It could have been so different.

 Content warning: this post contains references to traumatic childbirth.

"It's something that your brain and body will always remember," says my therapist. 

Every year, when the calendar flips to March, the sunny days mixed with cold ones, as the daffodils begin to rise and bloom, I remember. 

I hold space in my heart and during my days for the conflicting feelings. The joy, pure joy of a birthday - the celebrations, the little touches to make it special.

And I remember how this day almost wasn't. I remember how my only clear memory of it was coming to in the ICU minutes before the clocked ticked over to a new day. The uncertainty of our future. "We don't know if he is okay," Caleb said about our baby. 

"It feels heavy," I say to my therapist.

The heaviness is the weight of the divide marking the before and after. A return for me to allopathic medicine and away from homeopathy, chiropractors, yoga, the holistic community I'd felt a part of. A sense of loss of what I thought would be. The realization that though this may be the day of the birth, it is not the day I first saw my baby, that was the next day... or the day that I held him, that didn't come for several days after... or the day that I saw his face without machines, that's a different anniversary... it's not the day his feeding tube came out, or the day I spent the night with him for the first time, alone in the NICU. I'm not sure which day we realized he didn't have any complications from the birth or that my complications were resolved... those anniversaries came months or even over a year later. 

It feels heavy. 

I lean into the gratitude, filled with a heavy sense of wonder, if wonder can be heavy, that I have been able to experience the past few years with my family. It could have been so different. "I love you," I whisper to each of them again and again before bed, kissing their faces, and holding them close. "I love you."

Blackberry picking and Caprese salad - a tale of two worlds

It was the summer of volunteering to teach English and the summer of transitions. I had just graduated from college and was volunteering in a number of places teaching English. I went once or twice a week to teach English to a big family from Burundi, another from Iraq, and to a community center to teach English to a group of Burmese/ Nepali children and their parents. We picked them up in vans, yelling "Namaste!" to the elderly grandparents and aunties, who stayed behind and wore big warm hats even in midwestern July. We exchanged hearty smiles, enthusiastic waves, and occasionally, the best chai of my life in crowded living rooms with plastic tablecloths. Occasionally I would drive some of the girls to my parents' house for blackberry picking, swimming, jumping on the trampoline and baking fun. I would return them to their homes with buckets of blackberries and full hearts all around. I always tried my best to communicate everything we'd be doing with their parents - I knew it had to feel like a risk to let some stranger take your children away in a car, but I know their children had to fill in a lot of the gaps afterwards. Somehow though, we managed to communicate with sincere glances, hand gestures, slow speaking, kind eyes.

After one such outing, I drove to a different neighborhood, an affluent one, to meet an old friend for a pool party. I peeled off my sweaty shorts and grimy blackberry-picking shirt to jump in the pool and then I realized no one else was swimming. I looked around in the August heat to see people wearing cocktail dresses, heels, make-up and masks. Not the kind of face coverings we've grew accustomed to in 2020, but the kind we all had before then. Polite small talk, tinkling, quiet laughs deployed at just the right moment for a line we'd all heard before. It was a potluck and there were 4 different Caprese salads - heirloom tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and basil. 

I'd felt this difference before - so many times before and after, but this particular moment stands out to me as the moment it felt like something broke. I still don't quite have the language for it, the best I can do is talk around it, saying "It was kind of like this, but that doesn't really explain it." What I can say for sure is that it was a conversion moment. Twelve years later, I still am not quite sure how or if I fit into the world of pool parties where no one swims and everyone brings the right on-trend dishes. But I also know that that divide needs to be bridged - because the people who are outsiders to those parties have so much to teach us. 

Intuition

 *For a long while, writing was too overwhelming, so my therapist suggested I try voice recordings. This is my first attempt to transfer a voice recording to blog format.

Sept 16, 2020

Hello Intuition 

It's been a while since I listened to you. I've been driven by survival. Slowing down has not felt possible. Being present with myself, with my children, with my friends, none of that has felt possible. 

When I try, I can't slow down. I can't bring myself to be still and be present with them. I think it's because I haven't been present with myself. 

I value being present with others and I don't value being present with myself. I am trying to change that. I hope that as I begin to listen and hear the messages of my intuition, that it will become easier. That the messages that haven't been heard will find a voice and that I will be able to hear that voice. 

On what we've lost

9/27/20 

We went to the park where I used to have Tinkergarten classes. I thought it would be a good "pandemic park" because there isn't a playground close by, or really much of anything other than green space and walking trails. I forgot about the shelter nearby, which was hosting a massive birthday party. Between that and the other small groups of people gathered on the hills and walking on the trails, I've never seen so many people there. How could I have not realized? I've never tried to guess which park would be most deserted for a Saturday night picnic before, especially during a pandemic. 

The anxiety was instant. How was I going to keep my kids away from the people, the lake, and the poison ivy? They were uninterested in food, preferring instead to run (toward the people, the poison ivy, or the lake). 

I couldn't do it, but Caleb took over, graciously navigating the hazards and allowing me to sit and eat my dinner on the picnic blanket alone. 

I looked out over the park and wondered if it was really just over a year ago that I was welcoming and inviting families I didn't know to gather on a tarp and read a story before launching into that week's activity. It was then that it struck me, how much we've lost. 

We're not good at mourning or grief as a society. We're excellent at avoidance, numbing out, putting on a fresh face until we get home. And we've only been home lately. 

It's always felt like work, good work, important work, but a lot of work for me to talk to people I don't know, to connect with others in a crowd of strangers. Both my parents are outgoing and effortlessly launch into conversations with new people, seemingly without any racking their brain for a good topic or overthinking their first line. When I was little, I assumed this was just something all adults were capable of, but it turns out that it still is hard for me to think of what to say, even though I desperately want to connect. 

Now it's a pandemic, so in addition to overthinking, I am trying to keep myself and my kids 6 feet away or more plus evaluating what the risk is of striking up a conversation with someone who isn't masked outside. It's just easier to stay quiet or only talk to my kids. 

It was within this very year, from January through the first week of March that I gathered in that same spot to take a Tinkergarten class that I wasn't leading, meeting families without having practiced their names to try to memorize parent and child each week. 

How could so much have changed in such a short time? This is a rhetorical question of course. I know how. I watched it unfold, with much anxiety. Too much anxiety, or maybe just the right amount for the situation.

Pandemic day 106

July 14

WHERE TO BEGIN?

I woke up at six am with my littlest. These days, even though we keep their sound machines on blast, they tend to wake each other up even one is still tired and woke up three times in a night. So when the cry blared through the house at 6:00am, I bolted as much as one can bolt from a deep sleep at 6am to get him and hold him.

