worrywart

It's true. I'm a hopeless worrier. I worry about EVERYTHING. About what my day at work will be like (I've had enough bad ones in my nursing career to be, in my opinion, justifiably nervous each morning when I head to work), about the eleventy-million different types of bad drivers I'll possibly encounter on the highway with my son strapped in his car seat, about that soda I just drank which is now certain to cause me pancreatic cancer, about Aidan bonking his head when I'm not looking... you get the picture.

Some worries last all of about 3 seconds. (I have to admit, I might have benefited from worrying about soda causing harm to my body a WEE bit longer and consequently maybe swearing off the stuff, but too great is my love for the bubbly, I'm afraid.) Some worries are easily solved. Some are just... NOT.

Maybe the worry that has caused me the most anguish over the longest period of time? My skills as a mom. Because isn't it true, ladies, that no matter how much we do for our kids (or don't do), we always feel like we could have done just a little bit more? Or - even worse - that even if we had tried our hardest, it just wouldn't cut it... that it wouldn't be good enough?

Oy. And I was just expecting some sleep issues, poopy diapers, snuggles, and messy noses when I got pregnant the first time.

And don't get me wrong: I am not just a constant worrier, but I've got, like, a freaking PhD in the subject. Worrying about whether giving my kids graham crackers over spinach was a good idea? Naw. Too easily dismissed. Too ELEMENTARY. No, I've graduated on to the worries that will both be difficult to solve AND will keep me up for many nights because they're so far in the future. The latest? That one of my boys - or both - will get mercilessly picked on when they're in school. (Note: Aidan is not even two years old. Baby V isn't even BORN yet.) I got picked on a LOT when I was in middle and high school, not in an obvious physical way like I think boys get picked on, but in that horribly undermining, catty way that we girls can be so good at. Getting punched in the face might have been more terrifying in the moment, but the wounds that come from hearing you just don't belong take much, much longer to heal. Unhealed by the time you get knocked up as a thirty-something adult? Yeah. Transferred on to your own kids.

I'm quietly thanking God for NOT having a daughter just yet for that very reason.

These are issues I've been working through for years now, feeling inadequate, feeling left out, feeling like a sideshow freak instead of accepted and loved. It's something I would really love NOT to pass on to my kids, but as much as I think I've resolved them, they come roaring back. Recently, I had some key events happen in my life that made all of those feelings, which I had previously only brought out of hiding with kid gloves, large tongs, and the most delicate of handling on rarest of occasions, pouring and tumbling out in a big messy glob, all over the side of a Colorado mountain. Feeling left out and rejected because I screwed up, wasn't good enough? Bigger than I'd felt in a long, long, long, LONG time. It pained my present AND sent my worrywart nature into serious overdrive. I could hardly prepare a bottle of milk for my son without having a mini-breakdown all over again.

It's been a few months, several Starbucks mochas with extra whip, several hard but necessary conversations from people who love me more than I truly deserve, and lots of digging into the messy places to get me to today, where I'm slowly, doggedly, opposite-of-efficiently learning that God? Never ever rejected me. Never ever told me I screwed up so bad that I was out of His loving grace. Never ever left me unprotected, even during those super-painful, awkward years of adolescence when all I wanted was to either blend in or disappear entirely. And He never, ever will do those things. And He loves me too, too much to let me continue in self-destructive behaviors, and if the loving thing to do is to pull me out of comfortable spaces and familiar groups, well, He will. Because He LOVES me and wants more for me than the mud and the dirt I'd rather sit in because it's comfortable and familiar. That's entirely the opposite of rejection and exclusion.

Part two of that lesson is realizing the same principle applies to Aidan. And to my unborn son. And to everyone I love and carry close to my heart. Deep down, it's a trust issue: do I trust God, even when I don't understand why things happen the way they do? Do I trust that He'll still be in complete control, even when I feel like I have no control... and am I OK with not having any control? Do I trust Him with those whom I love most in this world, my sweet son with his tender little curls and dimpled cheeks and wobbly, chubby legs that I want to protect from every bad thing out there in the world?

