the one where I decide to do whole30

I am quite possibly the least likely human to willingly start Whole30. Held at gunpoint? Maybe.  Otherwise it simply doesn’t make sense for me.

Let me give you a few reasons why.

Reason 1)I almost set my apartment building on fire this winter when I was making chili and left the ingredients boiling on high while I went to Target for an hour. I returned home to smoke alarms and other occupants evacuating.

Reason 2)This isn’t my first kitchen fire. I’m ashamed to say it’s not even my 5th or 6th. I’m an experienced oven arsonist.

Reason 3) Here’s some of my recent work with a pop tart.

As you can see, cooking isn’t in my skill set. Our pots and pans are a hodgepodge of misfits. We purchased our current frying pan at Sam’s Club while we were waiting on a new set of tires.  I think I have two of my mother in law’s clear pyrex dishes she sent home with us full of delicious food. You know that southern tradition- never return an empty dish? Yeah… (Sorry, Emmy!)

The rest are twelve year old wedding gifts so crusty from over a decade of mishaps and explosions that it’s a wonder we still use them. In fact, I was recently trying to brown ground turkey and realized the meat was full of metal. The metallic surface of the pan literally disintegrated and filled our meat with shrapnel. More alarming is that my first thought was, “Am I going to have to cook something else? Surely metal can’t make you that sick, right??”

I am a second generation don’t-cook-er. My mom didn’t/doesn’t cook and I have proudly carried on the family tradition. So how did someone with my culinary resume decide to begin Whole30? Two things. I’d become desperate, and I’d also recently befriended a chef.

When I say I’d become desperate, I’m speaking to both my physical and mental health.  Before starting Whole30 I was exhausted 24 hours a day.  When awake, I was complaining about fatigue. If I was asleep, it wasn’t without tossing and turning and bouts of insomnia. (If you’re even tired when you’re sleeping, there’s a problem.) Also my Diet Coke “situation” was rapidly progressing.(translation-I was taking in anywhere from 30-70 ounces of Diet Coke a day. A DAY!!) I was consistently anxious and was back to battling moderate to severe depression.

But the main reason I agreed to this seemingly nonsensical regimen is from a phrase I read on the Whole30 cookbook. The byline reads “The 30 Day Guide to Total Health and Food Freedom.” Food freedom. Those two words rolled around and around in my head, appealing yet utterly elusive. I haven’t had lasting freedom from (or with!) food since I was in early high school. I’ve had moments, even seasons of freedom, but I always fall back into a cycle of chaos. Or rigidity. Or one of the other many disordered habits I’ve developed along the way.

And to be honest, God has been talking to me about my food issues for some time now. This past year, I’ve lost count of how many times he’s dropped Whole30 in my path. One thing I’ve learned about God and his nature is that he never forces something on you.  He will invite you in to a work he wants to do, but until you decide to say yes, he simply waits. So we began this dance where he would move in and ask if I was ready for healing with food issues.  Then I’d practically shove my fingers in my years and begin to yell “na na na na na na” which translated as “NO WAY!” and I’d white knuckle my way through a few more weeks of restriction and then over indulgence and ultimately shame and self loathing. He'd ask again, I'd refuse. And on and on. However, in the past two months, every time I’d go to him with a question about depression or pain in my body, all I would hear back was “Are you ready for freedom?” In my experience, when God gets to a place that he responds to multiple questions with the same answer… it’s time to take him seriously.

So when Kristen (my chef friend) texted me one afternoon, “You and I are going to do Whole30 together.  We start Tuesday, so get ready!”, I said yes. Truthfully, I’d secretly been wanting to do it for months and months, but didn’t think I could possibly pull it off.  In fact, I’d already read the book and purchased the cook book.  Unfortunately I know what to do with a cook book about as much as I know how to wield a ninja star. Kristen assured me that I’d be just fine and she’d hold my hand along the way. “But will you cook for me?” I worried.  She just smiled and shook her head in a “you can DO this” sort of way.