It was too early for him to wake up, but he wasn't going back to sleep, so outside we went. He tends to be very sad when he wakes up to early, but if I can sneak him into the backyard, his mood improves and he is less likely to wake up Sammy. So we had a nice time letting our chickens out, except they were out of food, so I lugged the 40 lb bag of feed out there and then proceeded to dump half of it on the ground instead of their chicken feeder at 6:11am. Oops. We watered our garden and had a generally nice time, minus the mosquitos, then went back inside and met Sammy as he woke up at 6:37.

Last week when our three year old came down with all the usual cold symptoms: runny and stuffy nose leading to congestion that makes you cough, I panicked. I called the pediatrician and was told that since he hadn't been around anyone who had tested positive for COVID, they did not think he needed to be tested... despite the fact that our state is now considered in "uncontrolled spread". We took him to get tested at the county and were told we would have results in 3 days. Today is day 5 and we still have no results. Nothing posted on the patient portal, no response to voicemails. After talking to daycare, they said the were not particularly concerned about his symptoms, so we have continued to send him for the three days per week he is there. We all have the cold now.

A week and a half ago, I ordered myself some hats that don't have sports logos on them since I do not like sports but do like wearing a hat when I walk. I also ordered a small new toy. Still has not arrived, tracking has not been updated. I run to the mailbox every 30 minutes all day to see if it will arrive. I am thinking about placing a new order for the same or different toys just to see if it will get here faster.

We had a follow-up appointment with a nurse practitioner from the allergist. The week before the lockdown, our youngest had a multi-system reaction to eggs. We had a video appointment with the allergist a few weeks ago, followed by bloodwork (generally was awful, they dug around in his arm trying to find the vein for so long that he stopped crying which was the worst feeling), followed by a phone call that said "yep, he is really allergic to eggs, call us back in a few months or a year." During that last phone call I asked so many questions that they offered us another video appointment with the nurse. Normally, I don't care at all if an appointment is running late, but when you are home alone and have one kid set up with rare screen time alone in his room and the other set up with puzzles and other quiet gadgets at the table with you, a delay of 5 minutes is very meaningful. The answers to my questions made me wonder if this was a place that handled very many food allergies.

This all in one morning, on day 106. 

Imperfect beginnings: an introduction

 I was listening to a Brené Brown podcast where she was talking about the article Your ‘Surge Capacity’ Is Depleted — It’s Why You Feel Awful. 

One of the things she or it mentioned was that now that we have hit six months of crisis, we have depleted all of our reserves and we must find a new source of strength. The paradox (I think that's the right word?) is that we can't do that until we have acknowledged how hard it has been so far. 

You may find my writing now less precise, but I am giving it an imperfect try and trying not to overthink it because frankly I don't have the bandwidth. Like many of you that I have talked to, my head is full of fog most of the time, especially when I try to write. I make and ignore more typos than I ever have before. 

Another thing Brené mentions is that when we are struggling with something, we are rarely struggling alone. She mentions that phenomenon when the one student bravely asks the question and there is relief written across the faces of 90% of the class who also had the same question. So here, in this space, I will attempt to share honestly how things have been, how things are, in the hope that I will make others and myself feel less alone. This will most certainly delve into topics not usually "aired", and that is intentional. 

I nearly always wait before sharing things, wait for it to not be so fresh. But in these unprecedented times (I know we are all sick of this phrase, yet here we are), I don't think we have that luxury. I think the only way for us to collectively move forward is through radical vulnerability about how hard things are. We are seeking deep connection with others, having had most day to day connections removed or severely altered. So let's begin. 

On falling out of love with Christmas time

When I was growing up, I always loved Christmas time. I loved the songs, the special foods (okay, mostly just cookies, pies, and Christmas waffles - I've never been into turkeys, hams, mashed potatoes, etc.), the general sense of merriment and excitement from the adults. I loved the Christmas tree, the stockings, the joyful anticipation of Santa coming.

And now, when this time of year comes, I remember that, and I still want almost nothing to do with it.

Part of it is this - I grew up in a church and school that celebrated Advent - a hope-filled period of waiting and watching the four weeks before Christmas. To wait for four weeks together made the whole thing feel more magical when it arrived. Skipping this period of waiting as a culture feels like having dessert without dinner - all the sugar and very little of the substance. (I recognize the irony of this analogy, by the way, having said above that my favorite holiday foods are only cookies and waffles.)

Part of it is this - I have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. It's a lot different as an adult with two days off (which I am grateful for) compared to a child with several weeks off of school.

Part of it is this - I would be responsible for creating all these things: decorating, cooking extra foods, monitoring the children around a tree, hanging lights (or having Caleb do it) and most days, it feels like all we can do to keep everyone fed, clothed, relatively rested, and arriving at their destinations. We only recently added in teeth brushing for the toddler because until now, it quite frankly felt too overwhelming. You make time for the priorities, and many people busier than I make time to do Christmas decorating and the like because it brings them joy - and to them I say great! I am making time to write this right now because it brings me joy, so I fully support you.

A big part of it is this - the earth is rapidly being destroyed. It's groaning all the time, but it seems especially poignant during this time of liturgically hope-filled waiting. The first thing I think of when I see a beautifully wrapped present is about what a waste of precious, limited resources it was to wrap a probably not necessary thing in completely unnecessary paper or a gift bag. My children, who will most certainly have to deal with the consequences of climate denial and inaction, receive many thoughtful gifts (some even suggested by or purchased by me). It is my hope that providing a childhood full of messy play, open-ended toys, extremely limited screens, and lots of outdoor time will help them fall in love with the planet and think creatively to come up solutions to a drastically changing world. But somehow another obligatory part of childhood  in the world today is free plastic junk at every turn. And while I strongly agree that "[O]ne of the functions of preschools [or toddlers] in our society is not to use things, but to finish using things.", the amount of NEW plastic or other junk that arrives home when you have kids is a shock. And apart from the junk, even the things I carefully select come at a cost. I buy new clothes because it's easier than making time to go to a consignment sale. I buy new books to ensure my kids have a selection of books that features female, racially, and ably diverse characters. All of it costs something financially and costs something to the planet. Christmas trees, lights, decorations. 

Also, can we talk about Santa? I love magic and the way that childhood is a time when the lines of fantasy and reality are very blurry. But I have given or sat through a few too many child protection trainings to want my children to ever sit on the lap of a stranger at the request of a trusted adult. One of the only Christmas decorations I own are personalized stockings... I myself loved the magic of Santa growing up, but the whole thing makes me feel uneasy and unsettled.

