Intimacy, Living, motherhood, parenting

Making Whoopee

In the middle of the pain-induced delirium of my first labor, I turned to my husband and said, “How can something that is so much fun lead to so much pain?” We laughed: at the absurdity of the situation; at the fact that I could still joke in between contractions; at the ultimate truth of the statement.

And little did I know that as we pressed forward into parenthood, that statement would stretch and morph to encompass so much more.

When we returned home with our infant, my husband and I camped out on the couch passing the baby between us. They fell into dreamland while I fell into the throes of a fever, my milk coming in with a vengeance. I didn’t know why I had the chills, why I couldn’t lift my arms higher than my shoulders without hurting, why my baby wouldn’t latch on . . . I just watched my husband sleeping peacefully, the baby nestled on his chest, and shook with wracking sobs, realizing that the one I needed most couldn’t comfort me because some other little thing needed him even more than I did.

When we added a second child to the mix, the house was never quiet enough, the baby never had uninterrupted sleep, our nearly-three year-old never caught a break. The pained look on her face when one of my tirades went a little too long and a little too loud broke my heart – because I was afraid I had broken hers.

Baby Number Three ushered in a matrix of physical and emotional pain unimaginable. It took me months to figure out what the hell was going on and years to fix it (or work on it – I’ll let you know when I’m done).

Then there’s the toll parenthood takes on the bond between husband and wife, or ‘Mom and Dad,’ as it seems you will now forever be known as. In the beginning, doing the act that landed you in this predicament in the first place does not seem appealing at all; never mind the doctor’s estimation that you will be back to ‘normal’ in six weeks, ludicrous.

In fact, I used my pregnancies as warnings to others. When I overheard two of my twelve year-old students discussing sex, I piped up, “I hope you’re not thinking of becoming sexually active,” at which their pretty little jaws hit the floor. I went on, from my perpetual position behind my desk because I was too tired to stand, “Because you don’t want to end up like me. I’m married and it’s hard enough.” At a wedding shower about a month before the due date of my second-born, I told the bride not to break any of the ribbons from her presents. Circling my belly with a pointed finger, I said, “This is what happens when you break a ribbon.”

But that weird mind-blanking trick that humankind’s desire to procreate does to our memories soon kicks in, allowing you to forget the (seriously) gut-wrenching pain and remember the joy of intimacy again. That is, when time and circumstance allow. When you’re alone. When the kids are sleeping in their own beds. When you’re not so exhausted you fall asleep before your head hits the pillow. When you can think like man and woman and not Mom and Dad.

Just last week, as my husband reached for me, brushing my arm in the process, I cried out, “Ow, watch out for my boo-boo!” Nothing like the mention of a decidedly kid-term to ruin the moment. Even when they’re not there, they’re there. But, all parents somehow find a way around such dilemmas. You lock the door. You find a way to connect without hurting the various wounds you’re nursing. And you learn to have fun.

When we were invited to a party at our newlywed friends’ place, we decided to bring whoopee pies for dessert. We thought they fit well with the southern menu of pulled BBQ, cole slaw, and corn bread, but also that they were somehow apropos for newlyweds. Wink, wink. Then the girls, who love anything sweet, wanted to help prepare them. I couldn’t help but see the irony as I watched them. Here, in living color, devouring what was left of the frosting, were the literal fruits of my labor.

That’s what you get when you make whoopee. Three gorgeous girls.

It’s been a long road since the first pangs of labor, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I wouldn’t do it with anyone other than my husband. (Wink, wink).

anxiety, motherhood, parenting, Recovery

Escape Artist

It being close to St. Patrick’s Day, I’m going to invoke Murphy’s Law: all that will go wrong, shall – especially if you speak to the opposite.

Just last week, I was telling my father that I always thought Angela, two and a half, would behave just as Julia, now four, did when she was that age. And how, surprisingly enough, she wasn’t. That what I thought was ‘terrible two’ behavior was in fact, Julia’s unique disposition.

Julia was by no means a terrible toddler. The second born, she was accustomed to following her big sister around (see previous post on how I dragged her to the library as an infant). Going places and doing things made her more gregarious and more kinesthetic. Plus, she needed an easy-going nature in order to survive toys being perpetually shoved in her face or being startled out of a sound sleep without posttraumatic stress disorder. Unfortunately, easy-going was also her attitude towards rules and directions.

