Amber June's Guide to Post-Divorce Dating for the Burned and Skeptical Single Mom of Faith

Hey Blogland Beauties. 'Sup? You want to be the next tick on my page counter? I know, I know, I haven't been around. But I'm here now, and I know you want to read ALL my words.

In the two years since my divorce, I've gone from being terrified of dating again, to having a lot of fun dating again, to being annoyed with dating and all single men, to coming to peace with the possibility of spending the rest of my life alone and actually being okay with that prospect. I mean, the closet space alone is a compelling factor. But we'll come to that.

I've spent a lot of time wondering if my random dating-after-divorce / online-dating-related thoughts and experiences could be of help to anyone and I've concluded that they will probably not. Because, whatever stage of the above cycle you, or the person you know who just got divorced whom you're going to tell to read this, or their cousin Sheila who's been divorced for a year and needs to get "back in the saddle" is in, I feel that it's a cycle every divorcee/ widow/ widower has to go through on their own, in some form, in order to be truly ready to be in a relationship again. That's right, she said it: you must be happy and at peace with the prospect of being alone for the rest of your life before you're ready to make a relationship work again. But, regardless of the potential unhelpful-ness of my messy experiences and jumbled thoughts, I'm writing this anyhow. For my own sanity's sake.

Why online dating? Why thank you for asking, blogland.

There are a lot of factors at play here. For me. online dating has had the following advantages:

-I work. I go to school. I raise three kids. I do all the requisite errand-running and selective adventure-seeking consistent with that life. And if I haven't yet met someone in real-life along my real-life paths, I doubt it will happen that way.  I also live in a relatively small community with a shallow dating pool. Apply my moral/ spiritual/ social/ intellectual standards to the prospects and the field is narrowed considerably. With internet dating sites, the dating field has no geographical bounds.

-My ideals are high and specific. I am a person of spiritual conviction and would like to meet someone who shares, or, at the very least, is willing to consider sharing my faith. He must respect my standards. He must be a gentleman. He must be ready to step in to the role of very involved stepdad to three children with strong standards and personalities of their own.  He must be driven, passionate, honest, kind, creative, strong and gentle, with a sense of humor and confidence. He must be looking for me.  With online dating, I can peruse profiles like they're job applications and send subtle reconnoitering messages to potentials who meet certain criteria (has job, can spell, profile pic does not include dead deer/ elk/ bear/ fish/ excessive sports team paraphernalia, etc.). I can eliminate men based on their poor grammar usage, height, political affiliation, inability to communicate about themselves intelligently, or whatever else I choose without ever hurting anyone's feelings in real life.

-Online dating just plain saves time. And I don't have time to waste. By reading someone's profile, I can get all the information I might otherwise have to extract in awkward first-date conversation and decide if the subject is worth my energy. Where are you from. What do you do. Where did you go to school. Divorced/ widowed/ never married. Politics. Religion. Poor habits. Weaknesses/ strengths. It's all there on page one if you know how to read it. I have also developed into the type of online-dater who has the chutzpah to ask very direct questions or make very direct assessments after the first two or three message exchanges when, in person, social conventions would dictate those conversations be reserved for date three or later.

-My geographically-expanded dating experiences of the last two years have twice led me to travel to places I wouldn't have otherwise in order to give a man a chance. I will never complain about a chance to travel, even if, in the end, the men didn't make the cut.

However, online dating has had this one big disadvantage:

-People lie. And while they lie in person too (Heaven knows I've been on the receiving end of real-world dishonesty), it's a little easier to get away with it, against an all-too-trusting person like me, on the Internets.

My fragile heart has been stomped by liars. But before we go there, please enjoy these entertaining conversational gems my online dating presence has gleaned. And before you ask: Yes. For real.

"It makes my head hurt."


Man: I see you dont like huntin fishing or four wheeling. We gots all three but seeing as how you keep
looking at my picture I think you could get over that.
Me: *face palm*

---

Me: How long have you been divorced?
Man: Oh my divorce isn't final yet. (Whiny backstory placing all the blame on his wife.)
Me: I'm sorry that you've been through so much. However, if your divorce isn't final, that means you're still
married and our conversation is through.
Man: (Several annoying messages with self-righteous and inapplicable scripture quotations, followed by
assertion that God doesn't mind married men and single women being friends.)
Me: You're right. I don't think God has a problem with men and women maintaining appropriate friendships
regardless of marital status. HOWEVER: While some people may consider being bombarded with unsolicited scriptural condescension to be charming, I am among those who find it to be harassing, demeaning, and to smack of arrogance. Telling someone who hasn't asked, when the subject hasn't been raised, how the demise of your marriage is all your wife's fault also betrays nothing so much as a weak attempt to cover your tracks, and again: arrogance.  Lastly, are you here for friends? Because I'm not. I have friends. I have so many friends, in fact, that I really don't have time for more. What I don't have and would like to have is a husband and  that is why I am here. However, even if I were looking for friends, I would not look in the pool of bitter, still-married men who attempt to justify their unjustifiable presence on dating websites by saying they're "getting divorced anyway" and "just looking for friends."

