Jordan is playing music that makes my heart melt on his piano, and Jo is attempting to crawl using one leg, and I am obviously sitting at my computer writing. Life here is normal, but also exciting.
When I was in highschool I believed that exciting only meant being irresponsible, spontaneous, hyper, and flirtatious. I used to go to disco dance parties with strobe lights and sparkly pants at the dormitory laundry room, or go run around lakes in freezing temperatures, or stay up late jumping on beds while listening to Pink Floyd. To me these activities were what brought excitement and happiness.
A lot has changed since then, and I am sure all my friends think I am boring now. Spontaneity now means making sure I have diapers, wipes, three burp rags, a spoon, mashed carrots, and an extra onesie before I head out the door. I can't be irresponsible, or I might end up with a child screaming at the top of her lungs in the library (that was last Thursday). I am hyper when I have ten minutes to myself and can run around like a maniac trying to decide how to use my precious time. And flirtatious involves sneaking in a kiss for Jordan before Jo makes things awkward by staring at us and drooling.
My life is in a different galazy than it was four years ago. I might as well be hanging out with cling-ons and Chewbacca. (I pretty much am - Jo is the cling-on, and Jordan is my Chewbacca.)
I am young, healthy, and ready for adventure. I talked to a good friend from high school the other day. She asked me what was new, I said "Flu shots and baby teeth." I asked her what was new, and she said "Parties, boys, and clothes." When I compare my life to that of my highschool friends', I feel old and uninteresting. I don't buy new clothes - I buy diapers and rash cream, I don't go out with new boys - I share dinner every night with the same man I have for the past three years, I don't go to parties - I tickle my 6 month old and play scrabble.
Sometimes I wonder if I got married too young, had kids too soon, and missed out on my chance for the bright lights of uptown, the thrill of hot pink lipstick, and a loud bass beat pumping my blood. All of these things are the Hollywood versions of exciting, and appear to be what every 21 year old girl with a love for dancing should be doing.
I love to dance, and I am still barely above drinking age. And I must admit that every time we get out of the house to go dancing, or romance at a fancy restaurant is like a burst of sweet oxygen after being trapped inside a vacuum for years. But this is not the life I chose for myself. I had my chance to be the flippant bachelorette who cared for high-heeled boots and sparkly tank-tops more than baby hairbows and missing socks.
My life is by no means the standard definition of exciting and fresh. But it offers these sensations in a way no Hollywood producer could understand. Seeing my daughter smile for the first time was more heart-thrilling than being sung to by the cute blonde guitar player on stage for my seventeenth birthday. Knowing Jordan will be home in only half an hour is more exciting than waiting for Friday night's techno jam. And hanging with Jordan and Jo is more satisfying than finding myself with a cute stranger at the club.
So, even though my purse is filled with bibs and extra onesies instead of eyeshadow and extra lipgloss, I think my life is pretty exciting. I have been given the joy of love and security. I would take that over spontaneity, irresponsibility, and expendable funds any day.
I know my life has meaning. I see that meaning every day when Jo morphs into a bundle of smiles when I take her from the crib every morning. I see it when Jordan gratefully accepts my hug and chocolate chip cookies after a long day at work. I see it when we start giggling over spit up or playing kung-fu with our chopsticks.
Nothing can be more thrilling than finding those you love most find joy in your presence. I am glad I made the decision I did. I wouldn't go back and change it for anything. I have everything happiness and fulfillment requires. I revel in my current life and sometimes wonder how my old friends live without the incredible blessings of family.
Life at the Barlow home is one adventure after another. And I am ready to take on them all - as long as they don't interfere with naptime.
Finger Food For Thought
The latest and greatest writings of Kayleen Barlow
Monday, January 24, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
That Wasn't Water
When I was seven years old, my older brother, Jacob, had a best friend named McKenzie who lived across the street. McKenzie was twelve (don't ask me why he was hanging around with a nine year old) and I thought he was a hunk. He was older, wore glasses, and seemed to know everything. I did all I could to convince McKenzie that I was the girl for him - I annoyed him and my brother without end.
One day, the three of us were outside on a hot summer's day in Eldorado, Kansas, having a water balloon fight. The teams were divided very poorly; it was myself against two merciless older boys. I willingly accepted the beating, though, because I wanted to hang out with my cool older brother and his dashing friend.
After some time we got down to the last water balloon. I was glad that I could escape from being pelted by rubber filled with cold hose water, and also glad that I could now run inside and go to the bathroom without being called a "chicken."
