The Time I Almost Ran Away

I wish I could say that my recent absence came about because I’ve been too busy reveling in the joys of my growing family, and if I wasn’t so compelled to tell the truth, that’s probably what I would have said. I might have told you about how much I enjoy watching Reese tell Allie what color everything is and asking her if she’ll be ready to play outside “when the snow goes away.” I might have told you about how busy I’ve been preparing for my new part-time teaching job. I might have even opened up about how difficult the transition to two children has been and how much harder it has become to juggle all of my responsibilities to my home and myself. All of these things are pieces of the truth, but they are only minor contributors compared to the real culprit.

Although it pains me to say it (or write it) out loud, the truth is that I’ve been caught in a dark place since mid-December because of a terrifying episode of postpartum depression that ripped through the center of my being in a matter of days and put my heart in a vice grip of constant panic.

I experienced some postpartum struggles after Reese was born, and I promised myself this time would be different. I spent months building a fortress of positivity around my heart and soul. Armed with self-help books, daily meditation, and relentless prayer, I truly believed I was prepared. Allie’s delivery went so smoothly, my recovery went so quickly, and we settled into our new routine so easily. Everything about our birthing experience with Allie was a stark (and pleasant) contrast to the many struggles we experienced during and after Reese’s arrival. I had every reason to believe that I had beaten it this time. After six weeks of baby bliss, I thought I was out of the woods.

I did not see this coming.

At first, I thought the tears were born out of exhaustion. I thought the frustration was a natural part of life with a toddler. I believed the panic was legitimate and the worries were real. By the time I realized what was really happening to me, I was already deeply buried in the trenches.

This was not a run-of-the-mill postpartum episode – the kind that leaves you crying over your permanent muffin top and mourning the loss of your personal freedom. Oh, no. This was a door-slamming, on-the-floor-crying, sanity-robbing hostile takeover that kept me up at wee hours of the night plotting my escape from this house, this town, this life. I was constantly distracted, always on edge, pacing the floors like a caged animal. Simple tasks overwhelmed me to tears, and I felt like I was drowning in my own life. I fought the constant urge to jump in the car and head out of town with no plans to return.

If the anxiety wasn’t bad enough in its raw form, I made it worse by wallowing in guilt and shame and allowing myself to question my love for my family as if a better wife and mother would never be in the place where I found myself.

Four days before Christmas, I overheard Reese addressing the guests at her stuffed animal tea party, “Mommy’s sad and I don’t know how to fix her.”

I had wanted to work through this on my own, and I believed my faith and my love for my family could carry me to the other side. I got through it before and I would get through it again, but not at Reese’s expense. With my white flag flying high, I made an appointment with my OB and came home with a prescription for the medication I swore I would never need.

Somewhere in the depths of the darkest emotional hole I’ve ever experienced, I found the inner strength for which I had spent so much time praying. It didn’t come in the form of a superhuman ability to defy biology and overcome a long-standing chemical imbalance. It came instead in the form of an emotional white flag and a rock-bottom willingness to accept my circumstances and receive help.

It’s been over three weeks, and I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. I knew the worst was over when we all got the flu on New Year’s Eve and I couldn’t stop laughing at Matt’s “happy new year” jokes in between trips to the bathroom.

Slowly, I’m remembering how to laugh at messes and spills and diaper blowouts. I’m playing with Reese more and fretting over the budget less. I’m learning to ignore the inner voice that makes me feel ashamed of this weakness and to listen instead to the one reassuring me that I’m still every bit as strong as I always believed.

Well, that’s the real reason I’ve been M.I.A. this month, and I chose to share the full extent of the truth because I know I’m not the only mom who has experienced this emotional cage. Even though most of us struggle through postpartum hormonal changes in some way, the voice of this part of motherhood – like many other not-so-pleasant aspects of our roles – often goes unheard. Let’s be that voice. If you’ve been there, let your story plant a seed of hope for someone else. If you’re there right now, reach out for help before your older kids start seeking counsel from their stuffed animals. And if you ever start to believe you are alone in this battle, just give me a call and I’ll tell you about the time I almost ran away from home.