Crossing the street a danger? Nah. I can run at full-tilt with my eyes closed. Wait for Mommy? Nah. The world is a safe place. Stay dressed in the outerwear Mom turned herself inside out to get me into? Optional. I’ll just run fast enough to stay warm.

Julia entered this phase of independence and autonomy just as I entered an unexpected phase of disability. In the latter days and weeks of my pregnancy and during labor, I suffered what is medically referred to as pubic symphysis diastasis. In laymen’s (or women’s) terms, it hurt like hell. The muscles in my pelvis had stretched just enough that I could not sit up in bed or get out of it without excruciating pain. I had to sidestep the stairs one at a time. I had to bend to the floor to slide my pant legs up.

While my pain and limited mobility were very real, to everyone else I was a young woman shuffling like some sort of invalid with no reason at all. I imagined them thinking, “What, does she think she’s the first woman to have ever given birth? Women in some parts of the world go back to working the fields the very same day!” In fact, many of the nurses in the hospital thought this birth was my first when they saw me lolling about the room – until they heard my diagnosis.

Unfortunately, pubic symphysis diastasis is not something that rolls off the tongue, nor something you want to share with the ladies at preschool pick-up; a fact which made one pick-up in particularly very interesting. Bella, the preschooler at the time, was due to return from a field trip. The time stretched and stretched as myself and two other mothers with small children waited, the little ones growing more and more antsy. They edged closer and closer to the corner of the building, then toward the rusted metal bike rack that looked infinitely interesting amidst the sea of concrete, then into the wide open expanse of the school yard on the far side of the building. One of the other mothers engaged her son in a game of tag designed to lure Julia back towards us, he being more compliant than my child. She played along for a few minutes, then made a break for freedom, shooting across the play yard toward the driveway and street beyond. My heart leapt to my throat as I weighed my options. Yell to her? Abandon her baby sister by the door and chase after her? My hesitation gave her a healthy head start, after which I shuffled like a decrepit zombie across the pavement, waiting to watch in slow motion as she was squished like a bug by a passing car. Luckily, the other mothers, despite no prior knowledge of my condition, took pity on me and ran to her aid. We only knew each other in the hellos and goodbyes of the previous weeks, but they rallied to the universal crisis call of motherhood and helped me. Thank God.

We returned to the door to resume our wait, me clutching Julia fiercely and muttering something about, “Wonder what my physical therapist would say about that?” to somehow excuse my absolute ineptitude at chasing after my daughter. Angela lay sleeping in her infant carrier right where I had left her, totally oblivious to the melee.

So, perhaps you’ll understand my concern when another year of preschool drop-offs and pick-ups – this time Julia’s – rolled around. I think I was the one with posttraumatic stress. I dreaded that Angela, now that magic number, would put me through the same paces Julia had. As the year progressed, I started to think that it was still Julia who was the difficult one; the one who channeled Goldilocks when it was time to choose shoes; the one who ripped out her perfectly parted ponytails mere seconds before it was time to go; the one who refused to even step out the door. Angela seemed easy in comparison.

Enter Murphy’s Law. Mere days after my proclamation to my father, Miss Angela entered the dreaded phase. Pulling into the driveway and springing the kids so they could run about in the yard while I unloaded, Angela disappeared. Julia hadn’t left the grass of the front yard, but Angela had wandered off somewhere. I finally found her standing in my neighbor’s backyard, grinning. A few days later in said neighbor’s backyard, while her sisters played with the girls, Angela moved out to their driveway to take their tricycle for a spin. I watched her over the gate. When I turned to say something to my neighbor and then back, she was gone. I heard Julia calling for me, and found her chasing her sister and the trike down the street. And just this morning, as I trucked groceries from the trunk to the kitchen, Angela followed along – until I stopped to yell at a squirrel to stop digging up my fledgling garden. At the end of my tirade, I sensed her absence and hurried to the front yard – to find her strolling down the street, hands in pockets. I called to her as I approached, at which she laughed and broke into a run. I’m still out of shape, but at least this time, I was able to catch my escapee.