Jake stopped me before I could get to the door, though. "Bean, pop this water balloon over our heads."
As much as I wanted to instantly please them, I knew I couldn't hold it much longer. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Just do it real quick, it will only take a second."
"Jake, I have to go potty first."
"Come on, just do it fast."
I looked over at McKenzie waiting for me and very foolishly decided to comply. We quickly ran to the backyard where the swing set was. My brother and his friend stood underneath the middle of the monkey bars and instructed me to take the water balloon, go hold it right above their heads, and then pop it so they would both be splattered. Neither of them seemed to notice how desperately I was doing the potty dance.
I grabbed the balloon, climbed the monkey bars, and positioned myself so that I was directly over both boys. I began to twist - nothing happened. I folded it in half and twisted it again, I smashed it between my two hands as hard as I could. It seemed that this water balloon had been made with stronger rubber than all the other ones. I squeezed and squeezed, I even bit it, but no matter what I did the water balloon would just not break.
Then something terrible happened. I froze. I could feel it going, but I was powerless to stop it. I began panicking as my bladder gushed out everything it had been holding in for so long. It only lasted a few moments, but those few moments have left a deep impression in my memory.
I looked down to see Jake and McKenzie get sprayed with the last of my urine. Jake had a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. He turned to McKenzie and asked, "Why was it warm?"
Both boys looked up to see me sitting directly above them, still holding the water balloon in my shaking hands. Understanding broke across their faces and they both yelled "Ewwww!" They sprinted for the hose and immediately began fighting over the water. I hurriedly climbed down from my perch of shame and bolted for the house. I locked myself in the bathroom and knew that it was over.
Jake would torment me with this humiliation for the rest of my life. I was branded. Even worse, McKenzie would never like me. From now on I would only be known as the girl who peed on his head.
I would like to say that this was the last time I ever peed on someone, but that would be a lie. My older sister Regina received an unpleasant surprise when I used my bladder as a weapon of revenge.
But that is another story, for another day.
Today we will leave it with, "That Wasn't Water".
One day, the three of us were outside on a hot summer's day in Eldorado, Kansas, having a water balloon fight. The teams were divided very poorly; it was myself against two merciless older boys. I willingly accepted the beating, though, because I wanted to hang out with my cool older brother and his dashing friend.
After some time we got down to the last water balloon. I was glad that I could escape from being pelted by rubber filled with cold hose water, and also glad that I could now run inside and go to the bathroom without being called a "chicken."
Jake stopped me before I could get to the door, though. "Bean, pop this water balloon over our heads."
As much as I wanted to instantly please them, I knew I couldn't hold it much longer. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Just do it real quick, it will only take a second."
"Jake, I have to go potty first."
"Come on, just do it fast."
I looked over at McKenzie waiting for me and very foolishly decided to comply. We quickly ran to the backyard where the swing set was. My brother and his friend stood underneath the middle of the monkey bars and instructed me to take the water balloon, go hold it right above their heads, and then pop it so they would both be splattered. Neither of them seemed to notice how desperately I was doing the potty dance.
I grabbed the balloon, climbed the monkey bars, and positioned myself so that I was directly over both boys. I began to twist - nothing happened. I folded it in half and twisted it again, I smashed it between my two hands as hard as I could. It seemed that this water balloon had been made with stronger rubber than all the other ones. I squeezed and squeezed, I even bit it, but no matter what I did the water balloon would just not break.
Then something terrible happened. I froze. I could feel it going, but I was powerless to stop it. I began panicking as my bladder gushed out everything it had been holding in for so long. It only lasted a few moments, but those few moments have left a deep impression in my memory.
I looked down to see Jake and McKenzie get sprayed with the last of my urine. Jake had a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. He turned to McKenzie and asked, "Why was it warm?"
Both boys looked up to see me sitting directly above them, still holding the water balloon in my shaking hands. Understanding broke across their faces and they both yelled "Ewwww!" They sprinted for the hose and immediately began fighting over the water. I hurriedly climbed down from my perch of shame and bolted for the house. I locked myself in the bathroom and knew that it was over.
Jake would torment me with this humiliation for the rest of my life. I was branded. Even worse, McKenzie would never like me. From now on I would only be known as the girl who peed on his head.
I would like to say that this was the last time I ever peed on someone, but that would be a lie. My older sister Regina received an unpleasant surprise when I used my bladder as a weapon of revenge.
But that is another story, for another day.
Today we will leave it with, "That Wasn't Water".
