I have recently made the move from Blogger to WordPress.com and was having a bit of difficulty learning the new format.
One of the first things I wanted to do on my new blog website was to add clickable social media icons.
Below, I have posted a video tutorial on how to do this through WordPress.
If you have any questions, please add a comment and I will help you out if I can.
Thanks for watching!
It doesn’t matter rather you are a stay-at-home mother, working mother, or a single mother. The truth is, we don’t do it all.
I laugh inside when I hear women debate that as a working mother or a stay-at-home mother that they do it all. Parent. Work. Clean. Pay the bills. You name it.
But wait …
Kids. They have no boundaries. They don’t respect the bubble.
Stop. Touching. Me.
Let me adore you from a distance, please. You’re cute but move.
I am done being your personal trampoline and jungle gym for the day.
In twenty-three days, I will be twenty-seven.
I am reaching a point in my life that everything should be under control.
I never imagined growing old. I imagined a life with children and a husband.
But, I did not imagine the on set of worries that came along with this life.
The times that I became lost in the pilling bills, colds, and intoxicating desire
to be needed. The dishes overflowed, the dust settled, and clothing scattered. The missed
phone calls and un-responded texts. Opening the fridge and the milk is almost emptied, the pantry
calls out for supplies. The annoying list of needs grows longer.
It’s quite odd how as an individual, I question myself, but not as a mother.
There are days that I am completely and utterly annoyed with myself. I haven’t
finished college. My weight, oh my weight. I don’t call my family and friends
as often as I should. Did I show enough affection towards my husband today?
Yet, mothering is rarely on that list. Okay, sure, I might occasionally regret my tone, but I don’t question the core of my parenting.
I allow my children to have a voice. I am okay with emotional outburst of sadness
and anger. I want them to have a voice and never learn to be afraid of it.
I allow my children to have opinions and input. They are not my soldiers.
My children’s’ thoughts are respected and listened too. Yet, like in life, they may
be denied. My children have choices and freedom. And with that, they learn to compromise.
My children play important roles in the decisions that we make day to day, like
mom and dad. My children are learning to listen to their mind and respect their thoughts.
Along the way, the boys emotions are reined in. We listen to their cries and offer
solutions. In their moments of selfishness, they are taught about respect.
My parenting isn’t perfect. There are missed moments of teaching my children
important lessons, sibling fights that weren’t stopped fast enough, an attitude
went unnoticed or corrected.
My boys are valued and respected individuals that are learning to treat others the
same way, and at the end of the day little boys learning about life.
Have you ever experienced one of those cruel moments that open your eyes?
No? Yes? Okay, so I’m not alone.
This happened not too shortly ago. As many of my readers know, my life is encased in this suffocating bubble known as depression and anxiety. The bubble increases with room to live and then shrivels up and takes the life out of me with it. It also blurs my vision when looking outside and remembering the ones around.
It isn’t intentional. I hate that I didn’t return your phone call or your text. I bailed out hanging out, even though I was really looking forward to it. In my case, it is easier to just give up or better yet, give in to the depression and anxiety. It takes mental stamina to fight against it. It takes will power to stand up against it. But, I mean, I’m already tired, what is one more lost battle?
Yet, the lost battle is the edge of dying friendship. A bystander who is tired of being neglected. And while this bubble of depression is closing in tightly, I don’t see the anger and frustration it leaves behind.
It’s rare that a person on the outside will stand up and raise their hand in defeat; enough of these games, enough of the broken promises. It isn’t worth it. But, when it does happen, it is a stab in the heart of remorse and shamefulness. Is this what my life has become? Am I so low and dark that I can’t keep a friendship alive? Did I allow this depression to smash everything living inside me, as while as, outside surrounding me?
But, that cruel moment of honesty is the perfect amount of air that inflates the life back into the bubble. That brutal moment breathed life back into the small piece of hope.
To my husband,
It’s easy to forget the reasons why we feel in love when the chaos of the day preoccupies our mind. Our date nights are as common as the quietness in our home. The nights that both of our children do fall asleep on time and in sync, the night is are greeted with anticipation of snuggles, adult conversation, and finally eating that bowl of ice cream before it melts or is gobbled away from little Vultures. On rare occasions this plan works out … wait, that is a lie. It is more of a scene out of a horror film. Zombies stagger to straighten the house, moan while picking up toys, gurgle when finding out there is clothes in the washing machine, and shuffle to sit comfortably. Only to be awaken an hour later with creaks in our bones and dry mouths from snoring. Our intentions are well. Our priorities are slightly miss guided.
Then, there it is. The flutter in my stomach. The memories surge in like a wave bringing the stories we forget to relive. The nights that were spent talking until the alarm clocked buzzed in the morning. The moments of quietness in the morning along with our breakfast and coffee. The conversations that were never interrupted. But those fairy tale moments have relinquished their titles.
The new contenders become the moments as you soar our sons through the air, letting them believe they can fly. The arms that become strong as you lift your crying son. The face that is adorned with sandpaper hair as you tirelessly put the boys into bed.
Our fairy tale has transformed into missed moments of intimacy as we wearily try to keep up with our energetic boys. The mornings have become choreographed movements while trying to avoid stepping on landmines. This is our story. A story, we’ve created and are write together, even at times separate. There are times that can’t be erased or rewritten. We’ll forge new chapters as the boys grow into men. Our love will continuously morph for the era it embarks.
So, my dear husband. Our moments may be fleeting as we juggle this chaotic time, but it is never ending.