I’m going to try and use the next few posts to keep you posted on my journey.  I’m pretty sure this goes without saying but I have ZERO medical training (aside from several summers binging on Dr. Phil reruns in college) so you shouldn’t take this as sound medical advice. It’s simply my personal experience. I’d love to hear if/how this resonates with you and your story! Thanks for being here.  Here's the book I mention above!



photo credit livehappy dot com

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sparrow

I’ve just recently come out of a funk.  If you’ve ever struggled with anxiety or depression, you’ll know what I mean by this.  My friend Robyn calls it my “black cave of darkness”.  She says watching me go in there is the hardest part of being friends with me (EDIT: I called and read this to Robyn tonight when I finished and she wants to go on record as saying “I never said it was HARD to be friends with you!”) But it is. I know it is. It’s because when I’m there, I don’t realize it.  I don’t know I’ve retreated again.  My brain has some sort of cave-amnesia until something happens and suddenly I jolt awake thinking, “Where am I? Why is it so dark in here?  What’s going on and where is my phone charger? OMG am I in a CAVE? OHHHH…. I did it again.  Crap.” I know this about myself.  I know the cave is there.  But, somehow, every time I journey into the nothingness, I’m surprised. I reemerge and CAN NOT believe I’ve been back in the cave again.

And I’ve been wanting to talk about the cave.  Because I know I’m not the only one.  And I’ve been praying, asking God to give me a picture of what it looks like when depression hits and what does He have to say about it all?

I was walking through an antique store this morning and ventured down the stairs to a lower level with double doors leading to a patio.  I heard the birds as soon as I reached the steps, but I didn’t see them until I rounded the corner.  There was a scuffle, a flutter of wings and I saw two birds fly away. And then there, amidst a dozen or so vintage glasses, I saw a tiny sparrow struggling to get free.  Somehow she’d fallen down the long, narrow channel of the tumbler and was straining to fly out.  As I looked at her, I saw myself so many times before. Panicked. Struggling. Unable to fly.  But surrounded by my flock.

I was so amazed at the other birds.  One stayed on the table, inches from her reach.  Two others hopped frantically on a shelf below and the rest flitted around the rafters of the musty basement.  All of them were chirping.  Each time she’d attempt to escape, she would become very very still, trying to muster up the energy she’d need for the fight.  And then she’d cry out in effort and fear and ultimately frustration, powerless to escape.  Yet, her flock looked on.  And the harder she struggled, the louder they became, shrieking and squawking and cheering her on.

Once I realized that she wouldn’t be able to get free on her own accord, I stepped in.  I picked up the glass and ever so slightly tipped it to the right, shifting gravity, tilting her tiny body.  It didn’t take much at all, maybe an inch.  That’s all she needed.  She shot out of the glass, her wings flapping awkwardly, and landed with a thud on the ground below.

Maybe that’s you today. Maybe you’re in the tribe.  Maybe it’s your friend or sister or mom stuck down in that glass.  Maybe you feel helpless watching them fight, wondering your role.  Listen to me, dear one. You have a big job. God Himself sings over us.  Zephaniah 3:17 says  “The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.” It is holy work, the staying and the singing. You may not be the one to tip the glass for her this time, but oh, how she needs you to stay.  Just stay with her.  And you can trust God to do his job.  To send a glass-tipper when it’s time.

Or maybe you’re the sparrow stuck in the glass.  Maybe you’ve given up on fighting.  You see the open air above you, but you just can't seem to get out.  And you’re tired.  So very tired. 

You don’t have to do this alone. Your tribe will not leave you. Can’t you hear them? They are calling out to you. While writing this, I was reminded of the verse in Matthew that says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”  

Don’t you give up… Help is on the way. Someone is coming to tip your glass, to shift the things you cannot control and help you find your way.  I know it feels like you're here to stay, at the bottom of this smelly old glass.  But you aren't.  I promise.

