I'm a little ugly.

I believe that everyone is beautiful.  I do.  It's just that some people...aren't particularly beautiful on the outside.  Some people are just ugly.

I'm sorry if that's shocking.

I am one of them, by the way.  I'm not the queen of the ugly folk, but I think, objectively, I'm not a stunner.  My eyes are kind of buggy.  I have thin lips, a weak chin, and I swear my hair isn't a real color.  It's not blonde exactly; nor is it brown.  Sometimes it looks red.  I've got a hook-nose thing goin' on.  And that's just my face!  I've given birth to four humans, y'all.  My middle is basically made of string cheese.  I've also breastfed four humans.  Breast is best, but not for the aesthetics of the chest.

"Breast is best, but not for the aesthetics of the chest." -Jamie Wahl

On a related note, I rarely find time to shave my legs (it's okay, my leg hair is blonde; I just avoid side-light when I'm in shorts).  Also, I'm pretty sure I don't use my calf muscles for anything, because I can gain forty pounds and they are still shapeless sticks of skin and bone, struggling through life under my top-heavy girth.

I'm a little ugly.

If you were playing along this far waiting for the actual meaning of the title, I'm afraid I may have disappointed you.  You can judge that book by its cover.

Yes, I look like a female Michael Cera with mange most mornings, but it doesn't matter.

Because I can think.  And I can have empathy for people.  And I can write.  And sing.  And paint.  And take care of my family.  And a million other things that girls these days grow up thinking they can only do if they are pretty enough.  I wasted a lot of time getting discouraged by the weird-looking lady I saw in the mirror.  Somehow, that googly-eyed dork reflected back at me made me feel "not enough" for my dreams, or even my day-to-day life!  What can she do?  She's pretty plain.  Pretty normal.  Pretty "meh".  She's silly even to try.  Nothing extraordinary going on here, folks.  

Except that there is!  I wrote a book!  In eight years, I've had four children and written a whole, cohesive, fairly good book.  And I bet you've got the equivalent of a novel going on in your life.  A seemingly insurmountable struggle that you're stepping over LIKE A BOSS.  My little vampire comedy is not Dickens, but it's a lot of fun, and I wrote it.  And I was ugly the whole time!  

My self-esteem should not be dependent on my beauty.  Nor should yours. 

Our eldest child was a beautiful newborn.  Prefect little round head with wisps of copper hair.  Alert, curious blue eyes.  He was gorgeous.  Our second child was...a baby.  My husband and I got so tickled observing the difference in people's reactions when they came to visit us in the hospital.  With David, they "ooh"ed and "ah"ed and sang his praises.  But with Jack it was a reigned-in look of surprise and then, basically, "You had a baby!"  *jazz hands*  It's okay, people!  We can see he looks like a purple skin potato; we still love him!  Why is it so very easy to see that a child's worth is not based in their appearance, but almost impossible when we are judging ourselves?  

Just from a quick poll of my friends, I'm not the only gal to feel pressured to be as beautiful as possible.  I'm not the only woman to feel "not enough".  But what's so easy to see when I look at them, besides the beauty that they do possess, is that their beauty, whether abundant or restricted to their eyes only, is COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT.  The shape of my face has absolutely no effect on my ability to reason.  The dark purple circles under my eyes (which I think are now permanent) don't have a single thing to do with my talents.  

And they have even less to do with my worth.

I've been stressing over the looming publication date.  Not because I don't have confidence in my work; I am proud of my book, and the hours upon hours that went into it.  I've been freaking out because there's a party.  With a signing.  In person.  And I'm basically Jennifer Lawrence without the whole face-like-Helen-of-Troy thing.  The awkwardness isn't as endearing when you only pass for female with copious amounts of mascara.  So, I'm confident in my work and ready for it to face the ravages of the internet, even the reviews section on amazon, but I don't feel "enough" because I don't belong on a runway?  How RIDICULOUSLY ILLOGICAL is that?  Am I a woman of reason, or not?  (Don't answer that, closest friends.)

I am good enough even though I'm a little ugly.  I believe you are as well.  I'm talented even though I'm a little ugly.  I suspect you are, too, even if it's a totally different skill set than the one God gave me.  I can make good art and still be a little ugly.  Did someone apply a yard stick to DaVinci's face to check for ideal symmetricality before heralding his work as brilliant?  Of course not, because he was busy making ALL THE THINGS!  

