “P.O.T.U.S.”.

I felt invincible.

I don’t recall ever using this number because while I find thrill and joy in bending rules now and then, I subsequently find fear and intimidation when entertaining the idea of calling the White House and the consequential:  

What could happen? What could happen to my family? Short answer - Nothing.

There is probably a phone in a low-traffic wing that would light up and no one would care. Access to that number posed no threat to our national security. 

(I think.)

#2. Paris Hilton.

My friend Scott is a vivacous, go-getter. He is incredibly smart, connected, a zealous life-liver, a generous friend, and possesses a wit that people love being around and are jealous they don’t have. He is in that special handful of friendships that has endured into adulthood from high school.

He was also my homecoming date when I was a Senior. 

He was a Junior. I asked him.

You’re welcome, Scott.

So Scott had a friend whose uncle either was, or was friends with Taylor Hicks. (Remember him? This helps date the story.)

Ol’ T-Hicks was talking about (bragging about -- that’s unfair, I don’t know him, but, let’s be real…) how he had Paris Hilton’s cell phone number. And so the number trickled its’ way down that chain into Scott’s friend’s custody, into Scott’s and finally into my cell phone at the Cowboy Monkey bar in Champagne, IL -- which now that I think about it, that might have happened the same night my husband proposed to me.  !  (future blog)

Engaged to marry Steve Kozel AND Paris Hilton’s cell phone number in one night?? Universe! What did I do SO RIGHT???!!

After the number conversation and transplant happened, a few of us ran into the bathroom and called Paris on speaker phone. I can’t remember exactly what the voicemail message said, but it was simultanaeously general and cryptic enough that it could belong to a famous person (no personal name) but the most distinguishing part was that annoying, screechy-baby-voice, and the voicemail basically confirmed what we were all thinking.

Paris Hilton very likely has a few different cell phone numbers that she passes around. One, for more current, sexy, brunchable-stars, and one for the Taylor Hicks. (Taylor, I’m sorry. I am sure you are a wonderful person. We can discuss this over beers sometime. And I am also curious about your thoughts on Ryan Seacrest - I was just saying the other day I think he has really low self esteem, but my husband disagrees. Thoughts?)

And NOW We get to, #3.

John Mozeliak’s cell phone number was actually in my husband’s phone, (maybe mine too?). But we were married by this point anyway so we vowed to share things like our hearts, our vulnerabilities, and important cell phone numbers, in front of 181 of our closest friends and family.

(It’s almost now a little sweet that I got Paris’s number the night we got engaged -- Full circle!!)

During intense moments of Cards’ games, and especially the play-offs (because when you are the Cardinals, you are just in the play-offs - but we appreciate All the teams -- Heyyooohhh BFIB)

ANYWAYS!

Steve would jokingly (not jokingly) say “Should I call John?” and I know he spent the next minute fantasizing about calling him and suggesting who to pull and who plug in - watching his Cardinals chess game play out on the tv before him. Chicken never tried. Our apologies, St. Louis.

Cut to...

One day, pre-babies, *relaxied, nostalgic, sigh* where I am sure we had nothing to do but eat something, shop somewhere, and perhaps see or play at a show that evening, (Damn that sounds amazing. But so are our boys.)...we found ourselves needing to get our car washed, so off we went to our beloved Waterway in Kirkwood.

Going to Waterway is always a very fascinating cultural experience to me. I love Waterway, but I kind of feel like their tagline could be something like:

“Waterway: Where the 1% gets their cars washed by their son’s friends!”

And the Kozels. 

But I regularly find myself there in a sea of luxury vehicles, purses, haircuts, and on one occasion, a strange, handsome-ish, 20-something guy that dropped a pile of cash on the floor at the check-out, and when he bent down to recover his ridiculous wad of fifties and hundreds, I saw a gun in his pocket.  I had Many background stories going on in my head with him - Cop? Undercover Cop? Goes to strip clubs? He probably Ices Bros sincerely. Maybe a cop?  