Overall, I guess I feel like we - as a family and as a society - are already overflowing at the brims - too much stuff, not enough space, too many commitments, not enough time. We take that limited, not-enough space and we jam-pack it full of Christmas trees, Christmas trinkets, plastic stuff. It's a screaming holiday in an already too loud world. As the world gets louder, the holiday too must get louder to be heard above the fray. Sales are moved earlier, shop not just on Black Friday, but the whole month of November. Put up your tree in October, start celebrating the start of the winter season on November 1, even though it's still fall until December 21. Burn yourself out on winter cheer by January 1, and then complain about the weather for another three months.

And I fell out of love with Christmas time.

All of this, to celebrate a major religious holiday, one of the great mysteries of the Christian faith. When we peel the layers back, none of that, at its heart, has much to do with sales or shopping or snow or Christmas movies, or holiday lights, or even Christmas trees.

Maybe what I fell out of love with, in the end, was the idea that to mark this significant celebration required jumping on board with the mayhem of the season. Maybe our traditions can include slowing down, giving only one or two gifts per person in a family, cutting out extra activities, sharing simple meals, and sinking into really being present with each other. Maybe we can listening to the beautifully haunting notes of "O Come O Come Emmanuel" and pray them more fervently than ever before in the face of climate disaster, political instability, and the refugee crisis.

Let's slow down together.

How to go shopping for clothes postpartum

1. Wear your maternity clothes, leggings and a handful of flowy tops for many months - ten in my case. You lose weight, gain weight, lose it. Your belly dramatically changes shape several times, each fluctuation meaning that some maternity pants or leggings fit or don’t. Wonder if you should do a diet or something to fit in your old clothes. 
2. Start an exercise program that emphasizes functional movement over appearance. Feel your strength grow.
3. Reject the concept of good and bad foods in favor of intuitive eating. Pause and ask yourself “what do I want to eat?” And then eat it in whatever quantity your body requests. Yes, even if it’s nothing but pumpkin bars for 3 meals in a row. Practice trusting yourself. Release the idea of shoulds.
4. Read a post shared by a friend reminding you that “Pretty is not the rent you pay to exist in the world as a woman”. Tattoo it in your mind. 
   
5. Talk at length with you husband one night about how hard we all are on ourselves when we are a photo of ourselves that we don’t like. Everyone else sees us with our hair like that, with that in-between face, the way the lines appear around our mouths when we smile. And they love or like us and think we look fine/ great/ normal. But we limit ourselves to a specific look, with our hair just so, and only a handful of facial expressions that we deem acceptable. Why are we so hard on ourselves?
6. Pause one day in the middle/end of a workout. Remember what your body has done, what unbelievable feats she has accomplished. Revel in them. For me, this meant overcoming a major back injury, growing, birthing, and feeding two children all within 4 years. I am filled with awe and I rest my hands lightly on my stomach in appreciation. Your body might not have done any of those things in the past four years, but I am confident that it has done some other amazing things. 
7. Fill your mind with articles questioning why “attractive” for a woman means enduring discomfort and pain (tight pants, high heels) whereas men can be attractive in comfortable clothes. 
8. Watch YouTube videos of a mom a similar size as you trying on clothes and looking amazing. 
9. Realize you are tired of wearing too-small leggings and maternity pants. Budget money for clothes. Decide it is high-priority.  
10. Go to store feeling excited to buy things that actually fit your perfect body as it is now. Perfect because it is your body and you don’t owe it to anyone to have it look any certain way. 
    
11. Rules: shop curiously. What size fits me? What feels comfortable? What style do I like? 
12. Remember that if your body has always been a certain size and is now different, your mind possibly hasn’t made that leap. My eyes gravitate towards things that would have fit me before having kids. Things that actually fit me look enormous. That’s okay. I haven’t been pants shopping in a long time. My memory is very good and is trying to help me by recalling what we did last time. I take it as a starting point and go up several sizes. 
13. Jeans are the hardest for me, so I start there. I fill my cart with pair after pair. I let up and move to something easier- athletic clothes, and then to something easier - pajamas, and then the easiest - shoes. I want to yell to all the women around me “BEING PRETTY IS NOT THE RENT YOU PAY FOR EXISTING IN THE WORLD.” We need more of that message in our lives. 
14. I try on nearly 40 things. I notice tags that say things like “Lifts and sculpts your assets”. I wish they knew that the tag that would get my attention is “These pants are comfortable and not too tight anywhere.” 
15. I actively remain curious and suspend judgement. I am full of only admiration for my strong body. I find several high-waisted pairs of pants that fit and are comfortable. I’ve wanted to wear this style for a while now but was certain that my body type wasn’t "right" for it. Guess what? I don’t care any more. I will wear it because it makes me feel comfortable and happy. I find a pair of sweatpants that look so big they might belong to Caleb. They are my size. I add them to my “keep” pile.
16. Checkout with your new clothes. Wear them and feel AMAZING. And comfortable.

Lightness

Oct 20, 2018

"When I ask people late in life to reflect back on when they were the happiest, they always bring up the years when their children were little. There was no sleep and no money. It was exhausting and kids were yelling and running around, but there was so much love. And where there is love, there is God." - Fr. Adam (paraphrased from my memory)

Caleb and I went on a retreat over the weekend to a monastery nearly two hours away. It is so, so hard for me to leave Sammy, even with loving grandparents and aunts that he adores, but we did it. And there was so much space and so much quietness that it was a little hard to know what to do with myself. Except that I knew exactly what to do with myself - sleep as much as humanly possible over the 24 hours we were gone. 

It's been seven years since I last went on a retreat - to give some context to that number, I was not yet dating Caleb. So a *few* things are different now. A small group of us sat and received wise words from a man who has been a monk for 40 years to help guide us into our retreat. 

Fr. Adam also shared about Mary and Martha - about how we often separate them and talk about how Mary was "holy" because she was sitting and contemplating and Martha was not holy, as she rushed about trying to complete housework. We try to separate them, he said, and it's ridiculous because serving God and serving your neighbor are two sides of the same coin. The sin of Martha, he continued, isn't that she was busy doing housework, it's that she was officious about it. (Officious: assertive of authority in an annoyingly domineering way, especially with regard to petty or trivial matters.) There's a false dichotomy that's been around since the nearly the beginning of Christianity that there is the material world which is not and cannot be holy, and there is the sacred, which only exists in the spirit realm. But you can't separate service of God and service of neighbor. You can't say that only Mary was doing holy work. 

