Selfie

I’ll say it once, nice and loud for you all to hear:

"I want to see your face, but I don’t want to see your face THAT much."

Some pictures of you on hols,

hanging out with friends,

trying out new make up,

and definitely with cool clothes on.

But fill my newsfeed with twenty of the same posed,

but trying to be natural shot

With sepia, willow, X Pro II and every other filter under the sun

And I will delete you.

I rarely put up selfies.

If I do,

they either contain my sidekick Zella:

Or me doing some ridiculous face:

No one wants to see just my normal face.

No one.

Putting a picture up of me,

just out there,

puts me on display.

Exposes me.

I remember being pregnant and getting requests from friends far away desperate to see my ever burgeoning bump, and I recoiled in fear, scared of comments I would get.

What if they didn’t think I was pretty?

Me with Zella? Well you have to think that’s cute.

Me with a stupid grin? Well you just have to laugh.

Me. Just me.

Well…what if it doesn’t get “likes”?

The truth is

Behind the newsfeed full of posed photos

Or the one devoid of them

There sits a woman with phone in hand

Girl with laptop

Lady staring at a screen

With a beauty to unveil

Wondering if anyone will see it

Notice it

Care about it

Love it

Bikini jumping at beach, ghetto twerking poses, inappropriate Halloween outfits

It all screams:

Do you see me?

Baggy clothes dragging, dark hair over eyes, scar marks on arms

It all screams

Do you see me?

We first became undone

That 1800s day

When we looked up from the bathroom sink

And our reflection stared back at us.

And then when the weighing scales,

that once resided so neatly on kitchen counters,

or so officially in doctors offices,

Encroached into our homes

With constant reminder

That we didn’t measure up

We weren’t the right fit

We unravelled further

My teeth aren’t straight.

I was too scared to get my teeth taken out,and so the orthodontist couldn’t put braces on, and I look at my wedding photos, and regret that moment of teenage worry that means my mouth isn’t Colgate ad worthy.

My body feels weird.

Early puberty meant that since age 11 I’ve been this size, this weight, but yet I never quite got a grasp on it, and justas I started to feel comfortable, pregnancy attacked it, and now bits have got bigger, and bits have got smaller; unwelcome visitors in a place I’d just started to feel at home with.

But I cling onto the words that my Father God continually impresses upon me:

I am beautiful.

And that is not determined by merely the outside.

A 1900s girl,

without the trappings of adverts and angst,

described herself

based on her character

her skills

her attributes.

She was not to be described as merely the sum of her body parts

So on Saturday afternoon,

humbled with a clumsy hot chocolate wetting through my lap,

the girls and I wrote,

the beauty we saw in oneanother.

This is my real selfie:

The irony that the same teeth that repel me,

Are seen by another as “beautiful smile” 

And that what makes a difference

In the lives of others

What makes the permanent change

In communities

Is not the colour of my eyes

The outfit I wore last week

My waist size

But my personality

My gifts

My heart

So girl with photos

Cluttering my newsfeed

You won’t get deleted today

Because 

just like me

You just want to know you're beautiful. 

Ceasefire

A comment I recently posted in a mum’s Facebook group received more than 50 "likes" in the hour following my scribing of it.

At my last check of it, it had exceeded 100.

We are a lazy bunch in the Miller household.

Steve’s alarm goes off at 6am (when he actually gets up is debatable) but Zella and I are only awake before he leaves if thereis a feed to be done or a poop explosion to clean. Some days 8, some days 9, on the lucky ones 10am is the hour we make it downstairs.

I still breastfeed Zella, in spite of her clamouring on top of me as if I were some gymnastics apparatus, and the occasional nip from the four teeth she has recently acquired. I am more than happy feeding her in public: on the bus, at cafes, at others houses, in parks, and, if the moment arises, while running to catch a train.

Some days, we hang out and play with the toys, some wooden, some with batteries. Often the only toy she’s interested in is my phone or the video baby monitor. I know I use technology around her too much because she can swipe the Mac and change my screens, and enjoys sitting back and looking through the morning’s Instagram offerings. I do try and do reading everyday as well, to make sure she is a book geek like me.

Sometimes we head to the park, or go on the swings. Yesterday we did this on the way to Tesco. That Tesco trip where I brought more than I could carry, and had to pile the buggy high and carry Zella home. Which wasn’t a problem…until it started to rain and I had to fashion a covering for her out of the shopping trolley seat cover I have because I don’t want her to get germs. Because for me, the germs in Tesco on the carts are far worse than the germs from the raisins I let her eat off our living room floor. I have also unknowingly taken her to this den of bacteria when she had a viral infection. I'm clearly going for mum of the year. 