---

Man: I see you're a poet. I don't know about that. With the exception of Edna St. Vincent- Millay, I don't
think women have the courage to experiment with language the way a poet should.
Me: I see why you're single.
Man: Oh come on. I was just joking. Seriously, who says that?
Me: The man who has paid no attention to his audience- a woman who has a clear command of language
as well as the ability and courage to do anything she damn well pleases- says that. The man who thinks
that a "women can't" statement in any form, whether in seriousness or jest, is EVER acceptable says
that. And also, the man who obviously has extremely limited experience with poetry and literature to
begin with says that.


Okay, okay. That last Me throw-down happened in my head. I ignored his bully's defense. But I wish I hadn't. Your ONE female poet reference is Edna St. Vincent-Millay? Honestly.

Moving on. Beyond the slog of chauvinists, big-heads, and dullards, I have met some kind and good men. A teacher in California, who, ultimately didn't want to leave CA anymore than I want to leave MT. An intelligent and respectful contractor from Idaho...who really needed a mother for his eight children. #sorrynotme. You're a nice guy, but not me. A Denver consultant. An Oklahoma professor. For several months, at the beginning of last -year, I enjoyed a truly old-fashioned exchange of thoughtfully written, beautifully crafted letters with a dad of three boys in Spokane. We met, once, when I was in Spokane for other reasons, and ultimately, mutually decided that we were only meant to be friends. The letters tapered off after that, on both our parts, but I have kept every one of them and think often of how nice it was, for those few months, to sit in a quiet house, late at night, arranging my thoughts on the page for his in return.

In the very beginning of my post-divorce dating, there was California Man. Truly a rebound relationship, but I won't deny how much I learned. About myself. About what I want. About my tendency to accept what is unacceptable because it's not as bad as it could be or as bad as I've had it in the past. He was worth the trial run, California Man. Though not worth any more time than I gave him, and certainly not worth the rest of my life.

And most recently (aside from a couple of in-person, half-hearted one-or-two date wonder flops), there was McCall man.

Raw honesty time. Remember the aforementioned liars? McCall man was the best. For all I knew he was kind and fun, handsome and tall, intelligent and talented, driven, confident, stable, and gentle. I loved our conversations (an enormously important factor for me), and I loved his presence when we were together. He created a lie of who he was, of his devotion to me, his understanding of me, and of our future life together, which was so effective and so deeply fulfilling that I felt I had finally found the man with whom I could happily spend the rest of my days. Worse, he drew my children and his children into this happy-blended-family lie, to which I committed my heart and mind. I fell for it. And when truth ran us down in the golden road I experienced a different kind of fall: into a depression deeper and longer than any I've ever felt. I mourned the loss of McCall Man as much as, if not more than, the loss of my marriage. Because, while it was brief, while it was not real, I have never felt more loved. My resilient children, thankfully, were not as exposed as I was to the dream, and not hit nearly as hard. And his children...I don't know. I think of them often and wonder if they're used to repeated hope and loss.

It's been nine months, and the world moves on, hearts slowly trailing behind. The pain of McCall Man and my foolishness have faded far into the background of my joyous, beautiful life, yet not entirely disappeared. A wise friend of mine and I have set a three-month deadline for me to finish the process of grief, to chalk up my lessons-learned, and to let it go. And I will. He will never again dim my light, my commitment to shine.

So that closet space. :) It's good. Leaving the over-involved-with-dating-websites phase of my life behind is good. Independent decision-making (parenting, financial, career, education, travel...). It's very good. And most of all, in the last two-ish years, I have come to see that stepping away from the need to date entirely, from the need to be romantically loved, peacefully and happily owning my dual-parent role and my (not) alone-ness, is beyond good. It is what my family really needs, and what I need, in the end.  
 
That's my guide, I suppose. Learn from my mistakes. Make your own. Protect your children. Pray. But know that you are enough, alone. You are capable of happiness, of adventure, of changing the world, with or without a partner at your side. Love is nice, and I won't say I wouldn't still like to find it, but it's not a need anymore. I won't say no to the right love if it comes and at the same time, I won't seek it quite so intently any longer. I will seek family and faith and adventures and humanity and service and words and beauty and me.

Love,

The Blessed Hope of Domesticity...and Benedict Cumberbatch

I have lately been moved by a good deal of poetry. It could be that I'm reading more than my usual ration, what with the whole "English major" and all, but I'd like to think the particular poems which have been thrust via syllabi into my hands are meant, kismetly (no, I did not adverb that word, Kristen Stewart did.), for me. Matthew Arnold (kind of a prick, in my humble opinion, but I like some of his postulations) predicted in his "The Study of Poetry" in 1869 that

More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to 

interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our science will 

appear incomplete; and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy

will be replaced by poetry.

