Plight of the Mother

On Friday night, Sam and I had some one-on-one time while Annie was away playing with a friend.  I asked my son what he wanted to do, and he said he wanted to play pretend with me.  I was the doctor, and he was the dad.  He had two babies, Flowers and Forty-One.  I had a doctor kit filled with Legos.  I don’t often have time to sit and play with my kids like this, but I relish in these moments because children's play is a window into their minds, and I get to experience the world from their perspective.  Let me tell you, Daddy Sam was adorable.  He was so tender and loving to Flowers and Forty-One.  Both kids were very sickly and constantly throwing up, but when I (the doctor) tried to help take care of them, Daddy Sam would brush me away and say, “No.  I know how to take care of my sick babies.”  So, I sat on the couch and watched him nurture for the rest of the night, marveling at his perception of what I do day-in and day-out.  What I learned was Sam thinks being a parent is cleaning up a lot of puke and putting drops in all the facial orifices.  And, I mean, he’s not wrong.

This was a tough week for me.  That sweet, nurturing boy has been struggling with some health issues that doctors can’t seem to explain.  Sometimes it means staying up with him all night while he writhes in pain and begs me to make the hurting stop.  Sometimes it’s rubbing lotion all over his entire hive and blister-cover body.  Sometimes it’s cleaning up spontaneous vomit that arrives without other symptoms that might give a clue to the cause.   But this week, after two bad nights in a row, I decided to have Sam tested for allergies, hoping to find what was triggering these episodes.  In a bittersweet turn of events, he tested negative for everything.  It was a relief not to have to take away his favorite foods or drastically change his lifestyle, but it was also frustrating.  These results have left us in the dark, still scrambling for answers as we try to keep this boy healthy.

While these medical issues have been a part of my life as long as Sam has been in it, it felt insurmountably difficult this week because of that poignant moment watching my son clean up pretend vomit off the chin of his “baby.”  I feel incredibly helpless.  I have tried so many things to make Sam’s life more comfortable and had so little success that the constant maintenance of his health has become the cornerstone of Sam’s vision of adulthood.  To cope with my perceived ineptitude, I think I overcompensate by trying to help others.  I try to lift them when they are down, make them laugh, fill their bellies with delicious things, and flood them with hope and positivity.  I lay awake with racing thoughts of Who can I help?  Where can I volunteer?  How can I make someone’s world better?  But I love too deeply sometimes, and I take on other people’s impossible hurts only to realize that I am just as helpless curing their pain as I am curing my son.

Perhaps this is just the plight of the mother.

When the sun is out

I hate being hot.  I dread summer with its sticky, sickly heat. Searing seat belts, sweaty scalp, and the general smell of wilted plants just holding out for nightfall are enough to nauseate me. Even then, I also yearn for the season because I feel dead when I’m cold and alive when I’m warm. Sunlight reaches through my skin and warms the blood.  It grasps my chest and pulls at my heart, filling my being with the great desire to create art, laugh incessantly, and kiss babies like I’m the Pope.    

It’s been rainy this week.  Sporadic showers keep my lawn green and muddy.  It also keeps me trapped inside by this invisible barrier of chill.  I consider a jacket just so I can get my restless children out of the house, but when I look out at the sea of grey that fills the sky, I change my mind.  Before children, rainy days were poetic.  Book in hand, the musty smell of yellowing paper mingled with the steam of hot cider.  On an itchy, worn couch beside a bay window, wrapped in an afghan painstakingly weaved one knot at a time, I could read as the pattering sound of rain lulled me into a literary trance.  I could bake warm treats that weren’t good for me or just write about them to save calories.  I could watch The Princess Bride or Pride and Prejudice without guilt.  And I could reasonably justify these languorous activities because they were laced with philosophical thought that would make Socrates weep with pride.

With children, rainy days are different.  The hum of rain is drowned out by the shrill sounds of whining or screaming.  Fighting erupts over each activity.  Coloring becomes broken crayons and broken dreams.  PlayDoh becomes muddy, mixed colors and cries over the last purely pink pot of dough.  Train tracks become train wrecks.  Puppets become projectiles.  I would send the little tornadoes out into the cold, but I know the two minutes of silence will not be worth the proceeding ten minutes of complaining and runny noses.  I resort to the television and choose my sanity over their melted brains.

I think I need a nap.  Wake me up with the sun is out.

