Sometimes I feel like a fraud.

When J discovered I had decided to shut down my blog for awhile, he asked "Why?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I feel overwhelmed. A little unauthentic."

"You? You're the most straightforward, brutally honest person I know."

Yeah, maybe.

Or maybe not.

It's true.

I don't/can't lie. So I haven't.

But I'm certainly not living up to my own expectations and beliefs.

It's like I have so many grandiose ideas. I have some extremely strong beliefs.

But I suck at thoroughly carrying them out. And then I just feel like a fraud.

For example, I feel quite strongly about organic, whole foods eating. More specifically, Paleo eating. But do I carry that out perfectly?

Hell no.

I like my ice cream too damn much. And my tortillas.

Sure, sure, I've bought almond milk and coconut milk ice cream. And I've even made my own. And truthfully, I actually like coconut milk ice cream more than cow's milk ice cream. But holy cow! Do you know how much that shit costs!? $6 for a dinky little container. Um, no thank you. Not with my ice cream habit. We'll go broke, because Lord knows I will never be able to give up ice cream.

And I'm okay with that.

My fridge is full of enough fruit to feed a small army, and I'm on our second fruit run this week! But my kids have recently decided to become unofficial fruitarians it seems. That's cool. I can't complain about eating fruit. But um...do you know how much organic fruit costs? Don't get me wrong, we buy a ton that is organic. Maybe even the majority most of the time. But sometimes, no. Just no. B ate THREE cartons of strawberries yesterday. Strawberries ain't in season, sister. Those were for sure full of pesticides because I cannot afford $8 a carton for organic strawberries right now. Just isn't going to happen. If I was only buying one carton a week, yeah, probably. But when I'm buying more than 5 a week right now. Nope.

We don't have much "processed" food in our house, for sure. My kids think Lara Bars are candy bars (they're not organic!). But yeah, we have mayo and mustard and ketchup. We have a box of gluten-free graham crackers and two packages of gluten-free pasta. As well as a few cans of veggie soup and a loaf of GF bread and tortillas. And ice-cream. Of course, we have ice cream.

And maybe that's not really so bad, I don't know. I mean, we don't have crackers and granola bars and pudding packs and hamburger helper or other instant meals. But it's still processed. It's still here. We still eat it. And I still don't believe in it. So...? Unauthentic? I think so.

And don't even get me started on fast food. I'm pretty sure it's created by the devil. Just thinking about it gives me the willies. And yet I feed my kids a Wendy's hamburger for dinner every time we go to the children's museum (2-3x a MONTH) because I can pack a lunch, but dude, I don't have the patience to lug dinner around, too.

They get a Starbucks every. single. week. Seriously. Every Wednesday at story time they get a pizza pretzel and I get a cup o' sugar death, a.k.a. "a coffee-like drink."

And that's just food!

You want to talk parenting?

Hold on to your chonies, this might be a doozie.

I believe in peaceful and gentle parenting. Maybe to a vice. I believe in non-punitive parenting without a doubt.

But I have smacked my children in moments I'm not proud of. H was much younger, it happened twice, it has been nearly two years since those moments. B was this month. :-/ He bit his sister so hard on the back there was blood pouring out. It was a completely inappropriate response. It was fueled by a lot of terrible memories of being harmed by my siblings as a kid and no one even pretending to care. But it was not okay. I smacked his little bum before attending to his injured sister. It was wrong. I should have paid him no attention. I should have cared for H. When she was better, I should have talked to B about what had happened. Woulda, shoulda, coulda. I handled it wrong. It was not gentle, it was not peaceful. In fact, it was a harmful as I could have handled such a situation. But I did it anyway. Without thinking. I reacted.

Truth is, I rarely yell. But that doesn't mean I'm always kind or gentle. Sometimes I get snappy. Sometimes when they're fighting I tell them I don't care, I just want them to stop. Not okay. Not appropriate. Not gentle or thoughtful or respectful. But I do it. I'm not proud.

I don't believe in bribes, threats, or punishments. But that doesn't mean I haven't used them

Sometimes, when it's time for us to leave someplace, and I can tell it's going to be a struggle, I will say something like, "Oh, it's time to leave. If we hurry we'll have time to stop by and pick up a donut." Maybe not an outright bribe like, "If you do x, I'll give you y." But it's there. The implication is obvious.

When my patience is spent I sometimes tell H that if she cannot listen, speak kindly, etc., she can play alone in her room. Threat/punishment? I think so.

We are co-sleepers. Not 100% by choice, but it's where we are at, and have been since the birth of number 1. Mostly, I enjoy it actually. Except when they both have to sandwich me to point of suffocation and I get stuck in an uncomfortable position, but it's after 4am and I know I risk waking B up for good if I move, and I have to gamble if it's worth it.

I love waking up to those two babes every morning. I really and truly do. But I still put them in their own beds each night at bedtime. I still pray that they will sleep through the night and I will wake up before them, and with each of them in their own beds. I would love to go to bed myself at night, and not immediately hear the pitter-patter of little feet coming to join us on cue. Mostly because I'd like to have sex in actual bed for a change. Just sayin'.

