Four Years Remembered

So long since a post. Its really an odd thing, when I think about it. Looking back at this blog its like the words connected to my heart came so clearly before. And in more recent times when I sit at the computer to try and connect my thoughts as a mother, a woman, a writer- I feel only fog. Blurred by the events of my life, perhaps. Some I'm afraid to even speak of; others, the experience so deep beyond words.

The last four years have gone so quickly. While I do not wish to go back at all (I have grown so much in this role as a single mother- learned more about life in four years then I thought possible in a lifetime!) I do cling to the image of a tiny child, with his smidgen fingers wrapped around my own index finger. Just four years ago!

If I could re-tell the tales as I experienced them, you, dear reader, would not believe the things I had to tell. Unbelievable stories of this strange experience of mothering a child through co-parenting when really you are the only real parent. I admire my life daily. Each night tucking in a squiggly boy with his quick tongue and desiring snuggles. Each night waking to his little mouth, breathing heavy morning breath in my face after he "snuckered" into my bed. I often lay there and admire the shape of him, the tone of his skin, the smell of his hair after a long nights rest, his full lips and round mouth, so fresh and warm.

How is this my life? I never could have imagined the fullness that my heart would feel.
Happy Birthday, my dear Harrison.

Independence is a lovely thing. Particularly when that independence is streaming from your 3 year old. There is no greater satisfaction then a little voice calling out in a zip past the kitchen door, "I have to pee!"

Pee away, little man. Pee away.
My H has been doing incredibly well with using the toilet free of my assistance. No more diapers. No coaxing him to even think about peeing in the vicinity of the toilet. H is a free man!
Maybe I spoke too soon.
*Crash!*

Giving him a moment of self-respect, I wait with baited breath, my hands resting wet on the edge of the kitchen sink, head tilted as I listen carefully.

His voice wails in panic, "Mom! Quick!" Collecting myself I peer around the corner.

Let me tell you first, our apartment is a decent size for what we pay for it. With no complaint his little legs can run from one end to the other. Our bathroom, however. If you HAD to have more then 1.5 people in it, well, just let me say, you might want to find another bathroom to use. I can easily start H's bath while sitting on the pot myself all while washing my hands in the sink. It isn't exactly 'spacey.'

In this moment it might not have been so convenient for H for such a small bathroom to be a part of our apartment. Peering around the corner I see my poor, scrappy, three year squeezed tight between the side of the toilet and the wall. "What happened?" I ask, trying not to smile at his misery. His face full of angst he responds, "I fell in the garbage!"

He wasn't lying. His poor naked bum was stuck straight in the garbage, his knee squeezed between the side of the commode and his little body.

"Get me out of the garbage! he demanded. "I'm just a little person! Get me out!" I couldn't help but laugh as I pried him out and helped him pull himself together.

"Are you ok?" I ask. His face scowled at me.
"It ISN'T funny." His brows hung heavy over his long eyelashes. "I was IN the garbage."

Poor kid. Ok, well maybe it was a little too soon not to be offering some personal assistance for the bathroom.

It's a Revolution!

Really, I need to do this more often. Typically I feel like there are things I want to say that I just shouldn't say. Not because they shouldn't be heard but because it might create a dark light in others minds on how I really feel about where I am at with my life. Motherhood is amazing. I wouldn't trade H for a million dollars. It is the circumstances in which I find my experience of motherhood draining. So many things I want to say here, and so impossible to express without hanging my dirty laundry out in public. My business is my business and I wouldn't want to lead anyone believe that our lives are not wonderful. I aim to build an Empire for H with no gaping holes just because he was born in a single parent family. H and I have enormous amounts of fun together and I have more time for him because it is just us. However, my struggles are of a different kind and I wish I could just write them out to gain understanding in others that everything is not always peaches and cream. I struggle for what I offer my son and my pride egg grows each day. I wish to present this whole, amazing picture of what I have for H and myself. Truth is, that it isn't perfect.
(Perhaps in 18 years I will write a book- retrospective of the whole picture.) I know I can't be going through this single parent struggle of having high expectations for my child while having to accept this non-parent in my child's life who is allowed to call himself parent and weigh on my sons light.

