D and C are silent letters

I have always considered myself a brave person. Not in the traditional "ride my faithful steed into battle" sense (although, if it came down to it, I don't think I'd have any trouble ending someone), but in the sense that I've never had trouble facing situations bigger than myself. I take pride in my Viking blood. I might shake in my boots, but steadfast I stand. I am open and honest about who I am, I am willing to make myself vulnerable at the risk of mockery and abuse, I am willing to take on any responsibility that may find itself at my door, and I am willing to admit my faults and my mistakes. Every time life has stuck a lance through me, I've stood back up, wiped off the blood, and snarled "come at me, bro". I like to think I do this with grace, but more often than not it is a bloody affair, grotesque to behold. I value my scars. I take strength from my courage.

But today I don't feel strong, and I don't feel brave.

As I type this I am shaking, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is pounding.

I have many reasons for writing about this now. None of them are for attention or pity. I despise both of these things. I write this because, while I may be private, I am not secretive. I write this to hopefully curb insensitive questions. I write this because there is therapy in confession. I write this because I am not ashamed. I write this because it is my truth. And the truth will always out.

On the 1st of April I suffered my first miscarriage.

Momma's Getting Her Groove Back

One of the hardest things about motherhood, possibly THE hardest, at least from where I'm sitting, is seeing yourself as a woman again after baby. Too many of us slip into the habit of being "just a mother", and forget that there are many mantles we must wear. Mommy, wife, lover, friend, companion, WOMAN. Too often we forget what we were before we had a baby asleep in its crib and a lounge floor covered in scattered toys and bread crumbs. I had an amazing pregnancy, I adored carrying my tiny bundle around inside of me. And I felt empowered by my little man's tiny and growing presence. I took strength from him when I felt weak, and shared all of my thoughts and dreams with him before he'd drawn his first breath. And I loved the way my pregnant body grew and changed. I enjoyed all the new curves - the fullness of my thighs, the weight of my breasts. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I had purpose. True purpose. A calling. I felt calm, at peace, and full. I was woman. But, after a few months of erratic sleep patterns, feeding bras and ponytails, not to mention a year of being little more than a milk dispenser to a very hungry child, it's not hard to see why the former womanly you may take a back seat.

Superheroes and Epiphanies

Oooo-eh-eh! It feels like just yesterday I was sitting on my couch typing up a helluva rant, just casting my anger out to the universe... And then today I look up to see we're already in October! But I will forgive myself this minor delay, the last two weeks have been decidedly busy in the Ghobril household. But more on that later!

Last Wednesday saw my little man turn six months old! He chose to celebrate by being quite a bit fussier than usual. What a blast! But in amongst the random tears and excess need for mommy hugs, I did manage to get a few pics of a smiley little bee.