Spring

I did not realize the effect our old house had on my life until I returned the last time for some final cleaning.  When I turned onto the street that led to the neighborhood, I felt this hole forming in my stomach and hot saliva pooling in the back of my throat like my body was forcing down something distasteful.  As I pulled up to the gates, I could feel my hands sweating as I gripped the steering wheel.  The car rounded the first corner, then the second, and come to a stop in front of the house. Every atom in my body was humming and telling me to turn back.  It was as if I sat in front of a grizzly haunted house from a horror movie with an overly dramatic name like “The Blackened” instead of a gray-blue townhouse.  My fingers hesitated at the ignition key, still undecided if they wanted to obey my commands to turn off the car.  I forced them, and with a quick turn, the car was silent.

We moved into the townhouse when my son was three weeks old, and trapped within those walls, I faced my twenty-two month battle with severe postpartum depression.  Because the house and depression entered my life at the same time, the walls became stained and scared from the dark experience that took place there, and when I pulled up for last time, it all came flooding back.  I thought I hated that house for lack of closets, the tiny kitchen, or the dysfunctional HOA.  However, the stark contrast I felt between our new home, which is filled with peace, and this old building, tainted by hate, acted as a potent reminder that every strand of carpet, every squeak in the floor, and every window blind carried with it memories of pain.

This week I wrote about my postpartum depression for my creative writing class.  During this process, I reviewed old blog and journal entries so the experience would be fresh in my mind.  This entry particularly stood out because I had forgotten that it was last spring that brought the first buds of hope back into my life.  Now, one year later, I walk through my yard and observe the tiny, green leaves poking out the ground that will soon sprout into daffodils.  I find green and purple mint leaves hiding under dead winter foliage.  I see the moss-covered willow branches budding around the teal tire swing that Annie sways in every afternoon.  I find so much joy in it all and an immense amount of gratitude to be in this place.  I think this time every year I will remember the hell that held me captive and the heavenly freedom I feel now and be grateful that every winter has a spring.

Face washing

I have been wanting to write this blog post for a while now.  Actually, I’ve really just wanted to say it out loud.  For over four and a half years, my life had been consumed with thoughts and feelings I could not express because I did not know how or feared they would be misunderstood.  Today I had a moment of clarity while washing my face, and I think I am finally ready to deal with the elephant in the room.

Since having my children I have learned two major things.  I love my children more than I ever could have imagined, and I dislike motherhood more than I ever could have imagined.

There.  I said it.  Judge away.

I love my children.  I love their little feet and soft kisses.  I love tickling them and wiping their faces so I can look into their crystal blue eyes and tell them how precious they are.  I love hearing them speak about their feelings, dreams, and discoveries.  I love watching their little bodies as they learn to crawl, walk, run, jump on one foot, and dance.  I am obsessed with their imaginations, in awe at their bravery, and humbled by their forgiveness when I make mistakes.  I have learned more about divinity raising these little spirits than any scripture I have ever read.

I have also learned a little something about my limits.  To be honest, before motherhood, I hadn’t met many challenges that I couldn’t work through.  Learning came easily.  With much practice, I even became a decent musician.  I loved working and being surrounded by people and praise.  More than anything, I loved feeling in control.  And if you love feeling in control, boy, is motherhood a wake-up call.  Suddenly, I was thrust into a world where my precious control was striped from me and replaced with inconsistency.  Try as I may, I just could not seem to put the puzzle together the way I thought it was suppose to fit.  I could not seem to get my daughter to sleep, I did not know how to comfort my son when he cried endlessly for the first year, and I could not poof them better with they were sick.  Today, I cook healthy food they will not eat and spend all day talking to little persons who do not listen.  I repeat repeat repeat repeat so many things that I feel forced to raise my voice, and those little blue eyes turn on me in shock.  I’ve read parenting blogs and listened to advice from others, and when those methods do not deliver as promised, it all comes back to me, and I wonder why I am such an inadequate human that I can’t get anything right.

I was never that girl who begged to hold babies.  They terrified me, and if someone handed a little drooler to me, it often cried, which sent me into a tailspin of anxiety.  After having two of them, I can honestly say I still don’t care for babies.  I don’t mind them for short bits of time, but there is not enough money in the world to pay me to go back to that stage.  They are too unpredictable for this control freak.

For me, motherhood has never felt natural.  It has felt like this constant urge to run away fighting against this intense love pulling me to stay.  So, for four and a half years, I have been holding my breath like I am watching the climax of a movie, just hoping the beloved hero doesn’t get squashed by the frightening villain.  I always have one ear focused on their bedrooms at night, waiting for crying or coughing or, heaven forbid, productive heaving.  There isn’t ever one minute where I am totally relaxed and at peace.  Fall is my favorite season, but for the past few weeks, the cooling air and shorter days have only reminded me that flu season piggybacks on Autumn, and I have a son that runs from me when he throws up, leaving long vomit trails in my carpet.