Love's Not Easy, But It's Worth It

I cried as we drove to the hospital. We were headed in for a scheduled induction, but my contractions had started earlier that afternoon, and I was pretty sure I was already in labor.

{I had been hoping to avoid an induction this time around, but two days earlier my doctor - who literally saved my life the day Reese was born – told me that she had to go out of town unexpectedly over the weekend of my due date. I sat on our patio praying for peace and clarity as I tried to decide whether to schedule an induction or risk my doctor's absence. I decided on the induction, despite my desire to experience spontaneous labor. Imagine my excitement when I started having contractions the morning of our appointment. Isn’t God awesome?}

As we made the 30 minute drive to the hospital, the joy and excitement were overshadowed by anxiety and fear as I wondered how I would possibly go through all that pain and exhaustion again. I worried about a repeat occurrence of the complications I suffered last time and I questioned my ability to do it all again. Matt held my hand as we drove, reassuring me that everything would work out and reminding me of the bigger picture behind the pain. The wait is over. We’re having a baby. Today.

Thirteen hours later, our daughter was born. If I took the time to fully recapture the details of those hours and the magnificence of her entry into the world, I’m afraid you might never see the end of this post, (and given my current state of exhaustion, it is unlikely that anything I write will accurately portray such a miracle).

That night, I laid in my hospital bed surrounded by the soft glow of the moon and the light snores of my husband asleep on the couch across the room. Next to my bed, our newborn baby squirmed in her sleep.

The events of the day replayed in my mind as I relived the magic of holding, kissing, and nursing my baby girl for the first time and the memories of Reese’s newborn days. No longer minding the pain, no longer worrying about the weeks of sleep deprivation ahead, no longer wondering if I can handle this, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes to join my husband and my daughter in peaceful sleep.

Ignoring the IV needle in my wrist, the cramps in my back and abdomen, and the stitches that hindered even the slightest change in position, I pressed the “play” button on my ipod, turned the setting to “random,” and let the tears of joy and gratitude flow onto the pillow as Francesca Battistelli began singing in my ear…. 

Love’s not a feeling

Love’s not convenient

But I know love will change your life

Love takes sacrifice

Love cuts like a knife

Sometimes love will make you cry

Love’s not easy

But it’s worth it…

Allie Marie
October 26, 2012 @ 1:01pm. 

8 lbs. 20 in.

Welcome to the world, Sweet Baby Girl.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Alita's place.

Lessons from a Broken Bone

I caught my oldest brother (who is both single and childless) eyeing my stomach from across the room, “What?” 

“So, pretty soon you’ll have two kids.” He said it as if no one had ever explained to him how this process works.

“Yeah… and?”

“Isn’t that gonna be a huge pain in the ass?”

Although he said it jokingly and I laughed out loud at the time, that really is one of my concerns. I don’t exactly voice it in those words, but I often think about how I will adjust to the added demands of a second child. Every day I have at least one moment where I wonder how this is all going to work. I have gone from being consistently punctual to chronically late; I have to sit and take a deep breath at least once a day; and I can barely function after 9:00pm. And I only have one kid!

Today I had one of those mornings. Everywhere I looked, another task begged for my attention and I couldn’t seem to make a dent in my mental to-do list. I bounced back and forth between my roles on the toddler entertainment committee and the cleaning crew, and I kept trying to picture a newborn in the mix. Maybe my brother had a point.

Just before lunch, Reese was playing on our bed while I separated laundry. I didn’t see her fall, but I heard the thud as her body hit the bedroom floor. I rushed to her side, trying to determine what was hurt. She pointed to her shoulder. I scooped her up and comforted her while I waited for the tears to stop. They didn’t.

I laid her on the bed and ask her to raise her arms. She only raised the right one. I asked if I could take her shirt off and she refused. From what I could see, nothing looked abnormal. There were no lumps, no swelling, and even though I felt like an overly paranoid parent, I decided to take her to Prompt Care anyway. I threw on a hat and a pair of flip flops, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out the door in my pajamas.

On the way I called Matt at work and he wanted to meet us there. Great. Now we’re both overly paranoid. When we got there, the doctor wanted to do x-rays. Standard procedure. Or maybe he’s an overly paranoid doctor. I was surprisingly calm the whole time because I kept waiting to hear, “It’s nothing. Go home, put some ice on it, and wait for the bill for this unnecessary visit.”