I don't know about replacement, strictly speaking, but I think Mr. Arnold is right in his forecast of humankind's increasing reach for truth and meaning and the increasing succor found in the carefully chosen, evocative words of poesy. There is something intuitively soul-searching about poets, something naked and raw and universally familiar about their successful work; something Alice Notley would affectionately call disobedience--the refusal to meet expectations or follow forms, but a commitment to portray truths only the artist knows. The beauty in this disobedience, I find, is that it turns out the readers (at least some of them) know these same truths as well, and the poem then becomes "obedient," if you will, to the common threads of human experience.

I love every moment I get to spend expanding my learning and every thought I am blessed to explore, but this is all so very much to think about, and there is within me so very very much to write. Some nights, after my little ones are in bed, and my head is swimming with the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Bishop and Allen Ginsberg, and I'm trying to finish listening to the audio recording of Heart of Darkness without retching, solidify a thesis for my "Darkling Thrush"/ "Carrion Comfort" essay, and decide if my MFA emphasis should be poetry or fiction (yep--that decision is already stressing me), I find I am in need of some simple ground to stand on. I think of that thrush, Hardy's thrush--my favorite bird amongst the many poetically present in the works of those fun-loving Romantic and Victorian Brits--and the "blessed hope" trembling through "his happy good-night air." A hope whereof the poem's speaker claims to be "unaware," but, I think, if he were really as unaware and as despairing as he would like to be, he wouldn't hear it at all. And my "blessed hope," my simple ground to stand on, if that makes any sense at all, becomes domesticity. I clear my head and regain my focus by doing something, anything, of the homemaking variety for the benefit of my family.

This is my truth: one of the comments I most often receive on my writing is that it has a certain domestic feel. Often, that's unintentional. It's just there because it's me on the page and that's who I am. If I feel like my children are washed and nurtured, food is prepared, clothes are clean and mended, activities are planned and packed for, I can put my mind to the task of learning and analyzing, absorbing and creating with clarity and care. So yes, folding laundry helps me see the themes of feminism in Tennyson. Filling the freezer with homemade burritos and the pantry with trail-mix snack bags gets me thinking on experimental syntax. And sometimes, not thinking about anything literary at all but instead watching Sherlock (*sigh* Benedict Cumberbatch) while putting away the dishes or sorting the coat closet gives my brain just enough of a breather to help me make decent comments in class discussions the next day. (Okay, lie. Sherlock actually can't  be watched without literary thoughts crossing the brain. The revival of a classic! The modern take! The narrative! The allusions!)

A list, if anyone's interested, of the recently read poems that speak to me:

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
Carrion Comfort by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sections 50, 54, and 55 of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam
Lines 470-481 of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh
Ode to A Nightingale by John Keats (Cumberbatch bonus!)
Her Kind by Anne Sexton

Others, I confess, have been my own, and I'm not *quite* ready to share. The small happiness I have in feasting on them is, for now, just mine.

What is your truth? Where do you see it in art? In life?

xo

Reasons Y

To counterbalance last week's frustrated rant, and for the good it does my soul to speak positive truths, I'll share some gratitude today. A couple of years ago I shared a post on the joy our family found in joining our local YMCA. With all the things that have changed in our lives, this is one that has not. I work at the Y now, part-time, and last week I had the opportunity to speak at a luncheon to a group of coworkers and fundraiser volunteers about my experience with this incredible organization. I've taken out the names of the people I mentioned, just for privacy's sake, but the rest of that speech is here, word for word. I mean each one. 

::::::

I want to thank you all for the opportunity to come here today and share my Y story. My story is very personal, but I believe it is in the moments when we, as a Y family touch each others' lives personally that the true worth and value of the YMCA organization is revealed. Through the three tenets of the Y vision--Social Responsibility, Healthy Living, and Youth Development--we have daily opportunities to share the human experience and affect lives in our community. My family's life has been positively impacted by the Y in more ways than I can express.

In September of 2013, just before I began working here in Childwatch, my thirteen year marriage came to a sudden and unexpected end. Saying nothing of the emotional devastation his absence wreaked upon me and my three children, the financial support he provided for us was very suddenly and very drastically reduced. I, a veteran stay-at-home-mom of nine years, who'd dropped out of college to move for her husband's career, found myself in the position of parenting and providing for three young children 90% on my own. I was determined to take care of them, to heal, to go back to school, to work hard and show my children how to rise above the hard knocks of life, but I needed help. I needed childcare for Jasper, my youngest. I needed a safe and healthy environment for Laurelei and Riley, my oldest and middle, to be in after school. I needed a place where I could come and get the regular exercise I need to manage the heart condition which affects me. And then, as the year progressed and my daughter Laurelei was diagnosed with the same potentially fatal congenital heart disorder, I also needed her to be around people who would look out for her, people who knew how to use an AED, people who could keep her safe while still allowing her to be the irrepressibly active kid she is. 