Occasionally it is like I go through this drought. Don't we all? Momentarily, the challenges around us outweigh the blessings we choose to see. My blessings are enormous and I choose to see them daily. Yesterday I got out of the shower and H was finishing an orange. "Here," he says without looking up. "I saved you one." It was the most thoughtful thing any one in the world could have done. His tiny fingers extended that eighth of the pulpy ocher. The fact that it came from my three year old made my heart swell. It was likely the best tasting clementine I had all season. My blessings outweigh my challenges.

I hate Buffalo. I do. Don't martyr me for speaking the truth. I hate Buffalo. If it were my way I would pack us up and take any job I could find in a warm climate anywhere else. Someday's I think about Brazil. Mostly because it ties into a fantasy then for any other reason.
"I've never seen, Brazil. Have you, H?"
"Whats Brazil?"

Answers my question.
If life were so easy. I didn't ask for any of this. At the same time I chose it with my honesty three years ago. I will always be honest. It may always be my downfall. Trusting you on this one, God. Not long ago I was sitting in church listening to a question ask session by a celebrity and his wife who had gone through finding out their newborn son had a life altering disability. The words that the child's mother said were so simple and so changing. "God loves my child." she said.

I love my child. I have felt for so long that I am my son's lone protector in this big world where anything could happen. I pray constantly for God's strength. I am NOT my son's lone protector. In fact, my protection is like saran wrap in a sword fight. God loves my son. He loves him. I am not alone in this battle for caring my sons well being.

God loves my son.
Revolutionary.

The Desirable Life

I love being a mom. I love it so much, in fact, I think I have forgotten much else. I am unsure, however, if this is a single mother experience or an all mom experience. At times when I find myself enjoying, simply, myself, a pang of guilt strikes me. How can I be enjoying this without Harrison? I focus for a moment on missing him- no matter where he is; Daycare, his dads, his bed... Don't be confused. I don't mope when I am not consumed in a game of sidewalk baseball or making a plastic gourmet meal by his side in his room. But I find it hard to focus on myself and what I want for me. (What do I want for me??)


The greatest struggle for me is knowing that I am choosing where I am in life because I am with my Harrison. I choose to stay in Buffalo so that my son can build sustainable relationships with his paternal father. I choose to live in a quiet 2 bedroom neighborhood apartment so that I can have a healthy community for Harrison to thrive in. I choose to stay in a job that I don't particularly love, but it sustains us, so that I can support Harrison and myself.



Sometimes I would like to choose to quit my job, sell most of my belongings, pack the rest in the car and go see the ocean. Obviously, I live in fantasy. Most responsible adults with or without child don't fulfill this.



When I feel this way I remind myself of where I was at before Harrison. I felt flailing about trying to build a purpose that was a waivering thin line of nothing. I attended churches looking for community. I attended parties in search of company. I read books trying to expand my mind to ideas not yet perceived. But no doubt, I was flailing in this sea of searching. Now- 2 1/2 years into the unknown with a best friend I never knew could exist I find a purpose: building a small character to make his impression on the world over the next 100 years. I consume myself with trying to make him be the best person he can be and showing him how the choices he makes affects the world around him. Even in disciplining him it is about teaching him about the world around him and the expectations that exist so that he can succeed. No longer flailing I am goal directed in this small persons existence and teaching the skill of critical thinking and living a desirable life to the best of my ability.




But then I ask myself, am I living the desirable life? Again, don't be confused- The purpose I am focused on is not without satisfaction! Clearly there is a satisfaction in my pursuit or I wouldn't struggle with those moments when it is just me. I realized today, though, that that is exactly the problem at hand. Outside of Harrison I am still flailing. I am still that person searching for MY desirable life.



Living a life backwards perhaps.



(And tell me if I am wrong...) but I feel that parents in a 2 parent household have the benefit of exactly that- the 2 parents. Outside of their child/ren they have each other. A greater purpose is found in the company kept. There is the understanding that no matter what all things will be done together and with resolution. Not perfect resolution as clearly there is a struggle and a pursuit within marriage. But the mother can focus on her child without guilt of how that 2nd person affects her childs life. I am not walking around craving and hunting for a husband- but when I do get a state of mind of trying to meet someone there is the guilt of what dating takes away from my son. The emotional energy that goes into trying to build something with another person and aligning your goals with that person is emotional energy that could be spent on my family- who will guarenteed always be there. Yet when you are trying to build a relationship outside of your son there is that perfect balance you must maintain of trying to get to know someone without putting your whole basket of eggs in their hands because if it should fail the time a heart spends recovering is more energy taken away from your child. This, in my mind, is one of the greatest challenges of single parenthood that the functional 2 parent family doesnt seem to get near facing. Am I wrong? There is no fear of bringing people into your childs life that will disappear.