So we were there on that blessed Saturday afternoon, waiting for the car, and Steve kept looking in the same direction a few times, and something was clearly up. He whispered something to me through his teeth, “I think that’s John Mozeliak,” and he ushered me outside with a focus and excitement that is only reserved for special occasions for my husband. (Like the time we hid a few places around the ground floor of Galleria so we could watch these adult, identical twin sisters - DNA, hairstyles, AND wardrobe - and it was all very *Texas*.)

So we are standing outside at Waterway, just to the right of the big, zoo-exhibit windows, where instead of watching wild animals interact, you watch teenage boys interact and clean cars -- comparably primitive -- and we inconspicuously stood there, where Steve could see our Mystery Man Mozeliak, but he could not see us.

This is our moment.

Nerves.

Excitement.

Thrill.

We were equipped for such a time as this, and this moment was too insatiable to let pass:

Call Him.

I can’t call him.

CALL HIM.

What do I say?

I don’t know, at least we will just know it’s him.

Steve took out his phone, scrolls down to the number we had only ever dialed in our dreams, and he hit “call”.

Calling.

Ring 1.

Nothing.

Ring 2.

Oh gosh. I think he’s moving!

Ring 3.

Oh my gosh, I think he’s taking out his phone!!!

Ring 4.

Hang up!!!

And we nervously laughed and looked like two kids that just found a picture of a boob, and then almost immediately we had that DREADED MOMENT of  

**Oh Shit. What if he calls us back???!!!**

The memory fogs up around here due to the sweet adrenaline buzz we were riding,  and I think we were saved by the swinging of the towel signaling:“Your car is ready, now get your Saturn Ouuutttaaaa HHHHEEeeeerre!!!!”. And we giggled our way through tipping, retrieving in our car, and escaping down Manchester, consequence free, like the cunning rebels we were for those succulent, 30 seconds.

While I wish there was a tidy closure or interaction to conclude this story, I kind of love the unwoven ending.

Does John Mozeliak even remember this happening?

Will he ever know the many, many times we thought about calling him both before, and especially after?

Does he ever want to do brunch with us -- just a couple of sweet, married, jokesters who also like the Cardinals?

And, why is it only teenage boys that work at Waterway?

Can girls not wash cars? Do girls not want to wash cars?

I don’t want to wash my car.

Which is why I pay.

Us & John Mozeliak.

This will give us something to talk about if we are ever at a cocktail party together.

Representing JC, head to thread.

Blair’s Are you seriously writing about my teething and dog food flavoring look.

Ohhh Scotty & I back in the day: He being ornery & me with my Tina Fey glasses; one where we switched outfits (still have and love that sweatshirt, btw); Us KILLING IT at Homecoming, 2001. 

[kizardofkoz]

I Have Been Pregnant Three Times

Nothing quite prepares you, or describes that moment when you see two pink lines. An invisible tidal wave of emotions flood the room. Drowning in the elation, breaking swells of nerves.

In an instant, your mind begins the timeline of life - picturing your growing belly, how big you will be at Christmas, driving to the hospital, birth, holding your baby, birthdays, seeing the ocean for the first time, recognizing your eyes and your husband’s chin. You allow yourself to finally unlock the safe of names that you have been adding to your entire life, and begin trying them out in your head. Later in your mouth. And you haven’t even stepped out of the bathroom yet to tell your husband.

Days, weeks, or months later -

Nothing quite prepares you, or describes that moment, when you know your body is releasing your pregnancy. Abandon and betrayal by your own cells. Your life has changed, forever.

You’re becoming only you, again.

Lock up the safe of names.

Grieve.

It was two summers ago, June 3rd - the worst day in the world, to be specific.

It was an early miscarriage, thank God, because I don’t know how I would have coped if it were much later. I know a woman who lost her baby between 5 and 6 months. She had already had a baby shower. I think part of you dies with your baby in those moments.

I was just pushing 6 weeks. There are definitely women at that point who don’t even know they are pregnant. Or were, pregnant. 