To clarify, I'm a fan of the "real beauty" campaign.  I routinely give a "thumbs up" to the hashtag #effyourbeautystandards.  I'm all for making sure girls of every size and color and shape and ability or disability feel beautiful (or at the very least don't feel the need to starve themselves).  I just think, as an even uglier adolescent, I would've liked to hear someone refrain from insisting I was beautiful despite my visage of acne, and tell me I was valuable instead.  Somehow, the definition of those two words has merged.  Beautiful is nice.  But valuable?  Worthy?  Capable?  So much more important.  And not at all the same. 

So, fellow ugly friend who may be feeling "not enough", don't let the flaxen-haired, angel-eyed, perky-chested muggles get you down.  You can do great things even while you're a little ugly.

I certainly don't intend to waste any more time bemoaning my resemblance to a slow loris; I've got a sequel to write!

p.s.

Jack turned out great, btw.  

Of Demons and Strugglebusses

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
—George Orwell

Yeah, that's about right.

Now that I have finished my first book, I'd thought I'd take a minute to write down what I've learned.  This is not for you, dear reader.  This is for me.  Because I am going to forget all of it the minute the demon knocks on my door again, and I'll need this list for reference.  You can use it, too, if you like.  ;)

1.  I don't know what I'm doing.
I have never sat down to write and thought to myself "Ah, yes.  I have a plan.  I can tell what is about to transpire and it is going to be TOTALLY DOPE."  Not even once.  I've had an inkling.  A general idea of what needs to happen.  But the clearer the mental image at the outset of the writing session, the more disobedient my characters became.  You're going to use this character to reveal the nature of the as-yet-unknown enemy?  Nope.  Another character totally just killed him.  You're going to get your MC from point A to point B?  Nope.  He wanted an ice cream cone.  Rude.  Take away: DO NOT PROCRASTINATE UNTIL "YOU FEEL READY."  YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO FEEL IN CONTROL.  SIT DOWN AND WRITE.

2.  Gandalf is my friend.
Throughout this journey, whenever that mysterious villain we call "writer's block" would jump up in my path, there was a concrete reason for it to be changing my course.  A better way to tell this particular part of the story was lurking in my subconscious, and the frustrating gatekeeper would not let the crap be written instead.  Writer's block, when seen as nothing more than a road sign to better writing, is my friend.  Therefore, from now on, I will refer to Writer's block as Gandalf.  The real enemy is the Balrog of Bad Writing.

Take away: TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS, YOU DINGBAT.  STOP WASTING TIME WALLOWING IN SELF LOATHING.  SIT DOWN AND WRITE.

3.  Writing is like doing the dishes.
There is a mounting pile of dirty dishes surrounding my sink.  I could clean them, but it is just so tedious.  I'll keep hemming and/or hawing, whilst giving the growing pile the side-eye, for another day or two.  Then I'll remember that I'm in charge of the cleaning, and that if I don't do it, it just won't get done.  I'll probably give this battle one last tired feminist rant, then shuffle into the kitchen resentfully.  And I'll pick up the sponge.  And it won't be that bad!  And when I'm done, and the counter is sparkling, I'll be happy.  Writing is the same.  Push through to rough draft.  It's so much easier after that.  You'll be happy you did.
Take away: YOU ACTUALLY LIKE WRITING, SO SIT DOWN AND WRITE.

4.  You have four children.
Go on.  Count them.  There are four of them.  You're holding one right now, and he'd really prefer he had your full attention.  Life just isn't going to march to the beat of your pretty little drum, and that's okay.  You won't get to write every night.  You might not even get to write every week.  You know the children come first because YOU made the choice to put them first.  Forgive yourself for being slow.  Life is not a race.  That's why you're self-publishing.  Drive your Strugglebus in the slow lane; at least you're still moving forward.
Take away: YOU ARE ONLY ONE PERSON, SO LEAVE THE PERFECTIONISM BEHIND AND SIT DOWN AND WRITE!

So yeah.  Remember all that for book two.

Roll for initiative,
Jamie Wahl

Potted Cabbage in Galvanized Buckets

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.  All the normal Mom things plus this almost-an-author thing, throw in some changes at my husband’s work and a couple (that’s generous; about a hundred) unfinished projects, and I’m in full SHUT DOWN AND DO NOTHING mode.  Which usually brings me to Pinterest where I DUN DUN DUN see about a thousand things that I want to do. 