That’s not quite what he said.

Fractured collarbone. Brace. Sling. Pain meds. Orthopedic referral.

We brought her home and took turns sitting with her on the couch while she watched re-runs of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and snacked on grapes and cheese crackers. The remainder of our afternoon and evening revolved around her. We ordered a pizza for dinner and Matt got displaced to the guest room so Reese and I could sleep in our bed.

As I sit here typing in bed with the computer on my lap and a sleeping toddler at my side, there is a wet load of laundry still in the washer, a dried piece of green Play-doh ground into my living room rug, and a puddle of spilled salsa drying on the bottom of my refrigerator. The messes that somehow seemed so dire 12 hours ago suddenly don’t matter at all. My mental to-do list now contains only one item, take care of Reese. Everything else has either been completely forgotten or termed unnecessary.

I would have guessed that a situation like this might worsen my concerns about having another child. Instead, it eased them - totally. Reese has never had an injury or an illness worse than a cold, and I had forgotten the ease with which this mode of motherhood takes over – the mode that gives us added strength and patience, that blinds us to the rest of life’s demands, that lowers our standards for the condition of our homes and the frequency of our showers, that carries us from moment to moment without a single priority beyond loving and nurturing the children who need us.

That's how a newborn enters the mix. That's how we accept the responsibility of dressing an extra body and feeding an extra mouth. That's how we deal with a child who has the flu or a fractured collarbone. To people who aren't ready for children, I suppose it would seem like a huge pain in the ass. But to the women who already have them, it's life. It's motherhood. And we wouldn't have it any other way. 

My Only Sunshine

My day with Reese always ends with bedtime snuggles. I crawl into her big girl bed and lie beside her, rubbing her back and running my fingers through her hair. We read a book or two and she says her prayers and then I lay my head down on her pillow. She turns her face toward mine and we sing, our voices barely above a whisper:

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. 

You make me happy when skies are gray.
You'll never know, Dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away."

I usually leave with a smile. 

She is my only sunshine…

But lately I leave with a tear.

…for just eight more weeks.

Sometimes the tears come before I even to the last line.

Please don't take my sunshine away.

People often ask me how I think Reese will adjust to the baby - if she will struggle or get jealous. No one has ever asked about my adjustment, my struggle, my... jealousy? Is that what this is?

These are thoughts I haven’t voiced, emotions I haven’t shared.

Because I wonder, Am I crazy? Is this normal?

But the truth? The truth is a part of me is already mourning the impending loss of my only sunshine. For two years she has consumed my days, my life, my heart. I don’t want to divide my attention, split my focus, share my time. Our precious little moments suddenly seem so limited. I keep thinking about how much I’m going to miss her. It’s as if I forget that she isn’t going anywhere.

Still, I can’t help wondering how our relationship will change. Will we ever be the same again? Will we still have those just-you-and-me moments that I enjoy so much? Will I be able to divide my affection, time, and attention equally? Is there even room in my heart for another love like this? Can I possibly have two sunshines?

Then I look at my husband – my original sunshine. I remember how I experienced these same emotions about him before Reese was born. With just a few weeks to go, I cried on his shoulder as I thought about how much I would miss the alone time we had so recently learned to cherish. I couldn’t help wondering how our relationship would change. Would we ever be the same again?

The minute she was born I knew the answer. No, we would never be the same again, but we would never wish to be the same. Filling a void in our hearts we didn’t know we had, she made our family more complete and deepened our love on every level.

 When I lie next to Reese at night and the sadness starts to take hold, I have to remind myself that I won’t ever have to make room for another sunshine. I will always have just one. My family is my sunshine, my only sunshine. And rather than taking my sunshine away, each new addition will brighten its rays, further completing the circle of my life, and I will never wish to be the same again.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Join us today at Melissa's place.