That very woman who had lost her baby so far along, later told me that she doesn’t care if it’s weeks or months, it still hurts all the same and you still grieve the baby you never knew. She may never know how validating those words were to me.

We had decided to begin trying for our second child a couple months prior. Something neurotic shifts in my brain when we officially go into “Trying” mode. This crazy, survivalist, Need This To Happen Yesterday version of myself takes over while regular-Kiley goes on autopilot, trying to not think about getting pregnant every five minutes, when I start thinking about not thinking about thinking about it again.

(Somewhere in a back room of the First Response pregnancy tests company, there sits a man trying to work out an algorithm to predict when I try to get pregnant next, as their stocks rise at least 3 points those months. Congratulations, brilliant company! You have done the impossible and found a way to capitalize on my impatience and hormones. My husband hates you.)

A friend was telling me once about a conversation she had with her sister in law, who was newly pregnant. The sister in law made the ever-popular testimony how they weren’t really trying, and just, *Poof! Surprise! We got pregnant!*

My Friend: matter of factly, “So, you were trying to get pregnant, then?”

Her SIL: annoyed / shocked / offended

My friend works in the medical field. She’s sharp as a tack, generous, and her kindness and sense of humor are only matched by her no-bullshit, pragmatic attitude. I love her, dearly.

Her rule: *Unless you are actively trying to Not get pregnant, you are trying to get pregnant.*

No one likes to admit or talk about how they are pondering, obsessing over, trying to get pregnant. There is a wistful, enchanted story that begins with “Surprise! We got pregnant!” But we are adults. The “Surprise” suggests a kind of chosen blessing; How the heavens and storks hand picked you two without you ever asking, or even trying. Meanwhile couples are hitting rock bottom on patience, hope, and finances, exhausting every option possible, trying to get pregnant. The *Poof!* Makes for a nice story, however, we know, when you have sex, without using birth control, (and sometimes with - these are often times called “siblings”), you can get pregnant. A lot of effort is put into teaching high schoolers this responsibility, so let’s not abandon it as adults.

Anyways.

After taking a pregnancy test, some morning, mid-late July, I crawled into bed and told Steve I was pregnant. We reveled in that moment together -- where your heart starts to slowly bloom open, knowing it will soon have a new baby to love again. We both went in to get Brix out of bed - at that point, still in his crib - and we told him how he was going to be a big brother.

The world glowed. 

I made the 8 week appointment to see my OB (which felt Forever away), and I calculated and recalculated the due date.

A January baby. As if there were no better month, ever, to have a baby.

Pocket reclaimed her position as official protector of mom and fetus. With every pregnancy, Pocket begins watching me. Following me, being by me, near me, on me, touching me.

*Mom are you going to brush your teeth? Me too. *Oh good, are you going to get the mail? Yes? Me too. *I was thirsty too! *We don’t go down the stairs right next to each other nearly enough!

We all have our jobs to do during pregnancy- mine is to carry a baby to term.

Pocket’s is to carry me.

And she takes it very, seriously.

A few days later, I remembered mowing the yard and feeling so exhausted and thinking “Ahh, I forgot about this! Hello again, fetus-induced-fatigue!” I smiled and continued.

I am one of those women that truly loves being pregnant. Blair’s pregnancy was definitely more challenging, but I still truly loved being pregnant.

Until month 9. Then I am Done. Done.

Nausea, fatigue, insomnia, no booze, be damned. There is a soul in me. And I can feel it move. I was made for this.

I remember that next weekend going to get my hair done. Hair dressers often times double as therapists and oracles, and on this particular day she saw my betraying face after something she had said, and she became the first person we told we were pregnant. And it was pure bliss to say it out loud again.

I can’t quite describe exactly what began to happen that afternoon after we returned home, other than I felt the most exhausted I think I had ever felt in my entire life. I remember it very clearly because it was so strong and so unusual. I felt as if had been hit with a tranquilizer and I fell into what I can only best describe as a deep, Disney-princess, sleep.