Monday, January 17, 2011
Judging Success
I tried painting today – which was a very bad idea. Any time I try to do something remotely artistic it results in disaster and very low self-esteem. This, like most things in my life, got me to thinking, though. Why do I care so much that I can’t paint? Why does it give me emotional heartburn that every line is squiggly, or that my colors clash and things are disproportionate? I seriously throw myself into a miniature depression every time I try to do something artsy.
President Uchtdorf said that our ability to create is a divine gift from God and that we should enjoy it – but I can’t enjoy it! I want to make magnificent paintings, but all I come out with is bad bubble letters no one can read and blotchy colors. This is a serious flaw!
I have been thinking a lot about my flaws lately, it seems I have hit a point in my life where I have beaten down into a fetal position, and am still being kicked at from all directions. It isn’t that anything horrible has happened to me; I just don’t feel like I am conquering the world and molding myself into an admirable person.
I am taking Physics of the Human Body right now, which isn’t helping my self confidence. The homework is impossible to understand. I never get higher than an 80%. My understanding physics is like a deaf person trying to understand harmony – not going to happen. Based on the projection of my current velocity, miraculous powers need to intervene if I am going to graduate with a good G.P.A. This shouldn’t be a big deal; I haven’t even decided if I am going back for my Master’s or not. And I can afford a B on my transcript and still get into a good creative writing program. Why am I freaking out then?
It is because I am terrified of failure. If I fail, then I feel like I have disappointed every living creature and am of no value. I know that no one besides myself cares about what I splash onto a canvas, or what I get on my physics quiz, or what my hair looks like, but for some reason, I can’t help feeling guilty for every little thing I do wrong.
It is like I have this weird pass or fail mentality. I create this line through my life. If I can do enough things right and stay above it, then I pass the test of life, but if I am two points off and fall below the line, I might as well have not taken the class at all. This is sick and demented – I know – but I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels they are on the edge of an existence failure cliff.
I had an epiphany about all these ludicrous emotions the other night. Jordan was reading the scriptures to me, and I was reminded of President Monson’s memento “If you spend all your time judging others, you don’t have enough time to love them.” I think this applies to us too. If we spend all our time judging ourselves, then we don’t have any energy to appreciate our blessings and gifts. When I do nothing other than sit there and stare at my hideous acrylic creation, I don’t have time to enjoy my family, or enjoy writing, or enjoy collecting shells on the beach.
I also don’t have the time to enjoy serving others if I am constantly worrying about myself. I am so busy worrying about making myself perfect that I forget to worry about making others perfect. I wasn’t born so that I could be the best at everything all the time, I was born so I could help others learn about God, and then through that process become the kind of perfect God wants me to be.
God doesn’t care if my paintings look like ferret poo mixed with key lime pie, and he doesn’t want me to care about that either. He wants me to care about the things He cares about – my daughter, my husband, our family, my neighbors, and the kart man who sits outside the library.
Now, if I enjoy painting, and am pleased with what I create and feel good about myself while doing it, then that is a good thing and painting would be a good activity for me to engage in. But if I am going to have an emotional fit over it, then it is better if I just lay my weapon down and stop murdering myself along with the canvas.
A good life isn’t about being your idea of perfect; it is about being God’s idea of perfect. And His idea of perfect is someone who loves Him with their whole selves, is willing to be obedient in all places and times, and gladly serves wherever called.
The greatest fortune that man can possess
Is not vast wisdom or full treasure chests
But a precious gift, so great to behold
A wonderful, loving, heart of pure gold
I need to accept myself for the faulty woman that I am, and trust that, with some divine intervention, it will be good enough. When you have God on your side, no one can stand against you - not even yourself.
I am so glad true success doesn’t depend on intelligence, artistic skill, wealth, or other worldly measures of worth. I am so glad it depends on that strange and intangible part of ourselves that ties us to the eternities. God measures success by the condition of our souls. We just have to make sure our souls are in the right place; close enough for Him to reach them.
President Uchtdorf said that our ability to create is a divine gift from God and that we should enjoy it – but I can’t enjoy it! I want to make magnificent paintings, but all I come out with is bad bubble letters no one can read and blotchy colors. This is a serious flaw!
I have been thinking a lot about my flaws lately, it seems I have hit a point in my life where I have beaten down into a fetal position, and am still being kicked at from all directions. It isn’t that anything horrible has happened to me; I just don’t feel like I am conquering the world and molding myself into an admirable person.