Perhaps I focus too much on perfection. I dont want my son to have any less of a functional upbringing because of the family he was born into. He is blessed to have family that adore him and so many weighing presences in his life that desire him to climb mountains.



And there it is again- my pursuit for my desirable life as Miranda zoned in on Harrison. And maybe this is the greatest realization: There is no seperation between mother and child. They are one in so many ways. Many nights when I tuck him in and he whispers, "lay with me." In the back of my mind I think, "dishes, laundry, work waiting on my laptop..." but it is all put aside to lay in his bed beside his small breaths across my ear, pray together and have his small arm wrapped around my neck. "Mommy, you're my best." I'm not even sure specifically what that means but I feel like its his heart melting into mine. (Or maybe its mine into his.)



Yes, I am living the desirable life. I am not in love with every piece of it but I am surely in love with the pieces that make it. Should I come to this defining moment where I realize that I have found exactly what makes my life perfectly desirable perhaps I will be 100 years old. At that point, what is there to search for? I suppose knowing that I am striving to create more for myself and understanding that there is a person beyond that small person- in fact, there are 2 of us melted together, building empires, is what makes desiring all the more so appealing. It's a blessed life.

Just another weekday morning...

630am Wake up. Pull out treadmill. Grind coffee. Check on sleeping child.
6:45am Open treadmill. Pour coffee. Check on sleeping child.
6:50am Get on treadmill. Hearing sleeping child waking. Get off treadmill. Check on sleeping child- who is in fact just dreaming loudly.
6:55am Drink coffee. Watch the weather. Get on treadmill.
6:59am Hear sleeping child waking. Check on sleeping child who is in fact dreaming loudly. Again. Get on treadmill.
7:06am Repeat.
7:15am Repeat.
7:30am Say, "forget it." Drink more coffee. Watch weather on another channel. Close treadmill. Put treadmill away.
7:40am Check on loudly dreaming child. Get in shower.
8:00am Check on child who seems to be neither waking or sleeping. Get dressed. Drink more coffee. Contemplate how to get that child out of bed and leave the house in 30 minutes.
8:10am Try to wake child. Fail. Make child oatmeal. Try to wake him again. Fail.
8:30am Eat some of childs oatmeal. Try to wake him again. Fail. Eat more of childs oatmeal.
8:37am Try to wake child again. Succeed despite his yelling at me about wanting to sleep.
8:40am Dress grouchy child. Put him at the table and feed him. Read devotions. He cheers up.
8:50am Start car. Come in the house to find oatmeal in childs hair, on his clothes, in the ible... Yes, the ible. *sigh.*
8:52am Clean up oatmeal. Redress child. Put childs shoes and coat on. Start walking out the door as the child insists on using the potty.
8:54am Take off childs hat and coat. Put him on the potty. Read the potty book.
8:56am Read the potty book again.
8:58am Repeat.
9:00am Clean up the potty and cheer wildly despite frustrations over the time. Give him potty chart sticker.
9:09am Put childs hat and coat on. Walk out the door.
9:15am Drive towards childs school. Take him inside.
9:22am Suppress guilt over child begging me to stay and play. Convince him he will have much fun with his friends today.
9:45am Get back in car and drive towards work. Text boss, "Late."
9:47am Receive text from boss, " The potty again?"
10:15am Vogue to send child to bed earlier tonight. Tomorrow...repeat.

Blog FAIL

So the last few months I will, to be honest, say that I have been fairly lazy in my blog updates. Looking back over 2009, where the year went amazes me. Popeye has grown leaps and bounds since that last post and the fact that we daily have full conversations as he is speaking FULL sentences exhausts and prides me.

Considering the timing of this post I suppose it would be fitting to consider all that Popeye and I have to be thankful for. My sons ever growing vocabulary, surely. My new ability to be patient- one that I never knew I had (I don't have to weigh in my driving skills under that, do I? I may lose some points there). Our apartment that we adore and landlords that live downstairs who are full of conversation, hearty eats and laughter- that I am more than grateful for.

