Today I identify with my fictional 1920’s soul sister, Lady Mary Crawley, and basically call out the whole country. You know, just your typical Wednesday.

The Lord your God…turned the curse into a blessing for you, because the Lord your God loves you. —some old dude named Moses (Deut. 23:5)

I take a spin class about once a week, usually led by an instructor who knows The Kid’s name and rocks out to 90’s music on the reg. One of the expressions used among indoor cyclists is “from your flat” and refers to the amount of resistance at which you’re riding. On my gym’s bikes, this is a number on the lower left of an info panel that, on bad days, I use to measure my worth in the world. The notion is that flat is an easy ride devoid of resistance or incline.

Most of the duration of the class does not occur at my flat.

And so it is with life. When I think back over my thirty-five years, I consider what my flat would be. Was it when I was eight, reading books at the kitchen table? (The Mom made me eat broccoli, though. And I didn’t yet appreciate The Dad’s sense of humor, which led to some tense meals.) Was it when I was sixteen and newly licensed to drive? (No boys were calling. And the zits just would not go away.) Was it during college, when I chose my bedtime and drinking buddies? (Three-hour labs sucked.) Was it my mid-twenties, when I made like Samantha from Sex and the City and was all, “Intimacy schmintimacy, let me find meaning in rebellion!” (Ever had a cervical biopsy? Or made room in your bag for a steady stream of Advil and regret?) Was it my Manhattan-filled early thirties, when I found grace and The Husband and a city big enough for my questions? (Close. But there was that annoying and perpetual lack of funds. And the subway smell.)

I’m thinking that my flat was my honeymoon, on the island of St. Lucia with a flag that signaled more drinks and TH beside me. Then there was the part where we had to get on a plane and start real life.

It’s no secret around here that pregnancy and the infancy phase were a bit of a personal hell for me, if I may be permitted to indulge my dramatic side. And as TH and TK and I have reached a relative period of detente (except when TK throws his sippy on the floor and I begin to think that things may not work out between us), we consider what a family of four would look like. Is there a good time to approach that addition? (“No.” –Wine and Retinol Cream.) Despite 5:45 am work wake-up calls and craptastic diapers and aforementioned unacceptable Mom’s Bistro behavior, I find that my flat has been adjusted. Friday afternoon, the sun was out and the temperature mild and I threw TK on one hip, a blanket and toys and magazine on the other, and spent AN HOUR in the yard reading People and being a mom SIMULTANEOUSLY, with no casualties. I remember a year ago, when fifteen minutes outside would have been a feat and People would have been replaced with spit-up. We’ve finally found our moment in the sun, physical therapy and boob scares and neck issues and looming MRIs notwithstanding. Or maybe…not notwithstanding?

Because flats change. During my yesteryear runs in Central Park (definitely no longer my flat), I used to dread a slight incline on the east side of the reservoir. Then one day I ran until it was behind me–and Heartbreak Hill loomed ahead. After that day, the incline was a blip, and I had a new flat. The Baby-sitting Cousin, who just started a painfully early teaching job, discussed with me recently the way our bodies adjust to what is asked of/demanded from them. And my friend CC, who just popped out her second, is singing the praises of how much easier Kid: The Sequel is. Admittedly helped by the fact that at this point, you already know your old life is over–and that every tough part is just for a season.

Speaking of seasons, ain’t spring a fine one? And I would never, ever love it as much as I do were it not for the bitchery of winter. I remember when the first restaurant in New York would begin setting tables outside; an act just as much an anthem of glory as a finger to the cold. When I turn the TV to the classical music station now, TK looks up (sometimes throwing his cup across the room) and stares, listening. When I did that during his newborn phase, his cries made a mockery of my attempt at peace. Friday afternoons are cocktails on the patio. Twelve-and-a-half sleeping sessions are the norm. Laughter is rampant.

And then there is my grandmother, whose current flat is a decline in a nursing home, a face that remains blank when The Sis and I approach. The Mom’s flat is a daily uphill battle against dementia, repeated conversations not rooted in reality. We don’t have to choose the scenes of our own martyrdom–they find us. But as the ring my grandmother no longer remembers giving me encircles my finger, I know that life is not only found on easy roads; that flats may be for quitters after all; but that what encircles and holds us and identifies us with each other is greater than comfort or appearance or coasting. Grace is what gives us new flats, however resistant they, and we, are. Grace takes the uphill–the struggle–the dailiness of it all–and breathes life into right where we stand.