I confess: I worry. I worry still. I have every reassurance, more than ample evidence that He's got me covered, and yet, I worry. Like an old ratty security blanket, I pick up my worry, again and again. And conveniently remember only the barbs, the stings, the screw-ups of my life, and I wrap that blanket so tight around myself that I cannot breathe.

I do not want to suffocate my kids in the same way. I love them too much to let my neuroses be my lasting legacy.

One of the blogs I regularly follow is written by a super-lovely woman of incredible faith, all the way out in the Midwest where they have lots of corn and fields and cows and cow poop. She recently gave birth to her second child, a most handsome boy named Levi, nearly a year after she lost her first child, Cora, to neuroblastoma at age eleven months. If there's anyone I know that has reason to be skittish and worrisome, well, she's got more reason than I do. Aidan's biggest injuries thus far have consisted of a few head bonks on the carpet, a fingernail cut too close, and some inflamed eardrums quickly cleared up by antibiotics. Certainly not a deadly cancer.

Anyway, she recently celebrated Cora's "heavenly anniversary", one year to the day after she sent her sweet girl into the arms of Jesus. And she posted this quote:

Never look ahead to the changes and challenges of this life in fear. Instead, as they arise look at them with the full assurance that God, whose you are, will deliver you out of them. Hasn't He kept you safe up to now? So hold His loving hand tightly and He will lead you safely through all things. And when you cannot stand, He will carry you in His arms.

Do not look ahead to what may happen tomorrow. The same everlasting Father who cares for you today will take care of you tomorrow and every day. Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you His unwavering strength that you may bear it. Be at peace, then, and set aside all anxious thoughts and worries.

Francis de Sales

Wow.

I pray for little boys that grow into strong men of God... not weak men who have been shielded from every little sting. I want them to have the warrior heart of Jesus, but yet, I fear the scrapes and the scars. Doesn't every great hero have a scar or two to show? Don't I have my own scars to prove that God gave me that unwavering strength? Is my faith not thousands of times deeper than it was before the storms and the stings and the dark moments... because He brought me through every single time?

Okay, so I think I'll still cry a little bit, maybe in secret, if one of my boys comes home and says that someone called him a name or pushed him down to the ground. And I'm probably still going to worry about things completely out of my control. But I want to walk with that constant assurance that I - and my sweet boys - will always be protected... or given extraordinary, Godly strength to bear whatever circumstances come our way.

Because we are that LOVED.

Be at peace, then, and set aside all anxious thoughts and worries.

Okay, Daddy.

mmmm... boobies...

(Extensive talk about boobies, body fluids, and personal space to ensue.  Read at your own risk, my friends.)

When I was preparing for Aidan's birth, I read as much as I possibly could about breastfeeding. I definitely wanted to breastfeed my child for lots of different reasons: it was healthy, it was cheap, it would pass on good immunity, it was cheap, it was a bonding experience, it was cheap, it was something awesome only my body could provide, and it was cheap.

Did I mention it was cheap?

Seriously, it was more than just a financial issue, although the idea of saving all that money from not buying formula was certainly an attractive side benefit. It was something I really wanted to do and something I was really looking forward to.

And then Aidan was born. And then I sorta went crazy for a little while and had to take meds to calm the crazy. And I also had to deal with some mega-huge self-inflicted expectations on myself, expectations that no one could possibly ever hope to meet, trains of thought that were totally irrational. Like, I was a massive failure as a mother that I couldn't get my kid to latch on correctly and had to use a nipple shield that I couldn't get him to give up... after just two weeks. I *hated* that damn shield, mostly because I felt like some sort of substandard mother when I used it.  Add a serious dose of hormones and exhaustion to the mix, and well, yeah, it was all one huge sucking experience.

Thusly, the breastfeeding went down the toilet, along with the hated nipple shield.

This pregnancy, I counted on being a formula-only mom. Truthfully, I was totally looking forward to getting entire nights of sleep while my hubs was on bottle duty for the night, not having leaky breasts, and never having to utter the words "nipple shield" ever again. Over the past few weeks, I had even stocked up on a couple of cans of our favorite formula with Aidan, just to be ready when we brought the new little squirt home.

