notsosupermama

Today has been one of those days.  Maybe it was the culmination of too many recent reminders about mortality, combined with a few feverish days spent in bed, mixed with an abundance of clouds…and possibly some lingering basketball issues (don’t judge).  Whatever the reason, today I felt myself surrendering to the gray.

I woke up with the same tension headache I went to bed with.  I hadn’t slept well with my husband out of town, and all I wanted was one more hour of shut eye.  My mood edged precariously toward grumpy, but I was able to manhandle it temporarily and get both kiddos out the door with hugs and smiles (yay me).

Then on the way to drop off my daughter, it suddenly hit me that the school year was winding down.  I found myself tearing up at a stoplight thinking about how quickly the next two school years will pass.  You see, two school years is all that I have left before The Next Chapter.  Before my firstborn graduates high school and heads off to college.  Before my baby finishes grade school and moves up to middle school.  Two.  Years.  Given that the past two years have felt approximately 17 days long, I naturally have some concerns.

I managed to stuff that train of thought into one of the super handy boxes I keep in my brain for just that purpose.  (I’m exceedingly good at packing things away in those, sometimes even when I shouldn’t.  Scarlett O’Hara and I have way too much in common.)  The gym was calling but I couldn’t answer over the incredibly naughty words my neck and head were screaming at me, so I returned home and downed an ill advised number of ibuprofen chased by an unfortunate amount of coffee.

Next on my agenda was a visit to my dear friend, E.  E is a hospice patient I spend time with through a volunteer program, and she lives quite a ways out in the country.  During my drive, I found myself scanning through music until I hit on a song that fit my mindset.  Rather than fight it, I decided to dance with it.  But I was going to pick the tunes.

This wasn’t a full-blown black mood, the kind that knocks you down like a rogue wave.  This was rather one of those feelings made up equally of pain and pleasure, like teenage heartbreak.  It called for a healthy bit of wallowing, of embracing the gray.  This is always a delicate balance for me, as I can easily slip and find myself letting the darkness call the shots, but today I was in charge.  If I wanted to hear Bono wail about all he wanted, or sing along with The White Buffalo about ravens and kings, damnit, I would.

When I arrived at E’s, she welcomed me with a long hug and a warm smile.  Our conversation meandered through time as it always does, jumping back to her childhood and forward to the recent past and folding in on itself many times.  Our visits are always bittersweet given the nature of her age and diagnosis, but today felt especially so.  My thoughts turned yet again to the swift passage of time, and to the evolution of family.  The sweet is that there are people in our lives who make us wish we had more time; the bitter is that we never have enough.  When we said our goodbyes I held on a bit longer than usual.

When I think about it, maybe that’s what days like this are all about.  Perhaps we need the gray to make us grateful when the sunshine comes.  Perhaps we need to reflect on loss in order to appreciate what can be taken away.  Maybe knowing we’ll eventually have to let go makes us hold on a bit tighter while we can.  The human experience means loving people and losing them in a million different ways.  It means feeling lost and heartbroken and angry and confused, but it also means feeling joyful and understood and so very much alive.

So I’ll embrace this day, and any more the universe has to offer.  It may be gray but it’s mine to live, in all its exquisite melancholy and awesome grace.  And with a pretty kickass soundtrack if I have anything to say about it.

Yours In Grace,

Ashley

Depression is just so fucking impolite.  Truly, no manners whatsoever.  It’s like an uninvited houseguest who shows up with ten suitcases demanding dinner and kicking you out of your own comfortable, familiar bed.

I mean, it could at least give a gal a little notice.  Maybe a quick text or phone call: “Pardon me, I realize you’re doing okay right now, but momentarily you will see a few candid photos of yourself that kick your self-esteem in the ass, followed by a bad-mommy-moment that sparks some serious self-loathing, and perhaps some cancelled plans with a  friend to make you question whether anyone actually likes you.  Then I will slip inside your head ever so quietly and make you want to crawl under the covers with a box of wine.  For a month.”

On a “normal” day (whatever that means), none of this would even faze me.  I know unflattering photos happen and shouldn’t measure my self-worth.  I realize parenthood can be hard and that all of us raise our voices from time to time or handle situations with less patience than we should.  I understand that cancelled plans are just cancelled plans, that life happens to us all and that it has nothing to do with me.  But when my old nemesis comes calling, every molehill becomes a mountain, and the smallest thing is enough to knock me down.

For me, depression has taken many forms over the years.  Social anxiety when I was younger, crippling postpartum darkness, low tides of self-destructive behavior and incredibly shitty self esteem…it seems to change masks in order to slip in undetected and bring me to my knees when I least expect it.  Sometimes it’s such a subtle shift in my emotions I don’t even recognize it at first.  Other times it knocks me down like a tidal wave and no matter how I struggle to come up for air, I keep getting tossed underwater where I can’t breathe.  It also causes me to mix metaphors, apparently.