Through the generosity of donors who make program and membership assistance possible, we have found what we need--and beyond that, what we want and love: an environment which has strengthened us through the most difficult trials of our lives--here at the Y. ___'s help was invaluable in helping me to set up our family membership in an affordable way. In a matter of just one day, ___ and ___ and I were able to get Jasper set up for daycare at the Development Center, and later I applied for and received assistance in putting Laurelei and Riley on the Rock Climbing Team. Yesterday at the climbing team's first practice, I showed up at 4:30, ready to brief Coach ___ and Coach ___ on Laurelei's medical condition, only to find they had already been filled in. They were on top of it and knew what to do. 

As a mom who, by necessicity, can no longer be at her children's sides quite as much as she used to be, or quite as much as she'd like to be, I am relieved and grateful to come to the Y each afternoon and find my children happy and engaged in healthy activities. Whether that is Jasper smiling and laughing in the daycare or Laurelei and Riley playing a game in the Youth Center with ____ or ____, or climbing on the rock wall, or running around in the gym, I know they are surrounded by people who truly care for their well being. To also know that circumstance is one which will never be dictated by our financial status is an added comfort and blessing. I am determined that someday I will be the donor who writes the check that changes a Y family's life. Thank you, each of you, for volunteering your time to help the Y and so many families like mine. 

::::::

The Space Between

When I last wrote here, I clung to the edges of a life I'd woven, sometimes blindly, which was unraveling even as I continued to bind the strands, trying so hard to make them stay. In the space between then and now, I have seen and felt my marriage falter, without knowing why, then, upon learning why, offered forgiveness, offered my whole heart, my whole being, tried desperately to change and control that which was out of my hands and still, in the end, watched my husband of thirteen years walk away. I have lain in darkness and sorrow and wondered if I should just stay there. But I couldn't stay. Someone called my name: Amber June. Mamma. Daughter. Sister. Friend. And in the darkness I turned toward that someone, those many someones, and saw myself in their light. 

I'm different now. Stronger. Scarred. Smarter. Winged. I carry three little hearts on my heart, and I am finding hope and joy in the journey of rediscovering me. 

There are many practical differences in our daily lives now; quiet nights when the kids are with their Dad. Four at the table. We will leave our beloved Moon Cottage at the end of this month and move into an apartment. Come January, I will do what I've never done with my babies, and leave Jasper in someone else's care while I finish the education I cut short to move for my husband's career. 

I am anxious. But I see so much good in the future for my little ones and me, in spite of and because of this pain. The space between now and then is indefinite. But I am determined there will not be so much space between my shared words, my sacred thoughts, and this place where I scream them quietly from my own little mountain, again. 

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II

Picking up what I began so many weeks ago, writing what I want my children to know about their own births and the birth journey; what I don't want to forget...

Two years after the birth of Laurelei, I was pregnant with my second child and determined to educate myself and remain in control of our birth this time around. For the first time, I ignored the majority of moms' go-to pregnancy book (you know, that one about expectations) and turned instead to Childbirth Without Fear by Grantley Dick Read.

It was during this pregnancy that I truly began to understand that the advancements of modern-day medicine and science are both a blessing and a curse. We have access to solutions and cures for so many diseases and conditions that, in the past, have been fatal. But because of this power over nature, we often undervalue our bodies' own healing abilities and strengths. Concerning childbirth, we (and by 'we' I am mainly referring to modern Americans) use the lifesaving methods which should be reserved for the few to unnecessarily complicate the process for the many. Like giving the treatment for leprosy to everyone with a little dry skin. And we do it, as Grantley Dick Read could see even so many decades ago, and one of my personal heroes, Ina May Gaskin has taught since the 1970's*, because of the pervasive culture of fear. Women are taught to fear childbirth, to fear pain, even to fear the natural instincts which tell us to stand, to push, to place our newborn babes immediately on our breasts.

With my Riley growing inside me, I believe I truly overcame those fears.

At the time, Brian was working 60 hours a week at an intense job. December came, with Riley due December 19th, and Brian was told by his boss that if I hadn't given birth by December 15th, he could have time off for the birth OR Christmas, but not both. Everyone to whom I related this antidote said the same thing: get induced. But artificial inducement, usually done through use of the drug Pitocin, was absolutely a no-way for me. So I listened to my body, my baby, and, yes, my doctor, who all told me my baby boy was doing well, growing strong. I went for walks, took warm baths, and waited patiently for him to move lower, into a birth position. Then, on December 11th, when I felt with all my Mammahood instinct that he was ready, I rearranged our bedroom furniture. By myself. And my labor began that night.