It struck me that it had been awhile since I had read the story of Mary and Martha, but as a busy mom, I identified with Martha a whole lot more than ever before. I was relieved to hear that her work was also holy, though her posture may not have been. 

I later reflected on this - every day there are so many routine task that I do, and each of these is usually laced with anxiety. Truly though, it is such a gift to be able to prepare meals for myself and my family every day, to pack food to send to daycare with my son, to have dishes that need to be washed and the water available to do it, to have clothes that have been lived in and need to be washed to remove the food or dirt or drool that seems to coat everything we wear. These are all acts of love - and where there is love, there is God. Could I stop being anxious or stressed about these task simply by deciding to view them like this? 

 I remember a few weeks ago at church, Sammy desperately needed me to hold him. I remained seated in the pews, his head snuggled up in my neck as I draped him over and around my 3rd trimester belly as we sang:

Come to me

All who are weary and burdened

And I will give you rest

Put my yoke

Upon your shoulders

It might appear heavy at first

But it is perfectly fitted

But it is perfectly fitted

But it is perfectly fitted

To your curves

For my yoke is easy my burden is light
My yoke is easy my burden is light

It's true, I thought. There are a lot of what appear to be heavy burdens literally hanging on me right now, but somehow it's not heavy. It's pure love. 

Postpartum I

When you have a baby, there are a series of well- child checkups that you go through - 2 days after you come home from the hospital, 2 weeks after that, 2 months, 4 months, 6 months, 9 months 1 year, 18 months, 2 year and then it becomes annual. At Henry’s two week checkup, he was closer to 18 days old. Caleb has gone back to work, as his employer didn’t offer any sort of paternity leave. He skipped nearly all of my prenatal appointments, follow-ups with the high risk specialists, and the hospital tour (all things I desperately wished for him to attend) so that he could save up a full two weeks to be home after the birth. I had hoped for him to come with us to the checkup, but he didn’t feel like he could, having just returned to work a few days prior. 

I was overwhelmed by getting out of the house at all, but we managed to do it. Henry, as usual in the car, instantly began wailing. My nerves snapped and I also began sobbing, wailing, screaming. I just wanted my husband along. I just wanted him to be granted time off without worrying about how we would handle future sick days (his, Sammy’s, mine). I hated everything about living in a country that parades itself (quite literally) as one of the best countries in the world when it can’t even take care of parents taking care of babies. I was over it. “Today,” I determined through wails, “everyone else is going to join my discomfort.” 

And so, we parked in the parking garage. I got out and scooped up teeny newborn Henry who instantly stopped crying. I on the other hand, was not about to stop crying. I was tired. I was bleeding (for those who may not know, women bleed for many weeks after having a baby). I was overwhelmed. I was sick and tired of being without my spouse in a moment when I needed him due to lack of cultural support. 

I wailed and sobbed through the parking garage, my sobs echoing off the walls. “I will not hide this common postpartum emotion in my car,” I thought. I decided to skip the elevator and took the stairs -careful to not rip my stitches, crying inside. As I walked into the office, I dared the people around me to see my tears and see my pain. “I dare you to look at me and see what new motherhood really is,” I thought. The nurses hustled me back into a room to wait for the doctor, who met my eye contact and was unphased by the tears. He reminded me to ask for help. He reminded me that I needed to get sleep. “Stay as long as you want,” he said. It felt good to be out of my house and in the world. I returned a few weeks later and we started reflux medicines that changed our lives and brought us a baby who could fall asleep (sometimes!) during a drive instead of screaming. 

So, if there’s a new baby in your life, know that one or both parents are probably completely overwhelmed. And maybe scream crying at various points. And if you’re a new parent - I see you. I am not afraid of your tears. I’m angry with you. You’re doing a hard and great thing. Sending you a virtual hug. 

Stream of Consciousness

Everything is hard and wonderful. Some days and nights are sleepless and some are full of sleep and naps. Henry suffers from terrible reflux and some part of me is usually wearing it. He is also miles of smiles now and it’s the best. Sammy strings together words to convey meaning: “I jump! Baby! I see? I see? Baby. Watch. Jump.” (I want the baby to watch me jump.) “Otto. Mama. Car. Home.” (Otto and his mom are going home in their car.”) “Mama funny!” (When I jump around the car after buckling everyone in.) “I up here!” (When he has climbed up somewhere.)

I bought new rugs and now I want to buy 100 rugs because they are so nice. I love to lay on them... any time I’m not actively trying to put Henry to sleep. Having a baby in the winter when everyone is sick is hard because you can’t go anywhere. And then you buy 736 things online after you just watched 7 YouTube videos about minimalist zero-waste lifestyles... oops. Special oops because paid family leave is still not a thing here. (But going back to everyone being sick, if you’re sick, stop, please stop going places you don’t HAVE to go.)

Feat of the day: I woke up 15 minutes before we were supposed to leave for a doctor appointment. I made it there with both boys on time even though I missed the exit. I don’t talk about this NEARLY as often as I think of talking about it because I don’t want to gross anyone out, but Caleb is the best parent and husband ever ever. He is totally the quiet hero most days  in our home. And he has to go to work and not nap. Sammy is so smitten with him and so am I. Anyways he got us out the door on time. And my mom met us there. 

I have to start thinking about my return to work now. Part of me is thrilled - I love the work, my coworkers both here and abroad. And I love other job benefits such as the number of hours I will not be covered in spit up. Unfathomable! But good grief, 12 weeks is just not enough time. Around 6 or 7 weeks is when I just started to feel like I was in love with Henry.  Of course I loved him instantly and instinctively, but like anyone, it takes time to get to know him. Now I see him whip his little head around when he hears my voice, I watch him instantly go from fussy to burrowing in my arms, his body relaxing. He struggles with reflux and I read a study that showed that a parent’s touch can reduce the amount of pain a baby feels by 40%. He needs a lot of touch. He looks so much like Sammy and so different, but this week I’m starting to see glimpses of his own person. 

Sammy turns two soon. Sometimes I reflect back on his newborn days and it is amazing. It is sort of as if I have lived two different realities, that are somehow the same and totally different. 

Henry’s cheeks are so soft and his features so dainty compared to Sammy’s. And yet both perfect. 

Don’t be fooled by my twitterpated ramblings - this stuff is still so hard and I still swear several times a day. And yell. And sometimes slam doors. And sometimes want to slam my head in a door. And wonder if I can quit.... but also know I never would want to. 