Join me over here today, where appearances will be made by R. Kelly, Downton Abbey,  Soren Kierkegaard, Liz Lemon, and the f-bomb. This ain’t your homophobic grandmother’s Jesus.

First I got married, and I was like, “Yay!” Then I got pregnant, and I was like, “Yay!?” Then I lost my job, and I was like, “WHAT?!” Then I decided to write a book, and I was like, “Chick lit?” Then I started writing, and I was like, “Whimsical allegory.” Then I made some new friends, and they were like, “Let’s post it!”

Then I got scared, but I was like, “Okay.”

Time to take a break from the real and focus on what’s fake. If you’re into schadenfreude, this post’s for you. (Also, come sit by me.)

Just sitting here quietly waiting (aren’t we always, for something? maybe because something bigger is coming?) and thinking about a king-turned-baby, a trough-turned-crib, a word-turned-flesh, a God-turned-man, and how, if Christmas happened…

anything is possible.

She doesn’t know it yet, but we’re best friends.

*to be read while listening to Alexi Murdoch’s “Orange Sky” for maximum emotional impact.

Dear Leveler of my pride, Wrecker of my schedule, Crusher of my pretense, Invader of my heart…Agent of grace,

Well. One year. Were there times when you wondered if we’d make it? Because you know I did. Especially during those first few weeks, okay months, when the sleep was rare and the crying frequent and you resembled more of an alien than a human. I can’t even think about that time you spit up and choked without crying; I shudder when I recall cutting your nails for the first time and drawing blood; and the dark moments in the hospital, then at home, when the alarm went off and I struggled to feed you and we both looked at each other like, “What the HELL are you doing?” Now I look back and realize how terrified I was. Keeping another person alive? So much has never been asked of me during my heretofore self-centered existence. At first, it was too much. Sometimes it still is. Then I remember I’m not doing it alone. And I breathe. And we keep living. Like Rihanna, we found love in a hopeless place (to be clear, I am not referring to Chris Brown).

By month two, you were holding your head up and sleeping through the night. Thanks for that, by the way. By month three, you were smiling at us and we decided we’d keep you. By month four you were laughing. This is also the month I took you to daycare. After thinking I wouldn’t survive at home all day with you, I really didn’t think I’d make it through leaving you with someone else. But we both made it, and you loved it. By month six, you were eating solids and sleeping twelve hours a night. WORD. Things started speeding up. By month seven, you were wearing an orthotic helmet and sitting up on your own. A little while after that, your first teeth came in. You began to push up on your arms and around month eleven, you were crawling. Now you’re pulling up and getting ready to take your first steps. I remember it all.

Every moment holds truth, if we open our eyes. Those first few months taught me how insufficient I am–that I don’t know everything. Such an important lesson to learn, and one that I didn’t embrace early enough in life. It’s a truth that I want you to realize soon, because it is nothing to be afraid of. The sooner you understand that you are not the center of the universe, the sooner you learn Who is. And that’s when all that you have to learn doesn’t loom, but becomes opportunity.

My parents told me life isn’t fair. And they’re right. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be. Another thing? Most people won’t earn your respect. But that doesn’t let you off the hook of treating them with it. Because of what we believe in this house, and what I pray you will believe early, we don’t operate by the world’s rules. We know that each person on this earth is of unimaginable worth because of the image in which (s)he was made. This means you don’t get to write anyone off, or rip them off either. You are to practice justice in an unjust place, and if your dad and I do our job right (let’s face it, we will and we won’t), you will do so without any sense of entitlement as to what you deserve. You will know that through grace, you have already been given more than you will ever deserve, and that will keep you from looking to the world for value or redemption. You will work hard and love much and be just not to gain anything from it, but as a response to what grace has done on your behalf.

I want to teach you to be sincere without being overearnest. There’s no benefit in taking yourself or others too seriously–trust me. If you can’t find something to laugh about in a situation, start over and look again. As far as H’s go, I value your humor and heart above your happiness. That word, happiness, is so arbitrary and ill-defined in this world. It sells books, but it doesn’t last past the circumstances upon which it is based. You want true joy? Accept the life you are given and look for the grace in every moment; be grateful before you get what you think you want. You may find that you never really needed whatever that was in the first place. We don’t do trite cure-alls and needlepoint phrases around here; look around and try to find a Joel Osteen book. We do grace: real, raw, flesh-piercing grace that reveals a love the world shrinks away from. You will love with that kind of heart, and be loved by it. Expect to be misunderstood. Learn not to care. Someone greater than everyone around you knows you inside out and loves you beyond what you can imagine. THIS IS ENOUGH.