Last year, during my difficult battle with postpartum depression, I sort of gave up.  I felt like I was stuck in this miserable cycle of existence where I was inadequate beyond measure and unlovable.  Perhaps my children would have been better off with a mom who loved all the moods of babies like my mother-in-law or had the natural presence to command an army of tots like my mother.  In that moment, is was as if the hand of God reached out and pulled me off the edge of a cliff.  He reminded me that what I was experiencing would be written in my book of life preceded by “and it came to pass.”

After that experience, I re-enrolled in school, completely changed my diet, cleaned more, involved my kids in the everyday workings of the house, finished my book, started a second one, and reached out to others (like my husband) instead of isolating myself.  I felt sunshine reenter my world. . . but not permanently.  Occasionally, I still feel suffocated, inadequate, and completely out of control, but as my children are getting older and more communicative, those feelings definitely come with less frequency.

That brings me back to tonight and washing my face.  Recently, I have decided to start dressing and grooming as if I am going out in public more.  I think as a stay-at-home mom, it can be easy to get into the housework bun and sweats lifestyle, but I have noticed when I spend the time to put myself together in the morning, I feel more put together throughout the day.  Consequently, I have had some adolescent acne reemerge from sleeping in my makeup.  I tried to cover them with more and more make-up, but a few weeks ago, someone suggested I  actually try washing my face instead.  I caved and bought a cleansing brush and made it a part of my nightly routine.  Within three weeks of using it, the acne disappeared, and my face is starting to look more youthful again.

Tonight as I was washing my face, I realized that for a long time I had wounds and imperfections that I tried to cover up, but they just kept getting worse and multiplying.  In the past six months as I have made changes in my life, it felt a lot like washing my face.  It has been difficult to expose the demons I was hiding but also necessary to treat them.  The Lord has said “if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).  Facing my flaws head on has been incredibly difficult; however, I have faith that by showing my weakness and humbling myself, the Lord can use me to bless my children’s lives.  I will continue to wash my face and take my burdens to my Heavenly Father, because as much I as I dislike motherhood sometimes, I sure do love my kids.

Spring cleaning

It only took a few hours for the postpartum depression to overtake me.  At first, it came on like a numbing blanket, then crashing anger and cascading sorrow.  It will be gone in six months, I told myself.  I can handle anything for six months.  Six months came and went.  Any day now, I thought as I persevered through the fatigue and bitterness. When my son blew out the candle on his first birthday cake, I checked the clock.  He is one.  It will be gone soon.  But it did not leave.  In many ways it escalated.  I began to forget what happiness felt like.  Behind my smiles and kisses, I was hollow.  So hollow.

I often sat on the floor in that miserable, blue townhouse, staring blankly at the gray walls day after day.  With hands draped limply over my legs, my mouth hung open slightly as if begging for air since I lacked the energy to breathe deeply.  My children crawled over and around me, screaming, squealing, and crying for my affection.  My vacant, blue eyes, pillowed by dark bags of skin, moved lazily to observe the madness without engaging.  Indifference permeated the air so thickly that if I could have willed my body to free my spirit from this hollow existence, I would have gladly done so.

For twenty-two months, I battled these thoughts.

For twenty-two months, I faked my way through motherhood.

For twenty-two excruciating months, I lived a boo-boo-kissing, baby-food-making, stories-before-bed, I-love-you lie!

Then, the sun rose in the east on a crisp, spring morning, just as it had the day before.  Except that morning, while making my children breakfast, I felt something I couldn't quite describe.  Was it peace?  It was hard to tell.  I sat at the table and watched my son peek at me through his cheerios. Unfamiliar tinges swelled in my heart. Was this amusement?  I was unsure.  Annie asked for milk, and while I filled her favorite pink glass, she danced in the kitchen and hummed a Taylor Swift song. My mouth pulled up into a smile involuntarily.  How strange.  We finished breakfast, and my children began to play, dumping out buckets of toys that clattered onto the beige carpet.  Shrieks of elation filled the room, and I noted my lack of irritation.  Then, Sam knocked over the primary-colored block tower his sister meticulously built.  Annie ran to me in tears, and I wrapped my arms around her narrow shoulders and nestled my face into her silken hair, waiting for the imminent anxiety to join us for this special moment, but it did not. I felt kind of alone, but for once, not lonely.

The next day brought similar feelings, as did the day after. Two weeks passed, and the sun was spending a little more time in the sky, nurturing the new grass and budding trees.  The air slowly warmed and the smell of fresh mulch and damp payment wafted through the air as if to announce the blooming flowers.  On a breezy but bright afternoon, my children and I walked to the playground to experience these sights and sounds after a stagnant winter.  Sam dug in the dirt while Annie played pirate.  I laid in the grass, soaking up rays of sunshine as my hair whipped back and forth across my neck.  Warmth blanketed my face and sent kisses down my arms.  Windy whistles tickled my ears and soothed me like a lullaby. The beauty of the moment was intoxicating, and I allowed my mind to fill with a florescent haze of-- what was it?  Annie jumped on my back and wrapped her arms around my neck.  "How are you?" I asked her.