Transitions

Tomorrow marks a new transition for our family. Tomorrow, Caleb goes back to work and Sammy goes back to daycare. It's bittersweet really. The past two weeks have been FULL. I was worried about how Sammy would do, but he's done great. Henry is attached to me most of the time, and Sammy has even began to become worried when he comes into our room and doesn't see Henry in my arms or next to me. That's not to say Sammy and I haven't had lots of our own special moments together. We yell "HI DADDY" over and over from my bed during at least one nursing session per day. There was the time I was getting ready for a much needed "me-time" bath and Sammy came in and started taking off his shirt too, so he joined me. And even though I thought I needed time alone, it turns out I needed some good, silly toddler fun with my first baby. Or the afternoon when I held Sammy until he went to sleep in my arms and then I picked him up (breaking my weight-lifting restriction) and laid him in his crib.

Let's talk for a minute about fingernails - do you know how much easier it is to clip the fingernails on an almost two year-old compared to a two day old? Or change the diaper or pants on a cooperating toddler?

When we left the hospital, our nurse said that when we got home, our oldest was going to look older, and he did. It took us several days to remember that he was not a seven year old - he was just so big! so capable! so able to express himself!

We thrive on routine in our family, and eventually we found our staying at home routine - Sammy began to miraculously sleep in until 8 or even 9 each morning. Henry and I slept in one room, Caleb in another. Caleb was available if I needed him in the night, but was mainly in charge of Sammy's sleep. Henry and I stayed up late having nursing parties (#ClusterFeeding), and then stayed in bed until 10 or 11. Sammy's nap time moved to be later in the day. Friends and family stopped by mainly in the afternoons to hold Henry or play with Sammy or unload our dishwasher (bless you).

Sharing a pacifier

These were demanding and beautiful and precious and exhausting days together, finding our way as a family of four. There were hugs - so many hugs - between all of us all the time. There were tears - so many tears - from all of us except Henry who hasn't quite started making tears yet.

Most days in the evenings, Caleb and I would look at each other wearily and smile and high five, a sleeping Henry tucked into one of our arms."We're doing it!"

Tomorrow we will begin to find a new routine. And in ten more weeks, we'll find a new one again. Breathing, accepting, beginning again. 

Preparations

“The closer you get to birth, the more your muscles are doing two separate actions: opening, expanding and relaxing, but still holding your body up.” My physical therapist expanded her hands and then brought them back together, illustrating the way my core muscles are working. My soul is doing the same thing, opening, releasing, creating space for this new little love, while also barreling through the list of things to finish up.

************
It’s exhausting to be this close to birth, physically of course, but even more mentally. My low back twinges, the baby moves and hits my pubic bone sending pain searing downwards, my abdomen tightens in a practice contraction, taking my breath away, and I am hyper aware. What’s happening? Is this it? There are a lot of passages in the Bible about keeping watch, and never was such a vigilant watch kept as in the last days of pregnancy.

************
I sit quietly in an all-day meeting at work. My phone rests in my lap, screen unlocked. As we discuss strategy and initiatives for the coming year, I breathe through a practice contraction once every 30 minutes for hours, keeping track on an app on my phone. I wait. I keep watch. I try to stay unattached. Could be something, could be nothing. That day, it turns out to be nothing.

************
"What are you thinking?" my doctor asks. I am thinking that this day arrived a lot more quickly than I expected. How is it already Thursday? Even still I am hesitant, aware of all the unknowns that surround all of birth. My options are induction at 38 weeks or a c-section at 39 weeks.  "I'm leaning towards an induction." I say. She comes back in the room after calling the hospital. "The hospital is all booked up next week, except for one opening on Sunday night." The wind is knocked out of me - that's 37 weeks and 4 days, and it is only three days away.

************

I call my doctor from the parking lot of the store where I stopped to buy diapers after our appointment. My voice is calm - after crying the whole way here, I have found the path forward. "I'm not completely attached to an induction." I tell her. "When you talk to the high risk team tomorrow about the induction, please get their opinion about what would be the safest option for the baby. My risks are probably about the same whether I get induced today or next week, but the baby's could change a lot." "I will," she says. "And I will advocate for both of you. I promise."

************

I stand at the bottom of the stairs and sigh. "You know you can take the elevator, " Caleb reminds me. "I know," I say, and then begin my slow ascent up, pausing in the middle to try and find my core muscles, thanking them for their contradicting actions. 

Is it supposed to be this hard?

3/6/18

I was ready to go to bed at 8pm. I hadn't been feeling great the past few days, a deep exhaustion had been creeping into my bones. I  decided to start a load of laundry before bed. Then I worked for a bit on budgeting. Then Caleb and I talked about some things we'd needed to discuss for a while. Suddenly it was 10:45 and I still hadn't gotten ready for bed. I'd been asleep for all of twenty minutes when the baby awoke.

I moaned and got up when it was clear he was not going back to sleep. He is usually pretty easy to put back down, but something was bugging him tonight. He would fall asleep, and then wake up and scream. We troubleshot. These were new jammies, we put the old ones on. A new diaper with fresh diaper cream. Finally, I strapped him into the baby carrier and bounced, on the exercise ball and then standing. I paced and he started to fall asleep.

I emerged successful at 1:15am, a mere 5 hours after I had wanted to go to bed. By this point, I was hungry, so I made myself toast and eggs and wondered if I should just stay awake and do stuff.

"Is it this hard for everyone?" I wonder. I feel like we have no space in our life for anything besides the getting through it. I wonder about how any parent I have ever seen in my life with a baby has space to engage or be social. When our week or weekend is off by even a tiny bit, I suffer.

I saw a parenting article earlier this week that I did not click on called "You're not doing it wrong, it's just that hard." The title gives me comfort.

Later in the week... 

It seems important to document what happened today. It was Samuel's one year check up. I was wrought with anxiety for weeks. I was certain that his (normally very kind) pediatrician was going to chastise us. Here are the faults I was certain were worthy of chastisement:

Now that he is over one, he should no longer be using a pacifier or drinking formula.

Now that he has eight teeth, we should be brushing his teeth every day as part of our routine. 

That stuff didn't even come up. Well, formula did - but only that he can continue it until he drops the feeding. We don't need to try and replace it. 

This is what parenting is like now. You do everything you're supposed to be doing, and still lose sleep that it isn't good enough.

I reflect also on gender. Caleb shares a lot of my worries, but not all of them. Why? What is it about motherhood in particular that makes one scrutinize every move and every decision?