One thing that I am exuberantly thankful for this Thanksgiving is how good God is. When I was full belly with Popeye two years ago as of this date I would never imagine he and I would have accomplished so much by now. I made promises to God daily; twice daily; thrice daily; that if He would take the lead then I would follow and trust Him. In return I would do everything I could to raise a child who sought out Gods plan for his own life. I promised that over and over, and the day that I met Harrison I promised it again.

What exactly my end of the promise entailed, I dont think I quite wrapped my mind around. Then again, when you tell yourself what kind of parent you will be I dont think anyone really wraps their mind around what the blueprint looks like. The weight of that promise has been with me more often these days. I don't think I had or even have an idea now the amount of responsbility that goes into approaching such a sensitive topic as Gods Being in our lives. I think often that if I approach the topic with an insensitivity the idea of God can be scary to a child. If I take the idea of a relationship with God lightly then Harrison may follow suit and take his own relationship with God lightly. Recognizing God in each of our individual lives is just that- it is individual, and what I want so much for Popeye to recognize is that while I can provide him with the tools for his relationship with God he must start a process of seeking God in his own heart.

As Harrisons vocabulary expands and he begins asking more questions about his world it has been an exciting opportunity for me to make fuller gains on keeping my end of that covenant with God. Reading the books about Noahs Ark and Baby Jesus, being sure Harrison understands that some books we read our tales and other are true lessons that God has given us.

God continues to be good to us, with different kinds of blessings, and our own lessons and stories of life to grow from. I have learned so much in the last two years that asking God to take the lead doesnt mean that things will come easily or without harboring a struggle. It is an ongoing conversation with God of why, how, where and when. I feel the dynamics of that struggle while difficult for every parent is different too for the single parent. While a single parent home trying to keep a covenant with God isn't always ideal, God has blessed Popeye and I with this wonderful relationship. We are able to meet eye and eye and use our powerful two man team dynamics to explore some amazing worldview together. I would say that Popeye and I have a lot to be grateful for.

The Power of Words

Communication. It's incredible how much we take for granted in our ability to organize thoughts and explain to each other exactly what it is that we want. To be able to do it well is an even greater gift. But to learn how to do it... well, many challenges lie in that exploration.

In the last few months as Popeye has began to show me with actions more and more of what he wants it has been an interesting exploration for us both. His frustration, for example, when I give him milk instead of water, is more then enough to make us both scream- particularly some days at 7am as I wait for my caffeine to perkilate.

But in the last few weeks he has suddenly grasped the beauty of articulation in two forms- the first via short signs that I have taught him based from ASL sign language. For example, he will use one finger to point to the inside of his palm on the opposite hand for cookie. Ironically enough, now that he has figured out exactly what cookie is that sign that sign reveals itself on a daily basis so much more then others.

The second way he is finding that he can express himself is through the joy of verbal exchange. The joy I felt when I first heard, "momma" roll off those pink lips- and even more so when he realized who exactly momma is. Okay, so I won't lie, he still signs cookie more then he says momma, but at least he says it. And as we continue to connect short signs with verbal sounds his frustrating ear ringing screams and slamming fists is ever so slightly diminishing as his demands (mostly for cookies) is expanding.

Last week as the lights in the apartment came on, and the light of the weak February sun faded, we went about our typical bedtime routine. Cuddled into fuzzy pajamas with slick white feet, Popeye romped about the living room, crawling through tunnels of well-designed couch cushion architecture. Stopping suddenly with great seriousness he pointed to his mouth. "Eat." Then with a smirk he signed, of all things, "cookie." I smiled back and suggested, "banana?" exhibiting with the ASL sign for banana. Popeye nodded his head in agreement as I retrieved his bright yellow treat from the kitchen.

We secured ourselves in a corner of the couch as I repeated, "banana." With great confidence and intrigue he responded, "Nana!" This having been the first time he identified the object verbally I clapped and cheered his success. For the next 20 minutes we continued with "nana!" as he gobbled his bedtime snack, played for a bit longer and then I began the bedtime story portion of our evening routine. It was a quiet night as he followed along and finally I laid him in his crib, wished him a goodnight, and turned out the light.