I am a thoroughly ridiculous creature.

I find myself in this place a lot: infinitely motivated but eternally lazy.  My wheels spin for a while.  I might even get a lot done.  Then I remember all the things I DIDN’T get done and all of a sudden it’s time once again to throw up my hands and melt into a facebook-induced coma.  I think facebook is a mom’s version of being a besotted drunkard.  Life is too much but you have children to watch?  Leave the bottle and open up that web browser!  All your problems will melt away!

So, this morning, I found myself about fifteen minutes in to a Pinterest Pity Binge.  I passed a bunch of mural inspirations that I pinned last night, three or four delicious looking recipes, a dozen tutorials for small home repair, umpteen homeschool-improving plans of sheer brilliance….ETCETERA, when my eye fell on this gem: Potted Cabbage in Galvanized Buckets.

Potted.

Cabbage.

Galvanized.

Buckets.

Cabbage in a bucket.

In a galvanized bucket.

I just started laughing my fool head off.

WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING, LADIES? 

I have four gorgeous, funny, crazy, messy, busy children.  And I have a finite number of years to enjoy them.  An extremely measurable amount of time.  It’s math so simple even I can do it!  So, here’s what I’m gonna do.  I’m gonna take out my to-do list, get a great big PERMANENT MARKER, and cross off all the things that serve my ego- all the things that are there simply to make me feel like I’m doing a MEASURABLY good job, and I’m going to cross them off.  FOEVAH.  Because, as lovely as those purply cabbages looked in their highly specific metal containers, I DON’T EVEN CARE.  If I genuinely enjoyed all these polished, put together extra curriculars, that’d be different.  But I don’t!  And I’m not going to sacrifice my intensely brief time as a mother on the altar of being a “super mom”. 

Ladies, I aim to mediocrely behave.

Because my four gorgeous, funny, crazy, messy, busy children are not going to remember what my cabbages were planted in.  They’re not going to remember how beautifully decorated their cookies were (mostly because they already ate them).  They’re not going to care if I slaved over a three course Italian supper.  I need to leave my perfectionism where it belongs (approximately: hell), and put my energy into spending time with them while they’re here. 

So supper will be simple.

Cookies will be eaten warm, right off the pan.

Cabbages will be in dirt.

And I’ll be sane.

I think we’ll all be better for it.

Roll for initiative,
J. Wahl

Blessed: A Perspective From a "Poor" Mother

                When I was growing up I was poor and I knew it.  I knew it from listening to my parents worry over the tiny amount of money left over for groceries after the bills were paid.  I knew it from watching the kids at school get to participate in extra-curricular activities after school that I couldn't afford to be a part of. I knew it every time I slid into a frayed pair of jeans two sizes too small.  But more than any other reason, I knew it because of the looks. 

                Looks of curiosity from my classmates when my stomach growled loud enough for the whole room to hear.  Looks of pity from adults.  Looks of anger and suspicion directed toward my parents when we stood outside in the cold without winter coats.  I understood the pity- understood it with every ounce of scrawny my twelve-year-old body.  I was to-be-pitied.  Nothing was expected of me.  I understood the curiosity; surely someone must have made a grievous and unforgivable error for our family to be hungry in The United States of America.  But I never could understand the anger. 

                My Father has a debilitating form of arthritis that causes him severe, chronic pain.  That man wanted to work; he begged people to hire him- and sometimes they did.  But it wasn't too long before the pain and exhaustion were too much, even for his epic amount of stubbornness.  Eventually he ended up on disability.  It ravaged his self-esteem.  But nobody made a mistake.  Nobody was spending the mortgage payment on drugs or beer.  Nobody frittered the paycheck away by gambling.  There simply wasn't enough money to meet our needs. It took me a long time to put this puzzle of anger together, but I think I have it figured out.  It is a whole lot easier to blame the poor for being poor than it is to accept the fact that it could happen to anyone. 

                At no fault of your own, you could be bankrupt. Some of the smartest money men in the country posit that most Americans are one major negative financial event from bankruptcy. One car accident.  One cancer diagnosis.  One house fire.  There is a possibility that it could happen to you, and most people do not like that feeling.  So that bristling when they saw our situation was their own fear, or the avoidance of it. Much easier to assign blame than accept the unknowable quality of the future.  Much easier to refer to the forty-something behind the register as a “burger flipper” and decry her for not having gone to college than to attempt to fathom that she has a learning disability and would rather work anywhere than to go on disability. 