In the coming months, it gets easier. The baby starts to sleep through the night. Our final can of formula sits partially empty on top of the fridge for months, until one December day, I throw it out. I still sometimes struggle to go to bed early sometimes, but we have a little more space to see friends. Caleb takes on a home improvement project. Maybe it's just the first year that's so hard? 

I want to remember

10/8/18
Like many mornings, when Sammy woke up before us, Caleb got him and brought him into our room where we snuggled. He burrowed into my neck and laid so still that I thought he was asleep, but he was awake. I felt his eyelashes blinking a couple of times. When he got too fidgety and wanted to get up, Caleb got up with him. I rolled over and shoved pillows around my belly, back and knees, and went back to sleep.

When I woke up again, Caleb and Sammy were making waffles. I got dressed and started packing up for church. I packed this wooden tchotchke that Caleb has had since before I met him. It's a little wooden pineapple that says "Cancun". The pineapple has a lid carved into it. You open the lid and there is a small wooden bug with jiggly legs. Sammy loves to open and close things, so I figured this would be a great quiet toy for church. We usually take our Christmas book and a plastic bottle with an easy screw-on lid filled with pom-poms. 

At church, as we were singing, Sammy wanted look at the little baby in front of us, then he wanted to just rest his head on my shoulder and look at the people behind us. I held him close and kept giving him little kisses on his cheek. Out of nowhere, he turned and started putting his mouth on my cheek. I laughed in delight and so did he. Then he wanted to nuzzle noses and kiss my mouth. We both laughed and laughed, and then he went back to just snuggling my shoulder. 

Eventually, his hands got fidgety and I got out the bug toy, just as things had quieted down for the sermon. I handed it to him and unlatched the lid.

Sammy talks a lot, but many of his words are still a little unclear. Upon seeing the toy, he exclaimed with delight one of the clearest words: "A bug!!" He started to giggle at this bug inside a pineapple, completely undone with joy. "Hi!!" he told it. Caleb and I smiled at each other, this was the cutest. 

He then closed the lid, "Bye bug". He turned to me and held out the pineapple: "More, more?" I opened it again, and to his delight, the bug was still there. "Hi bug!!" I suddenly realized that this was not going to be a quiet toy. Our church has an overflow room where they play the service on a TV, so I scooped him up and headed there. It was empty, and we sat on a pew while he greeted the bug over and over. Every few minutes, he'd look up at the screen. Where we had been sitting was just out of the camera angle, but he still said "Bye Daddy." 

After church, he slept and we cleaned the house a bit. We were interviewing a doula. Right before she arrived, I got nervous. What was this big thing we were doing with having another baby? I was unsettled and looking for a pillow to hold while she was here. Moments before she arrived, Sammy blessedly woke up. It's funny how you comfort these little people and somehow they bring you comfort too, sometimes even bigger comfort than it feels like you give them. I think he knew what I needed, because for the whole hour the doula was here, he snuggled into my arms. 

After she left, he ran around playing independently, transferring a pile of clean rags around the living room, crawling into a toy cubby to do a shape puzzle. 

This is one. This is perfection. 

EMDR

July 23, 2018
My head is pounding and my stomach churns. I pull up to the grocery store and walk in to use the free blood pressure monitor. Am I dying? Do I have preeclampsia?

My numbers pop up 105/ 52. No preeclampsia. (Not to mention that according to my doctor, preeclampsia isn't even something you develop until after 20 weeks, which is still 4 weeks away for me.)

I vaguely remember that when I was pregnant last time, I did not feel scared. I was eating all the right things, getting sleep, seeing a chiropractor, and though it was unknown and I didn't particularly enjoy being pregnant, I was confident in my body and in the care I was giving it. I don't know if I'll ever enjoy a pregnancy free from fears again.

Nesting comes and goes in waves, even at 16 weeks. I finish sorting all my pre-baby, post-partum and maternity clothes. They are all labeled and put away. I finish sorting and putting away all the clothes that are too small for Sammy, by size. I label all of it. I enjoy the feeling of organization, but holding hands with that feeling is another thought, "It's good I am doing this now. That way if I die in childbirth, Caleb will be able to find everything."

It's a horrible thought that burrows it's way into joyful moments. "I wonder if I should take a video of myself telling Sammy how much I love him and how sad I am that I won't get to watch him grow up." I think as I snuggle his sweet sleeping self. "You know, just in case."

I have thought I was doing okay, mostly fine for the past many months. Caleb and I didn't hold each other and weep like we had done in the early days. But as I texted with a friend, it started to come to light just how un-fine I felt.

I feel unhinged. So many pieces of me feel scattered, or dead. I used to believe that physical wellness mattered. I used to have time and space to care about what I put into my body, to monitor my energy levels, to be aware of the deeper world. Maybe the loss of some of that is just motherhood.

August 2018
Finally, I realize that this is probably something I need help with. I am tired of crying through all my prenatal appointments and of living with such fears. I find a therapist who seems like she might be a good fit. I schedule a time to see her. It's not a good fit. Someday I might write a post on how much artificial fragrances bother me (perfumes, scented, body lotions, laundry products, I'm looking at you), but I am not exaggerating this time when I say every outlet in that building had a Glade plug-in.  It still didn't cover up the dog smell coming from the doggie daycare in the basement.

I got smarter. I realized that I would need to ask about the use of scented candles or air fresheners when I called to schedule the initial appointment. When I found my therapist she seemed confused by the question. "Of course I don't have Glade plugins."

When I arrive at her office, it is cozy and smells only faintly of peppermint, in a nice way. Over the course of weeks and months, I learn about and complete EMDR (Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) therapy. It takes many weeks and I am left completely exhausted. I can tell this is deep work, but it is also making me feel lighter. The heavy thoughts come less frequently and I have a way to handle them when they arise. I begin to trust my body.

It feels like a new beginning, but also like a continuation of myself. 

Getting started

"Hey," I grabbed Caleb's hand across the center console, interrupting his story. "I need you to know that I am feeling really scared."

"Scared about what?" Caleb asked, naming a few specific possibilities.

My eyes filled with tears, "I don't know. All of it. I am just scared."

We were driving to our first prenatal appointment for our new baby. Not only was it this baby's first appointment, it was our first prenatal appointment ever in a medical office, seeing an OB.

[Start here if you don't know the story of our first baby's birth.]

