We’ve all done it. Made bad jokes in poor taste. Laughed really hard only to find out what we were laughing at wasn’t a joke. Well, it was April first 2013, and I was sitting in a cold, sterile room at the Cleveland Clinic with my mom and my eight-month-old baby, Lucy. It had been a little over a week since my intense six-hour surgery to remove an extremely rare and aggressive paraganglioma from my carotid artery.  We were waiting to see what else the surgeons had found while they were in there. Hopefully nothing. My neck was the size of a football, I was swollen, sore, and I had trouble taking off my coat, so I just left it on. I was perched awkwardly on the edge of the tall, vinyl patient’s chair, staring across at my mom who was bouncing Lucy on her lap, because I couldn’t.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

I said I wasn’t. Well, not really, I said. I wondered if I was telling the truth. We waited. The resident surgeon came in and checked my stitches, checked my nerve function, and told me Dr. Scharpf would be in to see me soon. I wanted to yell after him, “Just tell me! Please, just tell me! Am I going to die?” A few minutes later, my surgeon walked through the door, made the obligatory cute baby remarks, and shook my hand as he looked into my eyes, his own reflecting compassion and concern. I think that’s when I knew what he was going to tell me.

I really don’t remember anything he said before it. I only remember straining my neck a bit to look into his eyes when he softly said, “Unfortunately, your tumor was malignant.” He paused. Probably not for dramatic affect, but boy did I feel the drama of that moment. The weight of it.

I couldn’t look at him any more, as he waited for me to respond. So I relaxed my neck and looked ahead at my little baby Lucy. Malignant, eh? I looked into her big brown eyes, and what did she do? She started giggling histerically. Her little baby mouth opened wide and she just laughed! Her cute little face broke out into the biggest, slobbery smile, completely oblivious that her mama had just heard the scariest news of her life. Lucy just laughed. And it was the best comedic timing for the worst April Fool’s joke I’d ever experienced.

So I turned back to the doctor, smiled at the irony of the moment, and asked, “So, now what?”

I never expected to have cancer in my twenties. Even when they first found my tumor, they had told me it was benign. I used to pray to God to never let me get cancer at a young age, because I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I knew it would make me angry at God, and I wasn’t the kind of person who could fight cancer. I just knew it. Or at least, I thought I knew it.

I had been spared from the knowledge of my own cancer during my pregnancy, though I was still aware and quite afraid of this rare, mysterious tumor in my neck. I had joined a paraganglioma and pheochromocytoma Facebook support group after finally discovering the group during one of my scary, late night “paraganglioma tumor” Google search sessions. I was mostly just really afraid of either not making it through my surgery, or living the rest of my life with a feeding tube or the inability to talk, because of damage that could easily be done to the nerves that were bundled around the tumor. My doctor described the tumor resection as cutting out a meatball that’s tangled up in bowl of spaghetti (symbolizing the nerves from my brain). The red visuals of pasta sauce and tumors didn’t help me feel any better. Because of the support group, though, I was able to connect with other people who had lived through the same surgery, and they all offered me such support and encouragement, and only some of the people I initially talked to were living on feeding tubes or dealing with other frustrating side effects or recurring tumors.

But still. The idea of surgery on my carotid artery was super intimidating. I would lay awake at night, staring at Lucy, wondering if she would have to grow up without ever knowing me, with only pictures and stories to communicate her mother’s love for her. I then began thinking about death a lot, and how near it constantly is. People at my church would tell me, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.” But quoting scripture at me didn’t ease my concerns. I believe that we live in a physical world where physical things go wrong regardless of what we do, what plans we make, or what God wants for our lives. Bad things happen as a result of choices other people make for us, poor timing, or weird genes. I thought, what if I’m dead in a year? That might be what my future holds, even if it isn’t God’s plan for me. Telling me “you’ll be okay, God is faithful” certainly didn’t ease my worries, when my mind was going a mile a minute.