And then my friend Shannon had her first biological child, Zachary, whose pictures you can totally ogle over here. (He's just about the most adorable thing EVER.) She told me about this amazing lactation consultant she was seeing who was totally helping her breastfeed this new little miracle in her life... and all the problems she needed help with from the lactation consultant were so very similar to the ones I had with Aidan. And they were successfully feeding through them.

Hope began to twitch inside of me.

You see, for as frustrating as the whole breastfeeding experience had become for me by the time I had to switch over to formula, I somehow only remember how much I wanted to breastfeed. Not because I felt pressured to, not because I felt like a bad mother if I didn't, but because I really, really wanted to.

(Oh, I know, grammar people. That's, like, the eleventy billionth sentence I ended with a preposition. Don't be hatin'.)

So, in the name of leaving all my options open, I went to go see the same lactation consultant, Pat Lindsey. I didn't really know what to expect: I knew we were going to talk about breastfeeding, but would she want to see my boobs? Show me the correct types of feeding holds right then and there? I was pretty nervous, actually. I mean, on my first date with Jason, we didn't even hold hands. Today before my appointment, I took a full shower, shaved, and moisturized like crazy because I was pretty sure this woman was going to get to second base within 10 minutes of meeting me.

Thankfully, there was no flashing of naughty bits at this meeting.  As it turned out, Pat was incredible.  Within about 15 minutes, I was able to see where some of my previous attempts at breastfeeding had gone sour, and I had gained oodles more information than I had gotten over several days in the hospital with other well-meaning but less-knowledgeable lactation consultants and nurses.  We talked about feeding techniques, pumping, and yes, the infamous nipple shield.  I learned terms like "nipple sandwich" and "womb lag".  And best of all, I went from thinking that breastfeeding was going to come with major negatives that I'd just have to suck up and deal with, to feeling like I can TOTALLY do this breastfeeding thing and enjoy it and be successful at it, finally.

Whew.  And I didn't even need to go to second base to get that assurance.

Bring it, boobies.  I'm ready for you.

and now, back to our regularly scheduled insanity

Why, hello there, world!

So I was in a blogging, er, funk for a little while. OK, a few MONTHS. I didn't want to write, I didn't like what I had written, I didn't like the layout of the blog, I wanted someone to professionally redesign it, blah blah blah. You know, out with the old, in with the new.

And I think some changes might be coming sometime in the future. I want my blog to look a little less... brown. And also write about more interesting things, things other than that I want the blog to look a little less... brown.

If you couldn't access this blog for the past couple of months, don't think that I didn't like you or something. I restricted access to "blog authors only"... and that would be ME. I wasn't posting anything and I wanted to spare you all the brownness.

There's also a lot of cute stuff that happens with Aidan, stuff that we'll all miss if I wait until I get my blogging act together.

So, in summary: I'm back. And look! A cute picture of my cute son! Being cute!

five things I can't seem to add to my baby registry

1. An epidural. Seriously, people. Scoff ye not at legally administered narcotics. It's what made Aidan's birth go from agonizing, rip-roarin' pain to blissfully blissed-out blissdom.

2. A celebrity trainer. So that after I give birth, I can whip myself into gorgeous Hollywood shape and sculpt my impossibly long, million-dollar-insured legs into works of art, just in time to make the premiere of my action movie starring Hugh Jackman.

3. Impossibly long, million-dollar-insured legs. Also, Hugh Jackman. (Just kidding, Jason.)

4. The climate of Denver. You know, in exchange for the climate of Orlando. Because I think the people who live in Denver would, like, totally appreciate tropical sauna heat when they try to hit the slopes.

5. A guaranteed, uninterrupted nap every day at 2pm.

oh hai internets! still pregnint.

Yeah. So things lately have been a little, well, BUSY. So busy that the little chubbs growing in my uterus had to chill out and take a backseat to the drama that is my life for just a little while.

So last week, when I finally slowed myself down enough to notice that this life inside of me was, in fact, KICKING me and turning somersaults inside my belly like a mini Cirque du Soleil acrobat, I was a wee bit surprised. Hey! I'm pregnant! Whee! I'm going to have another baby!