Laurelei was with Brian and I in the hospital while I labored with Riley, and when he was born. She slept for most of it, and I won't pretend that we intentionally chose a family birth, but we had only lived in the town we were in for a few months and just didn't feel we knew anyone well enough to drop off our two-year old daughter in the middle of the night. I'm glad now that it happened that way. I wouldn't take it back. I worked through the contractions with Brian's arms around me, standing, kneeling, balancing on a ball, all while our sleeping daughter reminded me of the joy to come. The doctors and nurses, thankfully, for the most part, left us alone. No one told me how to labor, no one made me have an IV. No one looked askance at me when I said calling the anesthesiologist would not be necessary and no, thank you, I would only be on the bed when I wanted to be. And when I felt that unmistakable presence of my baby entering the birth canal, the reawakening of memories flooded my mind, bringing me even more to the moment, to the oneness of mother and child. With Brian's hands on my back, once again I pushed when my baby asked me to. The doctor barely made it into the room before my 9 lb., 5 oz. beautiful baby boy entered this mortal sphere. With him cradled on my chest, my husband's kisses fresh on his head and mine, Laurelei's first words for Riley were: "Oh Mamma, he's pretty."  

And those words, coupled with the love jam-packed into our little family of four and the soul-moving comfort of a newborn babe in my arms got me through the next few weeks, when that pesky, and sometimes scary, health problem I mentioned began to rear its head. But there were years to be lived and a third babe to be had before answers would become clear.

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part III coming soon.

xo

*so need to see this movie

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part I

And now let's pretend it's December (when I actually began composing this post). Let's say I'm 36 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my head is wrapped around Mammahood and little else. My favorite moment of the day comes late each evening when I lean back on my bed, prop up my feet and lay my hands on my swollen belly to feel my son move. Often, the hands of big sister, big brother, or Daddy join mine, and we revel in the miracle of the tiny life coming to us.

And of course I have the time and energy to blog about it, because, what nine-months preggo woman doesn't? ;-)

The last week of November was difficult. Our birth plans had to change and questions have been raised about my health...more on that some other day...but, because of these trials, I have felt so urgently the need to put into words, here, the story of my birth experiences, and how strongly I believe that the journey of labor and delivery can carry a mother to a place of sacred awareness, empowerment, and bliss that cannot be reached in this life in any other way. The reasons I choose natural childbirth are portrayed and promoted in life-changing books like Childbirth Without Fear and bold documentaries like The Business of Being Born (my favorite!). I passionately recommend both those sources to women everywhere, but my stories can only be told by me.

Almost nine years ago Baby #1, my sweet Laurelei, was on the way. I was so young! I have always known I wanted to be a mother, and I have always known I wanted to bring my children into the world through natural childbirth, the way my mother brought me. Actually, until I was a junior in high school, and went to see a friend in the hospital who was having a baby, I didn't know much about any other way. I remember my older sister telling me I should leave the room because they were going to do something called an 'epidural' and she knows I don't like needles. I left obediently, wondering what on earth needles had to do with giving birth.

A little older and slightly wiser in the ways of the world by the time I became pregnant with my first, I ignorantly thought I knew all there was to know about labor and delivery and my options and rights. There were no birth centers near where we lived, but the hospital was small and personal and, as informed as I thought I was, a home birth really hadn't even crossed my mind. I said 'no' to the epidural, the pitocin, the being induced, and I presented my D.O. with the birth plan Brian and I had worked through together (a quiz torn from the pages of a parenting magazine, the boxes checked with our answers). He nodded and said he understood. And I think he did. But still, on the night my sweet girl was born, things were done to me as a mother and to her as she entered this world that we would have said no to had we known--really known--as much as we thought we knew. It was a hospital, after all. And a hospital has policies that most moms never bother to learn and most docs never bother to disclose because the expectation is blind faith in the 'experts,' and little to no faith in our bodies; in what we, as women, were designed to do.

I have a huge problem with that expectation.

When the night came, I had back labor. I stood and walked the polished, white, hospital floors, leaning on Brian through contractions and letting gravity help us along and the pain was manageable. I could see the purpose in it and Brian could talk me through the worst moments...until I dilated to 5 or 6 centimeters and was told that, according to procedure, it was time for me to lie down.

What?