"Happy!" She replied as she combed her fingers through my tangled mane. Happy. . . yes.  That is what it was.  It had happened.  I was finally free of that great beast of burden. As spring warmed the earth and brought life back into the world, it also brought life back into me.  I could breathe again.

Today I cleaned out my closet.

It was the elephant in my room-- always looming, like a dark, twisted presence, housing years of regrets and bitter memories.  But I was ready now, eager to let go of the past and embrace this second chance at joy.  I touched the old clothes from my pre-children life.  I ran my fingers along the rows of buttons and slim waist bands and was flooded with memories of my innocent self.  I missed days filled with praise and people.  I missed feeling young.  Gently folding and placing the clothing in a box, I reminded myself that I am not her anymore, and it is okay.  Who I am now is a woman with greater sympathy and understanding.  I have joined the ranks of warriors who fight battles and come out with scars and stories.  I am still afraid sometimes but also more courageous than I've ever been.  But most of all, I am happy.  Life is good.

Annie

". . . 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70!" Annie is counting beside me.  She's discovered that she can count to seventy on her own and with a gentle reminder she pushes on to ninety.  Her honey hair drapes across her forehead, cut straight, and covers her daddy's triangular eyebrows.  Her blue eyes are so sparkly and full of life, glistening divinity and innocence. Tiny fingers graze my arm, inspecting the hairs with that intense curiosity I noticed fresh from womb.  She embodies perfect imperfection.  When I hold her I feel warm, nurturing, and feminine.  Sometimes I snuggle her in her bed and she touches my cheek and plays with my hair. The room is silent and the air calm, as if time slows. Its magical and sacred.  She holds a piece of my soul.  Annie sees me with such intense understanding because she is me and I am her and the combination of the two of us in one.

Last night I listened the pounding of my heart and wondered why she cries in her sleep, why she sounds so tortured in a moment of what should be peace?  I think about her perfect little soul in this horrible world. She asks me about bad guys, and I don't know what to say other than reassure her that she is safe.  But it's one of those lies we must tell as parents, one of those burdens we carry until our children are old enough to share it.  I cannot keep her safe always.  She will fall off her bike, she will get water up her nose, and she will be hurt by others making poor choices. The best I can do is promise her that I will do my best, and pray the atonement makes up for the rest.

Not so great expectations

Do you ever completely dedicate yourself to something only to be disappointed with the results? I haven't been blogging lately because I've been working on a little project. At the end if June I was struck by the lightning of inspiration and flooded with ideas; unshakable ideas that seemed to come from another world, and they chose me to tell their story. So when I returned home from our eventful trip to Illinois I began to write. Every nap time and bedtime I plugged myself in to my laptop and watched chapter after chapter flow from my fingers until it filled my depleted body with life. I felt fulfilled, happy, and more like myself than I'd been in years. Parenting was more enjoyable, my husband was handsomer, and my house almost seemed to have a linen closet. Almost.

Then there was chapter 20, the climax, the pinnacle of prose, the summit of syntax, and I got stuck. Suddenly, the wave of ideas recessed and the low tide left a sandy graveyard of loop holes, questions and doubts. The more I forced myself to muscle through the feeling the more I began to hate all 55,000+ words I'd written. I stepped away from the project and prayed for perspective.

What followed was a couple months of the worst depression of my life as I realize this whole book thing was a metaphor for my experience with motherhood.

Please be gentle with your judgement.

When I was a little girl there were two things I wanted more than anything: to be a teacher, professionally, and to be a mom.  I looked forward to stroking my diploma from BYU, arranging my classroom, tutoring after school, and grading papers in the evenings while snuggled up in my little cottage with a fluffy dog sleeping on my feet. Then when I was old enough to be considered an old maid (by Utah standards) but not so old that I was infertile, I would marry a perfectly obnoxious salesman and quit my job to dedicate the remainder of my days to rearing children. It was a fantastic plan and I couldn't wait to make it happen.

Then life took an unexpected turn.  I got married young, took a hiatus from school, had some babies, and fast-tracked to the motherhood part of the plan with a significantly less obnoxious husband. It doesn't take much digging through the blog archives to see how painful it was for me to give up school and becoming a teacher.  Once Annie entered my life I knew my only option was to stay home till the day I die, never to write on a white board or attend staff meetings or argue with the lady in the copy room about the tests she forgot to copy. (Dramatic much?) However, a little piece of me was okay with making this sacrifice because I thought motherhood would automatically make me content and fill my whiteboard-marker, red-pen, teaching dreams with something as equally satisfying.