So, lessons learned. Never let your kids get a running start – regardless of your level of disability. Never peg one child as the challenging one – another one will step up to prove you wrong. Never accept any platitude about parenting – circumstances will change the very next day.

anxiety, Literacy, motherhood, parenting

Story Time

It’s a good thing I believe in the power of reading – because if I didn’t, there’s no way I’d take my kids to the library. Time after time, it proves to be a taxing experience – one I’m not sure is balanced by the benefits of the books we obtain.

The kids, however, love it. So much, in fact, that they burst through the doors like an invading army, one running this way, one the other. Unfortunately, the front doors deposit us right into the “quiet” section of the library. While I try to corral them towards the book drop, they dodge and weave, this last time with Julia lighting upon the stack of rolling bins “just like the ones at the grocery store, Mama” to tote books around in – even though I can’t get her to carry our tote bag.

After numerous shushes on the way to the reserves where Mommy’s book is waiting, it’s time to commandeer the children’s section. They rush to the stairs with renewed vigor, Angela’s voice reverberating through all the levels as we ascend.

They do comment on a few books on display en route to the play area, Julia picking one on various modes of transportation throughout the ages. Story time must have just ended because there are many little people and their parents hovering about. Julia and Angela dive into the crowd, playing with the puppet theatre and puzzles; making friends more easily than I. Julia sits on a low-slung kid couch near another mother and starts a conversation with the Tyrannosaurus she’s operating. Angela giggles at the parrot another mother has squawking. I smile and mill about. These two must already know each other because a few minutes later, I can’t help but overhear one relay the story of her husband’s possible adultery to other. One father with a preschooler and an infant looks up in surprise when he sees his baby smiling through a gap in a bookshelf, playing peek-a-boo with me – maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself either. A grandmother plops in a chair after depositing her toddler into the play area, looking worn out. I want to tell her I feel her pain.

Today, as with nearly every visit here, I’m having flashbacks to when Julia was an infant. So exhausted as a new mother, yet determined to keep my active two and a half year-old busy, I would strap Julia to the front of me and take Bella to story-time. I think I was trying a passive-aggressive attempt at keeping some semblance of pre-baby # 2. I figured if I couldn’t sleep when she slept and lie around all day in my pajamas, I may as well be out and about to distract myself from my misery. I’m still not sure which was worse: a mom who could hustle around two of them, her harried mania bubbling just below the surface, or a mom drooling in delirium with a stir-crazy kid. I was so desperate to latch on to something, I rushed the kids to story time without realizing there is an etiquette to such events. I was lucky enough to attend the first meeting of a new session, at which there would be arts and crafts and for which advanced registration was required. The most dour-looking librarian of the staff came over to me with her clipboard, pointing to my daughter, and asked, “And who might this be?” After introductions, she said, “Ok, I’ll add her to the list for next time as she’s not signed up.” I stammered some statement/question about pre-registration and she assured me it was fine; she had extra materials for the craft. She had moved on to the next child, who was on her list, before I could thank her. We went home with our contraband craft and never returned.

I guess I’m not much of a joiner. One of the things I love about reading is getting lost in one’s own little world, a world that changes from chapter to chapter, book to book. The solitary, quiet joy of it. Although, I do love sharing and discussing the juicy details of a book I’ve just finished with someone else. It has to be someone I know will enjoy it equally though. Someone who loves a good story for the pure, unadulterated joy of it; the thrill of figuring out a mystery; the ache of a loss as if it were your own. Not someone who will rebuff me because I wasn’t playing by a set of rules I didn’t even know existed.

I still take my kids to the library. Though I’d much rather get my books and run, I let them say hello to the fish in the aquarium; put together puzzles that are missing a few pieces; pluck books from the shelf not by their merit, but because they’re at eye-level. I let them scan the books at the self-check station even though their squeals as they push each other off the stool they’re sharing make me cringe – never mind the other patrons. I take them to the library because they need to create their own experiences in the world of reading. I can’t force them to operate under a set of rules made by someone else; they need to be afforded the same opportunities as those kids whose names are on the list.

Plus, it always makes for a really good story.

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Same $*@#, Different Day

There are times when I wake up in the morning and don’t know what day it is. It takes my mind a minute to focus and remember. I can blame a lot of this on lack of sleep. My body feeling like its packed inside a bag of cotton balls, it’s no wonder my head is foggy. But I think most of it has to do with the repetitive nature of my days.