Typically he can put himself to sleep with no trouble; however, on a night when he feels he has had great success in learning and exhibiting a new skill there is often a fight. Fight may be too gentle of a word here... it is with the gnashing of teeth and blood curdling howls he will demand your recoil. Struggling, I usually fight my urge to rebound. It is my instinct to want to cuddle him to sleep- which has been typically a mistake unless I wish to spend 3 hours or more in that nursery chair- his hypersensitivity to my departure then heightened.

This evening I listen to the silence in his room for a few moments... one minute passes, two, three... Deciding that perhaps his playtime adventures may have exhausted him tonight, I retire to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of dinner spattered on the walls, the floor and considering his good aim that night- the fridge door. Scrubbing spinach off the wall I suddenly hear his small voice calling out. Except it isn't an angry cry or a cross bedtime appeal. I stand invisibly next to his door trying to make out what it is he is saying. Peeking in I can see him standing up, head cocked back as far as his neck will allow, one hand out stretched to the sky, he is groaning with frustration, "nanaaaa.... nana!!! Nanaaaaaa"

Is he crying out to banana's? As if making a decree to the god of the banana's to rescue him from this horrible crib fate for the night? Peeking around the shadow of his door I can see he is doing the ASL sign for banana as he continues to proclaim assistance from banana heavens. It didn't seem right to laugh considering he was quite displeased, but- to the bananas?

It's one of those stories you hope your mother doesn't tell your future soulmate over pasta in 27 years.

Living in Faith

With postulation we begin each day, assuming that night we will return to the bed of where we started our trek that morning. It is a rare occasion we are struck through our entire body by the frailty of life. As if it is our right to move into tomorrow, our arrival not yet spoke, but the belief that we will be there.

February 13th did not begin as so for me- perhaps for the first time in my life. I had likely been shaken by the feeble state in which our lives truly are based via the surprising event of flight 3407; in some form it had momentarily re-set my mind.

No- I knew no one in that flight; nor, do I believe at this time that I know someone directly involved by that happenstance. Despite that, I somehow feel so directly affected. Trying to understand or even wrap my mind around what those people were thinking in those final moments; and the mere idea that not more then 15 minutes away- likely less, from my apartment, that tragic event unfolded seems to shake my understanding of "today."

Since the day I knew I would have a child I began a mission of empowerment. I would be a single parent and I found it my responsibility to build this concrete foundation for my son and I. I would not be controlled by the circumstances but I would create a life of certainty for him. Since that decision I have done everything I can to create a stable environment for Popeye- all things within my control from healthy foods to grow his mind and body to the type of childcare he receives when I am not with him. The first few times Popeye spent weekends away from home I would make a checklist of all his needs, accounting for every hour he was not in my presence. Yes, I am sure there would whispered agreements about my sanity or lack thereof, where it concerned that child.

However, I watched the television with great intent last Thursday evening. At first excusing Buffalo's weak "Breaking News" attempts at a plane crash into a home nearby as most likely a lost amateur pilot in the harrowing February winds of Western NY. Yet, within five minutes the event covered every small station in the area. The possibility of something much more serious became real. Around 12:30 in the morning the revelation of 50 lives lost become a reality. My stomach sank. In a cut throat format as competing media can only do I watched the interview of a man whose sister was on that flight. She was coming home to have a "Valentines Date" with her five year old nephew. His voice cracked as reporter after reporter asked him how "he felt."

My mouth dry and my eyes wet I quietly sneak to Harrison's cribside. Wrapping him snug in his quilt, I spent a few moments pulling him close. With paced breathing he dreamed on, likely of sweet foods and peek-a-boo festivities. His skin against mine, breath steady on my ear, the only two words I could find I began to repeat gently into his sleeping conscious. "I'm Sorry."

Not sorry for bringing him into this world. Or even sorry to him for the horrific event I had just had disclosed to me. But sorry for all the things in his life that I could not control. For the heartbreak of events he will no doubtedly experience in his life; for the broken promises he will endure; the uncertainity of others; and in fullness- for the breach of the promise of tomorrow.

If we allowed it, fear could rule our lives. How easy it was to promise that Thursday night that I will never fly again. Though, a decision of fear is not always a decision of reality, is it? Anyone who knows me knows that I could not keep that promise. Nor can I live a life in the shadow of fear because of the possibility that tomorrow is just a chance.

I cannot keep a promise to Harrison that I will not allow anything to ever happen to him. Anything small; anything big. What an out of control feeling it is to be a parent. The fact that I would trade each of my limbs to protect him is truth; the fact that it would actually protect him from anything by approaching life in that manner is not true.