She limped a bit at first, visibly tired and hindered by her time in confinement.  Her flock whooshed in though, flanking all sides, their tinny victory cries bouncing off the dusty glassware around us.  Then all of a sudden in one effortless motion, she shot into the air.  

She remembered she could fly.  

And I watched, as one by one, the other birds fell into formation behind her, and they all flew out the open doors into the dewy morning air.

take up your whole mat

I’ve recently started back to yoga.  And, yes, I am fully aware that any time I write about an athletic adventure, I am in the process of “starting back”.  That’s because I’m very talented at the quitting of the working out and not so skilled at the sticking to the working out.  Whatever.  Stop judging me.  

Anyway, yoga is the hardest physical endeavor I’ve ever participated in.  Why? Because in addition to moving and breathing (at the same time!!!) I also have to wrangle my brain.  And, I know you’re not inside to see the landscape, but let me just tell you… it’s a jungle in there!

I’m not an athletic person by nature.  Shocking, right?  I “played” volleyball in high school and the only recognition I ever received was “most improved” my freshman year.  Which, is interesting because I didn’t play my freshman year.  I had switched school systems and had to sit out a year before becoming eligible.  I practiced with the team, though and managed to hit people in the back of the head with the ball, rotate in the wrong direction and trip the setter on the regular.  I think they felt sorry for me and gave me the award when I learned how to get the ball over the net every once in a while.

My first day back to yoga was in the beginning of January.  January 2nd to be exact.  We’ve joined a fancy new gym that has it’s own studio and along with seventy two other New Year’s resolutioners, I grabbed a mat and found a place on the floor. It was so crowded in that room.  At one point, a limber, 40-something year old wearing the complete Lulu Lemon spring collection propped her leg on my shoulder to get a deeper stretch.  To my right was a gaggle of teenage girls.  I am not kidding you when I say they can wrap their arms around their feet two times.  Which, to be honest, they have an incredibly unfair advantage.  When you are only 14 years out of the uterus, you are still partially folded.  Talk to me in another twenty years, ladies.  

Anyway, my first class back was a disaster. I couldn’t clear my mind and I definitely couldn’t hold my downward dog. I can't even touch my toes for crying out loud! I would focus on breathing and forget to pose.  So I’d focus on the pose and realize I was holding my breath.  Hot mess.  I met up with a teacher a few days later in hopes of some guidance. She walked me through a few vinyasas (This is fancy yoga lingo for sequences.) and undoubtedly was fighting off hysterical laughter.  But, what she told me resonated so strongly with my heart that I just have to tell you.  

She said, “One thing you really need to work on is taking up your whole mat. Many women try and stay small and compact in yoga, but you’ve got an entire mat… take up every inch of your space.”

You guys! I just can’t believe how true that is.  I see this so much in my own life and those around me.  As women we try to be as small as we can, learning from childhood that tiny is attractive and acceptable. We try and whittle our physical bodies down often hurting ourselves and hurting the younger generations watching.  We try and lessen large personalities in hopes of fitting in.  “Be little, be quiet, don’t make waves” we’re told from pulpits and media and society at large.  But it’s a LIE! No one ever achieved greatness by hiding. True joy can’t be found if you’re focused on shrinking.  Plant your feet wide and fling your arms up towards the sky.  You’ve been given one beautiful life! Breathe it in deeply taking up EVERY INCH OF YOUR SPACE! Live big and wild and free! Oh, and if you see me in a yoga class, you should keep your distance.  I’m still a danger to those around me.  