Something like 8 weeks pregnant and already none of my pants fit

I had started thinking through this decision of who to see for prenatal care, just months after Sammy was born. I knew I did not want to have a home birth. It seemed early, so early, to be thinking about this, but I knew that I had to start thinking about it now or I would not be ready. With the guidance of my favorite article about birth of all time, I made what I loosely call my birth plan. Instead of a specific play-by-play, this is a list of what is important to me in birth:

• I want to feel safe. 
• I want to do skin to skin immediately. 
• I want to remember. 
• I want all the options. 
• [Added later] I want straight answers only: yes, no, I don't know. "We'll see" or "Maybe" are not options.

I didn't pull the article up on my phone during the drive, but I thought about it and remembered it and that gave me strength. The OB we were going to see had been described by others as "a midwife in an OB's body." If the midwife who was there for Samuel's birth could have offered us the option of a hospital birth, I would have taken it. But she only does home births. 

So many things drew me to the midwifery model, like the time spent with each client ("clients" in a midwifery world because pregnancy is not an illness). The focus on wellness and holistic nutrition. The through review of each test or procedure with pros and cons and the genuine lack of pressure as you decided what you wanted to do. 

But I also wanted all the options, with no judgement of my choices. And I didn't think I could handle having a midwife like the one I left halfway through my first pregnancy. 

I haven't talked much about that experience on here or at all, probably because the birth itself ended up overshadowing it. But as we drove to our appointment, I remembered driving to that first appointment for Sammy. The office where this midwife took appointments was located nearly an hour from our house. We'd interviewed her early on and been impressed with her for a variety of reasons, all of which fell apart as we began to see her regularly. I was nervous, but often did not feel much better after our visits. The drive was stressful to me, and the best way I can describe her was somewhat cold. Despite what she said, I did not feel like my questions were welcomed, and I had a lot of questions, having never been pregnant before. She constantly compared herself to being better than a traditional OB in terms of flexibility, time, etc. Sometimes she did not listen to what I said, but assumed she understood. Finally it all became too much and I told her I was going to switch. She instantly became difficult to get ahold of, and when I finally did get in touch with her, she spoke harshly and critically about my new midwife, recommending that due to my nervousness and anxiety, I just go ahead and find an OB who would deliver in a hospital. Looking back on it, I don't think I had any more anxiety than the average first-time mother. 

So. Here we were driving to my first prenatal appointment with a new doctor. I held Caleb's hand tightly. I bit my lip to keep from crying as the nurse made small talk as she took my blood pressure and placed an unwelcome hand on my belly for a fleeting second to comment about how I was showing already. Finally, it was all too much, and I burst into tears as I described our first birth.

The nurse seemed shocked, and didn't really know what to say. "Eleven pounds? You should probably just have a c-section this time," she suggested unhelpfully.

Instantly, I was aware that I no longer wanted to share my story with this person. "We'll see," I said, intentionally folding my arms across myself as a way to close myself off.

She turned to Caleb and acted as if she was telling him a secret, cupping both hands around her mouth and saying "C-section".

I was ready to get off the table and leave. I did not feel like a human or at all respected. She wouldn't let me sit next to my husband, whose hand I needed. After she left, I quickly moved back into the second chair. It was a small move, but it reminded me of my dignity as a human. I was not there to just be examined on a table. I was there to receive care - and also I was there to interview them. They were professional adults - but so was I. Maintaining my own sense of agency by posturing my body in the chair instead of on the table became my act of rebellion for the next few visits to that office. It reminded me that I have choices and that I have a voice. Even when I was weeping.

In the end, I loved the OB, but made the decision to transfer based on her staff. Until one September day when she told me she was leaving to start her own practice. And that is where I landed, thankfully. 

36 weeks

Dear Baby,

Our life has been a whirlwind of doctor appointments, finger pricks, careful food tracking, medications, ultrasounds, and insulin injections. We have a gestational diabetes that just won't be controlled. But we don't have much longer before we meet YOU. The thought of it simultaneously gives me relief and scares me. How will we do it? Some days, most days, it feels like we are just barely feeding ourselves, going to work, and keeping everyone clean. But somehow, you will fit right in.

All my maternity photos are work bathroom selfies. #NotSorry

You're following your growth curve from the past 16 weeks, clocking in now at approximately 7.5 lbs, which would actually make you smaller than your brother if you were born on your due date, but you won't be born on your due date. We'll decide at some point in the coming days if we want to induce or have a c-section. Someday, the way you were born will be one of the least interesting things about you, but for now, it feels like a big decision.

We have wonderful doctors working with us to inform us on all levels about this decision, and they are kind with me and spend hours willingly answering every detailed question I ask: "Can you show me on my body where the incision would be? What would that morning look like for me? What kind of pants do women usually wear afterwards? How many people would be in the room?"

Meanwhile, at home, we had a plan to finish renovations on an upstairs room for your brother. It went awry when your dad broke his elbow early on in our third trimester. It might get done, it might not. Moving Sammy there might be too many transitions all at once. We'll have to see. In any case, whether we squeeze you into our room or set up the bassinet in the living room, you'll have a cozy spot to sleep near people who adore you.

We have tired eyes as we finish our nesting, but our hearts are happy. See you soon little one. In the meantime, as we make our last decisions, I keep coming back to this quote:

“Birth is working with mystery and the unknown. So our power actually comes from letting go of the ‘how am I going to make this happen? How am I going to achieve this goal?’ And going to a place of wonder and curiosity. I actually don’t know what the outcome is going to be. I’m going to discover it as I go. And my power comes from a place of receptivity and a willingness to allow the process to unfold without needing to know how it’s going to go, or to have it go a particular way.”

Close call

There are some moments in life when the line between heaven and earth seems to fade away for a while and leave everything clearer.

Last weekend, I went to be Saturday, noting that I was feeling really great. I woke up in the night and was no longer feeling great. For the sake of the delicate reader, we'll call it indigestion. As the day progressed, I didn't have any more indigestion, but I did feel worse and worse. I laid in bed. My back hurt, my belly ached. Everything felt off. Everything felt wrong.

Late in the day on instinct, I googled "signs of preterm labor". Check, check, check, check, maybe? Two that were no, two that were maybe, the rest were yes. I took a deep breath. Caleb had been primary parent all day, and I could hear his voice was tired as he managed bath time. I didn't want to just walk in and announce it. I needed to think. I looked through all my informational hospital literature. I looked at more websites.

Finally, bath time was over. I reviewed my symptoms with Caleb and the weariness was instantly gone from his voice. "You need to call." My eyes filled with tears. "I'm scared. I'm not ready for this."  I sat on my bed for a few minutes before I could make the call, crying, realizing that this could be the start of a whole new journey to either stay pregnant or visit a little tiny NICU baby. I wondered why I'd spent so much time recently being stressed about our house being messy and other trivial things. What a waste. I called, the friendly triage nurse calmly told me I needed to come in to see what was happening on a monitor.