What I do have to offer him is a home surrounded by love; continual acceptance for all that he is and the support for who is becoming- one day at a time. Each day we will continue this celebration of our lives together. The promise that I know cannot be broken is that what I offer him is real- for every day in Gods grace on this earth we will celebrate. It is with great faith we live and cherish life- the circumstances beyond our control.

My heart goes out to anyone directly affected by the unbelievable events of Flight 3407. I cannot imagine nor even conceive the depth of your feelings of betrayl in the promise of tomorrow for loved ones. It is with a somber heart I offer my prayers and my condolescences.

Live Action Popeye

So it's not the most exciting video update....

Growing pains...

Often when we engage in the world we pass that woman in the dollar store with the small child in her cart. No ring on her finger, baby with remnants of sweet potatoes on secondhand Disney character tee shirt.

Single mother and child. Of course this is a social premise.

Out of all the mothers in the world this is always the one I respected- yet never the one that I thought I wanted to be.

How does she do it?

Does she spend evenings on her porch chain-smoking, wondering how she'll keep her heat on next month? (Thank GOD it's still on today). Does she scrap together quarters to buy diapers for this week after she stands in line at the food pantry, hoping that they have the name brand Cheerios left when she gets her months hand-out?

I never thought I would be that one- but damn it, I respected her. The one woman show: working days, rocking child nights, pancake dinners three nights in a row. I respected that woman the most because she counts on her. After all, who else is there to count on when WIC only buys that cheap, bitter orange juice that you gag all the way down? But drink it up, darling. It's free.

At the end of the day, that woman counts on her. What pride she must have- I would surmise. But no, I will never be her.

Some mornings I wake up to the squeak of crib springs a room away. Lyrics from a Death Cab for Cutie song begin to play out in my sleepy consciousness, "I want to live where the soul meets body. And let the sun wrap its arms around me. Water cool and cleansing... and feel... feel waht it's like to believe. Because in my head there's a greyhound station where I send my thoughts to far out destinations. So they might have a chance..." Sing it, baby...

I use to sing this song to Harrison's father in the car after a night on the town. Now I sing it to our son as I arise to his smiling blue eyes. Two man team.

I push the cart through the dollar store- making a point to keep his striped Target sweater free of any meal remnants. I praise God when I can convince the Gas company to give me another week to write the check. I just spent the last twenty minutes digging for change in the couch cushions and pants pockets to wash clothes for the week.
This is a beautiful life, damn it.

And then there are the very difficult moments of single motherhood that I thought I was prepared for. Perhaps in some scenarios you never can be. Moments like the beginning of non-custodial parent visitation.

I knew when I decided to move forward with this "two-parent parenthood" synopsis that this moment would come. I thought by acknowledging the possibility I was prepared. I thought, I thought, I thought... But when you think and surmise about your reaction to a hypothetical horizon things aren't always as crisp and clear as how you actually feel when you read the unexpected court summons.

A court summons. After months of pleading with the man to pick the days and time that he wants to spend with his son, and being told that he's, "too tired" or "too busy" he finds the time to have his girlfriend organize a petition for visitation rights. The judicial use of the word "rights" here still heats me a little knowing that I have continually offered him any day and time he would like. In my mind he has been offered any rights he cares to initiate.

I have come to the conclusion that you can never prepare yourself for the day you hand your child over to his own flesh and blood: the same person that denied his son's existence for an entire pregnancy and the first 6 months of the boys life; that lied to his girlfriend insisting that he didn't have a son.

Your trust for this person would naturally wane; yet, in some form you have to learn to trust that every other Sunday and every other holiday this person is ready to put his life on the line for the only thing that matters in your life.
Sting.

To say that that I didn't hold some grudge would ultimately be a lie. Be gentle with me, I'm still growing in this process- it is true.

Yet the reminder: it isn't about me. From the day I chose this child- it hasn't been about me. I'm secondary within my own life and I choose this. I love this child more then myself. I continue to ask, in ten years, when I look back on this moment- how do I want to say that I reacted? (Do I sound sickly pious?)

Maybe by setting our ideals of what we expect of ourselves so high we really do begin to live above reproach by just missing our ultimate goal of becoming who we really wish we were.

I'm still growing in this process. That's the truth.