Santa Baby

I really wanted a Christmas pregnancy announcement. I can still remember that first Christmas so vividly. The year Matt and I started trying to get pregnant, Facebook was still shiny and new and mostly authentic. For the past few years I’d watched friends and sorority sisters announce pregnancy in outrageous and beautiful ways, but for me, I just wanted Christmas. Early Christmas morning I’d give Matt a gift surprising him with our news and we’d spend the rest of the day glowing and telling our family and friends. In coordinating Christmas sweaters. It would be magical. Years later we’d watch the video footage and tell our babies the story as a Christmas tradition. (Can you tell I watched a few Hallmark movies growing up? Ok, a lot.) I was so fascinated with this idea that when we didn’t get pregnant in September or October, I sort of laughed to myself thinking “What an awesome inconvenience! This is going to be perfect!” Those were the days that I still thought just deciding you wanted a baby and trying were enough.

I remember parking in the garden section of Walmart, heart pounding at the thought of someone seeing me. I walked through the Christmas section and picked up a “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament- first blue, then pink, then blue again. Maybe I’d wrap one of those and watch Matt laugh and then cry upon realizing our news- he was going to be a DAD! A section of novelty gifts caught my eye and I wandered over gasping when I saw a fat white coffee mug that said “World’s Best Dad”. Giggling, I stashed it under my purse in my buggy and laughed again when the cashier winked knowingly at me. I also purchased two slim white frames to put our ultrasound in and give to each set of grandparents-to-be.

Although not “officially” pregnant yet, we’d already been trying for three months and most of my friends had taken around that long. It was only a matter of days until I took another test and surely it would be positive. Except it wasn’t. I think I held on to that mug for three more Christmases, (36 more months that ended in "no")smashing it in the driveway one particularly hard December day.  My neighbor pretended not to see me crying as she helped me pick up pieces of cheap shattered clay.

The holidays are in full swing and if you are waiting for a baby(or your second, or fifth!) it can be an excruciating time. Although my family is certainly growing, it’s eight Christmases later and I never got my announcement. I DID, however, get a little experience at this whole gig so I thought I’d put together a list that might be helpful to you this year.

How to navigate an infertile Christmas:
1)Be honest- I know that ideally you would NEVER have to talk about “trying” around your grandfather and his famous Christmas ham (because that means PawPaw knows you’re having s-e-x) but this is not a time to fake it till you make it. If you are a while into the trenches of infertility, you may want to think about telling your family at least in part what you’re going through. Chances are, they have been through this before (or dearly love someone who has). If they haven’t, they are still your family and they love you. They are much more likely to respect whatever amount of privacy you want if they have an idea of what’s going on. And at least the slew of insensitive questions will stop (or slow). You’re never going to make it through forced small talk and seven rounds of Dirty Santa while Aunt Lucy bubbles through her eggnog “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME A NIECE OR A NEPHEW??”


Which leads me to #2…


2)Have a script- Decide with your husband how much you want to share this year and come up with a few concise but relevant statements that will not only inform your eggnog laden crew but help them realize you need some time before you discuss it further.


“I want you to know, but I’d rather not talk about it right now.”


“We have actually been trying for a while now. Maybe after the holidays we can catch up.”


“Whenever we have news, I’ll be sure and share it with you!”


“I’m going to punch you if you ask me one more thing about babies!” (just kidding)


You could also call (read:TEXT) ahead of time and fill in your family/friends. That will help take the spotlight off of you and minimize awkward conversations.

3)Don’t go- Take the pressure off yourself to attend every party and event that comes your way this season. Sometimes it’s just too hard and THAT’S OK. Give yourself permission to decide what you can do this year and what is too much. You don’t owe anyone an explanation and a simple “I can’t make it this year” is perfectly acceptable. Besides, when you roll in with your TWINS next year, they'll never remember your absence.

4)Don’t lose heart!- When you’re surrounded with the world’s greatest pregnancy story (of a VIRGIN who WASN’T EVEN TRYING), a holiday centered on children, and hundreds of Christmas cards of all your people’s beautiful families, it can be tempting to be overwhelmed with sadness. Don’t give into that. You won’t always feel this way- I promise! And you aren't alone...if you want to talk, shoot me a message.  I can promise you I understand.