Don’t get me wrong – I love routines. I actually get a bit batty without them. Anxious people like me do not like the unexpected (except surprise gifts on Mother’s Day – much to my husband’s chagrin). I’m much better at fitting everything in if I have a set list of objectives and time frames within which to do them.

I’m thinking you can wear routines out though. Without variety, you ain’t got no spice, right? And life right now is looking pretty bland. It’s the first week off winter vacation. The weather’s cold, actually wet and snowy for once this year, the kids (and I) struggling to get back into the groove of wake-ups, waffle-making, lunch-packing, teeth-brushing, coat-wrestling, out-the-door running.

This morning, Thursday, I woke up saying, Thank God I don’t have to go anywhere besides drop-off and pick-up. Four days into the week, I’m already so beat-down, I could barely crawl into my sweats.

I suppose I could approach this the way Bill Murray did in Groundhog Day, righting all the wrongs the second, third, fourth time around. I could go to bed earlier tonight so I wake up somewhat refreshed. I could make Bella’s lunch after dinner so I don’t have to scramble in the morning. I could plan something new and different for tomorrow to break the monotony. But in real life, unlike the movies, we don’t always get the moral of the story.

Sometimes we get so worn down in our ruts that we can’t see up over the rim. And we wake up in the morning to the same day, essentially, because we’re dealing with the same shit.

But I’m thinking maybe this is nature’s way of getting us to embrace change. We get so sick of ourselves and the monotony that we’re thrown off the track and forced to forge a new one.

It’s times like this that I find the pages in my cookbooks that aren’t yet dog-eared. I purge all that clothing I’ve been meaning to give to good will. I seek out friends that I’ve been meaning to make plans with. I try some long-forgotten yoga pose. I stretch muscles I’d forgotten I had.

All of life is cyclical. Like the tides and the lunar cycle, today and its attendant shit are bound to come around again. But in between, there will be moments of shock and awe and the sublime. I’ll just have to remember not to get caught out too far when the tide comes back in.

So I’m sure I’ll find something exciting to get me through this low point. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and remember what day it is. Until then, you’ll have to excuse me, I have another load of laundry to do.

postpartum depression, Recovery

No Salt in this Wound

There really is no point to a saltine – except for the salt, of course.

For some reason, as many other kids, I loved them when I was little. I think it had more to do with trying to stand it upright in between my top and bottom teeth or shoving it in my mouth in one bite rather than any great gastronomic pleasure. I didn’t return to them until I carried whole sleeves of them around with me during my bouts of morning sickness three times over. That’s the telltale sign of a pregnancy, isn’t it? The white, crinkly cellophane pulled open at the seam, the stack of perfectly pointed squares cascading out into the open, and hopefully, into your belly to quell the ravaging beast that threatens to ruin every waking moment – not just those in the morning. A friend’s mother says that she hasn’t touched a saltine since her pregnancy over thirty years ago. I can’t say I blame her. It is not a pleasant connotation when that’s your last memory.

So, imagine my surprise, when I found myself chowing down on them as I rushed to an appointment in the car. So light and insubstantial, I was flying through the sleeve with reckless abandon – actually just savoring the salt and waiting for some sort of gratification from the mush that the enriched flour had turned to in my mouth. I had bought them for the kids, but running late and low on fuel, I needed a quick and easy – if not satisfying – snack.

After I’d downed a quarter of the sleeve, the sharp bite of the salt searing into my tongue, I realized what I was doing. I was eating saltines! After a miserable last pregnancy, I avoided at any costs anything that reminded me of those memories that made me shudder. I gave away all my maternity clothes with great aplomb. I threw out the sitz baths and lanolin left in the house. A wicked pack rat, I even sorted through and shredded all paperwork from the hospital. Saltines fell into this category. I didn’t fling them out my window, a crazed cracker hail sending birds flying, I just didn’t even think of pulling a box off the grocery store shelf.

In one conversation with my therapist in that first year of recovery, I explained how I felt as if I were grieving a death. I marked each familiar date, each holiday, each anniversary of some hard memory – noting it, like the rung of a ladder I had to climb to get up and out of this hole. ‘Okay, I’ve made it past that one,’ I’d say. I’d survive one set of negative memories at a time and start to wipe them away with new ones.