A friend of mine agreed with my thoughts about how silly it is when people tell you “everything will be fine.” She said, “We don’t know if it will be fine. But there are things we do know.” And then she reminded me of all of these little miracles that I had completely forgotten.

1. When I was in the hospital for a mysterious illness with symptoms that mirrored those caused by active paragangliomas, the doctors kept searching for the cause, and ended up discovering this inactive tumor that otherwise would have gone undetected. They never did find out what had caused the initial symptoms that had sent me to the hospital, but the illness went away shortly after they discovered the tumor. (You can read a bit about it here.)
2. Initially they told me the tumor was benign after an investigative biopsy. Doing a blind biopsy on such a tumor is actually extremely unsafe (they didn’t know what it was yet since scanning wasn’t recommended during pregnancy), but I was spared from any side effects of the biopsy, and the benign results, as false as they were, caused me to go through my entire pregnancy without stress or worry about having to choose cancer treatment or a healthy pregnancy.
3. I had been told by surgeons that I could keep an eye on the carotid body tumor for years, because they are typically slow growing and mine was benign (they didn’t find out it was actually cancerous until after surgery). But Phil was told that he would no longer have a teaching job, and while we asked God why all of these bad things were happening (job insecurity plus lots of hospital bills), we felt like I was being led to have the surgery immediately since we might not ever have such good health insurance again. I would have waited to do the surgery if Phil had that job security, and the aggressive cancer would have spread throughout my body and would have been untreatable by the time it would have been detected in my other organs.

I began to think about these little miracles, and my perspective slowly started to shift. I had been stressed and endured sleepless nights because everything in my life seemed like it was spinning so out of control. But then I realized I never really had control to begin with. Control is just an illusion, isn’t it? Before that month, we thought Phil had job security, but who really has job security? Nobody. We never know what tomorrow holds. I had been bitter about my debilitating sickness back in May- the one that led to my tumor discovery. But it made me realize, the things that we perceive as bad may actually be the perfectly formed pieces of a grander scheme.

What makes us decide something in our life is bad? Because it makes us feel bad? Because it makes us hurt? We think cancer is bad because it makes us sick, and because it makes us sad. So, cancer=bad. But I began to learn that just because something makes me feel bad, doesn’t mean that it is bad for me. My person. My soul. Just like physical training is difficult and painful, but necessary for building an athlete. People say, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” But now I ask myself, why do we see certain situations as bad? Because our personal perspectives limit us. And preparing for this major, uncertain surgery totally destroyed my personal perspective. Little did I know, a cancer diagnosis would push my limits even further and take me to places I had never wanted to go, but would never undo if I was given the chance. 

My perspective also began to change through prayer and reading scriptures. Every day, Phil prayed with me that God would take away my fear and give me peace. That same friend who had reminded me of the ways God was working good through the bad in my life confessed to me the grip that worry and fear had on her life. She gave me a set of notecards with Bible verses that speak peace into her own life. I read verses like Psalm 46 in my friend’s own handwriting, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. Selah.” We continued praying for peace, my friends asked God to give me peace, and my heart was transformed from fearful to steady and sure. Psalm 55:22 says, “Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; He will never let the righteous be shaken.”

Finally the day of surgery came, and they wheeled me down the long, cold hallway, away from my waving family, while I managed to smile and hold back my tears, lest my emotions become contagious and plague them in the waiting room. This was it. There was no more waiting. “See you soon!” I said, though I thought, I may never see them again. And I thought how sad Phil would be if the doctor’s had to tell him, “We did the best that we could, but…”

The doors closed behind me, and I finally let the tears slide down my face. The man who was transporting me to surgery put his soft hand on my shoulder and assured me in a low, friendly voice, “You’ll be okay, sweetie. It will be over before you know it.”