Remember that the same God that sent Jesus to the world is also your “Father in Heaven” who will “give good gifts to those who ask him!” (Mt 7:11) He is the one that put the desire in your heart to become a mama, so you can rest assured that one way or another He will fulfill it. Stay positive and find joy in this season every way you can.

when "not racist" is not enough

Today in the state of Alabama confederate flags were removed from government property at the order of the governor.  And then the Internet went berserk. 

“I am not racist, BUT…”

I read this phrase over and over and over. 

“BUT this is my heritage! You can’t take history away!”

“BUT you can’t strip away my rights!”
“BUT this is the SOUTH!”

You began posting mini history lessons about the origin of the flag and that it was never intended to be a symbol of racism and it wasn’t created for evil, and I hear you. 

“I’m not racist,” you say.  And I believe you.

But “not racist” isn’t enough.  Jesus never called us to be “not racist”, you guys.  He called us to be LOVE.  And Love is so much more.

“Love is patient and kind;

Love does not envy or boast;

it is not arrogant or rude.

It does not insist on its own way;

It is not irritable or resentful;

It does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth…

Love never ends.”

(1 Corinthians 13 from The Message Translation)

“Not racist” nods at the wrongs that were done but puts emphasis on "harmless" tradition.  “Not racist” demands personal rights and freedoms remain at all costs.  "Not racist" insists that things stay the same.

But Love. Love chooses to sacrifice those entitlements to protect others. “Not racist” is mostly concerned with self, but Love says, “You matter more than me.”  Love says, “PEOPLE matter more than a flag, or a tradition or ANY OTHER FACTOR added to the equation.  And if giving up my right to fly a flag will remind you of that Love…. It’s worth it. YOU are worth it.”

So, to my friends and peers and neighbors and family and the litany of others raging on social forums because of this “loss”… I ask you this.  Is “not-racist” enough for you? We were never called to be just enough.  We were called for so much more. 

We can change the world, you guys.  But we have to start with Love.

on eating. and then not.

I decided to become anorexic while riding the bus one morning in the spring of sixth grade.  I hadn’t heard that word before and wasn’t sure what the requirements were, but all of the glamorous eighth grade girls sitting in the back were talking about becoming it, too. They said they needed to get bikini-ready.  Maybe I could convince my mom to let me wear a bikini if I was “ready”. Every day I’d look back at those girls in awe, longing to be like them.

No one looked at me in awe during my sixth grade year.  Or my seventh or eighth for that matter. I was a lanky kid with a disproportionate body. I had freckles (But not the cute kind), a tangled mass of frizzy hair, and a huge gap in my really huge teeth. (But not the intriguing kind models have. More the, “oh somebody get that girl some orthodontia!” kind.)

I was determined to get a new look. Even though I didn’t really understand the concept of dieting, the glitterati had leaked a secret and I WANTED IN! No one was allowed to sit in the back except the beautiful people of the eighth grade, so I settled a few rows up straining to hear the rules.  I overheard, “never eat lunch” and “drink a lot of…” and a few other chopped up phrases I couldn’t make out. 

“Never eat lunch” was all I had to go with. That was my plan and I began with great gusto.

Unfortunately for my “new look”, it was tater-tot-Thursday in the lunchroom so I fell off the wagon less than five hours after I began. And I never thought about a diet again for the next ten years.

_________________________

A friend asked me earlier this week, “What was it like when you had an eating disorder?” And so I’ve been thinking really hard about how to answer that. 

I don’t really like the word disorder.  I like to say I had some eating "confusion".  It’s not as if I went to bed healthy and woke up sick.  It would have been super helpful if a runny nose or unbearable toe pain had accompanied my condition.  I might have thought to call someone about it.  But it wasn’t like that at all.  It was quiet and slow.  So much so that I wasn’t sure anything was wrong… until it was.

I confused the fact that food kept me alive with the idea that food was my enemy. I forgot that eating was an every day thing. And three times? It felt like overkill. 