Often we go clothes shopping. I often get caught out and spend far too long shopping and socialising in town and am suddenly faced with a screaming babe. I hastily feed Zella the baby snacks and pouches of puree, trying not to condemn myself for not preparing an organic feast fit for The Savoy. At home, dinner times are a happy chatter amidst of baby-led mess; our kitchen tiles’ the loser, splattered with the disregarded and thus flung regurgitations of our child.

And on our favourite days, we hang out with other mums and babies. A year ago, I didn’t know anyone in Birmingham with a young child, but classes and playgroups have grown our circles wide. One mum and her son live nearby so we often meet spontaneously and talk about cloth nappies. Another mum teaches and is full of advice for Steve as well as support as she has carried on full-time breastfeeding. One mum is ten years older, a classically trained musician and a highly disciplined individual; on paper we should have nothing in common, but she makes me laugh hilariously and we have great conversations.

The reason my comment on that post

Seemed to resonate with so many others

Was because I attempted to speak out

Against, what I saw, as an unfair judgment of amother

Breastfed vs Formula

Baby-led weaning vs Purees

Co-Sleep vs Cot

Cloth vs Disposables

Baby carrier vs Buggy

Pacifiers vs Thumbs

Staying at home vs working outside of the home

In our attempt to make ourselves feel better about our choices

Often others are put down for theirs

We draw battle lines and the mama wars begin once again

With angry and judgemental words

The media provoking and antagonising

This fervent fire

A fire that causes another mother to weep

Pushing back the waves of post-natal depression

As at her most vulnerable

One hand cradles her babe

While the other shields her heart and mind

Why do we choose “versus”

Rather than “and”, “with” , “or” ?

I am more than aware that I’m not theperfect mother

I write my daily choices to show they are

Both good and bad

But am learning

Steadily

To rejoice in the fact

I am a mother

With healthy child

Who delights in my face

Who delights in our life

I look at so many of you and think you are thriving

Although you may only see your flaws and failings

But the truth is

We are all doing our best

Serving them best

Teaching them best

Loving them best

And our best is more than good enough

Though we act like these decisions

Are life and death

Denying child a place at Harvard or Oxford

In countries near and far

The abuse of children is far more abhorrent

Than the outcome of these differing views

For my friends

With babes unborn

Uncreated

Unfertilised

Dreams in your head for the future

May you carry the baton

Of freedom in motherhood

And support and love

In the face of this torrential storm ofwords

May we be free from the judgement

Free from the lies

Free the tangled webs of the enemy

That would convince us otherwise

Of the simple fact

You, my precious fellow mother, are doing a phenomenal job.

And as gummy smiles and toddler eyes reveal

That we are succeeding

May we take these words

And be a blessing to others.

Are

When you look in the mirror at home,

You are fine and happy with what you see.

The problem is when you step outside of the home.

That's where the mirrors reflect something else.

Something other.

Gathered in a room of girls,

Silently competing,

"Fine and Happy" suddenly isn't cutting it.

That skirt you thought was fetch,

Their eyes squint at it, but then smile up at you betrayingly.

You look down,

And its newfound ugliness pierces through you.

And yet again,

That ugly deceiver rears its head

Oh no,

Not envy.

We are aware of envy's danger, it's hold, it's wrath.

We are wise to envy's game and the lies of the grass being greener.

So it sends, instead, the coy and looming face of its partner:

Comparison.

I remember the night,

Months previously,

As I did my far too regular trawl of Facebook,

I saw a mother describe how her bundle had finally cracked it and was getting to sleep at 6:30pm and sleeping through the night.

The words grabbed me.

My sane brain left, and my over achieving mind took over.

It started off being happy and pleased knowing the rest a mother needs,

The difficult season the early days of babies are,

And the relief her soul must feel.

Then like a snake it winded cunningly down another dark path,

One where I, once again, questioned my mothering skills:

"Why cant I get my child to sleep?!"

"What am I doing wrong?!"

"'Am I not a good mother?!"

The path weaves further, leading to an ugly pit:

"Why isn't Zella like that child?!"

That's where comparison grabs you,

To that place where even those you love,

Those most close,

most vulnerable,

Risk being attacked.

If I play that evil game,

With my precious babe at just 4 months young,

Then where will I be in 4 years or 14?!

How bruised and damaged will her self-esteem be??

