When a baby is born, a mother is too.
Mom Shame
While I want to acknowledge and validate the experience of feeling Just Not Good Enough, I also want to say that it is not a requirement of motherhood that we harbor a constant sense of inadequacy. It is not essential that we second-guess all of our decisions. We are not failing our kids if we end the day with a hot-and-ready pizza and a juice box and say, You know what, I did my best today, and I’m proud of that.
Eighteen Summers
I saw a Facebook post the other day that really set me off. It wasn’t political. Or a veiled guilt trip at working moms. (The algorithms have definitely figured me out on that front.) It wasn’t even a recipe that made my taste buds leap out of my mouth, only to climb back in when my brain reminded them it doesn’t have the attention span to make it past the 6th step. It was that infamous “You only have eighteen summers with your kid” post.
Today is Rare Disease Day
I’m often surprised at my social media feed on February 28. People I didn’t realize had been affected by a rare disease share their story, or the story of a loved one. Perhaps the purpose is to be seen, to have the struggle witnessed, to bring light to something not often discussed. Perhaps it is to raise awareness and financial support for research. Whatever the reason, some people find some sort of meaning, solace, or purpose in sharing a story that is not understood by many. I’m one of those people.
Standing In Front of Closed Doors
When I was pregnant, I’d often fall into a pool of anxiety, thinking about how life would change when we had our baby. This felt confusing; we had spent years and thousands of dollars on fertility treatments, so the fact that anxiety was the chief emotion was hard to understand. Yet I was riddled with insecurity. Every night, I’d think about how the only thing that would wake me up between then and dawn was my own bladder, but in a few short weeks my sleep would be subject to the whims of an eight-pound supervisor. I constantly second-guessed my own abilities and wondered if I’d ever be able to truly handle the demands of parenting. It sounds dramatic now as I type it. But the fears were big. It felt like a challenge that I desperately wanted but also felt desperately unprepared for. Parenthood was barreling in my direction, and it had the potential to completely overwhelm me.
“No Mommy! Go away! I don’t want you!”
When we were struggling with infertility, in the midst of treatments and miscarriages and arguments and bank account managing, it was sometimes hard to hear the stories of those in the trenches. I knew logically that parenting was hard, but at times it was discouraging to hear people complain about the thing we were fighting like hell to achieve. I’d be lying if I said I never resented these complaints, because they were problems I wanted to have. And I’d also be lying that the stories didn’t elicit a lot of fear in me. What WERE we fighting like hell for, anyway?
Surprised By My Own Capacity
While I wasn’t prepared for the challenges I’d experience in early motherhood, I also wasn’t prepared for how much I would grow. I wasn’t prepared for the extent to which my own capacity would increase. I wasn’t prepared for how my own selfishness would shrink or what I’d be capable of enduring; that I could be submerged in the depths of personal hell and yet still extend myself to care for another human being. I wasn’t prepared for the deep strength I’d find in the darkest spaces. I learned I can survive more than I think I can. I learned I’m loved and supported more than I previously understood. I learned there are more resources available to me than I realized, even if I don’t always notice or see them.
Examining Pansies
The other day, my son said his first word. Grrrrrrr. Well, more like a sound, I suppose. When prompted with the question “What does a dinosaur say?” he will make a low growl in the back of his throat.
Treading Water: Fighting Postpartum Depression and Anxiety
“This is such an awful feeling… like you are in an alternate universe from the rest of the world. I feel like my body is always buzzing.”
Our Birth Story
So. I had a baby. When I was pregnant, I anticipated it would be a bit before I wrote again simply because I would be in the throws of sleep deprivation and overall deficits in my free time and cognitive abilities.
Preparing for Arrival
Every Thursday, my dad sends me a text with a number – how many weeks pregnant I am. It always makes me smile – Grandpa tracking baby’s growth, celebrating each milestone. I would typically respond with a “Yay!” or emoji that symbolized a similar sentiment.
Rounding the Bend
So. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’ve said those words dozens of times at this point, and at times they still seem foreign, like I’m referring to myself as the wrong name.
Moving Along the Track
So, a new train. A new path forward. After several rounds of feeling pressure to work on adoption stuff, then procrastinating, then feeling guilty, then doing something to avoid adoption stuff, then feeling relieved for a minute, then feeling guilty again, I finally got some positive momentum going.
Climbing Aboard
So, the train station. The platform. I hate them, and yet they have become a source of weird comfort. They are familiar; even though the snack selection sucks and the bathrooms are gross, there is comfort in familiarity.
Finding Forward
Dust fluttered into the air as I moved boxes around our storage shed. I had chosen to spend Day 1 of my spring break sorting through all my Boxes of Really Important Memories, hoping to make progress in widdling down my collection.
Redrawing the Map
My hiking boots squished through the mud of early winter that covers the foothills of the Wasatch Front, the mountain range that lines the eastern side of the Salt Lake Valley. Seth walked a few paces ahead of me and our perfect specimen of a dog, Charlie, trotted in between us, blond ears flapping as he enjoyed the hike, blissfully unaware of the tension in the air.
Waiting for the Key Change
I stood at the checkout counter of one of our local nurseries, my hand on three huge and overpriced flower pots I had purchased there two days earlier. “What do you mean I can’t return them?” I said, my voice rising to a slightly embarrassing pitch. “I have my receipt. I bought them two days ago. They can be resold. I’ll take store credit.”
The Next Right Thing
The recovery time after finding out about the miscarriage included more ups and downs, both physical and emotional. People find out about miscarriages in different ways – either you start to experience the terrifying symptoms of one or you find out during a doctor’s appointment that the pregnancy is no longer viable, as we did.