Fortunately over the years I’ve learned what helps.  Medication is not optional for me.  I’ve tried life without it and I’m just a better human when I’m drugged.  This idea has been a real struggle for me as I lean towards a natural approach to healing.  I won’t take antibiotics unless I’m hospitalized with a life-threatening infection.  I would rather drink tea for a sore throat than take Tylenol.  But my brain is wonky and without chemical assistance I am a lousy mother and wife.  And that’s just unacceptable to me.

Eating clean and working out regularly are my other lifesavers, but when I get low they’re the first things to go.  I slip into self-destruct mode like I’m throwing on a comfy old sweater that I happen to be violently allergic to.  I know it’s bad for me, I know I should donate it, but man, it’s just so soft and warm.  Sure, my mood is way more level when I eat right.  Yes, alcohol is a depressant.  Of course, exercise is the ultimate upper.  But imma sit here on this couch and binge eat instead.  Because I’m not really worth the effort and I’ll just fail anyways and GOD I hate myself…*slugs wine and eats a bag of Cheetos*

I tried light therapy and it actually seemed to help quite a bit, but then my dog chewed through the cord to the light box and well, going out in public and buying a new one just seemed hard.  And maybe winter was right.  Maybe life just sucked and I should go back to bed.

Therapy has never appealed to me because I hate talking about my problems.  Probably that means I’m someone who really needs it, but writing this all down is as close as I’ve ever come to putting my personal shit out there.  I’m the one other people unload on, not the one who calls a friend to talk about her lousy day.  I would much rather listen than share.  (So posting this is rather like a relaxing swim with sharks or a casual walk across a 20,000 foot tightrope.  Whee!)

My poor husband is the exception to this rule.  He is my safe place, the one person I am completely vulnerable with.  For some reason he’s decided I’m worth keeping around and as a result he’s subject to my dark times and scary thoughts.  He struggles with wanting to fix me.  Having never experienced depression, he has a tough time understanding that there’s no reason for my feelings.  Over the years I’ve gotten better at handling it and so has he, but sometimes I’m sure he wants to give up on me.  Guess that’s real love, when you refuse to do that even when you wish you could.

Meditation helps.  Prayer helps.  Reading helps.  Cuddling with my kids helps.  Talking to my husband helps.  Petting my dog helps.  Hanging out with my parents and sister helps.  Being around people who are real and honest and messy helps.  Being outside helps.  This is my arsenal.  When depression attacks, I have many, many ways to combat it.  Sometimes it’s a long battle, sometimes it’s bloody, but always I win.  Do I question if I always will?  Maybe in my rawest, shakiest moments, yes.  But I’m not giving up without a fight.

I hope and pray I don’t pass this onto my children.  I want to shelter them from this (and all) pain.  But if, God forbid, either one of them ever suffers from it, I want to be there holding their hands and showing them my (metaphorical) scars and NOT LEAVING.  Because that’s the thing.  The not leaving is the best way to love someone with depression.  You don’t have to say the right thing or come up with the answer.  You just have to stay.

Here’s the other thing: spring is coming.  Dark times don’t last.  When you’re living them, they lie to you and tell you they’re sticking around, but they can’t.  Light wedges itself in there when you least expect it and drives out the dark.  Sometimes you just have to wait things out.  Under the covers.  With Cheetos.

Sometimes social media posts about children’s accomplishments can come across as the modern version of “My Child Is An Honor Student” bumper stickers.  Understandably proud, but also more than a little boastful, topped with a healthy dose of self-congratulation.

I’m guilty.  I love sharing my kiddos’ highlights.  It feels good as a parent to give your children a public shout-out for a job well done.  But for me, there’s another layer to it: relief.

Our son, now a freshman in high school, has not always had a highlight reel to share.  There were many times I would read about his peers getting good grades, or excelling in a team sport, or having fun with their friends…and I would feel a very un-Facebook-worthy emotion: envy.

You see, Miles has ADHD.  Not the “a little trouble focusing” or “has a tough time sitting still” kind.  The HOLY CRAP OFF THE CHARTS LIFE ALTERING INTENSE EXHAUSTING EVERY DAY IS A CHALLENGE kind.  And then some.

There were many years spent bracing for parent-teacher conferences.  Many times I cringed when I saw the familiar school office phone number show up on my phone.  Plenty of nights my husband and I cried and prayed and wondered how to help our son have a normal life.

We watched him struggle in school, grapple with social situation, push our patience beyond limits we’d ever known.  Our hearts broke as we witnessed the overwhelming emotions he experienced and the frustration he felt when his behavior seemed out of control.  Some teachers “got” him.  Some REALLY didn’t.  Some peers stuck by him.  Some grew tired of his over the top antics and withdrew.