For isn't the root cause of the too-skinny

Too-fat

Too-stressed

Too-overworked

Too-drugged up

Too-overachieving

Lying naked and stripped at the feet of comparison??

The saddest thing of all,

The true travesty of the situation,

Is that comparison steals your joy.

Steals your now.

Steals the things of beauty,

Laid before you in this moment.

At present, my favourite thing about Zella is the way she is with people.

Long did I imagine, hope and pray for a child who would not just be ok with others,

But revel in the wonder and fun of new people.

As our dear friend came over and sat on our sofa Sunday night

Zella played with her face

Smiled brightly

Burped responsively

Cuddled tightly

And brought more joy to an individual than I ever thought she could as such a young thing.

And as we travelled across the Atlantic

She took her spirit of woo

Of charm

Of love

At the airport check in desk

Sweet smiles to the security guards

Passengers apprehensive about her small life and potential cries

Were enveloped into her grin and giggles

And as each friend in Texas called her name

She reached arms swung wide open

Almost falling into their embrace

To stroke their face and nuzzle close

If I stand in the place of looking at others side-by-side to her,

I miss seeing her as she sits, just as she is, on her own, as her own individual.

I cannot and will not compare myself to another.

And I most certainly cannot and will not compare my child,

my kin, my babe, fruit of my womb,

To any other.

I will not buy into that silent lie,

That breeds bacteria of discontent.

She, just the way she is,

Like husband, just the way he is,

Like me, just the way I am,

Is more than enough.

Just right.

Complete.

These words will I speak into her,

Over her,

Through her,

With her.

"Zella, you are fine and happy, just the way you are."

Blob

In church yesterday, we were looking at what is called 'The Blob Tree':

Our challenge was to look at where we felt we were spiritually in terms of following after the purposes of God and where we desired to be.

Which one do you feel like?

This is how I felt:

The person desperately grabbing onto, clinging onto the tree…a little way up there, but with so much still left to climb.

Situations in the past six months have seen me worry about finances, wonder about our future family, wish for healing for our current family, wistfully hope for a future job.

My hands raw and blistered from just trying to cling onto this tree, something stronger than me.

Barely surviving. Just about holding on.

My favourite part of my birthday is the cards/messages I receive. The narcissistic side of me wants to know what people think of me. But the sensitive and probably slightly insecure part of me wants, no, needs to be affirmed by words. Needs to feel the love, especially when far from home, that I am cared about, considered and matter in this world.

“Thank you for being you. Someone who refuses to settle for anything less. For fighting the good fight with the right gloves on, and for patiently waiting for the right ring to step into. I’m one of many in your corner. I truly believe in you!”

“It’s been an encouragement to us to watch you really support and love Steve through this rough time! You’ve really been a great role model.”

“I cannot thank you enough for the impact you had on my life.”

“You are the most enthusiastic person we know. You love everything and everyone.”

“Thank you for all your constant words of wisdom! You’ve spoken loads into my life and helped this young man grow!!”

“Although I don’t really know you, I know that you are so gifted in writing and having so much fun with friends and you are so full of love and joy!”

“You challenge and inspire me to be more just by being who you are.”

And my favourite:

“I know that you are in an awkward stage in your life, but I just want to say that it is no mistake that you don’t have a job. I honestly have seen you change more these past few months than over the past few years. You are in just the place God wants you to be in.”

When you look back at the blob tree, at the person I picked, you notice something special:

Beneath the clinging yellow blob, is another blob.

Streching an arm upwards

Looking for a way to get higher

Needing help to get to the next level

And in the frantic desperate clinging of the yellow blob, the green blob notices something that they want, something that they aspire to, something that they want to be a part of.

People are messy. And it isn’t restricted to the peeing, pooping and puking stages of our infant years.

It is unleashed into the emotional turmoil of relationships, the financial craziness of being a “grown-up”, the frustrating tangling of not being the person, not having the character we want to have right now.

But somehow despite that being messy, despite each feeling as if we don’t have all our stuff sorted out, we look to oneanother

For help.

Solace.

Guidance.

Support.

Words of affirmation.

We are not just blobs, fatty messes, with an indistinct form. We are not blobs of ill-defined shapes.

We are blobs, spots that make a mark on this world.

That make a difference.

That in a word, deed, action could profoundly impact someone’s life without even realizing.

That are used by Father God to bring love and hope to others.

He is not ignorant of the miserable mess of our lives.

Rather, He uses us in spite of our messiness.

You, little yellow blob, are important to the tree.