It did not. I definitely had good days, especially when it was just me and Annie, but as soon as Sam entered the picture it was like someone flipped a switch, and motherhood became torturous and stifling. You can imagine how much that bothered me. I began to ruminate and obsess and berate myself for not feeling like dancing on pink and blue pastel rainbows as I listened to hours of crying, got out of bed six times a night, and never really had a moment alone expect for the times I spent locked in my closet weeping. I wanted to be like those "normal" mothers who still felt like motherhood was the hardest and best thing to ever happen to them.  I just felt like it was the hardest.

But wait! This is what I've always wanted! This is what I spent my whole life preparing for! Why did I feel so disappointed?

On Sunday we had a lesson in Relief Society about the ten virgins. Five had oil in their lamps, but the other five didn't not. The ladies with oil couldn't share or they would run out themselves before the bridegroom arrived. While I sat in my cushioned chair, the Lord whispered to me, "You are out of oil."

I don't have date night with my husband. Paul works long hours and isn't home much. There are no Girl's Night Outs on my calendar. My children accompany me almost everywhere I go. Annie and Sam both have medical issues and personality quirks that make them high maintenance and exhausting. And I'm so afraid of being a burden on someone else that I can not ask for help.  So there is no one taking care of me, not even me. I'm completely out of oil. Heck, I can't even find my lamp in this mess.

Anyway, I want to start blogging again because I love to write (but not that stupid book; it makes me homicidal).  And I want to take on a few more little projects around the house to keep me busy.  Hopefully, I can conjure up some courage to take people up on babysitting offers too.  I want to enjoy my children again, like really bad. So if it takes a little more effort to make motherhood feel more effortless, then it's worth it.

The beast

There's a beast in my house.  She is angry, mean, unsympathetic, and I think she smells a little bit like tacos, and we all know that's a smell that is only appetizing on food.  She follows me around everywhere I go, perched on my shoulder like a bird.  Only, she not a delicate dove.  This beast is more like an ostrich, invading every inch of my personal space with gangly legs wrapped around my chest, squeezing away my breath.  Her enormous body weighs down my slumping shoulders, and there is not a moment of the day when I'm not acutely aware of the heaviness. My beast of burden. She's only visible to my eyes and a load only I can bear.

Some days this corpulent monster overpowers me, and I open my mouth to scream for help.  However, when my lips part, feathers fill the cavity and I begin to suffocate a little.  I fight for air and a savior to destroy this leech, but I just know somehow that if I was really able to express the thoughts. . . the feelings this beast drills into my mind, I would be misunderstood and judged.  After all, no one can see her but me.  This is a demon I must face alone.

So, trapped in a cage of solitude, I wrestle the beast.  Some days I fight with passion and perseverance in the name of family and motherhood.  But mostly I feel devoid of passion and tired of battle.  This creature has been ignored, conversed with, pushed, screamed at, and probably fallen asleep on because exhaustion dictates my life.  I've even coddled it, afraid of who I might be without the ghastly harpy.  You see, it's been so long since I've seen just myself in the mirror that I've all but forgotten what I look like.  And who I am.  None of these tactics, however, have made the beast any smaller.  She's actually growing.

She's a jealous thing, to add to her list of deplorable qualities, and it affects my relationships.  I struggle to feel joy or compassion and often feel so hallow I can't connect with people like I once did effortlessly.  When my husband comes home from work and all I want is to smother him in love and good food, the beast tightens her grip and almost forces the curtness that comes spewing from my mouth.  Annie and Sam also fall victim to my uncontrollable moods.  Whether it is staring at them blankly or locking myself in my room so I can scream in a pillow while that horrid monster pecks at my skull, they watch with horrified and confused glances.  And for my sweet Sam, this is the only mother he's ever known.  That thought is painful to the point of nauseam. No matter how hard I try to smile at his bright eyes and pretend that I'm enjoying the task of care-giving, deep inside that tiny body is the baby sensor which warns him of my disconnect.  However, in fleeting moments he stares past me, and I think he may actually be able to see this invisible beast.  After all, she was born on the same day as he.

And her name is Postpartum Depression.

When they are sleeping

Things I like to do when the children are sleeping:

-Use the bathroom ALONE.  No audience telling me how many squares I'm allowed to use or asking me questions I'd rather not answer.  ("Mommy?! Why are you bleeding?")

-Watch movies and shows that would otherwise scar my daughter. (Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Pirates of the Carribean, etc.) She's easily scared.