We held him through tears and tantrums.  We advocated for him through conferences and meetings.  And we finally, after several years of resistance, decided to follow his doctor’s advice and try medication.

The results were immediate and dramatic.  We asked ourselves why we hadn’t made the decision sooner.  The guilt over medicating evolved into the guilt over not having medicated sooner.  Miles was able to control his impulses and focus in a way we had never thought possible.  Every second of every day was no longer a struggle for him to maintain control.  A word that had previously been blurred beyond recognition suddenly came into sharp focus: HOPE.

It wasn’t an overnight success story.  There were lots of ups and downs.  He grew, he hit puberty, medications had to be adjusted, behavioral therapy had to be adapted.  We had good days and bad days.  We learned to take deep breaths when Miles was home and unmedicated.  We coached him on organization and study skills and peer interactions.  And we prayed.  Oh, how we prayed.

Grade school came and went, middle school disappeared in a flash…and suddenly there it was: high school.  The final frontier.  The last chance for Miles to mature and develop independent skills to serve him as an adult.  The pressure was on, for him AND for us.  We all took a deep breath and jumped in.

Fast forward to parent-teacher conferences, the first of his high school career.  I felt the old familiar apprehension creeping in.  I braced myself for the other shoe to drop, for the bombshell from a teacher that Miles was struggling or misbehaving.  In other words, I threw faith under the bus and allowed anxiety to take the wheel.

What I learned tonight is that I need to relax, trust, and let Miles do his thing.  Let go and let God, let it be and let Miles be.  Our son is amazing.  He has faced daily challenges that would bring many adults to their knees.  He has overcome more obstacles and worked harder than most people I know.  Life, and school, and friendships, and family relations…they have not been smooth sailing for him.  But MY GOD how he has risen above.

Tonight I heard repeatedly how bright and driven and special our little boy is.  How he’s thriving in high school.  And I wanted to sit down and bawl like a baby.  “Proud” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

So please excuse me if I gloat a bit.  If I overshare and post too often and shout from the rooftops what an incredible kid he is.  He’s freaking EARNED it.  And I, for one, can’t keep that to myself.

This week is National Breastfeeding Week. It’s been years since my breasts were used for anything other than recreation, but in honor of all the mamas out there using theirs for good, I thought I’d reflect on my experience.

My firstborn was a natural. Sure, it took a bit for both of us to figure things out, but once he latched on he was a pro. When I think of those quiet moments with him in the rocking chair, the two of us connected in the most natural, beautiful way, I swear I feel let-down thirteen years later. That bond was so incredible and though I honestly sometimes felt a bit like a dairy cow, I also reveled in the fact that I was sharing something so pure and nurturing with my child.

I recall nights when we co-slept and I nursed him half asleep. I remember balancing him on a Boppy while reading or eating with my free hand. Most of all, I think of his tiny face turned up toward mine, his miniature hand stroking my hair, our lives so connected it was as if we were the same person. It was like he was mainlining love, straight from my body.

I nursed him day and night for almost three months before heading back to work full-time. Then I bit the bullet and purchased a good breast pump that I faithfully hauled to work with me every day. I met with my boss prior to my return and set up a schedule that would allow me to pump twice a day in the attic of the building where I worked and store the milk in our break room fridge, and use my lunch break to visit my son at his child care center to nurse him in person.

I have vivid memories of posting my little handmade sign on the attic storage room door (“Breast Pump In Use – Knock, Please”) and listening to the rhythmic sound of that pump while I stared at a picture of my son to get things moving along. I treasured my lunch hour more than ever before, racing across town to be with my little guy and rocking in the infant room next to a few other mamas doing the same.

Things went smoothly until around 8 months when he developed thrush and passed it on to me. I tried everything to power through: meds for him, meds for me, changing my diet…nothing helped. After six weeks of misery with no end in sight, I broke down in my doctor’s office. She hugged me and told me she was amazed I’d continued for so long when it was obvious how much pain I was in. The guilt and disappointment was intense as I’d planned to nurse until at least a year (and probably longer), but I realized that I had given him a great start and that it was best for both of us for me to wean him.

Because the thrush was so bad, my doctor actually told me I should stop nursing immediately to avoid a more serious infection, so I quit cold turkey. And…OUCH. At one point I read that chilled cabbage leaves could help ease the pain and pressure, so my husband came home to find me walking around with salad sticking out of my bra. It was like having two live volcanoes on my chest and trying to keep them from erupting. I could hardly stand to take a shower because the water pressure was so painful. After a few miserable days, the pain and swelling subsided and my breasts shrunk like deflated balloons. The agony was gone, and so was my cleavage.

Meanwhile my son happily made the switch to formula and never seemed to notice. While I still wished I could have nursed him longer, I knew I’d done the best I could and that he received the benefits of breast milk for a good portion of his infancy.