And I napped.

I never nap.

Deep in the deepest parts of me, I knew that something was not quite right.

**I will try to tell the next part of this story as best as I can. I will include a few details, but in the most respectful and modest way possible.**

The next day was normal. It was actually, very normal, and by late afternoon it occurred to me that I no longer *felt* pregnant.

That evening there was the smallest trace of blood.

(This actually happened with Brix’s pregnancy, around 10 weeks. I was playing praise and worship at church that Sunday and was worried I was losing going to lose him. The site pastor walked by me and knew something was wrong. We went into a closet off of the side of the sanctuary and he prayed for me. We still talk about that moment. Those thinly veiled moments of friendship, vulnerability, and prayer, sparkle like diamonds in my mind. I cherish them deeply and am forever grateful to that friend for seeing me hurting that morning and asking if I was ok. Sometimes, I think God uses moments like that to make memories to help us in the future. Remember that time you were worried and hurting? I was there in your friend. I heard you. I hear you now. I love you. Now go to sleep.)

Unfortunately, this time was different. I scraped every ounce of optimism and hope that I could summon, and tried to brave the night. Going to bed, pleading with God, unable to think of anything other than that small, omen of blood.

The next morning, there was more.

And more.

And more.

I was miscarrying my second child.

It was summer time, which meant I was working daytime hours, roughly 9-5 like the rest of the world. I called my OB and made an appointment to come in during my lunch break. As if to add insult to injury, they draw your blood, collect your urine, and have you take a pregnancy test.

“You can take two pain killers every four hours.”

That’s great, but what about my heart?

(“Fun Fact” about this visit - I called my mother on the way home, crying while driving -- which happens probably once a month. You become very skilled at navigating through the blur.

I told her what was happening. She was upset. She was also upset because they were putting down our family dog that afternoon.   

*Why does the universe hate me today?*

We got Corky the summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. He was half pomeranian, half poodle. Sweet, happy, completely neurotic, obsessed with food - which was the catalyst for his annual Christmas suicide attempts, and our family couldn’t have loved him more.

He didn’t really like Pocket. She LOVED him.

At night, if I was the last one up, when I put him in his cage, he would pause before going inside so I could bend down and kiss his head.

You were a good dog, Corky. I really miss you as I write this.

I effing hate June 3rd.)

I remember driving home from my doctor’s office and being really annoyed at everyone going about their regular lives. Especially people mowing. I have felt this every time I have gone through a significant chapter change or trauma in my life - and I vaguely feel like it started during a funeral procession at a grandparent’s funeral. I remembered it happening again when we returned home from Mozambique, when we were driving home from the hospital after having Brixton, and now driving home from the hospital Without a baby.

How the hell could these people be mowing?

Did they not realize I was going through a major, painful, life altering event?! 

Their indifference was baffling and hurtful and their unkempt lawn was no match for my emotions’ ego.

Grief is wild.

Next to labor pains and the second degree, steam-burns I got on my right hand a year prior, this was the worst physical pain I had ever experienced. Almost unbearable.

I took no medicine. I needed to feel it all before I went completely numb. I needed to know when my body was done. The physical suffering somehow felt like the only way to process what was happening to me on an emotional and mental level.

I still continued with my full day of piano lessons. When you are self employed, you don’t make money unless you are working. Unless you can make-up a lesson (or hours worth in this case) - You. Don’t. Cancel.

There are no ‘sick’ days.

There are no ‘personal’ days.

There are no ‘my body is currently terminating a pregnancy and I feel like I want to die’, days.

So I spent that day going in and out of the bathroom.

I gave instructions to students to replay their piece of music while I excused myself to go to the bathroom and cry.

To silently scream.

I remember one window I had that afternoon between lessons where I was finally able to break down. I sat on the couch and wept. Pocket sat on the couch with me. My little guardian. She knew what was happening. I folded over her on my lap as her fur caught my tears. 

My protector, and now my sympathizer.