-Eat things I don't want to share.  I share food all day long.  If we have sandwiches for lunch, Andrea will eat hers an then come sit uncomfortably close to me and give my sandwich THE STAREDOWN.  Or if I peel an orange guess who eats most of it?  Not me.  If I get out an orange for me and an orange for her she will still beg for mine while her orange sits untouched on her plate. Look, kid.  You eat your food and I'll eat mine, kapeesh?

-Sew.  If I do this while the kids are asleep I avoid needles in the carpet because Andrea can't stand to leave them in the pin cushion.

-Shower, if I have the energy. Who knew showers could be so draining. He he he. See what I did there? Draining?  . . . . Moving on.

-Fold laundry.  Have you ever folded laundry with a little "helper" unfolding it faster than you can fold?  It's not fun.  I don't particularly enjoy folding laundry the first time, but the third time I have to fold the same shirt in one sitting it starts to mess with my head.  I can feel Psycho Mom emerging and hear illogical things spew from my mouth like "If you unfold that one more time I'm going to throw these clothes in the garbage!"  Don't ask me what I think will be accomplished by this idol threat, but to Phsycho Mom it makes perfect sense.

-Make phone calls.  I swear my children have a sixth sense that tells them my phone has turned on, and then all heck breaks loose.  Seriously, do ya'll have to start crying the moment I try to talk to the Netflix tech support people?!  Breathe, Kayla.  Breathe.

-Scoop other peoples dog poop out of my yard.  I wish I didn't have to do this, but I do and having to constantly remind the three year old to watch her step while I hold a bag of poop with the hand wrapped around the 8 month old doesn't exactly sound like a trip to IKEA, if ya catch what I'm throwing down.

Aside from a myriad of other chores that can be accomplished, the thing I desire more than anything in the world is to sleep when my children are sleeping.  Oh sleep.  Oh blessed, beloved sleep.  How I miss thee.

Rejuvenated

With my seven month old perched precariously on my hip, I did my morning rounds.  After a diaper change, it's a walk though the living room to pick up the dirty diaper and relocate the diaper bag.  On my way to the kitchen garbage I step on a small, plastic bear and mutter a made-up curse word.  I shift the baby and bend down to pick up the pokey offender while instructing my three year old to keep little bears out of the carpet.  I turn back toward the kitchen once more only to be distracted by a news story about a murder-suicide.  Sad.  The baby starts to paw and the poopy diaper which acts as a reminder of my mission.  I bounce him through the house until the cool tile floor greets and refreshes my step.  The diaper is discarded and my one free hand makes quick work of gathering breakfast dishes and piling them into the sink.  The three year old reminds me to give her vitamins and, after a one-handed struggle with a child-proof cap, the crunching of chalky tablets indicates the three year old is temporarily appeased.

I take to the stairs because above me laundry awaits.  It's Tuesday, which typically means I wash towels, but I sit the baby on the floor, handing him miscellaneous trinkets from near by, and start stripping the sheets off my bed.  After falling victim to a leaky diaper, the sheets cannot wait till my customary sheet-washing Thursday.  The seven month old sits sturdily and gums on a little penguin bucket until it is apparent by his cries he is bored and wishes to return to his regular perch on my hip.  I pick him up, gather my comforter in my free arm, and stuff it into the washing machine just outside my room.  Worried that it won't fit I contemplate a laundry mat, but the wiggly baby trying to flip himself upside down motivates me to give the blanket an extra shove.  I hear singing below.  Itsy Bitsy Spider.  Classic.  I hum along while I pin the fabric softener between my body the wall so I can remove the lid.  The tiny boy under my arm lurches for the bottle and scolds me for keeping it out of reach.  I laugh at his fit because his tiny puckered lip reminds me so much of his older sister.  We return downstairs and I spend a moment surveying the house, planing my next move in the game that is morning.

As I look out over my world I contemplate my life and feel blessed.  Not because it's perfect or glamorous or even particularly fun, but because it's beautiful, and because it's mine to captain.

Breathe

A new year usually brings new resolutions and new hope.  Hope for more money, less pounds, and increased personal growth.  Last year New Years was exciting.  Paul and I knew that the next few months would bring a new baby and a new house, so we welcomed 2013 with open arms.  Two nights ago Paul and I rang in the new year by toasting at midnight.  "To a year of no pregnancies," I said.

"And no new babies," he said.

"And no moves," I said.

"And no job changes," he said.

Our glasses clinked and we agreed that this year our resolution was to settle in and breathe.  In the four and a half years we've been married we've lived in three different places, worked in five different jobs, attended four different schools, received two degrees, had three pregnancies, and are raising two babies.  More than anything, we would like some time to rest.