But we didn't know enough to say 'what?' I thought, she must be coming soon. It must be time. I obediently laid on the bed...and felt the full pain of back labor which, up to that point, my standing position had eased me through. I'm sure I screamed. The nurses began hooking me up to machines. External monitors. Heart monitors. An I.V., and, worst of all, an Internal Fetal Monitor screwed into the top of my helpless daughter's head. I remember thinking, and I remember Brian asking, why? But then my focus returned to the contractions that had suddenly intensified tenfold and Brian's focus returned to me. With all the wires and cords holding me to the bed, and the full weight of baby and womb on my back, there was nothing I could do now to handle the pain. I wanted to stand up again. Someone told me no. I fought through several contractions that way before a nurse suggested a "milligram or so of Stadol. Just to take the edge off." Brian and I didn't know what that was and neither of our heads were really with the nurse anyway. But with the hospital -regulation IV that I never wanted already in place, it was easy to inject the medicine for "the good of the baby" without really waiting for us to say yes.

We had lost control of a situation that was ours--not the nurses' or the doctors' or the hospital's. Ours. And even though I could still feel the labor, I still knew where I was and I could try to find the purpose in the pain,  I felt a little bit lost.

Under the influence of the Stadol, the semi-helpful effects of which didn't last that long, I hallucinated. Between contractions I fell into a half-sleep that terrified me without giving me any real rest. Then, at about 8 or 9 centimeters, the drug began to wear off and they wanted to give me more. This time, I found my voice and said no. They still wouldn't let me off the bed, but I insisted on being propped up. I knew she was coming. I knew that the moment I had waited and prepared for was about to happen and I didn't wait to be told to push. My body and my baby together knew what to do and the doctor barely caught her in time.
There is no physical feeling that can compare to the sensation of a baby leaving the birth canal, and there is no emotional or spiritual experience to be had by man nor beast to envy the infinite wonder and joy of having  completed the journey of labor and birth. At the moment she was placed in my arms, Laurelei, Brian, and I were the only beings on earth.

I kissed the wound on her head and cried, happy tears for the child fresh from eternity in my arms; tears of grief for my ignorance and pain. And I knew, as she nuzzled her tiny mouth to my breast, I would never, ever, lose control of my sacred Mammahood rights again.

Coming Soon: Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II.

xo

Face Your Fears

     Raw honesty time, gentle readers.
      For basically my entire life, I have always had trouble asking other people for help. Or even telling anyone else when I have a situation wherein I need help. It's the Mammahood-familiar I Can't Be Seen As A Failure/I Must Be Perfect and Do All fear.

     Do you know that fear?

     The crazy thing about giving in to that compulsion to do it all on my own is that, in the short term, my manic achievements are a source of confidence and pride; an endorphin-laden rush of power. But in the long term, denying others the chance to be involved in my life, and disallowing myself to be involved in theirs only creates weakness, loneliness, and isolation. I know that. And still I struggle to let others in.
     The other day I called up one of my oldest friends and asked for her help with something. That may seem mundane and expected and unremarkable to most people, but to me, the fact that I did it and I survived it was a reminder that, even with the realizations I've made about my fear, it's not something I can ever forget about or stop fighting. But the easy part of that comes here: I believe my Heavenly Father (insert your personal deity term here) opens doors that will lead us places where our weaknesses become our strengths, all the time, right in front of our faces. For me, those doors have lately taken the shape of someone asking me to be in charge of an activity or committee or event that I really can't (even though the manic-mom part of me still says I can) make happen on my own.
     My calling in our church right now is to plan and coordinate monthly activities for our women's charitable service organization. Every month I fight the urge to plan all the lessons, teach all the classes, and make all the refreshments by myself. A small part of me still feels that would be easier than picking up the phone and delegating assignments or asking for help. But I do it. I call. And you know what? People want to be involved. They don't call me names and hang up the phone like my fear-mongering subconsciousness tells me they will. They say yes. That lesson, I recognize, is why God opened that door for me.
     This past week, while volunteering in Riley's kindergarten class, his teacher asked me to be the group leader of the Halloween Party committee. I had to roll the words leader (not do-er of all) and committee (not solo party planner) around in my brain a little before I said yes. And later that night when I logged onto Pinterest to start scratching up some ideas, I had to remind myself again: The other parents on this list wrote their names down voluntarily. They WANT to help. Not only is it implausible for you to come up with and make all the games/activities/refreshments on your own--it's also not fair. And so I stopped pinning. I will give each of those other parents the chance to pitch in, and I will meet them and we will collaborate and--who knows?--maybe even uplift each other and encourage each other a little bit at the same time. 
     What fears do you face, blogland beauties? I hope you are conquering them as I am learning to conquer mine.The easy part is that the door has been opened. The hard part is choosing to walk through.

I hope you choose to walk through the doors God opens for you.

xo

One Pink, Two Blue

     For a time that seemed so long to me we thought we'd never have another child. I remember buying my kids something one day, a couple of years ago- I think it was a lemonade at an outdoor market- and pulling two straws from the jar. One pink, one blue. My hand froze in midair as I realized those straws symbolized my Mammahood. One pink, my Laurelei; one blue, my Riley boy. And there was nothing wrong about that. There were, actually, so many things right. His made-up songs and jokes, her mind-blowing vocabulary and wise-beyond-her-years ways. And the bond of friendship between them that, even now, I know will last their whole lives. But still, we took our lemonades and went home and I stood in the closet in front of a box of baby clothes and cried.