Here's my newest son in his Lucha Libre mask:



And a blob that I was told is his footprint:



Also? Further proof that I am turning my house into a testoster-home:



No belly shots yet, partly because I don't like taking pictures of myself and partly because there really isn't a belly to shoot, so to speak. I didn't exactly start out this pregnancy as a skinny mini - in fact, I weighed more than I have in a long, long time, and as a result, I came into this looking rather large around the middle. But, like last time, I've lost weight instead of gained weight as the weeks have progressed, thanks to some wild nausea, exhaustion, and an intolerance to a lot of the (fattening) foods I normally love. But, I'm still quite overweight. And even though my face is thinning out, I still don't look pregnant thanks to the existing padding and a tendency to carry my children very high, right underneath the, er, girls.

So, I'm pretty sure everyone's convinced that I am not actually pregnant, but instead have some wild mental illness where I make up phantom pregnancies. Next thing you know, I'll be standing at hospital triage, rocking a stuffed baby doll back and forth and drooling into a cup.

But seriously.

We are so excited to meet this baby, no matter what the shape of my body or the state of life outside of the crib. Due date is March 21, though I'm somehow doubting I'll make it that far since Aidan came a couple weeks early. No, we have no names picked out yet, and yes, we are thrilled that we are having another boy, though I did have someone recently try to "console" me that I wasn't having a girl. Maybe I should console them.

Can't wait to meet you, baby boy. Love you.

where I've been

The past six weeks have been one hell of a roller coaster for me. And, holy mother-of-pearl, I'm ready to step off this crazy ride for at least a little while.

Many of you know I took a new job a couple months back, a position change within the organization that I was mightily excited about. Mightily. And for good reason: everyone who worked there really liked it there, it was very interesting, a whole new world from what I was used to, and I love to flex my brain and take on a challenge. Plus, the promise of no weekend or holiday shifts was wonderfully appealing.

Right before I started, I found out I was pregnant. And then the cautionary statements started pouring in: people warned me that yes, it was a whole new world, and maybe not something I wanted to do while dealing with my ever-changing hormonal state. They cautioned me against transferring at such a uneven time in my life.

I didn't really heed their warning. It was only a couple of people, and everyone else was psyched for me, including my future coworkers and manager.

And then, I slowly descended into a nightmare. It was awful. The new job was certainly interesting, kept me on my toes, and there were learning opportunities at every turn. Unfortunately, it was too, too much. My brain felt like mush. I couldn't remember all the critical information I needed to have ready at a moment's notice. I moved slowly, and I was called out on it, repeatedly. I got asked, "You have a toddler at home... don't you need to move fast with him?" and I suddenly felt like a horrible mother AND a lousy employee. Nobody seemed pleased with how I was performing at work, and I felt the panic creeping into my body, along with a sense of failure that left me crippled, paralyzed. I dreaded work every day. I felt like the worst nurse to ever have graduated nursing school. I couldn't understand why my brain and my body just. wouldn't. cooperate.

In short, I sucked. I have never failed so miserably at anything like this in my life. It was absolutely, totally humiliating.

Two weeks ago, my manager and I had a meeting, and instead of being terrified, I was just over it all. I walked in there and told her, "This is not working out."

She said, "I know."

And I began the search for a new position. I had 30 days to get one within the organization before I would be officially sacked, but I didn't think it would be that difficult. There's a nurse shortage, right? I applied to a bunch of positions that looked interesting.

Nothing.

A week later, I applied to more.

Nothing.

The third week, I started to get worried. It takes a while for managers to do the whole interview/hiring process, and I was running out of time. I started applying to anything I felt remotely qualified for, even if it was not something I was totally jazzed about.

Nothing.

I'll admit, I have always had a hard time trusting God when things get really, really rough. Like when I'm pregnant, hormonal, and facing the loss of paycheck and benefits, especially after the brouhaha my body put me through after I gave birth to Aidan. I've stopped doubting that he WILL provide for me, but I doubt HOW He will provide, and whether it will be provision according to my terms (which aren't always the best). And it's a huge weakness of mine, this lack of faith, this tendency to want to turn God into my own personal vending machine, even after all this time and countless examples of how God not only comes through for me, but does so in spectacular, mind-blowing ways that I can hardly conceive with my limited human imagination. Still, dark roads really scare me. And this one terrified the crap out of me.