It wasn’t easy and I knew I wasn’t suffering the same grief as someone who had actually lost a loved one, but, as my therapist so astutely pointed out, I was suffering a loss – the death of my life as I had known it. Things were totally – in some ways, irrevocably – different. It was time to move forward with the positive and with this new knowledge and see what would happen. Life certainly wasn’t over – it was just different.

As was the action of eating a saltine. I wasn’t a kid crushing one into my mouth as I cavorted on the beach with my parents. I wasn’t a desperately nauseous woman at the mercy of her upset stomach (and those damn hormones). I was an adaptable survivor who could do simple tasks again without the crippling connotations once associated with them.

Saltines have never tasted so good.

motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression

My Lifesaver

“I save you.”

My two-year-old daughter said this to me one morning as I dressed her. She reached up from the changing table and grasped my arm, hugging me to her.

“You save me?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, a smile lighting her sweet little face.

She’s been playing games of chase, tag, and intrigue with her older sisters, which is no doubt where this line came from, as they ran from imagined assailants. But these three small words held a much deeper meaning for me.

If it weren’t for Angela’s love – and my love for Angela – I might not have survived the three years that have elapsed since the news of her coming.

I read recently that humans have an evolutionary predisposition to always think the worst. If we did not anticipate danger, we would get eaten by the wooly mammoth hanging around the corner. If we didn’t worry constantly about starvation, we wouldn’t feel compelled to gather berries for the coming winter. If it were always sunshine and roses, the species as we know it would not exist.

However, in the modern age, where thankfully we do not have to parry with wooly mammoth, this predisposition makes living a life of gratitude really hard. Being genetically wired to pay attention to the negative, the positives of our life fade into the background without a concerted effort on our part.

And, sadly, I can say that I let that happen throughout my pregnancy and postpartum with Angela. Letting the blessing of a child be outweighed by the unexpected timing of it. Letting myself be buried by the drudgery of day-to-day rather than being uplifted by the wonder in her eyes. Letting myself founder instead of accepting the help I needed.

There were times when I could pull those positives back into the foreground. Little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Sitting in the living room, surrounded by my husband and the girls. Watching the three of them splash in the bathtub. I even started a gratitude journal as a concrete reminder of the blessings all around me on a daily basis, especially helpful on those days when the clouds made it impossible to see them.

It was through the filter of Angela’s unconditional love that I began to see the world differently.

If at the end of the day, chaos ruled, but our kids were safe and happy, all was right with the world. If things didn’t go according to plan, maybe that was because God had a better one. And if we weren’t happy, maybe that meant we were supposed to be doing something different anyway.

I decided to do a lot of things differently. Acutely aware that there were some things in life that would choose me with no regard to my misery, I decided to only choose things that would bring me joy. I found myself contemplating risks I never would have taken pre-partum. With newly opened eyes, there were new possibilities.

It was Angela who gave me eyes to see. She gave me back my life. If her birth – and the resulting struggles – hadn’t happened, my serious examination of my life and place in this world wouldn’t have happened. And every time I got lost or distracted by the discouraging things around me, her two little arms around my neck reminded me to come back to center – to the heart of what truly matters.

Angela returned the wonder to my eyes. Watching her find her way in the world inspired me to find mine. She is the ultimate gift of love – and isn’t that the greatest blessing of all?

motherhood, parenting

Shut the Front Door

I now know why my grandmother used to shoo her children outside – and lock the door. Her kids, of course, would object. According to family lore, my two aunts would hover on the landing of their third-floor apartment waiting for her to let them back in. My father, the only boy, would wander outside to find his friends. In any event, it didn’t seem that any amount of begging or pleading would alter my grandmother’s decision or when she deemed it acceptable to return home.

I always appreciated this story and found it quite humorous (my grandmother had that certain amount of pluck that allowed her to get away with it), but now I can fully relate.