I am taking Physics of the Human Body right now, which isn’t helping my self confidence. The homework is impossible to understand. I never get higher than an 80%. My understanding physics is like a deaf person trying to understand harmony – not going to happen. Based on the projection of my current velocity, miraculous powers need to intervene if I am going to graduate with a good G.P.A. This shouldn’t be a big deal; I haven’t even decided if I am going back for my Master’s or not. And I can afford a B on my transcript and still get into a good creative writing program. Why am I freaking out then?
It is because I am terrified of failure. If I fail, then I feel like I have disappointed every living creature and am of no value. I know that no one besides myself cares about what I splash onto a canvas, or what I get on my physics quiz, or what my hair looks like, but for some reason, I can’t help feeling guilty for every little thing I do wrong.
It is like I have this weird pass or fail mentality. I create this line through my life. If I can do enough things right and stay above it, then I pass the test of life, but if I am two points off and fall below the line, I might as well have not taken the class at all. This is sick and demented – I know – but I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels they are on the edge of an existence failure cliff.
I had an epiphany about all these ludicrous emotions the other night. Jordan was reading the scriptures to me, and I was reminded of President Monson’s memento “If you spend all your time judging others, you don’t have enough time to love them.” I think this applies to us too. If we spend all our time judging ourselves, then we don’t have any energy to appreciate our blessings and gifts. When I do nothing other than sit there and stare at my hideous acrylic creation, I don’t have time to enjoy my family, or enjoy writing, or enjoy collecting shells on the beach.
I also don’t have the time to enjoy serving others if I am constantly worrying about myself. I am so busy worrying about making myself perfect that I forget to worry about making others perfect. I wasn’t born so that I could be the best at everything all the time, I was born so I could help others learn about God, and then through that process become the kind of perfect God wants me to be.
God doesn’t care if my paintings look like ferret poo mixed with key lime pie, and he doesn’t want me to care about that either. He wants me to care about the things He cares about – my daughter, my husband, our family, my neighbors, and the kart man who sits outside the library.
Now, if I enjoy painting, and am pleased with what I create and feel good about myself while doing it, then that is a good thing and painting would be a good activity for me to engage in. But if I am going to have an emotional fit over it, then it is better if I just lay my weapon down and stop murdering myself along with the canvas.
A good life isn’t about being your idea of perfect; it is about being God’s idea of perfect. And His idea of perfect is someone who loves Him with their whole selves, is willing to be obedient in all places and times, and gladly serves wherever called.
The greatest fortune that man can possess
Is not vast wisdom or full treasure chests
But a precious gift, so great to behold
A wonderful, loving, heart of pure gold
I need to accept myself for the faulty woman that I am, and trust that, with some divine intervention, it will be good enough. When you have God on your side, no one can stand against you - not even yourself.
I am so glad true success doesn’t depend on intelligence, artistic skill, wealth, or other worldly measures of worth. I am so glad it depends on that strange and intangible part of ourselves that ties us to the eternities. God measures success by the condition of our souls. We just have to make sure our souls are in the right place; close enough for Him to reach them.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Quarter Life Crisis
I have written three blog posts in the last few days and have deleted them all. I simply can't find the words to describe how I am feeling right now. My life is a confusing conglomeration of stress, happiness, fun, school, and complete exhaustion. I feel like Ramonovich from Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment - except I haven't killed anyone.
Somehow, I feel like I am always doing something wrong. Like I didn't make Josephine happy enough, or I didn't make a good enough dinner, or if I was smart then I would get 100% on every physics test, or my haircut is bad. Just dumb random things I know aren't true, but I can't help thinking.
I feel like I am floating along in an ocean of "human debris" without any direction or any real accomplishments. I am 21 years old, about to graduate, with a husband, a baby, and a future that is like looking into the blur on a very foggy day.
My bishop made a very interesting comment about me the other day. He said, "Your whole life is looking outward, focusing on that little baby in your arms, and focusing on your husband's doctorate programs, and focusing on making everyone else happy. Sometimes it is good to just focus on yourself for a few minutes."
Well, I tried this, and I think that is my problem. I have no idea what the hoozle I am doing. I am a million different things smashed together in a mess of ME. Does anyone else ever feel this way? Or does everyone else in the world know exactly who they are, exactly where they are going, and exactly what they want?
Sometimes I wish it was as simple as "My name is Kayleen Barlow, I am 21, I am a mother, a wife, a writer, and a nutcase." But it isn't that clear. I think probably because I won't let it be. I don't want to be just this or that. I want to be everything. I want to be a dancer on the Pennsylvania Ballet Company, I want to be a Pulitzer Prize winner, I want to be a renowned physicist, I want to be a pastry chef, and I want to be the best mom that ever lived.