Thankfully, God's constancy and abundance is not reliant on our - or my - mustard seed-sized faith.

It wasn't quite the eleventh hour - maybe more like the ninth or tenth - and several things happened. I was running out of options: it seemed like every floor had already filled their positions, promised them to other people, or were not going to interview candidates for several more weeks yet. A friend reminded me about an old manager of mine, the very first one to ever hire me out of nursing school, one of the best I ever worked with, and that she was now nursing operations manager on a surgical oncology floor. When I went to go find her to ask if she possibly needed any RNs (and roundly expecting a "no" like I'd received from pretty much everyone else), I ran into said manager in the elevator. I told her my situation, that I would really love to work for her, and braced myself for a polite refusal.

What I got was a huge smile and that she would hire me "in a heartbeat" and that she was desperate for experienced nurses like me. There were some major transitions going on in her department, a higher acuity of patients was being sent there (the same acuity I'm used to, but new for the existing staff), and would I like to help mentor the staff? And she took me on a tour of the floor, introduced me to the staff, and offered me a job, just like that.

Immediately, I felt two months' worth of tension leave my body, just like that. I was so relaxed, I might have peed my pants right there. (I didn't, thankfully.)

I start Monday. I'm stoked. I'll still have rough days, difficult patients, frustrating coworkers, and everything in between. I'll still wonder occasionally what drug I ingested to make me want to go into nursing. But I'm excited for new possibilities and for new experiences that will stretch me and grow me and challenge me not only professionally but personally.

And I'm also really, really grateful that I have a paycheck and uninterrupted benefits to boot.

we are Grace volunteers

We have served since the church began. We also just began serving this week. We are seasoned Grace members. We are brand new to the church, and not just Grace.

We have hundreds of collective gifts, talents, and abilities that we bring to Grace every week, every Sunday. We are carpenters, musicians, teachers, cooks, caregivers, greeters, chaperones, chauffeurs, shoulders to cry on, ears to listen, hands to hold, and arms outstretched.

We sacrifice a Sunday morning of sleeping in. We get to the church at 5:30 in the morning and leave sometime around 2pm, maybe later. We get sweaty. Sometimes, we get minor injuries. We have responsibilities. We have others who are counting on us.

We have met countless friends who make us laugh as we serve alongside each other. We have met future spouses serving alongside each other. We have found lifelong friends and partners in the journey, people who have deepened our faith and stretched us beyond our comfort zone to become more of the people God intended us to be. We have found ourselves intending to be of service to others and found that we were the ones being served in love.

We have successfully handled crises. We have repaired faulty equipment. We have eaten a LOT of pizza, BBQ, and donuts. We have spent the wee hours of the morning doing activities we thought we last did in kindergarten. We have made last-minute runs to Krispy Kreme and prayed for a "Hot Donuts Now" sign. We have rehearsed every chord many times over, and spent much of our week getting a certain "lick" just right. We have been on our knees in prayer in preparation for a few hours on Sunday morning.

We have sometimes felt unsuccessful, unworthy, unprepared for the challenge ahead of us. We have made mistakes. We have felt overwhelmed. We have wondered what we were thinking when we signed up. We have watched the power go out, a chord progression go horribly wrong, a box of cookies smash to the ground, a piece of vital equipment malfunction, a computer refuse to cooperate, and watched as our circumstances did not go as we had hoped or planned. We have felt small. We have sometimes wondered if what we did each and every week made any sort of difference.

And every week, we have watched the amazing, transformative power and love of God work wonders through each and every one of us. We have watched God not only be unlimited by our circumstances, but watched Him creatively and beautifully make situations into miracles. We have watched countless lives come to Christ. We have seen marriages saved, families brought together, friendships strengthened, faith restored. We have fed the hungry and clothed the naked. We have welcomed the lost, the broken, the scared, the sick, the needy. We have been the lost, the broken, the scared, the sick, the needy.

And whether we place Bibles on chairs, unwrap and plug in cords, spend hours editing video, hand out donuts, offer a warm smile, wipe baby bottoms, crunch the church budget numbers, spend hours on our knees in prayer, rehearse a skit for GraceKids, practice the worship music, or pick up the trash left behind, everything - EVERYTHING - we do makes a difference. Everything we do is part of being the hands and feet of God, of being the light in a very dark, scary world, of being a place where someone who has turned their heart off to God so long ago considers that maybe, just maybe, this could be a safe place to open their heart up again. Everything we do helps someone take their next step toward Christ. Everything we do is an act of worship for our Savior and God.