     It wasn't the thought of not having a third baby that broke me, it was the not knowing, and mostly, the not knowing why.

     We kept trying. Eventually, I told myself and everyone around me I would be okay either way. And then, eventually, I accepted that it was not going to happen after all. We had a yard sale and got rid of the strollers, the bassinet, the bike trailer, the hiking back pack...and two weeks later I woke up one morning and puked.

     My first thought was that I'd eaten something bad. But in the shower, my breasts leaked. And ached. Still, I didn't want to think I might be pregnant...I'd been wrong so very many times before. I waited. I looked at the calendar and thought maybe...I'll give it X amount of days before taking a test. I didn't make it that long. When you want something so much, even when you thought you'd stopped wanting, and you've waited so long, the unconfirmed possibility is worse than the heartache that might come.

     This is not an announcement. If you know me, if you've ever read this blog before, you know the end to this story. Two lines on the pee stick; a miracle of modem science. But today, the day this little one has not stopped leaping in my womb for even one minute, my Mammahood color pallete was finally redefined. One pink, two blue. The growing person Laurelei and Riley have been affectionately calling Little Sprout is now our son. Jasper.

I love you, Jasper, my second, happy blue. And I can't wait to hold you in my joyfully overflowing arms.

Saturday Market Photography

     Recently, my sweet hubby and I took a risk. We took a big risk. after almost twelve years of saying "We're going to do this someday," we closed our eyes and jumped... and started a photography business of our own.
     Brian has always been a photographer. Me? I have always had equal passions for both writing and all forms of visual arts. It's often been difficult for me to choose one path to pursue... I learned the medium of photography (and learned to love it almost as much as he does) by photographing alongside him. We used to work together for a studio in California and the first time we shot a wedding side-by-side we knew it was something we might like to do for ourselves someday. So when we decided together, three months or so ago, that the time had come for this...I decided to narrow the range of things I was pursuing on my own* (most of them half-heartedly; how many ways can a mind and heart divide?) and be in this with him. Together.
     Note to readers: Being a self-employed family = hard. Finding out we're pregnant two months after opening business = extra hard. Forging ahead anyway = what feels right.
     How does it work, you ask, working with your spouse? When we can each be humble enough to acknowledge that he is better at some things and she at others...it works pretty well. Weddings, we photograph together. High School Seniors, Families, Engagements? That's him. I have a better way with children and newborns, and am hoping to soon shoot my first maternity session and birth (ala Lynsey Stone or Patience Salgado). Landscapes, macro art, etc. we both enjoy and have begun to sell at our local downtown Saturday market.
     Which brings me to the whole point of this post. I wanted to share a few shots we did last Saturday, when we set up a background in our market booth and, with the combination of our winning charm and a big sign that said FREE Market Portrait, pulled in some fun families and pairs from the crowd for spur-of-the-moment Mother's Day photographs. This was so much fun. I love to meet new people and get to know their stories... these are some of my favorite shots of the day:

     I hope you, gentle readers, at some point in your lives, get the chance to support someone, and be supported by someone you love in pursuing a dream. It brings joy.

xo

*An explanation: Writing is, and has been for many years, my number one passion and dream (outside of Mammahood). Words still occupy a major portion of my day, everyday. The things I have set aside, for now, are my Etsy shop (more thoughts on the average American consumer's inability to value handmade goods at a later date...), and the opening of my Spoonflower shop. For now, those forms of art will just be for me. 

Beauty All Around (My 100th Post!)

     When I started this blog in June of 2011, my life was, for many reasons, in a state of transition and unrest. I was writing my thoughts almost constantly, allowing the flow of words to anchor me as I figured things out. As I figured me out.

This is a page from one of the many notebooks/journals I filled that year.

      I have blogged before and was drawn to starting a blog again, but, knowing the commitment of time and energy that keeping a good blog requires, I had to ask myself if it was worth it, and why? The answers I came up with reminded me that I really did have much more figured out than I thought.

     I blog because I find the blog to be a medium, and the blogosphere to be a place, wherein words and images are essential to one another. Yes, an image may speak for itself and words may paint a picture, but, when balanced, whether serendipitously or purposefully, to complement one another, their combined power is unlike any human-made influence I have known. And I cannot separate my inclination to express myself both verbally and visually. I never could.

     I blog because I, like any mere mortal (okay maybe a little more than most), need validation. Immediate feedback and gratification. And admittedly, I blog (at least a little) to self-promote. To build a platform for my writing, to sell my stuff. To let the things I love to make and do do a little making and doing for me.