I sighed a shaky sigh, but the touch of his human hand had broken down the dam I had built up against my emotions, and I just felt even more scared and alone. He told me all of these nice, reassuring things as he wheeled me around turns, over bumps, and through doors. And he even told me God would protect me. I’m not sure if transport people are allowed to tell you that, but I sure was glad he did. I started breathing easier again. He parked me in an alcove next to my surgery room, and I waited there, alone with my thoughts for about a half hour until they finally wheeled me into the OR. I thought, I’m either going to wake up feeling like crap in the ICU, or I’ll wake up and see Jesus face-to-face. And I suddenly felt calm. And I was okay with either scenario. I really was.

There were two surgeons and a room full of nurses, residents, and one anesthesiologist during my surgery. Someone asked another person in the room if my pregnancy test came back, and I interjected with a laugh saying, “It had better come back negative! I don’t think I’m ready for any more surprises!” And then I saw my surgeon, the kind, blue-eyed Dr. Scharpf who proudly wore a Cleveland Browns scrub cap. He was my ENT who would be resecting the tumor from beside my carotid artery while the head of vascular surgery, Dr. Clair, stood by “just in case.” Because I guess you just never know what’s going to happen when cutting out a rare tumor with unknown properties alongside of a carotid artery.

I had an incredibly difficult time coming out of anesthesia after what was only supposed to have been a three-hour procedure, but had turned into an intense six-hour surgery. I was groggy and miserable, and I couldn’t speak, but I had enough of my wits about me to detect the look of concern when Dr. Clair came into my room and told me that he was glad I was awake and that I win the prize for being the most difficult surgery he has ever done. Wow! I thought, should I be honored? Scared? Relieved? Thankful? Then he said they were concerned because of how aggressive the tumor ended up being, but I was a bit too groggy to put two and two together at that point. He said they had sent in the resected tumor to pathology and they would get the results back in a week or so.

Well, after a pretty long week of waiting for the pathology report, there I sat in the doctor’s office, facing an adorable laughing baby and the ugly reality of cancer. He said malignant. Malignant? Yes, malignant. I had cancer. I didn’t know what stage it was, what treatment I would be receiving, or what my future held, but I had this incredible feeling of peace. I scheduled an appointment with my oncologist (I had my own oncologist? Crazy town!) and went to the cafe to get coffee and treats with my mom and little Lucy.

“Is it weird that I feel relieved?” I asked Mom as I munched on a a chocolate filled, artery clogging, who-gives-a-crap pastry.

“Is it weird that I feel relieved?” she replied, absolutely surprising me.

They had found cancer in my body. But they had found it. It had been found. I would never have to wonder if maybe they had missed it, and it was growing in hidden places inside my body. I don’t know why, but I had this weird peace, and that same peace that God had given me, he had given to my mom and to Phil. I looked around the hospital cafe and wondered if anyone else there had just learned they had cancer. Was anyone there facing death too? There were people from all over the world, all seeking healing and treatment for physical ailments. And I wanted to reach out and touch each of them, somehow transferring some of God’s peace from my heart through my limbs, out from my fingertips and into their own hearts.

But instead I just washed my chocolate pastry down with some hot coffee and wondered how I was going to tell my family. The timing was incredibly awkward, because after we drove home to Canton from Cleveland, our family had to prepare for my grandma’s calling hours that night. She had just passed away over the weekend. Everyone’s emotions were vulnerable. I didn’t want to burden them with my news. But everyone was in the same room. And they were all asking the same questions. 

“Did you get your pathology report?” “How did your hospital visit go?” “Did you get good news?” I shifted my eyes to Phil. He shifted his eyes to me. I shifted my eyes to my mom. And then the hard part began.

Telling people I had cancer was the hardest part of my experience. But oddly, it at times was also the most gratifying. I’m not typically one to open up easily about how I really feel inside, or what God is doing in my heart. But I felt vulnerable, and wondered if I was going through this for a reason. And there was also the freakish peace that never left me through the course of my treatment and recovery. So, as my family and friends’ eyes welled up with tears, I was able to embrace them and comfort them saying,  “I’m okay! I’m really okay. I promise. Don’t be sad. I don’t know what will happen, but it will be okay.”

