Little Yellow Tank Top

Little yellow tank top that is folded nicely in my drawer. The one I have worn once, nearly brand new, that “perfect gift” from my husband. Tight and curve fitting, yellow and flashy, a perfect size zero. The last thing I want to do is wear you to the gym, trying to be sexy and slim, reality… confused with large school bus!

Reminiscence with me: my daughter is now 19 months old and I no longer can use the phrase, “I just had a baby” to make light of my bodies insecurities. I go to the gym at least 5 times a week and have for the last 7 months. I see subtle changes in myself, but nothing I would call Guinness about. My husband, knowing my determination and hearing my complaints, always thinks of me on his trips to the store. More times than not he will return with a sports bra, water bottle, or something just for me because he was thinking of me, really though, he is the perfect man. This same perfect man is also the culprit responsible for little yellow tank top. He missed the memo in, “yes, you can buy me a tank top so long as it’s not yellow, not little, not tight… baggy tee will do.”

I did not feel like picturing my body in anything that showed it off. It took me weeks before I even tried it on for the first time and even then I still had a 15 minute pep talk to myself before being burned by my reflection. Mirror, one; me, zero. While the scale tells me a number pretty close to what I was before my baby, my mirror hasn’t gotten the memo. The mirror still shows me a body that Hollywood would frown upon. I have grown and shrunk and stretched and lost and gained and dropped and… well, had a baby.

I’m a momma now.

Yes, I would have been much more comfortable in pants and a long flowy shirt and there would have been nothing wrong with that. There is never anything wrong with putting on what makes me feel good and wearing it proudly no matter my shape or size at the time. So, as much as I wanted to tell my husband, “Look, buddy, that’s not happening, so just forget about it, I’m not wearing that shirt to the gym with you.”

I stopped and I listened to his heart for a minute.

See, while it’s so easy for me to see all of the things that have changed, and all the areas that I need to “fix” that sweet husband of mine apparently doesn’t see things the way that I do when he looks at me. He has this crazy way of still seeing me… His wife. He still sees the woman that he fell in love with, and apparently, he is still attracted to her – baggy t-shirts and extra baby fluff. He knows that my role has changed, but when he looks at me I’m still Cor, not mommy. He sees the woman he fell in love with, the woman who said, “Yes” to becoming his wife. I don’t think he knows how to tell me, “Hey, remember when you were just mine?” And honestly? It feels so hard to remember how to be his. Half the time I don’t even remember how to be me. Putting myself last over and over again and being reminded by the mirror how different I am… sometimes, I don’t even know where to start.

So as I stared at myself in the mirror one last glance, I decided for today I would make that choice to be his. Wear what he picked because after all he picked me too. Because while I could have pushed my husband away and left him always wondering but never asking about that dang little yellow tank top, I chose to remember him, to wear it for him. And just as I chose that, I chose to remember a woman worth caring about, who has a husband that loves her and who is a person beyond being a Momma. I chose to remember that I am worth my own attention. And I chose to remember that if my husband thinks I’m attractive, then I am. I am not my competition. And sometimes showing him and reminding myself means wearing that little-yellow-really tight-tank-top, plus…the mirror said I looked more like a taxi van over a school bus anyways. #winning

Only gym pic I have. God forbid that lil yellow tank top! :-)

...Just Dance!!!

It was Thursday just after lunch… I was busy cleaning the chicken nuggets and veggie straws off the table and highchair. My dishwasher was full of clean dishes that needed to be put away and my sink was full of dirty dishes that needed some serious attention. Egg-whites dried to the counter tops, bread crumbs from bagels, dried grated cheese stuck to the counter keeping company with bills that needed sorting and a dozen odds and ends that don’t seem to ever find a proper home.

My attached living room was equally chaotic. There’s a couch somewhere under all that laundry from the last trip to Canada, shoes, jackets and socks littered the living room floor, pages from books ripped out from the seam, and a million DVD’s scattered about trying to find Elmo. The disarray was finally accessorized by toddler toys everywhere and a spilled boxed of Q-tips from this morning’s learning game.