For 30 minutes I went between crying, crying harder, and then eventually stopping in enough time to gain composure before the next student walked in.  

That evening, Steve, Brix, & I met my brother and sister in law for a happy hour in honor of Corky’s life.

I shared with them my day. Worst happy hour, ever.

The only, single, upside was getting to drink a beer again. And then another.

We came home and watched some shitty movie that did Not do it’s job of offering escapism from the hurricane of pain, numbness, despair, frustration, anger, and any other better word that describes what it’s like to lose a baby;  

To let go of the life you subconsciously began planning and celebrating. To wondering when you will get pregnant again, and my God, hopefully you can get pregnant again, and when will this stop hurting so badly? 

I feel like I just fed my heart into a meat grinder.

Bed. Sleep. Forgettable dreams.

I have always been so fascinated by the phenomenon that happens those first few moments of the morning when you wake up after something really devastating has happened; A death, a horrible break-up, a really serious fight. Your brain hasn’t quite remembered what is going on, but there is gravity in those first moments - your body is already grieving, or never stopped, before your conscious mind is alert enough to remember “Oh right, no baby.”

Good morning, world.

That next morning the physical pain was over. I was still mad at God. And I was now a part of a very large group of women that are forever bonded over the incredible tragedy of losing a pregnancy. I can’t quite remember the process of healing from my miscarriage, but it eventually came. (And it required a lot of prayer, crying, reading, and forgiving God. And myself.)

I know, cerebrally, that statistically, 1 in 4 pregnancies can end in miscarriage.

I know how Extremely Lucky I was that mine ended when I wasn’t very far along.

I know that, especially in early pregnancies, “spontaneous abortion” (those words snag my nerves and emotions on so many levels) occurs often because there was a serious, or fatal genetic defect, and it is the body’s way of protecting and only reproducing the strongest genetic codes. 

Involuntary natural selection.

Simply put, I thank God that my body was able to make a difficult decision, that my mind and heart would not have had the courage to make.

I thank God that it was only on the second month after that I became pregnant again, and that I was able to carry Blair-bear to term.

I thank God for my Blair-bear.

And I can now thank God for the whole experience. I always had a sense that I was at some point going to miscarry. God willing, that was my only one. (I actually think it was.)

I am grateful to offer the experience and comfort to other women that have gone through, are going through, or will have to go through the hell of miscarrying a baby.

I thank you, God, for even in my deepest despair, I know you heard me. Because sometimes, in our worst moments, the only thing that provides any solace, is feeling heard, validated, or having someone to grieve with you.

And in my case, on that wretched afternoon in June, your love was felt in one of your most humble, and noble servants.

And she took that job very seriously.

My perfect, Pocket-protector.

Corky / a.k.a Corkers / a.k.a. Corky Chandler Chewbaca Lewis / a.k.a. Cork & Beans / and Brix & Pocket.

A Brix and Mommy selfie taken the afternoon of getting my hair done. One of the only photos from that time. Brix actually just got his haircut like this this weekend. Every other haircut he gets Steve and I alternate the style. Steve likes it short, I like it long. Oh, marriage...

An arrow for each boy, with their initial mirroring the sides. A small, white arrow in the middle for the one I write about today. The later two are still healing from last month. Emotional and physical scars to remind us of and to celebrate our stories.

Psalm 127:3-5New Life Version (NLV)

3 See, children are a gift from the Lord. The children born to us are our special reward.4 The children of a young man are like arrows in the hand of a soldier. 5 Happy is the man who has many of them. They will not be put to shame when they speak in the gate with those who hate them.

A poem I wrote three days later on June 6th:

It’s somewhere between the guilt and the curiosity:

What should I have done differently?

Was it the paint?

The wine at the wedding?

The worrying, and then the worrying about worrying?

On a Tuesday my body pushed out nothing and death.

My heart filled up with nothing and death.

My head filled up with nothing and death.

I want to meet you someday.

A little boy, I think.

Probably blonde, too.