I think people thought I was putting on a brave face. But I am telling you, I have never seen a sick person healed, I’ve never seen the Red Sea parted, and I’ve never seen a person raised from the dead, but I did witness a miracle in my own heart when I had prayed all of those sleepless nights for peace from God, and then he gave it to me. And it didn’t stop there. As many cancer patients know, a lot of good can come from that dreaded diagnosis. Your priorities, which may have been lop-sided and careening out of control, begin to rearrange themselves as you realize what is important in life, and what isn’t. You’ve got cancer, sure. But in the meantime- there’s life! Life is meant to be enjoyed, not to be simply endured or grasped tightly with fear. Every day is a gift, and cancer was the reminder of the brevity of life and the urgency to seek higher things and enjoy simple pleasures.

Not every day was joyful, though, and not every moment was filled with that divine peace. Lucy was learning to make funny noises and communicate her affection to me, and I dreaded the thought of maybe having to leave that behind. We didn’t know how progressive my cancer was, and while I was waiting for the results of my full body scan, one of the members of my paraganglioma support group passed away. And then, a day later, another woman’s life was taken by the same tumors that had spread throughout her body. She was young like me. She had a little child, like me. And my heart ached so powerfully and deeply. And I battled fear. And I prayed to God. Oh, how we prayed to God. I read those Bible verses over and over again. “For God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7) “For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” (Isaiah 41:13)

We were all so, so relieved when the full body scans couldn’t detect any more cancer in my body, and I went into my radiation treatment feeling hopeful, though a little anxious about the side effects. People in my church family told me they were praying for me, and I knew they were, because I could feel it! But more than that, those friends and family selflessly helped us get through the exhausting days where I couldn’t take a shower, much less cook, so they would bring us food to eat, clean my toilets, and wash poopy diapers. And when the bills came in, we even had people ask us how much more we needed before they were paid off! Cards came in the mail, and my beautiful friend organized an online fund where my blog friends contributed to help pay for some of my cancer treatment meds that helped make me less miserable during the days when my mouth was full of big, bleeding sores and my neck was on fire with literal burns from radiation. Yes, I felt sore, I felt tired, and I felt bad for myself sometimes. But most of all, I felt loved. I felt peace, and I felt like I had this amazing new perspective on life and couldn’t wait to get out there and just delight in life.

So here I am, you guys. It’s been exactly one year since Lucy’s outburst of laughter in light of my cancer diagnosis, and I can look back on that day fondly. What a blessing to have that little babe laughing her way through my cancer treatment, reminding me of all the things I have to be thankful for and enjoy, even in the face of death, doom, and despair. Sometimes I feel like it’s cheap for me to say how amazing my cancer experience was, because I survived, and I am healed. But you guys, it was hard. It was really, really difficult. Through it all, God revealed himself to me because I sought him in the darkness that I felt. He took something I thought was a curse and turned it into a blessing. I’ll never be the same.

If there were a room full of woman talking about you, would you want to know what was being said? Honestly. If you were given the headphones for the bug in that room, would you put them on? If you had asked me this a month ago, my answer would have been yes. If someone thought I was doing something wrong, I’d want to know! If someone thought I was doing amazing work, I’d want to feel the satisfaction of hearing their praise. When you’re the subject of a conversation, you can’t help but want in, whether it’s to defend yourself, to better yourself, or just to feel better about yourself- if the conversation’s a pleasant one, that is. But I’m learning more and more that it’s much healthier to just turn around and walk away. In this modern era where you can essentially become a proverbial fly on the wall, thanks to public message boards or blog comments, it’s far too easy to become unhealthily interested in what people think of you, and even worse- addicted to the criticism.