Sammy was now running cheerily around the house in his diaper. After I got off the phone, I caught him and held him for a minute, explaining that I needed to go to see the doctor to make sure the baby was okay, and that I hoped I'd be home when he woke up, but I didn't know, and that I might be gone for a little while.

We decided what would be the least stressful for me was for Caleb and Sammy to drop me off, since the hospital is near our house, and then have them come home and have a normal night of bedtime routines. It gave me a lot of comfort to know that Sammy would be enjoying his usual snuggles with Dad before bed, even if that meant that I would be alone. I knew several people who would be willing to come and sit with me, but I felt strongly that I wanted to be alone or only with Caleb. This ended up being a perfect intuition.

We pulled up to the ER, and I kissed them both goodbye. I walked through security and had my backpack, which consisted of all the things I thought I might need for a night or two away, searched. I walked up to the triage desk. "Baby time?" they asked. "I hope not!" I replied. I carry babies 100% out, so it's not uncommon for people to think I am full-term, though I still have three more months.

I walked through my symptoms, and then an aide came up to me with a wheelchair. "L&D run?" he asked the triage nurse. I climbed in the wheelchair, he placed my backpack on my lap, and we turned to go through the double doors. That's when it hit me. "This is the part I missed last time."

Time and space seemed to open up as I rode, imagining this same trip 19 months (minus two days) earlier. I don't remember riding to the hospital or going to the L&D unit from the ER. And now I was getting to do it all. I fell silent, observing. It was longer than I'd imagined, though I am guessing we took it at a faster pace last time. The poor aide tried to ask me some friendly questions, but I was a poor conversation partner, hushed by the opportunity to consciously see what my body had experienced before. It smelled like the NICU, a combination of new plastics, cleaning agents, and some other unidentifiable smells.

We arrived to L&D and they gave me a gown and hooked me up to monitors. I know they tried to hook me up to monitors last time, and I also know that I was combative. I looked at them in wonder, realizing that though I had a baby in a hospital, I'd never really seen the monitors or the machine that tracks contractions. I felt such a sense of relief- both to be there and to know I was in the right place if anything was going wrong, and to have had the opportunity to go on that journey consciously.

After being connected to the monitors, I text-updated our families and a few friends. Then I put my phone away and reflected. When you're only 26 weeks pregnant, it's quite a jolt to see a baby cradle and warmer lined with a hospital blanket. I was glad for the solitude, glad to be left alone with my thoughts. I knew based on the time that Caleb was probably feeding Sammy dinner and I thought about how much love I felt for the two of them. The line between heaven and earth is very thin, indeed.

I sat with all of this for quite a while. A really long while. That's when I knew I was not having an emergency situation. I couldn't see the fetal monitor behind me, but I imagined that it must not be picking up on anything exciting. Caleb, meanwhile, put Sammy to bed. My mother-in-law arrived to my house so that Caleb could come and join me. My brother and I texted each other hospital toilet jokes. (I am sure the nurses wondered what was making me laugh so loudly.)

Caleb arrived shortly before the doctor. I was not dilated at all. (My first time being checked for that while not in active labor and it was just as terrible then as it was during labor. Yuck.) There had been no contractions, baby was doing well, but they emphasized that they were glad I came in. I was glad too. We left holding hands, grateful to be going home for what would be a normal night, grateful for the blessing of routine. 

PPD II

I'm going to start this post with something I wrote a year ago, in October 2017, then bring it back to the present.

(My first post about postpartum depression)

******************************************

10/13/17
It's hard to describe how difficult this week has been.

Historically, when I have thought about depression, I have imagined it Eyore-style, a little raincloud over someone's head that follows them around. But what I experienced this week was the opposite. It was like being in the sharp, blinding sunlight all the time. Hot, irritating, feeling like "c'mon, you better be working, you're burning daylight and moving too slow."

More metaphors: it felt like there was a hive of wasps stirring angrily inside.

And when it finally abated, it felt distinctly like cloud cover, descending with the peace that passes all understanding, weighing down, sending cooling rain, and finally I could rest.

I didn't sleep the first four nights of this week except for an hour here, 20 minutes there. I woke for the day at 1:15, 4:30, or 3:30, unable to relax enough to go back to sleep.

"Take deep breaths," they said. But I couldn't. I was physically unable because I had no more emotional resiliency left. It felt like labor, but I don't know what, if anything, was birthed.

I could feel myself descending lower and lower, but I didn't realize it was the postpartum depression. I participated in a survey during pregnancy through a university that was researching a large group of pregnant women. I got a follow-up questionnaire this week. I answered a few questions about the birth and about the baby's health. Then I got to the PPD questions:

"In the past week have you been A) as happy as you've ever been B) slightly less happy than usual  C) significantly less happy than usual D) completely unhappy." (I can't remember the exact options, but you get the idea.)

Similar questions followed about suicide, level of interest in activities, ability to sleep, ability to work, appetite and others. This is a pretty standard questionnaire to screen for PPD. I took it at every doctor appointment for myself and baby during my maternity leave. It was given to me along with the standard paperwork for every doctor's appointment. But after those first twelve weeks, it seemed to disappear. Interesting, given that PPD can arise any time within the first year after the baby was born.

This time as I answered the questions, my answers were different. Significantly unhappy, little to no interest in daily activities. Not sleeping. Very anxious.

The thing that is a bear about something like depression is how long it lasts. When I first started feeling depressed, I reached out through almost all of my channels to say I needed help. And I got help. But that was months and months ago. How do you go back to those same channels and say the same things again?

***************************************

Now, in October 2018, I've been seeing a new counselor for several months. I had seen one last fall, but it wasn't a great fit. At my last appointment, my new counselor gently suggested I needed to make time to connect to and move my body. She asked if I was doing anything now to feel at home in my body, like yoga, going for walks. I thought about my life and wondered if doing dishes or scrubbing the floor under the high chair counted. I wanted to laugh and tell her that I didn't know how anyone had time to do that, but I knew she was right.

Part of me felt like I shouldn't have needed to see a counselor to tell me that I need to exercise to help myself feel better. But a bigger part of me thinks that every new parent should see a counselor, someone who is a good fit, to help transition into this stage of life. It's such a big change - and there's minimal guidance on how to do it. It is hard, when you're already overwhelmed, to imagine finding the time to interview or try out different therapists. But when you find one... magic. (Well, actually, it's a lot of work, but then you feel a little lighter and less alone and it's good.)