Come worship with us. Be a part of Grace volunteers.

maybe I should end my sentences with prepositions

Jason and I went for Chinese food together with our friend Casey the other night: we were all faced with a short time between the end of work and the beginning of after-work work that meant we wouldn't be home for several hours, and I convinced my husband that this was an EXCELLENT opportunity for Chinese food (admittedly NOT his favorite, but he does love me). And while most of the conversation was about Casey and Jason's meeting that evening, Casey turns to me at one point and says, "Angela has been reading parts of your blog out loud to me. You're a really good writer."

At this point, my careful etiquette training allows me to graciously accept the comment without doing That Thing I Do - you know, where I start to flagellate myself and instantly morph into Low Self-Esteem Person and dismiss the nice compliment with something like, "Heh, I'm not that great, you should go read Dooce to read something great."

And then he hits me with the zinger: "You should really do something with that."

Damn these compliments that make me stretch beyond my comfort zone...

I don't know what to say to that, mostly because I think that if I was more focused, more determined, less tired, less distracted... that yes, I SHOULD do something with it. Really I would, except for all that life stuff that gets in the way. You know, eating and sleeping and the day job and the toddler and the Cheerios all over the floor and the groceries and ooh, the sale at Target.

I really do like writing. I hesitate to say love; I love my family, I love to sing, I love to sleep in on Saturdays. These things I prefer almost above anything else. But write? Well, I like it. I like the compliments I get when I write something particularly well. I like being able to move people, or make people laugh, or at least make them think with the words that I write. But even writing this entry took almost a week, and the idea of making writing more than just a passing gig makes me nervous. Life gives me a lot of fantastic material from which I could craft all sorts of tales, but really, at the end of most days when I actually get a moment to catch my breath and think about writing, all I can think to write is either "SLEEPSLEEPSLEEPSLEEP!" or start bitching about something that irritated me, something that probably would point fingers and out the other person and generally NOT be a good idea. And hey, who wants to read a blog about things that piss you off? (Although I gotta say, Twittering about it is a freakin' fantastic idea, as evidenced by this dude.)

But then I start thinking, dude, what if I could write well enough and often enough to make a living off of it? You know, be a full-time writer and everything that goes with it, like the flexible hours and the creative stimulus and the cute little writing-only cottage I would keep in some gorgeous seaside locale? Yessss! I have found The Solution. Because hey, I like nursing and working in the hospital alright, but anything that promises that I DON'T have to rise before the sun is pretty enticing. I could work from home, or the beach, or Starbucks, or wherever. I could spend more time with Aidan. I wouldn't have to be obsessed with customer service. I could be self-aware. I could be one of those highly annoying people who proclaim with a satisfactory tone, "Yes, I am extremely lucky to get paid to do what I love." THAT COULD BE ME.

It could be me, I guess, if I were more passionate about the idea. As all three of my readers know, it's hard enough for me to crank out a post every other week, let alone on a regular basis. If I were more consistent, it could be me, really. But most days, I still just entertain my fantasy that I will randomly run into Warren Buffett or Bill Gates or (even better) Steve Jobs, who will think me the most stunning, witty, most beautiful creature ever he beheld on this earth, and lo, I will not leave my equally handsome/witty/stunning husband for him, but he would still be so moved by me that he would give me half his fortune, JUST BECAUSE I AM THAT AWESOME.

Because the writing gig seems so much MORE unrealistic than that.

Good grief.

So, baby steps are the best start, I guess. I promise nothing, but I am going to try and make a more regular appearance on this blog. You know, writing actual blog posts and not just filling space with borrowed lists and memes all the time. All those funny and/or interesting things I encounter during the day? I'm going to try and keep better track of them, and maybe, just maybe, something might flourish out of them. I'm aiming to get these creative juices flowing a little more, and then I'll entertain the idea of "doing something with it".