Five Things Every New Mom Should Know

I am at an age where all  of my friends are becoming moms. If they don't have kids already, then they're pregnant or trying to get pregnant. With my friends who do have children, we talk a lot about all the things no one tells you before you have a baby (like how awful the recovery process can be, how much it hurts to start nursing, or how guilty you feel for enjoying your alone time). Everyone talks about the love and the joys and the fun, and of course those things are amazing, but there are a lot of struggles and challenges and tears, and those things are normal too. Of course, there are a lot of things you can only appreciate by experiencing them, so it won't help anyone to hear about how painful contractions are or what sleep deprivation feels like. So when I say, "There's so much no one tells you," I'm mostly referring to the things that would have actually made a difference in the way I started this journey. My actual list is quite extensive, but here are the top five:  

5. Maternal instinct is real. I was so nervous about knowing what to do when Reese was born. I had never breastfed, bathed, or changed a newborn baby. Will I even know what to do?  How will I know if something’s wrong with her? How will I handle extended bought of unexplained screaming? Looking back, I wish I would have spent a little more time enjoying the anticipation of becoming a mom and a little less time worrying about it and preparing myself for every aspect of it. So much of motherhood really is instinctual, and I am still amazed by how much I “just know” about Reese. So go ahead – put the books down. You already have all the skills you need to be a great mom.   

4. Don’t drive yourself crazy trying to do everything right. When I first had Reese, there were so many things I tried to research – like the best toys, when to start solid food, how to discipline, and the list goes on. But the more research I did, the more confused I was. Every book, website, doctor, and parent will tell you something completely different. Not that you should disregard every piece of advice, but just listen to it knowing that nobody knows your baby and your family better than you. So try not to worry about giving your kid attachment, digestive, or social issues because you let her sleep in your bed or started solid food too late or waited too long to start preschool. There’s conflicting evidence about everything. Just do your best to do what you know is right for your unique baby, and don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. Listen to those maternal instincts and, again, put down the books.
 

3. It’s okay to have moments of misery. After Reese was born, there were days (lots of days) where I was absolutely miserable. The aftermath of childbirth, the first few weeks of breastfeeding, and the sleepless nights were some of greatest physical challenges I’ve ever experienced. I remember standing in the kitchen with my head on the counter promising myself that I will never do this again. There were days in the early stages of breastfeeding where I would cry just thinking about her next feeding. In those challenging moments, I remember wondering if there was something wrong with me. I thought I was supposed to be overcome with unwavering happiness, which only added emotional guilt to the physical misery. I never understood why we’re not supposed to talk about this part of motherhood. I don’t say it to be negative or to scare unsuspecting moms-to-be. I say it so you know that you’re not alone in those dark moments.

2. Life doesn't go "back to normal." When Reese was about 6 months old, I went through a small period of minor depression. I thought, “It’s been 6 months. Why don’t I feel back to normal? Shouldn’t I be adjusted to this role by now?” I waited for my body and my marriage and my daily routine to get back to what I had always defined as my “normal” life. When they didn’t, I thought something was wrong with my ability to cope with motherhood. I knew that babies turned your world upside down, but I always thought that eventually the dust settles, your body heals, you make the necessary adjustments and then everything feels normal again. Clearly, I was wrong. It’s not about waiting for the dust to settle. It’s about learning to stand on your head and accept your upside down world as your new “normal life.” 

1. The greatest self-improvement tool in the world is growing inside you. After I had Reese, I realized that I have both an amazing opportunity and challenging mission ahead of me. There are so many values I want to instill in her so she can become the best possible version of herself, but I can’t give her what I don’t have, which means that I owe it to her to become the best possible version of myself first. I decided to work on really get in touch with who I am and address the parts of my life and my personality that need improvement. I’ve learned more about myself and my purpose in the past 15 months than I did in every other stage of my life combined. One of the many things I’ve learned is that personal growth doesn’t happen automatically. Self-improvement is a choice. We all have room for it and we owe it to our children to capitalize on the opportunity to seek it.

That’s it. Those are the 5 things I wish I knew before I became a mom. I hope all of you who are expecting moms, new moms, and future moms are reminded that everything you feel is normal; that you’re never alone in your struggles; that no one has all the right answers but we’re all doing our best; and that every day is an opportunity to celebrate the good times, learn from the bad times, and grow into our best selves so we can provide our children with the skills, support, and encouragement to do the same.