Learning to Wait

36wks1dear bSweaty and tired, my body feels like its moving through water. As the lazy August heat envelopes me like a heavy blanket, every movement feels slow and labored.

And the words. The words that once spilled out of me like a sieve feel dried up and sour.

I understand now why most people think it only takes nine months to make a baby– because the tenth month is a stalemate:  a long, slow surrender.

The nursery is left unfinished, the list of to do’s left undone, but I am done.

I can’t say I’m ready. Who can be ready for the altering change of new life?

But I’m ready to suck in a breath of fresh air, hold it in my lungs, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and leap onto the next page; into an unwritten chapter. I know the genre won’t be defined:  it will come in a mix of adventure, suspense, romance, sadness, and whimsy. But just like with any life altering change, at a certain point I know I need to let go of the last sentence, draw a period, and begin again.

But I’m still here. I close my eyes at night thinking any day my life could change, but then I wake up, and it’s a new day, but I’m still on the same page. My body still swollen with expectation.

As I tore about in bed last night, hot and uncomfortable, I saw my phone light up and make a grating noise against the wood of my night stand, alerting me to a new message. I picked up the phone with relief, and took a reprieve from my restless dance to read:

“Dear Lindsay:                                                                                                                                     I came across a photo of me the day before my son was born. Gives “big” new meaning. He was born the next day 8 lbs 15 oz.
I felt uncomfortable just looking at it-
But I think it is now my favorite photo of myself. Problem is, you don’t realize how wonderful these last couple weeks are until they’re gone–because you’re so stinking uncomfortable and impatient!
That baby is safe and sound, loving your movements and voice, not hungry, not tired, not poopy. This is a great time, these last couple weeks. You are blessed–hormones and all.”

It was what I needed to hear. I’ve been so focused on the next page that I’ve forgotten the life being written around me. These are our last days as a family of three in this slow, happy rhythm. And instead of fixing my eyes on the blank page ahead, I needed to be guided back to the blinking cursor on the page being written.

You have a whole book ahead of you to write with many new and exciting chapters. As the words fly out onto the pages, creating your life story, take a moment to look at the cursor, breathe in your surroundings and savor the life that is being written around you.

Too often we don’t appreciate a sunset until we see it in pictures, or relish the smell of a fresh cooked meal until we try to describe it. We don’t say the words that fill our heart in the moment, but hang on to them until it is too late.

sa·vor /sāvər/ verb:  enjoy or appreciate (something pleasant) completely, especially by dwelling on it.

I can’t teach you how to savor. It’s a graceful art learned in living that I still haven’t mastered. I will tell you, that regrets usually come wrapped in missed opportunities and ingratitude. I’ve never felt the sting of regret from the days I’ve lived deliberately.

I do know that on the days I feel stuck, when my words feel dried up and sour, that is when I need to refocus my eyes on a God that breathes HIS Word and Life into everything.

And even though my circumstances might leave me bored or frustrated, or resigned, I know that He will never leave me exactly where I am. And just a word from Him will leave me a changed person. Because after all, He is the author of the greatest love story of all.

 

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Watching You Grow with “No” and “I Love You”

Disciplining in Love

Disciplining in Love

Your smile eclipses your face with sunshine. I want every day to be sunshine, filled with secret giggles as our heads share a pillow; filled with drawing Crayola hearts and walking with your hand in mine, with shared baths overflowing with bubbles and your face poking around every corner asking “mommy whatcha doing?”

I anticipate years ahead when we will go out to lunch and share french fries and inside jokes. When I will squeeze in the dressing room with you and zip up dozens of prom dresses to find the perfect one, and the late nights we’ll sit on the kitchen counter, barefoot in our pj’s as we eat chocolate chip cookies from the pan as you tell me about boys, and mean girls, and teachers with smelly breath.

I dream of the day you call to tell me that you met the man you are going to marry, and the day you dial my number with trembling fingers because you’re holding a test with two pink lines.

Right now I see a little girl smile with baby teeth and chubby cheeks, but I know that the radiance of your smile won’t fade as your face softens into the angles of an elegant woman.