How often does that actually happen though?

After downing our glasses of cheep sparkling grape juice, I began to feel sad.  No, not sad.  Dread.  I felt dread blow in like a bad storm and settle right over me, pelting my head with heavy drops of mockery and drudge.  You see, this new year as we celebrated the lack of events, I realized we were celebrating a year of monotony.  I thought back to Saturday when my baby scared me to death by violently throwing up for a few hours.  I recalled the excessive tears my daughter produces during a tantrum.  I thought of the poop-- soooo much poop-- that I smell and clean up everyday.  I felt a pit in my stomach when I remembered how alone I feel up here in Salt Lake City, and how I count down the minutes until Paul comes home so I can talk his ear off recounting the story I told Andrea before her nap and how many times Sam drooled on my toe (five, in case your wondering).  I thought about how hard I am on myself and how I hate being criticized but can't stop picking at my own faults.  Suddenly, 365 days of that sounded rather bleak, and I wanted nothing more than to stuff my head in the couch like an ostrich.

My sweet husband, who is also a superhero, could tell I was not feeling well.  He hugged me tight and asked me what was the matter.  "I'm just having a hard day," I whispered.

"I noticed," he replied.  He kept his arms around me and gently rubbed my back as I absorbed his scent.  Breathe, I thought.  This is a year to breathe.

PPD

When you're out in the world you may run into a mother who's ventured out with her new baby. You may say hello and ask her how life is with a new baby. She may hesitate to answer as she ponders the question because it's been three months+ since she's gotten any sleep and at least four days since she's showered. Spit up adorns the shoulders of her shirt, and her hands are thankfully washed clean of the poop she had to rinse from a onesie after a rather explosive bowel movement. At meal times she searches through the fridge for food she can eat one handed rather than something nutritious. Dinner times are getting later and later as cooking with a baby draped over one arm proves very difficult. Her body seems to shift and morph everyday as it peaces itself back together from nine months of growing a child, and everyday she sees a new image in the mirror. She never has a moment to herself yet she's never been so lonely. She loves her child so much it hurts but by the evening she finds herself so overstimulated and overwhelmed that holding her child almost repulses her and her breath is labored by the battle her muscles face to hold on regardless. She cries herself to sleep because she dreads another night of six or seven trips out of bed to calm the restless infant. Some days the little smiles and soft snuggles are not enough to balance the hormonal ravaging she endures in her mind that bring about so much guilt and shame. She loves her child but wonders when life will feel manageable again. Some days she feels like tearing her hair out because the disconnect between her body and mind make her feel unbelievably crazy, and no matter how much she tries to make sense of all her thoughts she just can't.

In a split moment all those things flood her mind. . . She smiles tiredly and answers the question with a quiet "Good."

If you bump into that new mother you might just have bumped into me. I'm a currently the poster girl for overtired, overstimulated, postpartum depression mothers everywhere. My sweet baby boy who used to sleep for six to seven hours stretches at a time decided to stop sleeping. It began during my stint with mastitis so I chalked it up to replenishing my milk supply, but after a couple weeks I gave up hope my old normal would return anytime soon. Every night I average 2-3 hours of sleep and each consecutive day of child-induced insomnia I become more haggard and depressed. Every day is like swimming through mud.

Because Sam is sleeping so poorly, my sweet and chill little baby has turned into a fussy fellow with a hair-line trigger. I spend most of my day holding him, especially for naps  Then I spend my night in his room rocking and nursing him back to sleep. Because I have essentially no breaks from his constant touch and presence I'm so overstimulated that being touched (by anyone) has become physically uncomfortable. Sunday evening Paul took a turn holding Sam for a bit, and when he tried to hand him back to me I had a full-blown anxiety attack. I couldn't breathe, and between my gasps for air I sobbed.

Sunday night, after being drugged* with gripe water throughout the day, Sam only woke up three times. Monday was wonderful.  Sam played on the floor, napped in his bed,  and hardly fussed. I felt relaxed, happy, rested, and desperate to eat my deliciously sweet baby in the most affectionate sort of way. Andrea finally got some attention from her mom and got to play with her best friend/brother who happily allowed her to hold his hands, hand him toys, ask him questions, and repeatedly rub his head.

Monday night he woke up five times. The next night it was six. Last night I lost count. How I wish every day felt like Monday.

*I gave him the recommended dose, don't worry.