                I didn’t choose to be born into a poor family any more than Joe McIvyleague chose to be born into a wealthy one.  I can’t blame him for his frame of reference- it’s the only one he has!  And he didn’t choose his perspective any more than I chose mine.

                This week, I will have a phone interview to apply for SNAP (my generation’s version of food stamps) for the first time as an adult and a parent.  I am not looking forward to it.  I am not going to enjoy swiping that EBT card.  But I am going to enjoy preparing healthy food for our three children, and I’ll count it as a blessing as I put it on the supper table, and I’ll count myself among the blessed. 

                I can choose to feel pitied.  I certainly remember how.  I recall with total clarity the very vastness of my own insignificance.  But the fact that my financial situation is inferior does not make me inferior.  I am not less simply because I have less.  My children are not worthless just because the ending balance has veered dangerously toward zero these last few months.

                If the cashier looks at me with pity, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed.  If the cashier looks at me with judgment, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed.  Maybe this is just a season (my husband and I are working hard to make it so), but maybe it’s not.  If it is not- if this barely-making-it thing lasts a childhood, my children will know that they are blessed.  They will see it on the dinner table every night.  They will see it in their parents' hard work.  They will see it, more than anywhere, in their parents' attitude.  Because we know we are blessed.  When John and I smile at each other over our daughter’s curly-headed mischief, or when our oldest tackles a new school subject with intense curiosity, we know we are blessed.  When our youngest son aggressively cuddles us in the morning, we know we are blessed. When we still like kissing each other after eight years, we know we are blessed.  And you know I wouldn't trade these blessings for the monetary kind in a million years, and not for a million dollars.

                So when I get into that checkout line at the grocery store, and my palms start to sweat just a little when an older, well-dressed lady gets in line behind me, I will not feel less.  I will not feel inferior,or insignificant.  And when we thank God for the meal, we’ll really mean it.  And we’ll know we are blessed.  And maybe someday I’ll be the well-dressed elderly lady in line behind the cart full of kids whose matron is apologizing for how long it takes to ring up a WIC ticket.  If that day comes, I hope I remember this season.  I hope, when I look at that woman ahead of me in line, I will recall how much strength it took to believe things could change.  I hope I buy her a box of diapers.  But I know I won’t pity her.  She is a beautiful, blessed, brilliantly loved child of God.

Roll for initiative,
J. Wahl

p.s.
Edits on my book are HALF DONE!  *dance party*

Sorry, not sorry

Sorry for the long chasm of time with no posts.  I'd really mean that if I hadn't been using that time to FINISH MY BOOK!

I think that says it all.

Roll for initiative,

J. Wahl

Fishes, Bicycles, and the Uterus

I went to High School long after Roe Vs Wade.  Long after women fought for equal rights in the workplace.  Long after Gloria Steinem talked about fishes and bicycles.  By the time my body was able to bear children, I had received a message loud and clear: children are an anchor, a curse, a foolish choice.  Children keep you from rising above minimum wage.  Children end your future.

Unless you have a baby.

I was told I could do anything- pushed on, propelled forward, and encouraged in every way.  The pressure to fly high was so intense that sometimes teachers would insinuate (unknowingly) that my Mother had somehow failed at life because she worked at McDonald's.  "Go to college; you don't want to wind up flipping burgers when you're 40!"

So when I found out I was pregnant (surprise!) at 20 (having been married almost a year), I was TERRIFIED.  There were moments of excitement, but I mostly felt that I was hurtling forward into an adventure I had not chosen.  My stomach was a ticking time bomb of doom.  When we announced our news, I got weepy messages of support as though I'd let the world know I'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness.  I got condolences instead of congratulations.

The first year was a kicker.  LOL  It's been five years (and two babies) since then.  My husband and I are the proud parents of three adorable, frustrating, sometimes slimy, children.  They are wonderful.  And I don't feel done.  When I discuss the fact that I don't feel done, I get a wide variety of reactions- but everyone thinks I'm crazy.  Just the other day I told a good friend that we were saving up for a van "just in case" and she replied "God forbid!"  When did we get so supportive of a woman's right to choose that we stopped supporting a woman's right to choose children?  Because nearly all my friends are Christians (the liberal to conservative pendulum swings wildly, but we all love Jesus here).  And they nearly all agree I'm crazy.