Our first experiences with gossip usually start at a young age, and for girls, it can be vicious and debilitating from the start. Body shaming, personal style criticism, sharing of a humiliating story, or making fun of shortcomings- I’m sure you can relate to one if not all of these areas of criticism young girls make us aware of from an early age. Often those comments coming from youngsters originate from the speaker’s personal insecurities, but that little girl spewing the hurtful words is usually incapable of understanding the fact that bringing others down is a way of making herself feel better- and she’s certainly not ready to realize that those feelings are fleeting when they’re based on criticisms instead of encouragement. When we grow older, though, we become more responsible for our words and ideally should have come to understand how delicate doling out criticism can be, and how to tactfully sandwich such unappealing concerns in between encouragement and love. Or else just to keep our mouths shut and move on.

I have the possibly unusual personality trait that I crave criticism. Can you relate? Criticism doesn’t necessarily make me feel good, but because I have perfectionistic tendencies, criticism reveals to me the ways I can push harder to become a better person. In college I heard of a group of people who thought that I was a snob. It was so shocking to me, because I rarely entertain thoughts of being better than anyone else and I am personally turned off by social groups that give off an air of exclusivity. Did others feel this way too? I began to fret. I evaluated how my actions, my demeanor, and my words could possibly make anyone think I was a snob. I obsessed with being friendly to everyone- sitting with those who sat alone and making more friends than I knew what to do with. Though I was trying to be a good person, it was really unhealthy, and looking back I could see that I was more concerned with proving people (or my own self-doubts) wrong than I was about just living an emotionally healthy life without worrying how it looked from the outside.

I’ve struggled through my whole life with wondering what others think of me, and obsessing over it when I sometimes found out. Making healthy decisions for my life, such as saying no to requests or opportunities when I’m already too busy, can cause such anxiety in me that I have difficulty breathing- just because I wonder and obsess over how others might react to my decisions. My concern for my reputation is usually utmost on my priority list, when my concern for my quality of life and my personal character should be much higher. It’s not as if I’m ever purposefully more concerned about cultivating an image more than a healthy life, but this is inevitably what happens when you allow an unhealthily high regard for the opinion of others to grow in your heart.

For some people, fear of what others may think can prohibit them from putting themselves out there in healthy ways, like becoming published, pinning your art on the crit board in school, speaking in public, or even just walking across a room in an outfit that you worry you can’t “pull off.” For me, I don’t fear what others think as much as I just need to know. Like photographers who can’t get their pictures from the memory card to the internet fast enough, I want to know what people think in order that I might improve myself or else be validated and encouraged by what people have to say.

For the most part, my experience with the internet has been kind. Usually when you put out kindness, kindness returns to you. But as I’m sure you know, that’s not always the case. Some of my friends have had it way worse in their experiences with online bullying, but I was really shocked back in 2011 when after receiving repeated harassing comments from the same anonymous person on my blog, I then discovered how she found me from a message board talking about me. The message board wasn’t over-the-top cruel by any means, but it’s just weird when you have a rather inane presence on the internet, as I’ve had, and people are somehow still offended by it and feel the need to take it to the next level by repeatedly harassing you at your blog home. I was amazed by how easily people justify their hurtful words. And I was shocked by people’s extreme reactions to my harmless little blog to the point that I couldn’t look away or forget. Years later, I found out about GOMI and spent way too much time on there reading criticisms with the intent of bettering my own blog from their feedback. But instead, reading those critical message boards made me more jaded and less likely to hit the publish button without sometimes completely compromising my original vision for the sake of considering how people might react to what I put out there.

The fact that any and every action a blogger puts out there can and will be dissected by calloused and cavalier strangers who don’t know you and don’t care to understand your heart or where you’re coming from- it’s scary. And it totally blows to pieces my former desires to know what people think about everything I do. I had always unabashedly enjoyed crit time in art school. I thrived on criticism and had found a balance between considering the criticism and knowing when to just follow my gut instincts instead. But there’s something so personal about a blog and opening your heart, that I think it can be really unhealthy to seek out what negative responses your heartfelt sharing may have incurred.