Mastitis

This weekend I battled the mastitis monster.  In the entire year that I nursed Andrea I never fell victim and knew little about it other than it was an infection in the breast.  What I discovered this weekend is that the infection is accompanied by a fever of over 101 degrees, convulsive chills, drenching episodes of sweating, aching muscles, a migraine headache, weakness, and skin so tender to touch that my own hair felt like needles.  Thank heavens it struck on a weekend when Paul was home to help me.  I'm happy to report I'm on the mend and think I've identified the cause (a new bra) and can hopefully avoid another infection.

So while I get my health and life back in order, please enjoy a couple of pictures of my children that make me smile.

Sam's first trip to the pool

Frosting goatee

Andrea photography

More of Andrea's photography

And more of Andrea's photography (what can I say?  She's got talent.)

Sleeping Sam

Sleeping Andrea

Me

Before Andrea was born, I was working 30 hours a week, going to school full-time, and anxiously busy at perfecting my homemaking skills.  Four weeks before my due date I quit my job.  Five days after her birth I wrapped up my finals, and when she was just a week old I discovered I had no energy for homemaking.  I was a full-time, milk-making machine.

Because the birth of my daughter marked a dramatic time of change in my life, I struggled to redefine myself.  I was a mom, I suppose, but the gift of taking care of Andrea didn't feel very natural to me.  Hours of second guessing and worry sometimes overshadowed any instincts that could have sprouted through, and I wondered if I was normal.  However, the more time I spent with that sweet little girl, the more comfortable I became, and I stopped caring about that quest to find the real me, and focused on the me Andrea required: I was a nurser.

When Andrea was a year old she stopped nursing, and I was flung into midlife-crisis mode all over again.  That thing with which I'd come to identify myself with for 366 days was gone, and I could no longer hide behind it's title to define who I was.  Once again, I found myself alone in the shower or walking the aisles of the grocery store wondering how to respond to the question: "Who are you?"  After months of pontificating and soul-searching, the conclusion I came to was: It doesn't matter.  Did I need a label to be happy?  Couldn't being myself just be enough?

The problem with my conclusion was I so rarely felt like myself.  When I wasn't being Paul's wife, I was being Andrea's mother.  When I wasn't mothering, I was someone's daughter, or sister, or friend.  And I loved being those things!  But I didn't know how to be alone, and be myself.

A couple months ago I pulled out my old clarinet, the instrument that saved my adolescent years from too much heartache and stagnation, and I carefully polished and assembled it's plastic shafts.  I slipped the mouthpiece between my lips, closed my eyes, and blew a long, vibrating note.  My fingertips tingled with desire for more.  I blew out a memorized hymn, full of crescendos and accents.  The familiarity of the keys, my ambresure, and scales began to slowly manifest themselves in the muscles that controlled them for so long.  I pulled out my old music bag and felt my heart break to find all of my books damaged and moldy from a hidden leak deep in the back of Andrea's closet.  After shuffling through the deformed paper, my eyes caught hold of one book that was still useable.  Christmas carols.  I played through two or three before my lack of stamina got the better of me.  With sore cheeks and a raw thumb, I swabbed the instrument and put it away.  Feeling so fresh and full of joy, I slipped that old clarinet into my room to be played another day.  And I have been playing.

You see, when that triangular mouthpiece is beneath my teeth and those silver keys tickle my fingers. . . . I feel the most like me.

Happy

You know, there haven't been many moments that I've thought ‘I'm happy’ in the last year. Not because I've been unhappy necessarily, but because life has been so crazy that I haven't had time to really think about what I'm feeling in general. When there is housework, homework, motheringwork, churchwork, and wifework to be done, I find very little time to sit and ponder how it all makes me feel.

On Tuesday, I had a particularly productive day. I cleaned and vacuumed the living room, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, hand-washed dirty knives and large pots, washed and dried a load of laundry, and wrote a research paper. Whilst I toiled, Andrea skipped alongside me singing and observing. As I stood at the sink scrubbing onion bits off metal surfaces, my little daughter called out my name.

"Mama! Maaama!! Mammaaaa! MAAAMMAA!!"

"What, Andrea?" I said, rather exasperated.

"Mama, Annie eh happy!" She smiled at me and wrapped her arms around my leg. I returned the smile and told her that I was happy too. And I was. Seeing her happy for all the right reasons fills me with unspeakable joy. Hearing her express her feelings and thoughts-- getting a glimpse into her mysterious mind-- brings me indescribable feelings of wonder and delight. But her declaration of happiness also provoked some self-examination. Am I taking enough time in my life to feel? I don’t think so.

I took Andrea’s unintentional challenge to heart and have spent the last several days feeling. You know what I discovered? I really am happy. There were ugly moments, and frustrating days, and times when my little Andrea was less prolific and more. . . persistent. . . but overall, I uncovered handfuls of suppressed happiness for the blessings that surround me. It was a priceless discovery.