But if you see me laughing over filet mignon with the CEO of Apple, all bets are off, dude.

where I was one year ago

Almost thirteen months ago, I gave birth to Aidan. About three to four days after that, I descended into hell. I didn't just visit, either. I staked a plot of land and made camp there for several months.

I don't think that I was ever fully prepared to handle post-partum depression the way it came to me. Before it happened, PPD was the three-minute clip of Kirstie Alley being rather comical in her tears while holding a crying baby and watching an overly sentimental FTD commercial. PPD was the rough couple of weeks everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - told me to expect after giving birth. PPD was like extended PMS, or so I thought. I was prepared to buy a bunch of Haagen-Daaz and Kleenex and weather the storm for a couple of weeks, max.

No one warned me, save the occasional magazine or doctor-sponsored leaflet, that it might be longer than that, that it would instead be months and months and MONTHS of clawing my way back from hell, only to find most days that I was going backward or in circles. I never thought I would gaze at my baby boy, possibly the world's most well-behaved infant, and wish he'd never been born to me, but rather to someone else much more qualified and put together. I had no idea that postpartum depression can present itself as the most blinding, agonizing, paralyzing sort of anxiety possible, where you are seriously counting how much cash you have to live off of if you run away solo to Canada because you cannot DEAL with the possibility of your son being made fun of in school - school that he won't even attend for a good five years yet. Where you beg your God to have someone either arrest you and lock you up or else put you away permanently in a mental institution because you just cannot DEAL anymore.

I had no idea any of that was coming. And even when it happened, I had no idea it would stay resident with me for months and months afterward, not just a couple of weeks. It's a kind of grieving that I can hardly understand myself: no one died, and actually, I had just been blessed with Aidan (again, the World's Easiest Baby). I understood that I would probably mourn the loss of a carefree lifestyle and relative freedom in my schedule, but this was like the atomic bomb had dropped: grief obliterated everything. Shouldn't I have just done my requisite two weeks of boo-hooing and then gotten back to life as usual?

I can hardly read the blog entries I made in the days and weeks following Aidan's birth, because it is painful to revisit those times. It's even more painful to read the entries, the lighter-hearted, jovial ones, that I made a little later, because I was trying really hard to look normal and back to myself again. Because no one wants to deal with someone who should have gotten over it already, right? That's what I thought. Very, very few people knew how hard each day was for me, even after the work scrubs came back on, the routine started to even out, and I was expected to take my role as a functioning member of society again. Even my husband, who is possibly the most understanding man in the world, once referred to my maternity leave once as "vacation", and I nearly lost it right there.

It's been a long, hard road back, one that I have a difficult time explaining to those who have not been through it or were lucky enough to only experience the garden-variety baby blues themselves. Even now, I wonder if I am back to the "old" me, the girl I was before the cloud settled over my head and distorted my view of the world. I still remember how DARK everything was, how I spent those first few weeks laying on the couch sobbing, unable to move or do anything to take care of my son, how I spent the following months operating like I was doing "so much better" but struggled constantly to find peace and rest from the anxiety, even with medication. I don't know that I will ever be the same.

What I do feel now, though, is gratitude. Gratitude for making it through, for a sweet now-toddler who appears unscathed from my experience and fills my life with joy, for being able to actually feel that joy and not be consumed with worry and dread instead.

I'm grateful for my friends and family who understood somehow that I was in basic survival mode for those many months, who weren't offended when it was just impossible for me to pick up the phone and return a phone call (and even now with my hatred of all dialing machinery), who never called me selfish or mean or greedy for refusing, then accepting help when it was offered to me and I was completely unable to reciprocate any of it or give sufficient thanks to them, who sat with me when I was scared and freaked out for what appeared to be no reason at all and they just patiently LISTENED and prayed with me. I don't recall ever hearing anyone tell me to "buck up" and deal with it, though I remember telling myself that on more than one occasion. I should probably have a lot less friends than I have now, but again, with powers and qualities I myself do not possess, so many people demonstrated true friendship to me: giving without expecting anything in return, loving on me when I was completely, totally undeserving of it. And no one was more so loving on me than my husband, who had the courage not only to stand by my side when I was horrible but intervene on my behalf and get help for me, even when I was choking on my own tears, saying I was "fine".