But to admit that I want them to sleep on their own makes me feel like I'm admitting something terrible. Like I want them to walk over thorns and slay a dastardly dragon, all while playing the harmonica, just so I can get some bedroom action in the bedroom. And I want to say, "No, it's obviously not like that at all." But it is. A little bit.

I talk a lot about self-love, especially with your body. I didn't have fantastic role models who loved their bodies growing up. I didn't even know it was okay for me to love my body until I was pregnant with H and just couldn't make myself not love it.

And I do love it. Like really and truly. I love the map of stretchmarks on my tummy, hips, and thighs. I love my beefy, muscular, strong legs and thighs. I love my bushy eyebrows and the way my tummy has always been round and poochy - it's never been flat. I've even learned to love and embrace my oversized tatas, even though they were never something I was encouraged to celebrate when I was younger. I don't see them as something sexual, but instead as something beautiful that have a fantastic purpose. And I'm glad they served their purpose, even if they're ginormous. I love my awesome widespread hips that made bringing babies into this world a breeze.

But...yes, there's a but. I have this small section, right below my hips that I can't stand. It's this nice hunk of rolly fat and it drives me insane. Even at my thinnest, it has always existed since puberty. I've done every single thing in the book, and then a whole lot of more crazier things to make it go away. It just won't. I will have it forever. And I don't think I can ever love it. I just can't.

But J loves me, regardless of size. In fact, he told me that he didn't realize how much thinner I am now than right before we got married. Yes, I'm a freak of nature. Almost 5 years of marriage and 2 babies later, and I'm more fit now than I was then. J just smiles and says that he doesn't care how I look - he didn't fall in love with my body. He fell in love with my magnificent brain and sometimes oversized and bleeding heart. Mostly, I think he just know the right things to say. ;-)

J and I have a picture book marriage, yeah? Yeah. We do. We don't fight or yell. We talk daily and still have sex like honeymooners. But you want to know a secret?

We've had a rough patch. A really rough patch. For like a month we hardly spoke. When we did we'd end up walking away from each other because we didn't want to fight. We were constantly annoyed with one another. I felt so broken.

We fixed it, obviously. It was the most ridiculous miscommunication issue of the world. We each had unrealistic fears, and once we put them out on the table we were able to see how silly the entire situation was. And we vowed never to hold back like that again. Because that was a very, very miserable month.

So we're not so picturesque. Not really.

I've not been quiet on my views of education. It doesn't mean I didn't try to get my daughter to do preschool long before she was even ready to be parted by my side. It doesn't mean that as she keeps pestering me about school now, I don't consider it. As much as I truly hope my children choose to be home and free to learn as they choose, a part of me loves the idea of them being off each morning and having the ability to get things done and not have to come up with a million and two ways to entertain them. And not to hear them fight. Dear Lord. As fiercely as they love each other, they sure can fight!

Granted, I'm well aware I'd only really even enjoy it for like two days. But still, I fantasize about it on occasion.

And breastfeeding. I'm obviously pro-breastfeeding. To the max. I don't think formula is evil. I don't think people who choose not to breastfeed are bad. But I do believe that breast is best and everyone should at least give it a go for the first few weeks if nothing more.

I loved breastfeeding my children. Those are sweet moments I cherish deeply, and I am so glad that a good friend of mine was able to capture some gorgeous moments on camera of me breastfeeding and tandem breastfeeding my babes at the beginning of last summer. Those photos hang on canvas in my bedroom and sometimes bring tears to my eyes. I fed my children with my body. For the first six months, they sustained on absolutely nothing but what my body created. Holy fucking shit! Can we just take a moment to acknowledge how freaking awesome that is!? And of course, they continued to breastfeed long past that.

But you know what, as much as I loved breastfeeding my children, there were days where I genuinely despised it. I had terrible nursing aversion while I was pregnant with B. I'd literally have to hold my breath and clench a blanket in my hands while H nursed sometimes because I'd want to throw her across the room to get her off of me. Of course, I was sane, and would have never done it, but the feeling was scary and powerful. I totally did not love breastfeeding during those moments.

And breastfeeding at night. Goodness. After about age 1 I didn't like nursing B at night at all. Not even remotely.

So yes. Although I can say and look back and say I freaking loved nursing my kids, and I am so insanely proud of myself for having done it - some of it sucked. Really, really sucked.

And so here I am. Mostly a fraud with amazing ideas. Trying desperately to get it right. Never quite close enough. Always grasping at straws. Falling short with Wendy's hamburgers and conventional strawberries, never obtaining quite enough patience to make it through the week without speaking too curtly. Sometimes my rose colored glasses are just a little too rose colored, and my ideas are too grandiose. and yet it doesn't keep me from trying. For pushing along, hoping that tomorrow I will do better.

Hoping that even if I'm not perfectly authentic, my children will know I worked my ass off to do better for them. I didn't settle for my own "good enough." I strove for the best for them: the best of my own abilities and capabilities.

So maybe in the end it won't be good enough, who knows? But it sure as hell will be my best. And they'll get the most authentic version of me. Because that's all I have to offer them as their momma.

And I'm not certain what will become of this blog at the moment. I enjoy writing. I love having this collection of my thoughts and my kids lives right at my fingertips. So it will likely keep going.

Because I need something that keeps me honest. Keeps me authentic.