But as much as I relish your brilliant smile, I know even now, that every day can’t be all sunshine.

I realized in that moment, that this is just the beginning of our game of tug of war as mother and daughter.
I look back on earlier this evening when I yelled at you for plucking every dress off the hanger and piling them into a messy heap of pink tulle and lace on the floor. Your little body pantomimed a perfect pout, with your arms crossed and lower lip jutting out. As my gaze traced a tear running down your face,  you pelted my chest with the wounded words, “Mommy, you make me so sad.”

I realized in that moment, that this is just the beginning of our game of tug of war as mother and daughter.

There will be days when I say “no” more times than I can count. When you will think I am the meanest mom in the world. When you will keep secrets from me. There will be days when we will fight and you’ll throw hard, angry words at me.

I remember, with a lump in my throat, the harsh, jagged words I launched at my mother. Words like “you’re stupid,” and “I hate you.”

Despite your sadness and anger, I will need to set boundaries that guide and protect you.

But no matter how many times I tell you I love you, the NO’s will echo louder, leaving you feeling stifled and frustrated.
Right now, you want to eat chapstick and wear the same Minnie Mouse dress until I peel it off your sweaty body. At six you’ll probably want to subsist on Doritos and Pop Tarts. At 13 you may want to wear short skirts and watch R movies. Maybe at 17, you’ll want to stay out past curfew with a boy or drink a beer at a party.

And as your Mom I’ll shout and whisper “No!” and “I love you.” and “No!” and “No!”and “No!” and “I love you,” “I love you,” “I love you.

But no matter how many times I tell you I love you, the NO’s will echo louder, leaving you feeling stifled and frustrated.

But when you want to turn on the music and drowned me out, just remember the persistent whisper, “I love you.” And when it feels like my “no’s” are like  the bricks of a cement wall, also know that I don’t want to wall you in, but to protect you from decisions that will take away your freedom.

If your smile fills my heart with light, then your sadness creates the dark clouds that threaten the sky on a rainy day; .your tears have a way of pounding on my chest with a dull, persistent ache. But as much as I hate to see your tears, I know that without them you wouldn’t grow.

In the same way, God delights in our smiles and laughter, but He loves us enough to also allow seasons of struggle and tears that help us to grow.

In shouts and whispers, He answers our prayers with “no’s” and “not right now,” and “wait.” We become frustrated at a God that loves us too much to let us subsist on mediocrity and compromises.

But in the quiet moments as we struggle with a tug of war in our heart whether to trust in what He is doing, we hear His quiet, persistent whispers “I love you,” “I love you,” “I love you.”

 

Thank you for reading “Disciplining in Love.” This is one in a series of letters I am writing to my daughter with the goal of compiling them into a book. Thank you for your support.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I am not Ashamed: Battling Social Anxiety

Originally Found at: Me Too Moments for Moms
I am not ashameddear b

Social Anxiety–that’s what the therapist called it as I sat across from her on the mahogany leather couch. Her office was devised to look like a living room, to make me feel at home, but all I could think was, “I wouldn’t be here if I was normal.

The list of my oddities lay like the stacks of magazines, recklessly piled for bored fingers to flip through at the doctor’s office. 
 The list of my oddities lay like the stacks of magazines, recklessly piled for bored fingers to flip through at the doctor’s office. “No friends, no one calls, head down, ignores people, anxiety attacks…”

Finish reading at: Me Too Moments for Moms

 

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“This is crap. You can do better.”

 


reflection

dear b“No! Let go of my necklace,” I yelled as I yanked my favorite turquoise beads out of your fisted hands. Your face crumpled like a used tissue and tears erupted from your eyes. I tucked my necklace back safely into the jewelry box that you had been pilfering, as guilt flooded my chest.

I knew I’d been too harsh, but so much of my jewelry had already become your casualties.

Then, I remember the day before when a wobbly baby had toddled over to you with open hands and a wide smile, grabbing curiously at the teapot you played contentedly with.

As the baby approached, you clutched the candy pink plastic to your chest, swinging your other hand around in protective circles, and screeched, “No! Mine!” I had been embarrassed at your behavior, explaining that you needed to be kind and gentle to babies.

“She’s younger than you, and she doesn’t know any better.” The words resound in my ears as I shamefully look into your hurt, tearful eyes.

You are a reflection of me.

So often those words become stale in my mouth from overuse, but as I sit with them now, they resonate as valuable truth: you..are..a reflection..of me.

When I first entered college I had to pass a test called the Subject A Exam which assessed my ability to write an effective essay. I have always loved writing, but in high school, my teachers focused on teaching me the conventions of writing rather than the art. Mixed with test anxiety, the Subject A and I did not hit it off.

After my third failed attempt, the university mandated that I take a Subject A prep class. I showed up the first day feeling as indignant as a two year old who’s forced into taking nap.

Over the first weeks of class, I stubbornly decided that no matter what, I would despise and resent the class. The teacher, Ms. Gypsum, was young, and carefree. She wore boldly printed scarves and blue rectangular glasses that were disarming with their quirky charm. But I held my resolve.

She had us read books and articles that were actually interesting. She would return our essays covered in her inky cursive with thoughtful feedback and questions. We would sit in class with our cups of coffee doused liberally with cream and sugar, and she would encourage us to have thoughtful and worthwhile conversation.

Despite her attempts to connect with me, the first half of the class I skated by with little effort or dedication. Until Ms. Gypsum handed me back my midterm essay, and across the top of the page, seven words were scrolled beside the big red letter D: “This is crap. You can do better.”

She’d taken three weeks to show me who she was, as a writer, as a teacher, and as a person, and now, she was standing face to face with me and challenging me to show what I was capable of. Her words took me off guard, they knocked me off my pedestal and infuriated me.

But then, they forced me to look in the mirror– and I realized that I didn’t like what I saw. What was my self righteous attitude about anyways? I thought I was such a great writer, but what was I producing besides bitterness and mediocre work?

Too many times in my life I have let my ego decide who I am and not my actions. Sometimes I need to be knocked off my pedestal and told: “This is crap. You can do better.”

Because as I seek to discipline you, God is disciplining me to become a better person and a better mom. After all, the word discipline actually means “to train.”

In order to be the kind of mom I want to be, I first need to be a student. I need to learn how to be patient, humble, selfless, kind, and generous. I need to say please: please God give me strength. I need to say thank you: thank you God for your abundant blessings. I need to say I’m sorry: forgive me God for falling short.

As your hurt eyes peered into mine I put my hands on your shoulders, “I am so sorry I yelled at you like that,” and I pulled you close in an embrace.

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When Life Gives You Puddles

 

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I heard a heart-stopping cry. I know all my daughter’s cries. The fake cry, the tired cry, the cry when her feelings are hurt, and then there’s the heart stopping one– the one that I drop whatever is in my hands, leap over the vacuum, or dog, or person in my path, and run to her.

She was sitting up with her blanket in a hood over her head so all I could see were her wide blue eyes and the streaks of tears sliding down her flushed face. “Bree! What’s wrong?” I asked as I plopped my swollen pregnant body on her insubstantial princess bed, and wrapped my arms around her.

“Daddy! Daddy’s gone!”

After I calmed and assured her, “Daddy’s at work, he’ll be home tonight.” I went and checked my phone that I’d heard clanging in my bedroom beneath the din of her cries.

Ten missed calls…from Daddy.

As I heard his strangled voice on the other end of the line, he explained in gasping bursts that he’d dislocated his shoulder and was waiting for it to be set, but everything would be fine.

And everything was fine. He returned home with wild hair and glazed eyes and slept solidly for the next 24 hours. Then he was himself, save the lack of use of his left arm which was braced against his body.

It’s a week later, and I have to help him with little things, like applying deodorant and putting on his shirt. He can’t pick up our daughter and he can’t help set the table or wash dishes, but none of this is a big deal. None of this is a big deal.

We found out he may need shoulder surgery: no big deal– 4 to 6 week recovery where he won’t have full use of his arm.

Not a big deal. I’m saying this through gritted teeth, hormones flooding my body and threatening to commandeer my brain, my 8 and a half month pregnant mound of a belly staking claim like a giant ant hill that requisitions the surrounding landscape.

In my plan, he would have use of both his arms.
 God willing, the baby is coming in 6 short weeks or less.

In my plan, the shades would be hung in the nursery, the closet painted a crisp white instead of the streaks of dirt and rust that threaten to claim the walls. The contents of the garage would be neatly organized on the shelves instead of dumped in a disheveled mess on the floor and every surface.

In my plan, he would have use of both his arms.

Then I’m reminded of how Bee entered the world on an unsuspecting Friday afternoon. I woke up in a puddle of water a month before she was expected. My house was a mess, the nursery wasn’t complete and my family was eight hours away.

Breach…emergency C Section…it all came in a confused rush.

When I held her soft, warm body to my chest, none of it mattered.

Too often I try to shrink my life into the little trivial details right in front of me rather than seeing the big beautiful landscape God is painting before me.
I wouldn’t change a thing about my first birth story. God knew that I was an anxious mess, and He saved me a month of harried preparation and bustle. More than that, He knew His ways are higher than my ways in all things, big and small.

Too often I try to shrink my life into the little trivial details right in front of me rather than seeing the big beautiful landscape God is painting before me.

In his goodness and grace he uses my circumstances to redirect my attention to HIM.

He loves me so much that he comes and affirms his goodness in the small things, like my husband’s laughter as I tickle his armpit in my pitiful attempt to apply his deodorant, or in Bee’s small hand, wrapped around my finger in our first moments together.

He loves us so much that he affirms his goodness by giving His life for mine. And in the quiet moments as I feel the healthy kick of my growing baby girl, He reminds me that HIS plan is the only one that matters.

 

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Choosing Love…When You Just Want to Pull Your Hair Out

seasontolovedear bThese days you are a tumbleweed of endless energy and curiosity. I wake up, and face the challenge of finding ways I can occupy your day, so that when the lazy heat of the summer afternoon closes in on us, you will topple into your bed in nothing but your princess-pullup, surrounded by a cloud of misfit stuffed animals, and sleep for a blissful hour.

Our day passes in busy bursts: as we rush to the potty when you’re crossing your legs; in distracted meandering: as we change your dress three times because apparently toddler girls are the most indecisive females on the planet; and grinding halts: as you throw yourself on the floor of Target because I won’t buy you a $50 Sophia doll.

And then there are the moments when time freezes, and I  have a stunning instant of clarity that  makes our stumbling days of toddlerhood distill into an emotion that gives purpose and reason to the craziness of our lives. LOVE.

time melts away, to do’s scatter like confetti, and my purpose lies snugly in the circle of my arms.

When I cuddle you in our bed in the morning as your wild wheat hair spreads across my pillow and you murmur a string of senseless words and songs–your breath smelling of cheerios  and your smile full of mischief and daddy, time melts away, to do’s scatter like confetti, and my purpose lies snugly in the circle of my arms.

It makes me want to collect as many of these beautiful moments as I possibly can, the way you collect rocks wherever we go. Somehow you find beauty in even the dull, muted ones.

Sometimes I feel like I have no more love and patience to give, and so I grab on to the emotions that come more easily.
It’s so easy to choose to be frustrated and exhausted and exasperated when you want to “help” me with household chores, or beg to read one more book, or stumble out of bed, for the third time, asking  for a drink of water and a cuddle. Sometimes I feel like I have no more love and patience to give, and so I grab on to the emotions that come more easily. I distract you with TV or rush you through our bedtime routine so I can just survive the day.

Today as we were walking, I saw you with your eyes squeezed shut and nose chasing the wind. I asked you what you were smelling, and you responded, “pretty blooms and green leaves.” It made me stop, and laugh in surprise, and sniff the air to take in the smell of grass, and leaves, and yes…pretty blooms.

I realize that when I look back on my life I’m not going to count the number of crusty egg pans I scrubbed clean, or the number of passes I made across the carpet with my vacuum. I will cherish the lazy cuddles in an unmade bed, impromptu dance parties, kisses on pretend booboos, and pushes on the swing.

And you empower me to see that I have a choice between seeing the things of this life as blessings or burdens.
But even as you get older I can choose to get mad at you when you make mistakes, or to empower you to overcome them. And you empower me to see that I have a choice between seeing the things of this life as blessings or burdens. I can complain about my responsibilities or realize that responsibility comes out of opportunities. I can let disappointment and frustration grow into resentment and isolation, or I can choose to love people through their shortcomings.

You remind me that when I take a moment to stop and smell the pretty blooms, my days reveal a lot more purpose, and my heart has room for a lot more love.

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When Band-Aids & Kisses Aren’t Enough

dear b
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When you have babies you will understand that any trip out of the house requires careful preparation. During the first few months its diapers, wipes, milk, pacifiers, burp rags, and the list goes on. At two its snacks, clean Minnie Mouse underwear, your favorite butterfly water bottle, and the armful of toys you insist on towing along.

As you get older, the tangible things you’ll need from me will become less and less. But as the things I carry lessen, your intangible needs will grow.

I know the challenge of motherhood that lies ahead is when you have the wounds that can’t be made better with a kiss and a Hello Kitty band-aid.

Motherhood is exhausting, but less complicated when you can meet every need with a bottle, clean clothes, or a band-aid. I know the challenge of motherhood that lies ahead is when you have the wounds that can’t be made better with a kiss and a Hello Kitty band-aid.

I don’t have a balm for the ache that comes when kids make fun of you because you’re too tall, or too skinny, or too shy. I can wrap my arms around you and hold you close when you endure your first heartache from a boy, but I can’t hold your heart or heal the throbbing pain in your chest. I can give you wise words, but I can’t stop you from making choices that cause you to hurt yourself, or prevent the consequences of your mistakes.

There will be a time when my advice will be the last thing you’ll want to hear. You’ll have empty places in your heart that a million of my words could never fill. My hope is one day my words will be a guiding light when your world feels dim. I’m certain that there will come a day when all you’ll want from me is a new thought or  word, and you’ll only be able to sift them from memories. But when my advice fails you when you’re young, when it offers you hope and clarity as you get older, and when my silence feels like the loudest thing in the room, know that my love never, ever falters. My child, a thousand of my words, even the best and brightest, could never tell you all the ways I love you.

But my love can’t stop the world from hurting you. There’s nothing that I can carry that will stop the pain in your heart during your darkest moments or give you air when it hurts to breath. That’s why I know that although I’m tired and cranky because you didn’t sleep much last night, and you seem to find a new mess to make in every cupboard and corner…this is the easy stuff.

My prayer is that  I will find the wisdom and endurance to show love and grace when you make messes of your life. I already know I will find ways to fail you at every turn because I’m only human, so my greatest prayer is that you will know that while I’m the one holding your hand for a short while, He is the one that holds you in His hands always.

 

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Never Lose Your Wonder

imagedear b

As I sit on my crumpled bed, I watch you twirling in your pink tutu. You have a radiant smile on your face of pure joy. Earlier you got into my bedside drawer and found an anniversary card that your daddy had given to me. As you explored the white icing sparkles and traced the fuchsia embossed heart, I watched you mouth the word “wow.”

In your eyes I saw that card in an entirely new way. You see my dear, when I received it I saw it as an obligation: a mere trinket that I expected your daddy to give me on the day that marked our five year wedding anniversary. But when I see it through your eyes, I see our wedding cake, I see the rose on your daddy’s lapel, and I see a love story that has woven us together as a family.

At the beach yesterday, you squealed as we took off your sandals and you allowed the sand to explode between your toes; you giggled with glee as the foam of the waves chased our heels; you peacefully rested in utter bliss as your daddy’s arms enveloped you in a seaside nap. It makes me realize that too often I forget to indulge in life and soak it up with all my senses. Too often my prayers of thanks are the cursory things rather than taking time to appreciate the details that God has intimately placed in my life. After all its the sunrises, and morning cuddles, the smell of your hair after a bath, the taste of coffee after a bite of breakfast, red high heels, pink tutus, and sand between my toes that gives life the dimension and color that help me to see more clearly.

You have fresh eyes for everything, finding excitement and awe in the corners of life that, too often, I let collect dust. With your bright vision my own world gets bigger and I’m reminded to see the wonder in things that too easily become commonplace.

While the cotton candy pink of your baby blanket,  that I unwrapped from the white paper tissue before you were born, has dulled to a pastel; days and life experiences will soften your vibrant spirit and your bright eyes. Its hard to believe, but in time, your figure will ease into gentle curves and the skin on your face will relax into subdued lines. Like the fabric on your blanket has become soft with love and washes, this softening of your spirit is part of becoming a woman.  But, as you relax into your different roles as a friend, a professional, a mother and wife, I pray that you don’t lose your wonder. My prayer is that your laughter, enthusiasm, and face splitting smile don’t get dimmer, but richer as you grow into the beautiful woman that God has created you to be.

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Prenatal Depression: How I Survived My Pregnancy

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My Journey in Overcoming

Prenatal Depression

Dear Daughter,
All I could think of was becoming pregnant. Every month as I waited to see if my test would be positive,  I’d become like a helium balloon, puffed up with excitement and hope, and in the days following my period, become deflated and weighed down with another missed opportunity. When I finally saw the faint pink line I was in such a state of disbelief that I made an appointment with my OBGYN right away to confirm the result. They did an ultrasound and spotted the embryo–the miracle–that was you. I saw the mass on the screen that looked like scrambled eggs, and tears of joy streaked down my face, because no matter what it looked like, God knew, and I knew what it meant.

The beautiful gift I’d hoped and prayed for, began to feel more like a burden.
The weeks and months following the happy news became an obstacle course of sickness, confused emotions, and irritability. The joy I first felt eluded me. It became an effort to get out of bed, to get dressed, and to even eat. As friends and family began to worry, I began to wonder if I would ever feel the same again, and the beautiful gift I’d hoped and prayed for, began to feel more like a burden. What I didn’t realize at the time is that I was suffering from depression during pregnancy, or what professionals call “prenatal depression.”

We announced your expected arrival in December as the days grew grayer and colder, and my tummy began to swell with you. Members of our church in Sedona learned of our news with a picture of us we put up on the front screen along with our church announcements. The photo showed a happy couple in front of the Christmas tree, with a ribbon tied in a bow around my waist and  your daddy kneeling to kiss my bump. That Sunday morning, Barbara, a friend and mentor came up and wordlessly gave me a hug and a squeeze as tears quickly sprang to my eyes. Since we couldn’t find the care I needed in Sedona, I had been gone for the last few weeks staying with your Cece in San Diego as we tried to find a psychiatrist who would help give me the extra treatment I needed. I had spent my days as a kid would on Christmas break making gingerbread houses and ornaments, reading books, sleeping long hours, and watching mind numbing TV, as I grasped for the hope and excitement that I couldn’t seem to find. My prenatal depression left me listless.

Barbara held my shoulders and looked searchingly into my eyes. “I knew you were pregnant, but I wanted to wait until you shared the news before I said anything.” “You did?” I asked, “but how?” “Remember my best friend that I lost? I’ve told you about her before,” I nodded. Barbara had shared with me that in her 30’s her friend Candace and her were inseparable. They both had kids the same age and were involved in church together. After she lost Candace tragically to an untreated infection of strep throat, her friend had been appearing to her in dreams. She explained, “Candace told me to pray for you and your baby.” As she said this, a warmth filled my belly while a chill crept from my neck and down my arms and legs creating goosebumps. In all the grey clouds, sadness, and apathy, I had forgotten that you weren’t just something growing inside me, but a baby; you were my baby, and a child that God cared for enough to send an angel to my friend to seek her prayers.

The months following weren’t easy. God didn’t give your daddy an extra measure of patience but poured down buckets of love and patience as he shouldered the burdens of work and my depression that seemed to weigh on our house like a musty, woolen cloak. No matter what I did I couldn’t seem to find the joy and excitement that had filled me up at that first ultrasound. But, now I had something to cling to. Despite the sadness I felt in my prenatal depression, despite the void of emotions I wanted to feel, I clung to the knowledge that God already knew you as my baby, as His child, and that He had a plan for you beyond the fog of my prenatal depression and desperation.

Child, when you were born, I am not exaggerating when I tell you, you were my bright spot, my sunshine. The grey cloud of apathy lifted when I held your warm body against mine and I breathed in your sweet, milky scent. They say what I suffered from was perinatal depression. What I know is that it was a season that helped me to see more clearly. We don’t know what light is until we experience darkness–and although God let me experience the darkness of a mental illness called depression that I had never known before, He also allowed me to see His light and goodness in a way that I would have never fully grasped until I saw your face.

There are many things that can be gleaned from this story, but I think most of all I want you to know who your maker is. Mommy and Daddy dreamed of you and planned for you, but your God knew you by name before you were even scrambled eggs in my tummy. So while I will speak words to you of love and encouragement, I will try to guide you down straight paths, I want you to always know that God is the one who sent an angel for you when I couldn’t find you in my darkness. He’s given me the wisdom, courage, and strength now to be your mommy, but on the days that I disappoint you, He will never fail you.

If you or a loved one thinks they have prenatal depression, talk to your healthcare professional who can connect you with a support network. Don’t endure prenatal depression alone.

http://www.postpartum.net

 

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Letters to B.

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dear bIn quiet moments, I find myself talking to you. I tell you about our day together, I tell you about the lessons I’ve just learned or the hopes I have for our future together. But in my inner ramblings, I’m not talking to the B with scraped knees, a button nose, and a gleeful giggle, but a vibrant and beautiful teenager, a young woman anxiously waiting to find love, a nervous and glowing bride, a swollen and radiant mother to be, and an exhausted, yet blissfully  content wife and mother. I imagine myself stringing together lessons, ideas, memories, and snapshots that can hang on your neck like a strand of pearls, giving you a piece of me, and helping you navigate the milestones of your life. I realize there’s nothing I can say that will develop the wisdom that is earned from bad breakups, betrayal, reckless love, and all the moments that mark how beautiful and sometimes how heart wrenching life can be.

I imagine myself stringing together lessons, ideas, memories, and snapshots that can hang on your neck like a strand of pearls, giving you a piece of me.
But I smile as I see you reading my words at sixteen and rolling your eyes, then again at 23, as you think you know better, and then finally at 34 and beyond, as you savor them, like the morsels of dark chocolate I keep hidden from you and daddy at the back of the pantry.

So while you nap soundly, covered in flecks of sand and salt from a morning at the beach, here I am with my laptop, putting off my zillions of chores to bang away at my keyboard, and try to distill all that I want to impart to you in the meager words I’ve been given. I’d like to think my thoughts to you could touch and benefit others, but maybe they’re intended for an audience of one–and that’s okay too. Because that’s the crazy way that God works, calling us to plant a seed that could fruit beyond our wildest imagination now, or lay dormant in the ground for years and years and then miraculously sprout up in a new and unexpected place.

My dear B as I share my thoughts with you in these letters I’m going to tell you what you’ve already figured out. I am only human. I’m going to fail you a million times before you ever sit down to read my words. Just last night, I kissed your face and my tears wet your cheeks as I apologized for raising my voice at you–you were refusing to go to bed and I was impatient and tired. But my dear, I hope by now you know that that’s what makes our world so beautiful–that God takes our shortcomings and messes, our half efforts and good intentions and wraps them up with lessons and forgiveness; He ties a ribbon of grace around them and transforms  them into the beautiful gifts that our lives are made of.

 

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