    I blog because I have finally figured out that I am happiest when I am creating--whether that's creating in a literal sense with pen and paper and paint and camera, etc., or creating beauty and joy in my family and in the world through kindness and service and love. Expressing my joy and gratitude through beauty is my gift.

     I blog because, even in the lowest, darkest times of everyone's life there still is, always, in some small way, beauty all around. And I want to share the beauty in my everyday and to inspire others to see the beauty in their lives as well.

     Thank you gentle readers, for reading and commenting. If I have given at least one of you a little hope, a little inspiration, a little smile or laugh, then I am happy with the written musings of my handmade, vintage, pretty life. My life of beauty all around. Won't you stay for the next 100 posts?

xo

p.s. For those of you who don't follow either me (@amberjunek) or @portabellopixie on Instagram: the couch in that last photo has quite the story. Stay tuned...

Home Again, Home Again

Hello blogland. I'm home.

True to my word, and despite temptation to do otherwise, I have not written a post in over three weeks. It's been enough to send me into a serious non-blogger mindset (and by non-blogger I mean someone who doesn't photograph everything she makes, does, eats, reads, etc...all while thinking up quirky and clever titles for posts and hearing the content sentences form in her mind). But I'm about to get over that. I might, in the next few weeks, have to backtrack and share a couple of the things I was tempted to blog during my hiatus, like a beautiful Fall Festival with my little ones, but for now, I have soooo much to say about my trip to Houston for Quilt Market.

Ahhh, Quilt Market...with your hustle and bustle and schmancy hotel stays...your seriously huge convention center show floor that is really not friendly on backs and feet... and most of all, your rows and rows of crafty eye candy. 

Behold: 

(Lark by Amy Butler)

 (Seriuosly cute embroidery patterns by Penguin and Fish)

(A Dia de los Muertos themed booth by Alexander Henry)

(Anna Maria Horner's Loulouthi now in flannels and velveteen- hullo? To die for.)

And there's more. Soooo much more. But one thing I actually did  in the blogger mindset while at market was interview a half-dozen or so designers. Like, in person. (I know, right?) So I'm holding back those photos for when I post the interview series (which I'm calling 5 Minutes With a Fabric Designer) starting next Monday. Yay!

Now on to the eye candy outside the convention center.

The thing about going to a conference or a trade show like Quilt Market is that if you have any interest at all in the city that you're going to, don't get your hopes up to see any of it. Unless you extend your trip and plan ahead, you're really only going to see a hotel room, a couple of restaurants and a convention center floor. That's just not why you're there. But Saturday in Houston, I had a rough day. 

Raw honesty time.

I mentioned in my pre-market post that I was going to Houston to teach a school house (mini workshop) with Sandi. What I  didn't  reveal was that my reasons for attending were actually threefold. 

1.) The school house. 

2.) A chance to hob-knob a little with the awesome peeps who will (hopefully) someday soon want to publish a project book I've proposed. 

3.)I was also going to QM to show a portfolio of my own artwork to fabric manufacturers, with the hopes of one day becoming a fabric designer myself. 

Items one and two on the list went well. Really well. Item three...As any artist/ writer/ photographer/creator-of-anything can tell you, this takes guts. I'm not tooting my own horn here, it's just a fact. Putting yourself on a piece of paper and asking a stranger to tell you how you've fallen short, in the hopes of improving and growing, is an emotionally draining process. And being a thousand (ish) miles away from my husband and children- my true comforts and strengths- while doing it, quite frankly sucked. 

I felt weakened and beaten down, even though I know in reality it made me stronger.

Anyway...point. What was my point? Oh, right. Saturday was a rough day. And after a party and a dinner where I had to keep a smile on my face, and a cab ride back to the hotel to save my aching feet, I just needed to be alone for awhile and do something creative. So I changed into jeans and flat shoes (hallelujah for flat shoes) grabbed my camera and set out into the night. I didn't go far (don't worry Mom and Dad). Actually, I mostly stayed inside. The Hilton we (by 'we' I mean Sandi and I and Sandi's mom Jodi and the adorable Sarah Jane) were in had these amazing blown glass sculptural light fixtures that I really wanted to photograph...

I did go out a little...

...to take in the calming night air. 

It's amazing to me, having had my creations under the microscope all day long, how the thing that healed me most was to create more.  Even if it was a different medium. Even if the end product was nothing to write home about. The process of seeing and capturing something visual from my own point of view is always transforming. As is writing about it here.

Thanks for reading my ramblings, blogland.

Oh, and if you were one of the attendees at our school house and you heard me mention the free embroidery patterns, they are coming. I promise. They should both be on my 'make' page by Saturday, so keep checking back.

Fabric designer interviews start next week. I think we'll kick it off with Sandi Henderson (c'mon, you knew that was coming) and the one and only David Butler. 

xo