My silent prayer: “Dear God, do not let my doorbell ring right now.” …Because, Lord help me, I would have to lie. I would be that awkward woman with only my head peeping out the door, trying to hold a barking dog back and a baby fighting to go “yowe-yide” …I would have to continue to make up some crazy excuse for why my house looked the way it did. I can only be “in the middle of a deep cleaning project” or “organizing the toy baskets” so often before people realize that maybe my house always looks like this. I swear the UPS guy, or visiting teachers, or neighbors bringing cookies only ever happens on days like today. Days when the baby is screaming and crying because she fell in the backyard tears marking her dirt smeared face and clothes covered in chalk. Don’t even get me started on my attire. I look like a comic strip character, not superwoman or catwoman, but like more ogre-ish with sticky popsicle sticks stuck to my backside. Seriously, I'm racking my brain and checking appts on my phone, “is there any reason I should be expecting company, because with the house like this… there is definitely someone on their way.”

My daughter wants a yawkit (chocolate, a girl after my own heart). I grab the big ol’ bag of M&M’s from the cupboard. I buy the biggest bags I can get at Costco or Walmart (thank you Easter) and refill little containers for her and for her diaper bag, saving grace friends, saving grace! She is on her tippy toes impatiently reaching for the bag as I turn to grab a little container to pour some into. What’s one second? I give her the bag to stop the whining and reach for said container. MISTAKE! Stop, never hand a one year old a large OPEN bag of M&M’s. Taste the fricken rainbow; floor, counters, and carpet!!! Visible floor space has quickly vanished and my anxiety level is through the roof. No end in sight. Tears.

Also, we need to be clear about something right now… My Pinterest boards say I’m the cleanest, most organized, best cooking, good lookin’ momma around which is all around like, not true at all. Jesus would have some serious transformations if I were to be my computer self. Anyways, long story short, I like a clean house but mix a busy toddler with my top-knot and my house quickly becomes a hurricane until nap time. Untidy does not stress me out. Mess does. This mess… DOES!

Top it all off, my sweet girl wants me to play and I am “one more second’ing,” her… Great, add that stress and guilt to my weepy self. It’s a good day.

So, I do what I always do when I am overwhelmed. I plug in my iPhone and play music through the blue tooth speaker. As I turn round and round trying to gather up spilled chocolate, I am face to face with my sweet one year old holding my hat in the air wearing my shoes. “momma…” I throw away the handful of M&M’s and bend down to put my hat on her little head. A closed mouth kiss, cuz she is a big girl now, and into the living room she goes squishing so much chocolate on her way it made me cringe... but if it wasn’t for the fear of melted squished chocolate I probably would of continued cleaning, not followed her, and I would of missed seeing something remarkable… something I needed to see.

She walked into the middle of our messy living room and began to dance. Her arms above her head she sways and spins, oblivious to the junk all around her. She danced without a care in the world and I just stood there unable to move watching her; my heart overwhelmed.

She didn't care that the kitchen floors were covered in chocolate. She didn't need all the clothes put away first… She just danced. And right before my eyes I witnessed a perfect picture. A picture of what God wants for us. He doesn't want us to get everything in order before we find joy. Everything doesn't need a proper place before we praise Him. He wants us, but he also wants our mess. He wants us to invite Him right into the middle of it. He knows we are not perfect, that days are hard, sometimes unbearable, and we make mistakes. He knows!!! Our joy shouldn't come from the state of a perfect circumstance. Our joy should be full and come from our hearts. So here I am, in the corner of my kitchen peeking around witnessing a perfect picture of a Christian life. It really is what you read. “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” Finding out those ways to learn to dance through chaos with grace and love.

Because this is life… and I can promise you something… there will always be more of it.

On this day, I took a hint from my precious one year old baby girl. Motherhood isn't my job. It is my joy. It is not my obligation, but my own opportunity. And at that moment I didn't wait until the laundry was folded or the toys were picked up… I just scooped her up and… in the middle of all her dolls… with a million other things to do, together we danced. We danced like everyone in the world could see us and she allowed me to shine as she does. In that hour with tears on my cheeks and joy in my heart, we invited God into our day. Right smack in the middle of it… and the best part is… he didn't even require me to clean up before he came over!