Last Tuesday was gorgeous; the last day in January, yet feeling more like a fine day in spring. When I was able to bring my scraps to the compost bin in my shirtsleeves and not freeze, I went back in for the recyclables and lingered outside for a moment. Angela abandoned the last of her lunch and joined me. Encouraged by the weather, we began a joint effort to rid the yard of broken-off branches from winter windstorms. A few minutes later, Julia, who had heretofore been deeply involved in a serious reenactment of Cars 2 in miniature, wandered out as well.

I tidied twigs. Julia decided to play school. Angela followed along. If I had planned an afternoon outside, it couldn’t have gone any better. The thing was, I hadn’t planned an afternoon outside. Angela’s naptime was in ten minutes. That meant Julia’s quiet time in ten minutes. And Mommy’s chance for ‘me’ time.

“Ok, a few more minutes and then we’re going in,” I warned. To which both girls objected, of course.

After wrestling Angela inside and into a new diaper while Julia bopped alongside the changing table telling me her plans for playtime, I realized resistance was futile. If they were so invested in playing outside, maybe that was my best chance at uninterrupted work time. This is why assumptions are so dangerous.

With the girls safely ensconced in the fenced backyard, I stationed myself by the window that looked directly onto their play area with my papers. Maybe five minutes passed before I heard the first plaintive call by the door. Once that issue was resolved, another five minutes passed before I heard the squeak of the screen door. Then the stomp of feet. The desperate plea for some indoor toy that was absolutely essential for their play outside. Then a cry. Another squeak. A snack.

I could feel my blood pressure going up with each interruption.

“In or out,” I bellowed.

For kids who not so long ago were completely invested in playing outside, their actions were certainly not showing it. Then Big Sister got home from school and a third set of feet beat a path back and forth.

“My God,” I thought. “Now I know where Grandma got her motivation.”

Any mother knows it’s easier to get things done when there are no children under foot. Unfortunately, society and culture have changed just enough that it’s no longer acceptable to boot our kids out the door for the day and welcome them home for dinner. It’s no longer safe for our kids to play unsupervised in the open areas around our homes. It’s no longer acceptable or expected for them to fill their own time with their own imaginings; we’re supposed to do it for them.

Not only does this culture shift take accountability and creativity away from our children, it makes the job of a mother a hell of a lot harder.

Now, please understand me, I’m not advocating for mothers across the world to lock their children out of the house. It just seems to me that while the tension and tenderness between mothers and children is the same as in previous generations, the expected goals and duties of mothers have swelled with no subtractions from our job descriptions.

Kind of makes one want to lock the door and hide. But, like my grandmother, I will always open my door to my children and welcome them in with open arms – even if I let them sit on the landing for a little while first.

anxiety, motherhood, postpartum depression

The Next Step

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” – Lao Tzu

My first step was recognition. Recognizing the fact that something was not right. Then stepping through the door of my therapist, nearly two years ago to the day. Accepting the fact that I suffered from postpartum depression. Asking for help to make things right.

And with her help, I did begin to make things right. I began to relish those Tuesday evenings when I would give Angela her nighttime feeding and hand her off to Daddy, kiss the other two on top of their heads, and head out the door. In the waiting room, sometimes I’d get fifteen minutes to myself to collect my thoughts, jot down ideas in the notebook I’d all but deserted in the bottom of my bag, or – gasp – read a mindless magazine. She even joked with me once about how early I’d arrived: “Need some quiet time?” I told my mom that it was nice to just have someone to listen. “How sad is it that I have to pay someone to do that?” I quipped.

But my mother completely understood. I’d put her in the selfsame shoes thirty years earlier. A mother, a woman, most times comes last on her list of obligations. Doing laundry, changing diapers, wiping noses, reading stories, making lunches, making love – there is no time to even think about what would please you, let alone do it. So an hour of sitting still and talking someone’s ear off about my problems – that was well worth the $35 co-pay.

And unlike other pursuits outside the home, say ladies’ night or a yoga class, there was no guilt attached to this. I was not choosing time away from my children. I had to do this or I would go out of my head. I needed healing and she was my practitioner. So for someone who was already feeling like a bad mother, this was the perfect escape.

In fact, I even called my car the escape vehicle. When I had an appointment, I got to drive my sedan, not the RV-like vehicle that fit all the kids. The car I used to commute in to work each day. The first new car I ever owned. The car that, when it sat idle in the driveway, represented all about my old way of life that was dead.