The only thing is that I am not any of these things. I am an average dancer, a mediocre writer, horrible at physics, killer of anything pastry, and a mom who makes a thousand mistakes every day. Sometimes I scream out "Why can't I be perfect?" Then I collapse in tears on the bed, bury myself under all our pillows, and feel sorry for my lack of awesomeness. I usually fall asleep after about 20 minutes.
When I wake up, Jordan has made me pancakes, done the dishes, made Jo a giggle apparatus and gives me a hug. Jo smiles so big her eyes squint when she sees me and I can't help but squeeze her till she squeaks.
It is nice to know that I am loved, even if I am severely deficient. I have to remind myself that it is okay if I can't do everything and be everything. Because who I am must be good enough if I am so lucky as to have Jordan and so blessed to have my Jo. It is good to be loved - it makes me feel like so much more than I really am.
I am definitely not perfect, and I am always amazed at Jordan's patience with me, but I know that no matter who I am, or what I do, I have a home.
It is a wonderful thing to know that I will always be loved - it is like wearing a ray of sunshine in the middle of a winter storm.
So I am suffering a quarter life crisis. But I have an anchor that is holding me together in the midst of crashing waves and confusing signals. That anchor is God's love and his plan for me. Hopefully it will eventually lead me in the right direction. We all know I am definitely not qualified to be captain. I just need the faith to keep on going wherever he leads me - even if that is to the primary.
It is good to know he is always by my side. I would be totally lost without Him.
Somehow, I feel like I am always doing something wrong. Like I didn't make Josephine happy enough, or I didn't make a good enough dinner, or if I was smart then I would get 100% on every physics test, or my haircut is bad. Just dumb random things I know aren't true, but I can't help thinking.
I feel like I am floating along in an ocean of "human debris" without any direction or any real accomplishments. I am 21 years old, about to graduate, with a husband, a baby, and a future that is like looking into the blur on a very foggy day.
My bishop made a very interesting comment about me the other day. He said, "Your whole life is looking outward, focusing on that little baby in your arms, and focusing on your husband's doctorate programs, and focusing on making everyone else happy. Sometimes it is good to just focus on yourself for a few minutes."
Well, I tried this, and I think that is my problem. I have no idea what the hoozle I am doing. I am a million different things smashed together in a mess of ME. Does anyone else ever feel this way? Or does everyone else in the world know exactly who they are, exactly where they are going, and exactly what they want?
Sometimes I wish it was as simple as "My name is Kayleen Barlow, I am 21, I am a mother, a wife, a writer, and a nutcase." But it isn't that clear. I think probably because I won't let it be. I don't want to be just this or that. I want to be everything. I want to be a dancer on the Pennsylvania Ballet Company, I want to be a Pulitzer Prize winner, I want to be a renowned physicist, I want to be a pastry chef, and I want to be the best mom that ever lived.
The only thing is that I am not any of these things. I am an average dancer, a mediocre writer, horrible at physics, killer of anything pastry, and a mom who makes a thousand mistakes every day. Sometimes I scream out "Why can't I be perfect?" Then I collapse in tears on the bed, bury myself under all our pillows, and feel sorry for my lack of awesomeness. I usually fall asleep after about 20 minutes.
When I wake up, Jordan has made me pancakes, done the dishes, made Jo a giggle apparatus and gives me a hug. Jo smiles so big her eyes squint when she sees me and I can't help but squeeze her till she squeaks.
It is nice to know that I am loved, even if I am severely deficient. I have to remind myself that it is okay if I can't do everything and be everything. Because who I am must be good enough if I am so lucky as to have Jordan and so blessed to have my Jo. It is good to be loved - it makes me feel like so much more than I really am.
I am definitely not perfect, and I am always amazed at Jordan's patience with me, but I know that no matter who I am, or what I do, I have a home.
It is a wonderful thing to know that I will always be loved - it is like wearing a ray of sunshine in the middle of a winter storm.
So I am suffering a quarter life crisis. But I have an anchor that is holding me together in the midst of crashing waves and confusing signals. That anchor is God's love and his plan for me. Hopefully it will eventually lead me in the right direction. We all know I am definitely not qualified to be captain. I just need the faith to keep on going wherever he leads me - even if that is to the primary.
It is good to know he is always by my side. I would be totally lost without Him.
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