A few other practical matters: you will have impeccable manners, not because you are a show horse but because you will be considerate of other people. Ma’am and Sir and (especially) thank you will be some of your first words. It’s not a Southern thing, sweetheart: it’s a respect thing. And you will treat adults with respect because we are different from children. I’m your mom, not your BFF. (Yet, at least.) You will learn the sufficiency of the statement “Because I said so” for the simple reason that though we don’t know everything, your father and I know more than you do and you will listen to us. To that end, when we’re wrong, we will admit it and show you, in that, what it means to need forgiveness and receive it. But we still get the final say, because like Cliff Huxtable said: “I brought you into this world, and I’ll take you out.”

You will read more than you’ll play video games because reading is the healthiest way to escape this world while remaining in it. You will be silly: I’m talking dance parties, secret languages, and laughter till your sides hurt. That’s the way things are around here.

You will respect women. And I mean how. Watch how your dad treats me (man, did I luck out; ps–luck=God). Unfortunately, way too many women depend on a man to make them feel good about themselves. You won’t be that man, but you’ll point them to the One who is up for the job (to be clear, it’s not Chuck Norris). Even if a woman makes it easy for you to provide quick validation, you will know she’s worth more than that. And you’ll consider that fact before you do anything.

As receivers of grace, we live in an upside-down version of the world. Brokenness leads to wholeness; weakness is strength. Never call the score before the game is over. Deal beneath the surface. And know that the most important part of life–relationship–takes the most sacrifice and risk. You are so loved that you will be free to love wildly.

The Christmas season has always been my favorite time of year, so I find it appropriate that you scoffed at your January due date and showed up early for the party. When I was young, I thought these few weeks were magical; now I know they’re holy. Your arrival only added to that. You have opened our hearts and taught us grace on a daily basis.

What a gift you are.

Now learn to wipe your own ass, would you? Mom needs a martini break. I’ll just leave some words from Hall and Oates as the end piece here.

Love,

Me

I ain’t the way you found me

And I’ll never be the same…

‘Cause you…you make my dreams come true. 

Last Saturday, The Husband and I zipped The Kid into his reindeer fleece and headed to Roswell’s town square for their annual lighting. Their square is cooler than ours (because we don’t have one), and it’s the halfway point between us and The Sis and her Fam, so we joined forces a few feet from the free Starbucks table. Some kids sang, TH and The Bro-in-Law talked, Santa rode in on a fire truck, the square lit up, and The Sis held TK while I hung The Niece upside-down on my arm. And as we stood there together, I thought about how all roads lead home.

This is the fun part. Last year at this time, TH and I were trying to prepare for a boot camp that would kick our asses. This year, TK is crawling all over the place and eating new stuff rather than gagging on it. He’s learning something every day and becoming a little person. I mean, yesterday I shared a club sandwich with him. WHAT?!

There were (and always will be), also, the non-fun parts: bad dates, wrong decisions, sleeplessness, loneliness, scary doctor visits, being broke, feeling lost. What I’m thankful for every time I remember it, and what I try to keep remembering, is that life is a story. We’re living a narrative written by someone else’s hand, and thank God for it. Because the hard parts are essential to that story, they belong to it too, but they’re never the whole of it. At any point, we don’t know where we are in this narrative. I’m so thankful that life is not a list like the one I used to turn it into–an epic “To Do” written on a calendar in bullet points that was eventually pried from my hands. Into them was placed, instead, a book still being written.

I’m thankful that I’m not a status update or a resume. I’m thankful that it’s The Good News, not The Always Attractive and Appealing News. I’m thankful that steep climbs and winding roads can lead to a moment on a December night, with The Niece in my arms and The Kid in The Sis’s, life lighting up all around us.

I’ve written about my anger before. And likely scared a few of you in the process (but, more importantly, received messages from those of you who struggle with the same. And so I keep writing). Well, hold on to your effing hat, because shit is about to get real. I need to purge myself of the ragestorm that was last week, and here is about as good a place as any.