I ate to make myself feel better and I starved to make myself feel nothing and I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. But I knew I didn't want to leave.

It was terrifying and intoxicating.

I was confused when people would say, “You are too thin! You should eat!” and I thought perhaps people were playing a trick on me. Clearly this was a plot to make me fat. I could see myself in the mirror- couldn’t they??

“I am really worried about you.” My friends talked in serious, hushed tones, and Matt always had sad eyes when he looked at me. Before long, everyone was trying to help but no one was helpful. 

You see, I was so confused that I didn’t think I needed help. What I needed was to stay in control.  I thought I was happy and headed towards healthy. (After I lost a few more pounds…) I forgot that my size didn’t make me worthy.

 The other day I came across a quote I love.  Albert Camus says,

Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.

Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.

Just walk beside me and be my friend.

That. That is a picture of how I began to heal. 

All of the people in front looked back at me offering milkshakes and disappointment and judgment.  I was afraid they were right about me.  And so I was angry with them.

And those who were behind me? They’d fallen back, deciding I wouldn’t change.  In their minds, I could get better if I wanted. That scared me too.

But there were a handful of friends, steady and constant. They didn’t tell me what to do; they didn’t give up on me.  And finally, when confusion gave way to reality, I felt safe enough to whisper a “help”. They heard me and came rushing in.

You guys, if this is you, you aren’t alone.  You’re just a little confused.  When you are ready (You already are. Trust me.) Look to your left and your right.  See who is there.  These are your people.  It doesn't matter if you are confused about eating or marriage or faith or even fashion. (Because, priorities!) Be brave and let them love you into wholeness. Into who you were created to be.

My entourage stayed the course in the difficult months ahead.  Day after day they loved me and did all the wonderful things. They were terribly clingy with their overly healthy selves and I hoped they’d find someone new to help, but THEY WOULD NOT BE MOVED. 

They reminded me that Jesus thinks I’m worthy, and that is enough. They did this one million times a day in case I forgot again.

I still get confused sometimes.  But my people are always right there, keeping an eye on me.  I am telling you, one misstep and THE SAINTS COME MARCHING IN!  I can’t get rid of them.  It’s better this way, though.  For me, I need friends beside me to help me remember the truth.

hunt or be hunted

You guys know how much I love Jesus, so obviously when our neighborhood hosted an Easter egg hunt last weekend, I had a religious obligation to take Mills.

It's important to note that I have a great appreciation for healthy competition.  When I know a prize is at stake, I am OVERCOME by a primal urge to win.  I’ve triggered such chaos in a Dirty Santa party (or two) that friendships have ended. (all because I stole a stupid travel kit and licked the toothbrush inside to secure my win). Once, I made a girl cry during a game of Catch Phrase with our church group.  But, everyone knows you don’t mix religion and game night.  And also, she was the worst Catch Phraser in the history of ever.  She wasn’t even trying. So, that one wasn’t really my fault. 

Saturday morning my neighbor texted to ask if we were going to the Easter egg hunt at the park.  Immediately my heart rate elevated because I DIDN’T KNOW the hunt was that morning.  I hadn’t had a chance to mentally prepare or come up with a game plan. I’d yet to do the first practice run or egg finding drill with Mills. 

It was one of the first beautiful days of spring and Matt thought we would walk to the park and enjoy the sunshine.  I thought this was a terrible idea because Mills would clearly lag behind and slow us down.  (have you tried walking with a toddler lately?)  He did not appreciate that observation or my proposal to take the car (because SPEED! And PARKING!), so I shoved Mills in a stroller instructing him to keep his feet from dragging the ground.  I instructed Matt to refrain from commentary about Mills being a foot too tall for the stroller.

With T-minus 60 minutes to go, we rolled down the driveway.  Matt seemed to be struggling with math as he repeatedly reminded me that we were only a five minute walk away and advised me to calm down. Agitated, I explained the need to factor in time for inclement weather, foot traffic and other various possible delays.  I hadn’t even hit a brisk mall-walking pace before Matt suggested I was running.  I suggested that he keep up. 