Since reading that first critical message board about my blog, I have certainly developed thicker skin. It’s important to be able to delineate personal criticism from criticism about your work. It’s easy to become too invested in the work you put out there, because let’s face it- you pour a lot of yourself and your emotions into it! You sacrifice of yourself to work hard on a project that you’re really proud of, and it stings a little when people think it’s stupid. Sometimes a negative reaction is just a difference in style or opinion, when other times it might be valid. A former professor of mine would famously say to our class, “Just because you spent a lot of time on something doesn’t mean it’s any good.” I certainly keep that in mind when developing ideas and deciding if a project is ready to be published. And I do enjoy interacting with critical commenters (the kinder ones, that is), because those conversations can develop an idea even further than I had originally intended it to go- which can be really great! Criticism in blog comments can offer more helpful criticism than anonymous message boards, because they are kinder and usually come from an intent to help the blogger see something from a different perspective, and that can be a great tool for growth. That’s the kind of criticism that naturally finds its way to you and can keep perfectionists like me from seeking out the scarier criticism that lurks in dark places on the internet.

I’ve finally come to terms with at least a little bit of how unhealthy my desire to unearth criticism has been in my life. Like I said- and we all know- criticism can be a healthy tool for improvement, but when it begins to steal your joy and causes you to hesitate in developing your true self, that’s when it becomes harmful. I’ve learned that reading message boards like those found at GOMI brings me down more than it causes me to improve, so I’ve decided as hard as it is to look away, I must. Would I willingly hang out with a person who is constantly critical? No. So why spend any of my time that way on the internet? It doesn’t really make sense when I spell it out that plainly, though I’ll be honest- it’s difficult to not pop in there and see if anything has been said about me or my projects.

This year I’m working on being kinder to myself, and so I’m learning to let go of my unhealthy addiction to criticism. I’m hard enough on myself as it is- adding another negative voice isn’t going to make my own any gentler. I hope you’re able to take practical steps towards being kinder and truer to yourself too- and let’s not forget to not just be kind to ourselves, but especially to those we share life with. Encouragement does more good than the most thoughtful criticisms ever could!

Top image adapted from an original illustration from Highlights For Children, June-July, 1969.

I cringe so hard when I read the comments on fellow blogger mom’s Instagram feeds. “Can I just be you?” “Your life is perfect!” Okay, so I’ve rarely ever heard such comments on my own Instagram feed (In fact, I’m not sure if I ever have…), but I have had friends in real life comment on how amazing my life seems, and that they wish they had my cool house or the time to do fun things (like crafts, or just their hair). It’s always a bit awkward when I receive those compliments, because sometimes they’re backhanded, and often they sound a bit self-deprecating. You wish you had the time? Oh really? SO DO I.

When I hear those comments while I’m at work behind the espresso machine, I want to retort with something like, “I wish I had the time to be out at Starbucks once a week spending money on overpriced lattes before I cart my kids off to Target where I buy them cute clothes and those squeezy packs of food that they’ll for sure eat and not throw over the edge of the high chair like Lucy does with the food I thoughtfully make with the time I don’t have.” Much of my life is spent scurrying home from a barista job so I can bust out work (that I enjoy doing) for A Beautiful Mess, so that I can maybe have time to consider what (or if) I can make for dinner (that Lucy won’t reject), and trying not to completely neglect my kiddo when Phil brings her home from Mom’s house, where she’s been lovingly cared for while I work. During days I don’t work at Starbucks, I often stay in my pajamas (Phil’s big gray sweatpants and Duke sweatshirt), makeup smudges under my eyes because I was too exhausted to wash my face the night before or that morning, hoping that whatever project I’m photographing that day won’t betray an embarrassing reflection of my appearance.