Then the most miraculous thing happened. As I became a less stressed woman, I became a better mother. And as I began to achieve some sort of equilibrium, I actually began to think about what would make me happy. Let me rephrase that. I began to formulate ways to make me happy. Because as a depressed person, all I thought about was why I wasn’t happy. Why was this happening to me?

I do not believe God is vengeful. Or spiteful. So even though I was by no means a saint, I figured there was no way He would wish something like postpartum on me. And so I searched for a ray of light in the darkness. I had a recurring thought. There had to be some way to help other women realize that the horrible, terrible feelings of worthlessness that come with postpartum are not theirs to bear alone.

That thought led into a brainstorm that still has me swirling. Its development has led to a change in course for my career, even my life’s calling. And right alongside it has developed a better and stronger me. Through it all, my therapist has been right beside me.

So on a January night not unlike the first that I walked through her door, I was heading to my therapist’s office. And not unlike that first night, I was nervous. In fact, I almost dreaded going. Because, not unlike other things she’d waited patiently for me to figure out, I suspected this might be my last visit. On some level, I’d known on my most recent visit that I was becoming strong enough to continue on my own, but like any human who is her own worst enemy, I ignored the niggling sensation of knowing and scheduled my next appointment. In the back of my head, I heard my friend say that she’d stopped going to see her therapist regularly when they’d run out of things to talk about. Not yet, I thought.

At the appointment, I updated her on all the items ticked off my to-do list and how I planned to accomplish the others. I shared successes; the resolution of sticky situations I’d been dealing with. As the clock wore down on our hour, it sounded very much like a debrief. An after-report. The niggling knowledge bubbled just below the surface.

“What do you want to do?” she asked at the end of the session.

I knew what she meant. “I don’t think I need to schedule,” I said hesitantly.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t call whenever you need to come in.”

I knew she meant this, too. But I couldn’t help feeling a little like the kid whose Dad says he’ll hang onto the bike seat, but lets go as soon as the pedals start spinning down the street for the first time without training wheels.

She was not deserting me. She was giving me a more literal translation of Lao Tzu’s quote, “The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one’s feet.”

She helped me find my feet again, but now it’s time I stood on my own.

motherhood, parenting

A Weekend Away

This past summer, my husband and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. While other couples planned international trips to celebrate theirs, we were thrilled to steal away for two nights to Brattleboro, Vermont. In fact, I told everyone that we were so excited you’d have thought we were headed to Tahiti. Might as well have been. Getaways for parents of three are few and far between – so that even a couple of nights two states away felt exotic.

So did uninterrupted conversations, gourmet meals, and a bottle of champagne. Wandering in and out of little shops without fear of little hands ripping items off shelves. Sitting and staring into space because there was no immediate need to which to attend.

Our last morning, as we sat on the bluestone patio overlooking the grounds eating breakfast, we chatted with a couple seated next to us. Their teenaged daughter was attending a nearby summer camp. When they found out the young ages of our children, they realized the special nature of our getaway.

“But you must be looking forward to getting home, right?” asked the man.

My husband nodded. “Yes, it’ll be good to see them.”

When I failed to respond, his gaze landed on me. “I could do with another day away,” I finally said.

Maybe I was paranoid that I would be judged as a bad mother, but I watched for a grimace on his face. Instead, I noticed the nod from his wife. Her face affirmed everything I felt. Her daughter may have been well past the toddler phase, but she seemed to remember all too well the strain of care giving as a twenty-four hour job.

And later that day, we were back to our twenty-four hour a day job. And yes, I was glad to see my children. But a few months later, when we received the save-the-date card for a friend’s wedding – in Vermont – we were excited to once again be able to plan a weekend away.

Certainly, we wouldn’t have been going on another weekend so soon without the valid excuse of celebrating our friends’ plunge into marital bliss. Nor would we have been going if it weren’t for my in-laws’ gracious offer to take the kids for two nights. But things seemed to be shaping up in our favor for a fun and ‘adult’ weekend.

We stayed at the inn where all the festivities of the wedding weekend were to be held and where all the other wedding guests were staying. We caught up with friends we hadn’t seen in months or years. We ate. We drank.

We still woke up at 7:45 each morning.