 

We were almost to the park and hadn’t seen any of the competition.  Feeling nervous, I Googled the hunt to double-check the time.  Much to my horror, a flier appeared stating the hunt was taking place AT THE PARK ACROSS TOWN.

Bedlam.

It’s a little fuzzy at this point, but I remember running back towards the house in a panic, screaming at my family to hurry up so we could “GET THERE AND HAVE SOME FREAKING FUN!!!”

I’ll spare you the details of the car ride over except to mention Matt’s threats to take my phone away if I didn’t stop checking the time and yelling at traffic. And also setting a terrible example for our son.  Meanwhile, I was facing the back seat chanting, “Get those eggs! Get those eggs! Push! Shove! HIT! Just, GET THOSE EGGS!" in hopes of raising Mills’ adrenaline so he would be game-time ready. 

There is a chance I jumped out of the car before we had come to a complete stop.  “KEEP UP!” I howled over my shoulder and began jogging towards the field. 

The set-up was tricky.  The grass was sectioned off into four different squares surrounded by caution tape.  Each square was labeled with a different age group and had one million eggs smashed inside.

Although the competition wasn’t particularly impressive, the crowd was thick and the odds were stacked against us. I pushed my way to the front of the “zero to three” zone and anxiously looked for the guys.  Matt was just strolling along (SLOWER THAN A SLUG) and I screamed, “HURRY! THEY ARE STARTING IN LESS THAN SIXTY SECONDS.”  This didn’t go over well.  Also, my timing was a little off.

While Matt pretended not to know me and introduced Mills to kids all around (=the FRAY!) I came up with several strategies.  My cheeks were on fire and I could hear my heart beat throbbing in my ears as a teenager held up a megaphone to make some announcements.  He said, “The sparkly eggs have prizes, please make sure your child doesn’t get more than one.”  Frantically, I began to point Mills in the direction of the closest sparkly egg and explain the importance of getting that one first.  Allegedly I was “yelling” and “making other families uncomfortable” at this point. Mills began to whine and ask me to hold him.  I was not “scaring him” as SOMEONE implied. Clearly he, too, has the primal competitive drive but doesn’t quite know how to channel it. 

The next few minutes are a blur. I heard the whistle and flung myself towards the grass.  Out of my periphery I noticed I seemed to be the only person out of diapers heading towards the glittering prize.  I slowed to check again and, as it turns out, all of the other parents were still outside the perimeter! I swiveled back scanning the crowd for Matt and Mills. In that instant, all the other parents swarmed the field.  I (gently) shoved a few kids out of my path trying to get a visual on the prize.  A GRANDMA was scooping it up in her hot little hand.  I angled towards my back up option only to see a fat baby shoving it in her slobbery mouth.  A quick scan of the space confirmed that all the other eggs were long gone, prize or not.  Just like that, it was over.  

Angry and defeated, I wandered around looking for the guys.  I found them happily sitting in the grass celebrating a measly few finds.

“What happened back there?? You totally dropped the ball!” I looked to Matt for some answers.

“I mean, I didn’t know other parents were going to help. I think you should relax a little, Amanda.  The prizes aren't even a big deal. This is just so the kids can have some fun!”

“Relax? FUN?? This is ridiculous! There was nothing fun about being obliterated back there and walking away empty handed. I HATE EASTER EGG HUNTS!” I stomped off towards our car while Matt kept his distance and again pretended not to know me. He told me I should "take a nap and get control of myself" before the afternoon.  

My behavior there has come under investigation and I’ve been placed on probation for any upcoming games (or social gatherings) until further review. Matt said if I don't learn how to handle my crazy, there will be consequences.

The take away here? 

1)Take my own car next time.

2)Easter Egg hunts are from the DEVIL!