Here’s the thing about being a woman, and an introspective head-dwelling one at that: we never know, in any given moment, what percentage of the feelings we experience are reflective of truth, hormones, or Meg Ryan romcoms. We’re not supposed to say this, naturally, since we’ve fought our way to the workplace and battlefields and other arenas on the premise that we’re tough and can do all that men do, but you know what? We can’t. Not without feeling stuff. And they sure as hell can’t do what we do. And thank God for the difference, because when it comes time to have The Kid dressed appropriately for the weather or to eat a homemade chicken pot pie or to write a heartfelt card, I’m your girl. But if you’re looking to forecast your budget or install a ceiling fan or stay hinged to sanity, you might want to see The Husband. Sometimes we work because we’re the same, but other times–especially during this whole child-rearing enterprise, we work because we’re different.

And I’m the angry one.

So here’s the deal, the ugly truth: sometimes I get so angry it scares me. Cut to me last Thursday, rushing to get out the door to arrive somewhere on time (I wasn’t), but needing to post a link on Facebook (first world problems). My computer wouldn’t cooperate. Multiple times. So I hurled it to the ground and watched as it bounced across the rug like a skipping stone. Knowing full well that I might have just destroyed it, I picked it up, vainly expecting the link to work this time. No dice. This time I slammed the laptop shut so hard I heard something crack. There was a stream of profanity crossing my lips during the entire episode. I was blindly, irrationally angry–over an internet issue. Imagine if I had real problems.

That scene was reflective of several over the past few weeks, moments of all-consuming fury incited by rather minor occurrences that deserved no such wrath. I often feel on edge–on a very precarious, fiscal cliff-like edge, the other side of which I feel both tempted and terrified by. TK’s newborn status brought that boiling rage so close to the surface I felt bubbles in my skin every time he cried; now I have fewer excuses as he is much cuter and more tolerable, but alas, I am still myself, and any combination of Sleeplessness or Technical Difficulties or just The Universe Not Revolving According to My Specifications lands me back in that wasteland of self-righteous outrage. It’s ugly, I hate it, and as previously mentioned, it scares me. I would like to be completely cured. Right now.

I called a friend to find out just how crazy–or alone–I am regarding all this. “Are you kidding?” she replied. “My roommate left an empty body wash container sitting BESIDE THE TRASH CAN NOT IN IT, and I banged it against the wall three times and screamed.” Okay–I felt better. Then she recommended yoga, for the anger and my backaches (which cause further anger, natch), making me promise not to tell anyone she spouted such hippie nonsense. I felt less alone.

The next day, I took TK to the swings at our neighborhood park. Another mom was there with her toddler daughter, and we began talking. “You better get busy having more kids and buying a minivan if you want to fit in around here,” she teased, and then we began commiserating about our hatred of pregnancy and how we only really began to enjoy motherhood around six months deep and I thought, This is what I’m talking about. Here’s a stranger I could get on board with. Because I typically hate strangers. But maybe she was an angel. (J/K. Then again, I haven’t seen her since…)

Friday morning I pulled out my Bible and journal and laid it on the line. My prayer was some variation of, “Hey God? This anger thing? What the whaaaat? FIX IT!” As usual, he did not respond by playing the role of My Life Janitor. He is the God of what is, not what I think it should be. And he has a purpose in all my cracks and rough edges and boiling points, though he doesn’t always let me in on them when I ask. But he pointed me to Oswald Chambers, who told me that “the test of the life of a saint is not success, but faithfulness is human life as it actually is.” So stop looking for perfection and start looking at the one who is, I heard. “Acceptance brings peace,” Elisabeth Elliot–victim of much more suffering than I’ve known–chimed in. And I considered all the struggling we do against our circumstances, how we call such action heroic and brave when really we’re just playing an avoidance game, and how anger and avoidance are kinda like besties.

I felt my grip relax a bit. I’m always going to struggle with anger issues–I know this. And if it really scares you or keeps you from wanting to be my friend, that’s cool. I probably wouldn’t properly appreciate your perfect place settings or the superlatives you use on Facebook to describe your family and dinner. Life gets ugly, and I’m okay with being able to see that. But what I’m beyond okay with–what I’m thankful for–is the redemption of the ugly. Including me.

That, and yoga.