As excited as I was to get away, I still felt guilty when in an icebreaker game of bingo used to introduce guests by their attributes, I identified myself by ‘left kids at home to come to this wedding’.

I felt like a curiosity when single guests at the wedding identified us as the couple the bride and groom were so excited could come since we never get out.

And by no means, was the irony lost on me that as the wedding party moved outside for nightcaps and sledding down the hill behind the inn, my husband and I watched through the window, warm and comfortable on cozy chairs with another couple, discussing our children and home improvements.

A weekend away is difficult for many reasons, I guess. Finances. Finding babysitters. Saying goodbye to the kids. Forgetting your responsibilities. Remembering how to relax and reconnect.

Someday, it’ll be easier. Someday, we may even get to Tahiti (which, by the way, is where the newlyweds went on their honeymoon).

anxiety, motherhood, postpartum depression

My Cart Runneth Over

One needs only go to the grocery store on any given day to see a range of behaviors and experiences in the mothering world – and many mothers I can only imagine are struggling or have known the struggle at some point in their lives.

I saw a young mother in the checkout line.

“Madeline, I told you repeatedly to stay by me. Stand over here,” she said to her toddler, while she adjusted her infant’s car seat carrier on the carriage. I caught her eye and smiled. She just looked, in the midst of her exasperation.

An older woman, in her late sixties, early seventies stopped to comment on my baby’s smile. Then she saw her older sister playing peek-a-boo behind her.

“Oh, how happy we all are,” she said.

Then she leaned in to tell me conspiratorially that that’s what she used to call “happy asses”. I said I’d take that any day. She asked how close in age they were: 1, 3, and 5 at the time. She said she had seven by the time one was eight. I tried not to show too much shock, but I’m sure the look on my face said something like ‘Holy Moses’.

“’Been there, done that,’ as they say, right?”

I thought, for sure, this woman knows the frustration and struggle I’m going through. For sure, she’s wiped her brow on more than one occasion when she realized again that it was behind her.

Then she continued, “Goes by fast.”

I was surprised at the poignancy and nostalgia in her voice. My reaction was one of disbelief or horror when she said how quickly she’d had her kids and how many. And here she was seeming like she missed it.

“Perspective is everything” is also something they say. To this woman, well past the chaos and tumult of life with young children so close in age, she can remember fondly the closeness, the value of being needed, the grimy little hands to hold and sticky cheeks to kiss. Smack dab in the middle of it, I had a totally different perspective. I wondered how I would make it through each day. The end never was in sight. I felt like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up to the top each day, only to start at the bottom again the next.

But, for whatever reason on this particular day, I was fine. The grocery gods had shined on me and I made it through the store with nary an episode. In fact, I tried to be the mentoring mother, looking at Madeline’s mother trying to make her feel better, give her a sense that this too shall pass. She was too overwhelmed to see it, maybe wondering why I was looking at her, or worried about the judgment that strangers like me would pass on a mother who couldn’t control her children in the store – which I wasn’t doing at all, but had wondered countless times myself when I knew I had crossed the threshold of manageability.

And then when I got home, I crossed that threshold again. I had a near nervous breakdown when the kids nagged, nagged, nagged for a snack as I tried to put away the groceries. Here I was, thinking I’d accomplished something, ascended some plateau of sanity, normalcy, competency. And just like that, I was plunged back into the chaos. Just like that, I snapped. The proverbial straw was yet again some insignificant stressor that shouldn’t have been that stressing at all.

It was then that I realized that postpartum depression is not something to “get over”. Motherhood is a constant struggle. The beauty is balanced by moments of biting your lip so hard it nearly bleeds. Or like today when the words flew out before I could “zip the lips” as I tell my oldest. “Been there, done that,” doesn’t make you an expert. You cannot surmount the odds one day and never be at the foot of the mountain again. You can be that low minutes after dizzying heights.

In reality, it does go by fast, as the elderly woman in the grocery store said. This too shall pass, as I signaled via my smile to the young mother. One moment at a time, surmounting each struggle as it comes. And one day I’ll be shopping without the kids in tow, notice how serenely yet surreally quiet it is, and I’m sure I’ll be chatting up some one year-old. Until then, I hope I can continue to fill my shopping cart with blessings and have the mindfulness to see the wealth and not the cost.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile