For This, I Love My Mom

A mother's love is so simple.  We love our babies from the first time they are placed in our arms.  Most of us love them even before that, at the moment we find we are carrying them.  Some of us love even at the very thought of them.

But what of the mothers who are confused, saddened, or even angered at the thought of this child coming into their lives?  What of the mothers who feel nothing as they stare at their child?   My heart aches for them.  To feel confusion and anger and sadness in the face of something so natural, so beautiful, is really a tragic thing.

My heart aches because I have felt that way about one of my babies, just as my mother felt that way about me.

We all want to know our birth story.  I've heard mine a million times, and I love it.  My mother was young - 26 - and she had two children under the age of three, a boy and a girl.  She had made it through my father's deployment to Vietnam and a move across the country from Washington.  Her husband was home safely, and her family was happy and complete.  But then, she found out she was carrying another child, and she felt sad and confused.  She hadn't planned on another baby, didn't want one.  She was tired, as all mothers are, and didn't think she could handle another baby so soon.

A few months into her pregnancy, the doctor discovered a suspicious cyst on her ovary, and it had to be removed right away.

"But what about the baby?" she asked.

"Well, when the surgery is over, it will either be there or it won't," her doctor told her matter-of-factly.

And that's when she prayed like she had never prayed before.

She prayed that God would spare her baby.  She prayed for forgiveness for her angry and confused feelings.  She prayed because she wanted that baby.


That baby survived the surgery, and thrived inside her.  She would later recount how every time she turned on her old, clunky washing machine, the baby would jump and kick.  To her, that meant he was okay, and she felt joy and relief every time.

That baby was born two weeks early, weighing a mere five pounds, ten ounces, but left the hospital weighing over six pounds because she ate like a champ.

Yes, that baby she was so sure she didn't want, and was so sure would be a boy, was me.  She always ends her story by telling me how happy she is that I survived.  I like to say that I turned out the best of her three children, so it's lucky I did.

I love that my mom has always been honest about her feelings about my birth.  I love it especially now that I am a mother, and especially because I can relate to her feelings almost exactly.

When I became pregnant three months after Joey died, my first reaction was confusion.  It wasn't in my plan to have another baby.  I had given everything away.  My next reaction was fear.  Fear at all the potential defects this baby could have.  Then my feelings turned to anger.  Anger at a God that took one son away from me, only to give me another, who could potentially bring even more heartache.  I knew I wasn't strong enough to handle any more pain, so I prayed, I begged God to take the baby away.

I prayed because I was scared.

But the baby came, his birth was perfect, and he was wonderful.  And when I looked into his beautiful, dark, wide open eyes, my love was simple: I knew he was wanted.

It's ironic that Baby E looks like a perfect mix of my mom and me as babies.  I feel as though I will always have a special bond with him, just as I have a special bond with my mom.  She gave me the gifts of honesty and acceptance, and I hope to pass those on to Baby E.

My mom has given me so many parts of herself.  Some I don't really like, such as her big feet, her oily skin, her squinty eyes, her inability to accept compliments on any of her many talents, and the stubbornness that she sometimes uses to her detriment.

She has also given me some amazing parts, too, like her tiny waist (we both once had one), her skin that shows few wrinkles, the brown of her hair and the beautiful blue of her eyes that I see reflected in my sons, her humbleness, her loyalty, her acceptance, the stubbornness that keeps her moving forward, her willingness to listen without offering unsolicited advice, and her love of words and ability to spin them into music better than I will ever be able.

She has given me her love and her friendship and shown me that while a mother's love may at times be multifaceted and complex, it's simply always there.

And for this, I love my mom.

* * *

What A Mom Knows

A mom knows that you'll be her favorite

as soon as you're in her arms.

She knows all the words to your favorite book

and when to give in to your charms.

She knows how to fix a boo-boo,

a prom dress,

 a broken heart,

and she knows how hard it will be

when you will have to part.

She knows when to swarm in

and when to back down,

And she always knows the right thing to say

when all you can do is frown.

She knows all your friends

and their folks,

And knows just how much to laugh

at your made-up knock-knock jokes.

She knows how to be strong,

and when it's okay to cry,

She knows when the truth should be told,

and when it's time to lie.

She knows your outsides,

and all of your insides, too,

For every situation,

she's taught you what you should do.

To a child,

Mom knows it all,

No matter if you've grown big,

or you're still very small.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and especially to my very own beautiful Mom. I love you.

My Way Back from Depression


 


Last week, I was out of my little white happy pill.  The pharmacist had to call my doctor, and I knew they would play phone tag all week.  I've been out of my Lexapro before, and I knew what was going to happen...

One morning, I wake up feeling sad for no apparent reason.  A sadness that has nothing to do with any tragedy I've experienced.  I'm never sure why I am feeling sad, but I sink into it.  It lays over the top of me for a day or so, until it worms its way deep into my heart and mind, festering, slowly turning into anger and despair over every. little. thing.

Anger at all the things I can't seem to control.

And then it resides there, refusing to leave, affecting my every thought, every action.

My patience with my sons quickly wears thin.  I snap at the smallest mistake, yell over the tiniest indiscretions.  I take out my anger and feelings of worthlessness on them, innocent victims incapable of fighting back.  I scream and yell and say regrettable things that I know I will never be able to reverse.  

I yell at my four year old to 'Hurry up!!' We are late for preschool again.  We are always late.  Why can't I ever be on time for anything?

The baby is getting into everything, and I yank him away making him cry.

With every angry reaction I think,  'I'm a horrible mother.  This is how they will remember me.' This plunges me further into my pit of self-pity and negativity.  I can't believe how quickly I have descended this time.

When Hubby asks me about my day, I don't even want to talk or even let him look at me and see the sadness and anger in my eyes.  I am ashamed of myself.

My head is jumbled.  I can't think.  I can't remember anything.  I can't organize my thoughts.

I haven't written my weekly post for Her View From Home, and I can't think what to write.  I write sentences that make no sense and then delete them in a frustrated and angry tirade.  I know I should write a new blog post, too.  But why should I?  No one reads it anyway.  Every e-mail I get from other blogs I subscribe to makes me angry and depressed.  Why does this blog have so many followers?  Why did everyone comment on this post when no one comments on mine?  It defeats me.  I think, 'I am stupid to think that I can write, that I have talent, that I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear.'  I resign to just give up writing altogether, thinking only of the pieces that have been rejected.

'I am a miserable failure at everything.'

I don't return phone calls, I ignore e-mails and texts and messages on Facebook.  I don't feel like subjecting anyone to my negativity.  At my son's soccer game, I set up my chair far away from all the other parents.  I can't be social.  My friend Katie walks by and asks how my day is going.  Near tears, I tell her, 'Not good,'  and when she gives me a tight hug, I bristle.  I'm angry with myself for letting people see me like this.  Seeing me weak and ungraceful.

At the next soccer game of the day, my friend Heather sets up camp next to me and babbles happily in her enviable way.   I wonder if she can tell; does she know how I am feeling?  She has said that she needs to run every day.  It is her sanity.  What is my sanity?  Why is my sanity a pill?

At baseball games later that day, I get a rush of joy seeing my six year old make a good hit and run to first base.  My heart warms watching my four year old play for the first time, seeing his short legs run the bases and follow directions and laugh happily.

On Sunday, Hubby asks me to help plant annuals in the flower garden.  The hard work satisfies me for an afternoon.  I'm unsure whether it is because I am learning more about something I've always wanted to know or that Hubby and I are working side-by-side on a project, but it brings me temporary reprieve.

But later, I want to be alone with my thoughts, away from everyone.  I know this is dangerous.  I've been alone with my thoughts too many times in my life.  Alone with the thoughts that tell me I am worthless, I'm a bad mother and a terrible wife.  I can't cook or write or take care of my house or maintain friendships.  I'll never be able to run a race or write a book or complete a goal.  These were the same thoughts that plunged me into a scary darkness three times in my life.

Once in high school when I was so paralyzed by feelings of inadequacy that I stayed in my room wallowing in misery, sure that I was so far beneath everyone else that perhaps I shouldn't even exist.

Next, after I graduated from college and couldn't find a job.  I hated substitute teaching, so I stopped answering the phone at all.  I stopped getting dressed in the morning and stayed on the couch all day.

And when I desperately wanted a baby after I was married, and everyone but me seemed to be getting pregnant.  I stopped talking to my friends and avoided social situations.  I remember crying to Hubby, begging him to let me stay home from his high school fund raiser because we would be seated at the same table as someone who was pregnant, and I didn't want to stare at her swollen belly all night.

Hubby would often come home from work, and finding me in tears and on the couch would say to me, "You sat home and thought all day, didn't you?"

It feels like the cartoon image of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. It's the classic battle between light and dark, which both reside in all of us.  But in someone who suffers from depression, the dark mostly wins.  That little devil tells me awful things about myself, and I believe him.

In my twenties, my doctor suggested I see a therapist.  I carried around the name and number for about a year before I threw it away.  It was just another thing that made me feel inadequate, that proved I was a failure.  I always thought it was something I had to live with.  It wasn't that bad, was it?

But as I look back, it was.  It did paralyze me, it does keep me from doing the things I want to do - mainly loving my family and friends and pursuing my dreams.

Monday, I picked up the pills, and took two right away.  Slowly my head cleared, but I was still screaming at my sons and deleting every blog update from my e-mail.  I got back on my pattern of taking five milligrams every other day.  Any more makes me feel like a fuzzy-headed zombie; any less isn't quite enough.

I have found time to use my treadmill a bit each day this week, and when I am tired, I have gone to bed before exhaustion hits.

This morning, I gave gentle reminders about backpacks and glasses and dressing for preschool and laughed when Baby E took the dirty clothes out of the washing machine.  I feel like my sanity is slowly returning and lightness and calm are winning once again over darkness and anger.  I feel like I am returning to the person I want to be, that I know I am in my heart and in my beautiful mind.

I have three, maybe four posts I want to write, and I am reading all my favorite blogs again for inspiration.  The words are forming themselves in my head, and I can't type quickly enough.

I do hate that this sanity and clarity comes from a pill, but I thank God I can recognize this.  I thank God that I can recognize when my mind is jumbled and crazy and the darkness is winning.  I thank God for giving me a situation that forced the introduction of the medication.  I thank God that I will never be the type of mom who does the unthinkable to her children because she didn't realize that she needed help or refused to seek it.

I vow to never let my prescription lapse again.  I vow to not care if society thinks I am weak or lazy for taking antidepressants.  I vow to never think that they are the only answer for these dark feelings.  I vow to take them for as long as I need them, for myself and for my family. 

Most importantly, I vow to be honest about my use of them for other women who might think as I used to - that they just have to deal with that devil character on their shoulder telling them awful things about themselves and believing it.  I vow to talk about it because if I had known anyone else felt this same way long ago, things might have been different.  Different as they are now.  Better.

All I have ever wanted was to be happy; but I have to fight for it, and I always will.  The more I fight, the more I learn.  The more I learn, the better I get.  If that means I need some medicinal assistance, then so be it. That little white pill and I will just keep knocking that devil right off my shoulder.

Living in the Middle

I have lived in the Midwest my entire life.  For all but six years, I have lived in the same city.  I moved three hours away for college, and Hubby and I moved to Long Island for two years, knowing we'd be back in the city we both called home. 

And I've never minded living where I do.  Hubby's and my families all live here, except for my sister who lives three hours away, and one of hubby's sisters who lives in Chicago.   A good number of our friends are here, and we have made wonderful new friends from our sons' school and church, people who rallied behind us when we were battling cancer with Joey and who supported us after his death.

With the ease and quickness of text messages, Facebook, e-mail and, of course, blogs, it's so easy to feel completely connected to all those friends and family who are scattered around the country.  So much so, that when I see an old friend, I feel like there's not a ton to talk about anyway because I've seen all her pictures on Facebook, read her blog, or chatted her up via e-mail or text.

Long Islanders asked us all the time: Why on earth would you move back to the Midwest??  Never mind that not a one could tell us where our state was located or had heard of anything that our state has to offer (which is actually a lot).  We would simply sing the praises of friendly neighbors on quiet streets and houses with backyards and three-car garages whose mortgages were less than what we were paying in rent for a tiny townhouse with a slab of concrete and a patch of dirt behind it.

This was our place in New York.  Don't be fooled - we only lived in the lower left-hand side.
Someone else had the garage and the entire top floor. 

But, as much as I sing the praises of home, it's nice to be able to travel.  And to see this:

Monterey, CA, 17-mile drive

And this:

Miami Beach, FL

Even this:

Central Park, NYC

It's nice to live a life that can even afford a good ole' Midwestern sunset over the lake, like this:



Okoboji, IA



Hubby, Baby E, and I recently took a trip to California.  Hubby had a conference but took a couple days off for sightseeing.  We marveled at the beauty of central California, the rolling mountains plummeting into the rocky shores where glorious white waves crashed.  The stars seemed much more dazzling at night on the road to Big Sur than we had ever seen, and we fell in love with the quaintness of Carmel.

"When can we move here?" Hubby asked with his eyes sparkling.

I looked at the baby in my arms and replied, "In about 17 years."

It's true.  For the first time in my life, I could see myself actually wanting to live somewhere else.  Like maybe here:

Someone actually gets to live here and overlook the ocean every day.

I wondered aloud to Hubby if people who live by the ocean, or near the mountains, or on a lake, or even in a vibrant, cultural metropolitan community really appreciate it every day.

But I suppose it's like anything in life.  You get used to it.  You take for granted that it's just there.  And that it's still going to be there when you wake up tomorrow. And the next day.

And the day after that.

I have to remind myself sometimes that despite the sadness and the difficult times I have endured with my family, life is pretty good.  I do have "what I always wanted," and cancer would have found Joey in New York or California or in Iowa.  Bad things have a way of seeking people out.

But so do the good. 

I'm thankful that I am able to travel with a spouse who wants to see new places with me.  But it's also comforting to know that he is just as happy at home as I am.

Living in the middle is not a bad place to be at all.