You guys, I’m not trying to say that I don’t enjoy my life, or that I don’t have nice things. I do! But so do you! I sometimes have a hard time making it to the weekend, and once the weekend is here, it often means just more work for me, because the babysitter (Phil) is home to help around the house. Life is not all fun and games. But I try not to portray the negativity that I sometimes feel, the anxiety, or the cluttered house. That kind of stuff can be a downer to read. But for the sake of dispelling any misconceptions that my (or any other blogger’s) life is like a magazine, I thought I’d share some confessions from this blogger mom.

I’ve never cleaned the bathroom in our house. Not ever. Don’t worry, Phil does. And we agreed on this being his chore, but I still feel really guilty about it for some reason. Gender stereotypes, perhaps?

I rarely put my toothbrush away, and the TP roll only sometimes makes it onto the roll holder by the toilet. Also- look! I have ugly toothbrushes and normal toothpaste. My lotion was a gift from Bath & Body Works, and isn’t something like the beautifully designed Aesop products that all the cool bloggers seem to be all about these days.

I wear Phil’s sweatshirts and sweatpants more often than not on my work-at-home days. I’m trying to remedy this, because I don’t feel good when I dress like that. A nice alternative, I’m finding, is a comfortable button-up shirt with a loose fitting jumper. You know, something like what Debra Barone would wear in Everybody Loves Ramond. Again- not so cool, eh? 

I haven’t shaved my legs since being in Florida during the first week of January. Or my armpits for that matter. This isn’t a feminist stance, but rather a lack of time for luxuriously long showers. When I do happen to shave my legs, I just feel like it’s a huge waste of time that could be better spent on something else- even if it’s just relaxing on the sofa watching Netflix. Priorities, people.

We have garish plastic toys and foam mats at our house. In our one and only living room, not our nonexistent playroom.

I’ve finally figured out how to keep my houseplants alive, but I can’t keep them on the floor. I thought I could be super mom and teach my 1 1/2 year old about obeying and not playing in houseplant dirt. But I’m tired of cleaning up dirt four times a day.

Those houseplants are in the ugly plastic containers that they came in at the hardware store. That’s right, I don’t buy my houseplants from beautiful nurseries that make for cool photo shoots or Instagram shots.

I saved up and bought Lucy one of those beautiful Blabla Bunnies, but it’s probably her least favorite toy. But hey, it looks good in pictures, I guess.

Our dining room table is constantly covered with power tools and project supplies. I’m working on finding a better way to deal with constantly working on projects in our tiny house. But I just can’t seem to find the time to get everything organized and built, or the money to gather the supplies.

I let Lucy watch TV while I work on projects. She doesn’t always watch tv, and she is happy to play by herself or read books lots of the time, but when she gets fussy, and I can’t stop working on something, I turn to Daniel Tiger for his wonderful babysitting abilities. 

I was so proud of myself for making sugar-free banana oat cookies for Lucy, and then I ate half the batch myself.  

My friends (and I) all think I’m a coffee snob, but lately I’ve been microwaving my second cup of coffee about five times a day.

I bought a pack of sugar cookies to use for a photo prop, and then I ate them all while Lucy napped. And then I felt really bad about it. I’ve been giving in to stress eating more and more often these days, which is making me more stressed.

When I want to take an Instagram photo, I move things out of the background so my house looks clean. 

I hesitate to do more kitchen related posts, even though my life tends to revolve around the kitchen, because I don’t think it’s pretty enough to take pictures in. I realized how pathetic that seems, once I typed it out.

There are plenty more things to say about how unglamorous my life is, but it’s way more fun to pretend that everything is beautiful and fulfilling in my life, so that’s the side of my life that I tend to share with you, when I have time that is. I’ve been trying not to stress about getting posts up as frequently here, because I would just rather spend that extra time with family and friends. I’m sure you get it. And I’m sure you’re not sitting here clicking refresh and wondering when a new post will pop up. But I do enjoy sharing things with you all here, though even more so, I enjoy the sense of camaraderie with you all and fellow bloggers on social media, like Instagram. Just let’s not get too caught up in appearances, ‘kay? We’re all just regular ol’ humans, after all!