Jason and I want to have more children. Between the miscarriages and the postpartum depression I experienced, the idea of that terrifies me, even though I still want it. I'm afraid of finding myself back in the pit again, of being afraid of mothering my newest blessing, of losing those who carried me through such dark times because twice? Well, twice is just too much to ask. Or at least it feels that way, anyway. I warned you I might not be back to normal.

But more than anything, this year has been about trust. When the rug gets pulled out from under you, and everything you clung to for security - namely, your own self - is taken away, you have no choice but to rely wholly and completely on Abba Father. I won't say there weren't days and nights where I shook not only my fist but a certain finger at Him, asking "why me?", and begging for relief that never seemed to show up (it did, I just didn't recognize it). Each day, I recognized even the smallest little moments of joy as coming from Him, even if I also tended to blame Him for every insult and injury, too. When I sing now that my God is mighty to save, hoo boy, do I ever feel that, because I see those months now and realize I had no strength of my own, not a bit. And I cannot give the credit to my awesome family and friends, because dealing with someone with the kind of PPD I had requires more strength than the average human is capable of - I know God was at work in them, too. It was hellish that my own body had to revolt against me in that way, but God, no. He will never let me drown. He will not let me perish. And he has worked some amazing miracles out of those dark circumstances, miracles that would have never happened had I not gone through what I did. He IS mighty to save, friends.

A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
Should I stumble again
I'm caught in your grace
Everlasting, your light will shine
When all else fades...

polka dot man

Aidan had his one year checkup last week... he's such a big boy! 32 inches long, 26 pounds (and if you've held him recently, you can totally believe that one). He's definitely growing big and strong!

While we were collecting these impressive stats at the doctor's office, Aidan was also the lucky recipient of FOUR shots. I had to hold down his arms, which was truly heartbreaking: he gave me this completely betrayed look and started to cry even before the needles hit his chubby thighs, and I felt like I was instantly signed up for the Worst Mother of the Year Award. (Thankfully, he was giggling and making fart sounds with his mouth just a few minutes later while I was still wiping my eyes...)

As you can see, he's one happy little dude:



However, a couple days ago, I wake up to find my little munchkin looking like this:







Yup. Reaction to one of his vaccines. I freaked out momentarily - I mean, they do tell you a rash can happen, it's no big deal, blah blah blah, and I fully believe that, but there's something irrational that happens in the brain when it's YOUR child. I mean, it's just strange to wake up and find your kid is a walking polka-dot factory, right?

Anyway, the doctor confirmed that yeah, this was totally normal, and yeah, it would go away in a few days, and no, it wasn't contagious. He wasn't feverish. He wasn't fussy. In fact, he was his usual sweet little self, except that his skin was a minefield. And we took his non-contagious self to church this morning, and the rash was already hugely better than yesterday, and the best part? I didn't meet a single soul bent on lecturing me about the dangers of vaccines and how Aidan would surely be autistic by next week. Because I totally respect parents who choose to take the alternate path, but if you have to lecture me about my traditional, all-hail-modern-medicine path... I just might have to BEAT YOU. So, um, don't leave me a comment saying as much, or I will find you.

(Thankfully, those people don't seem to exist in my little world.)

But as much as Aidan will probably regret me posting these pictures when he's older, I wanted to show freaking out parents out there whose kids also got an MMR vaccine just what it can look like... and that it's okay. As I type this, Aidan's spots are hardly noticeable anymore, and yesterday, he looked like a walking allergic reaction. And the first thing I did when I saw him, besides saying "what the..." was to immediately Google "MMR vaccine reaction", "polka dot child", "insane tropical disease". Okay, so the latter two searches weren't as helpful, but there were only two or three pictures of kids with MMR vaccine reactions, and they didn't look like Aidan that much. Well, enough to let me know what I was dealing with, at least, but I'm adding Little Man to the mix to help allay some fears out there. I will say that if your kid has a fever, is listless, or the spots don't blanch, meaning that when you press on them they don't go white and then immediately back to red... or you have ANY question, call your pediatrician or nurse practitioner. Don't rely solely on a Google search!

And now, back to parenting. Never a dull moment, is there?