Fast-forward six years…I gave birth to our daughter and anticipated sharing that special bond with her as well. This time I would be staying home with her, so it would be much easier without having to pump. I’d done it once so I felt confident in my ability to breastfeed her successfully. After all, it must be like riding a bike, right? Wrong.

Our beautiful baby girl was PISSED. She apparently felt quite comfy in the womb and was not a fan of the real world. She screamed and sobbed virtually every second of the day and night, only pausing briefly if I swaddled her tightly and bounced her vigorously with her head nestled in the crook of my arm. At night I had to keep her swaddled and sleep with one hand resting on her body; the second I removed the pressure she was wide awake and squalling.

Nursing was a nightmare. She couldn’t latch on properly, leaving me sore and her hungry and frustrated. I became a fixture in the lactation specialist’s office, visiting almost daily in my attempt to make breastfeeding work. I tried tubing with a syringe, every position known to woman, changed my diet…eventually resorting to pumping and bottle feeding in an attempt to provide her with breast milk. This went on for months until my supply finally just ran dry. I was heartbroken. I had failed.

Baby girl’s colic (for lack of a better term) lasted for four long months. My post-partum depression lasted longer…the guilt I carried over not being able to soothe or feed my own daughter took its toll. I truly believed she and the rest of my family would be better off without me, and my thoughts regularly veered into frightening territory. Thankfully I shared my feelings with my doctor who got me the support and the medication I needed to claw my way up out of the darkness.

I eventually came to understand that my inability to breastfeed my daughter wasn’t a reflection of my worth as a mother. I could still love and nourish my baby without nursing her. My breastfeeding plan went the way of my birth plan with Baby #2. Baby #1 was delivered naturally, with no drugs or interventions. Baby #1 was breastfed for almost a year exclusively. Baby #2 was delivered via scheduled c-section (due to complications from delivering Baby #1). Baby #2 couldn’t get the breastfeeding thing down. It was my first introduction to the whole Every Child Is Different thing. Duly noted, Life. Thanks for the lesson.

I experienced two very different versions of breastfeeding. I wanted so much to nurse both of my children for as long as possible. Life, however, had other plans. So this week I celebrate the mamas who make it work. The ones who nurse exclusively, the ones who pump, who cover up in public, who bare it all in public, who cluster feed, who feed on a schedule, who nurse until their children are six months, who nurse until their children are toddlers. I also celebrate the mamas who tried their best. The ones who cried when their little ones wouldn’t latch on, who met with lactation specialists, who cringed when the shower water hit them, whose bodies let them down, who felt like failures when they paid for their first can of formula.

I celebrate us all. We are mamas. We are human. We try. We fail. We succeed. We love. And we wake up tomorrow and do it all again. God bless the boobies, and the babies. I raise my nursing bra to you all.

Here’s to the moms who spent last night rocking insomniac babies, who read this in a sleep-deprived haze wearing the same spit-up stained clothes they had on yesterday.

Here’s to the moms whose babies will graduate in a few short weeks, who would give anything to go back to the diaper days and hold those little ones one more time.

Here’s to the moms who work outside the home because they want to, because they know themselves well enough to understand that when they go out in the world as professionals, they return home better moms.

Here’s to the moms who work outside the home because they have to, who sacrifice for their families and spread themselves thin to provide a better life for their children.

Here’s to the moms who stay home, who dedicate their lives to their families and who never see a paycheck but who work tirelessly all the same.

Here’s to the moms whose own mothers were great role models, who showed them unconditional love and taught them how to be mothers.

Here’s to the moms whose own mothers were lacking or absent, either by choice or by chance, who had to teach themselves how to mother.

Here’s to the moms who have lost their own moms, who feel a void in their hearts that could only be filled with a mother’s love.

Here’s to the moms who never got to be moms, who longed for babies that were never born.

Here’s to the moms who have lost children, before or after they were born, who have endured unthinkable sorrow.

Here’s to the moms who adopted or fostered, who know that biology has nothing to do with being a mother.

Here’s to the moms who realized they couldn’t care for their children, who made the choice to give them a better life.

Here’s to the moms whose addictions and issues prevented them from being mothers to their own children, but who gave birth to children that other moms could love.

Here’s to the step-moms, who chose to open their hearts to the possibility of rejection but who loved their way through the struggles.

Here’s to the moms-to-be, the ones with growing bellies and hearts, with hopes and plans and dreams.

Here’s to the moms who said, “When I have kids I’ll never…” or “When I have kids I’ll always…” and who realized very quickly that motherhood changed everything.

Here’s to the moms who breastfed, to the moms who formula fed.  To the moms who were patient, to the moms who yelled.  To the moms who have one child, to the moms who have ten children.

Happy Mother’s Day, mamas, all of you.  You are incredible.  And you are so very, very loved.