I remember how I thought of children before I had my own.  What would I say to young Jamie (the Jamie who had perky boobs and free time ;) )?  They are worth it.  Every Mother will tell you that, so I won't go into detail, but they truly are.  And the experience is worth it.  Not because of the sweet moments, or the parental victories ("Jack, would you like to come into our room and play with me?" "Yes, please!"), but because of the sacrifices.  No other experience has ever revealed so many weaknesses, or brought to light so many strengths.

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

They left that part out when they were telling me I could do anything.  I don't know what my point is here, this may just be a rant that lays dusty in a neglected pocket of the internet, but I just wish I could tell young Jamie this.  That this is the main event of my life.  Will I finish my book?  I certainly hope so.  Will it be the end of the world if I don't?  No.  Because this, this mothering thing, is the story of my life.  There may be a time when I do feel done.  When I can take up the charge to greatness and make something else, but I'm done declaring that I'm "more than 'just' a Mother".  I'm done trying to parent while stuffing down feelings of guilt that I'm not doing something "more" with my life.  I'm not going to pay dues to the goddesses of feminism in return for a miserable existence.  My life is little.  It's messy.  And the budget is kinda squeaky.  But I'd be an absolute fool to trade this for a dream in which it's all about me.  Because the more I sacrifice for the life we're living now, the happier I am.  And maybe that's what the naysayers fear, really.  Not the snot or poop or sleep deprivation.  The sacrifice.

He regrets nothing.

I did not choose this adventure, but God did.  And he knew what I needed.  The more I listen to him, and the more I trust in him, the happier I am.  Right now my prayers and my questions are being answered with 'you're not done'.  So I'm not done.  (I tried to be 'done'.  We scheduled a vasectomy and everything.  It felt awful and it was incredibly depressing for both of us.)

None of this comes with judgment towards women who don't feel led to reproduce.  This is just me, thinking things through.  I know it's not for everyone, but I also know it is for me.  And it's just that simple.  You know what my biggest fear is?  It's not having four to watch, it's not the tight budget, or the late nights or the fear of another fussy baby (though that does sit in second place!).  I'm afraid that we won't have any friends.  I'm scared that in spite of the Bible touting the blessings of children, and in spite of all the verses about going where he leads, my Christian friends will not see past our culture.  If they can't, if they think I've gone off the deep end, I'll miss them.  It'll hurt.  But it certainly won't be worse than ignoring what I really feel God is telling me.  So, folks, I'm excited.  I'm excited to be blessed with fertility (we're scary fertile, yo).  I'm also scared.  But I'm tired of feeling like I can't share this big thing with brothers and sisters in the Church without getting judgment like crazy.

So, goodbye feminism.  Hello, minivan.  It'll be fun!  :)

Roll for initiative,
J. Wahl

The Turtle of Torture

Once upon a time, (in our galaxy) I was able to consistently write every day.  The scenes unfolded at a not-so-fast, but tolerable pace.  I was trucking along.  And then, something changed.  I didn't know what it was for sure (there is at least one blog post about it).  Something was off.  Progress became slower, and each writing session was more torturous than the last.    I dreaded sitting down at my computer.  The pace came to a near-stop.  A turtle pace.  The turtle of torture.

Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!

My good friend Joe tried to help by working out the details of my plot with me.  And it did help.  I could see it better, but something was missing or in the wrong place.  I was dissapointed that I couldn't push past whatever this was.  I took everyone's advice and put the whole thing away for a while.  The idea was my brain would come back to it on it's own.  So I busied myself with other things (I got a lot more cleaning done).  I learned how to cook vegetarian cuisine.  I had a baby.  I started a mural business.  And as the time passed, I grew anxious that my brain would never circle back around to the book.  The dreams I had of finishing it, and of publishing it, faded into memory.  

Then, Saturday night, I was watching a movie and sending emails when the answer just popped into my head.  It had been nearly a year.  A.  Year.  It had been months since my book had even crossed my mind (besides the occasional ten-second bought of intense guilt).  "Surprise, Jamie!  Here's that thing you'd been looking for!"  I like my brain's surprises (much better than the surprises you get while attempting to work on a computer running windows 8).  

And just in time for National Novel Writing Month!  

So I will now read through my notes, read through my 160 pages in Word, get excited, and WRITE 50,000 in one month LIKE A BOSS!

I'm looking forward to it.  

I hope all your projects are free and easy!

Roll for initiative,

J. Wahl