It Will Take as Long as It Takes: Reflections on the Past Year

I want to start off this post with gratitude for the overwhelming support and encouragement I received from all of you in response to my last post. As I'm sure you detected, I was feeling incredibly discouraged upon publishing the post. I actually hesitated being so vulnerable on the blog, but when I asked Andy what he thought, he simply said, "Yep, that's where we are" and gave the go ahead to hit "publish." So, again, thank you for lifting our spirits and surrounding us with solidarity. It was much needed.

Now onto tonight's post...

Today we celebrate Mr. D's first birthday. The milestone is bittersweet for me, as I reflect on the past year, and all the joy and pain that has filled it. I wish I could say that I am looking back with rose-colored glasses, that I can laugh now at those first days, weeks, and months. But I can't. Don't get me wrong, I love Mr. D with all my heart, and am so thankful for his presence in our lives. Yet, the fact remains that I had a difficult birth and postpartum period, and continue to face challenges related to my experience.

After hearing my birth story, a friend asked me if, a year later, I felt any better about my birth experience. I responded a bit too emphatically, "No!" How long will it take before I feel at peace about this time in my life? The lesson from this year seems to be: It will take as long as it takes. 

I have not posted a birth story for Mr. D (which seems to be almost a requirement if you have a mommy blog) because I don't like being negative, and I don't want to seem like "woe is me" all the time. (Otherwise, I might have to change the name of the blog to Moody Dreamer...haha). While I will save the nitty gritty details of my labor and birth for another post (which you can totally skip if you're not into reading about that sort of thing), I do want to share how it has shaped my motherhood so far.

Labor was long, and much harder than I ever thought possible. We took a Bradley-method birth preparation class, during which we saw a video of a water birth at home. The look on the woman's face as she met her baby stirred something deep inside me. I wanted that. That look of love, connection, strength, and peace. I hoped that those things would be the natural results (rewards) of going through labor and delivery sans drugs. I was wrong.

Most of the time, even with Andy or one of the midwives there beside me, I felt alone. No one else was experiencing my pain, and no one could relieve it. The room was dark, because I couldn't stand the light, but my soul also felt dark. I felt small, alone, and scared. I've never felt more scared in my life. The pain was too much. Maybe I would just die from the pain. But I didn't die. The pain continued. I kept asking how much longer. If only I knew how much longer before it would be over, I could make it through. It was the prospect of labor continuing another day that terrified me. Every time, I got the same answer, It will take as long as it takes.

All in all, from start to finish, my labor was two days, and three nights long. I want to clarify that Mr. D was being monitored regularly, and was never in any danger during my extended birth process. In fact, he seemed to be completely oblivious to what was going on. The little stinker. ;) 

Fear, anxiety, and distress continued even after Mr. D was delivered from my body, and placed into my exhausted arms. I was glad that labor was over, but the joy and peace that I had expected were missing. Now I know that this was the start of what would be a year of postpartum depression and anxiety. 

I alluded to it in my posts, and several of you connected the dots without me telling you outright. Some days and weeks are better than others, and there have been periods of time, when I thought it was gone. But, I have grown to accept that this may stick around for awhile, and I have determined to be very proactive about my care and recovery. This means medication, counseling, self-care, and prayer, among other things. I am reminded of my midwife's words as I was in labor, desperate to know how much longer before it was over: It will take as long as it takes. 

Isn't that true, though, for all of us? We are constantly in a state of becoming, and oftentimes grow impatient as we wait to reach proficiency and comfort in each new role. How long before I am healed of postpartum depression? It will take as long as it takes. How long before I feel adept as a mom? It will take as long as it takes. 

So, I am trying to be patient with myself, and with the timetable of my healing. And in the meantime, I am soaking in the soft, baby fresh skin, the chuckles, the scampering, clapping, and games of peekaboo--all the little joys of motherhood. Because I don't want to wait until I am fully healed to treasure these moments. Because if I wait, I might miss them completely. 

I love you so much, Mr. D.

Wounded Bodies, Wounded Hearts

What do you do when everything seems to be falling apart around you? What do you do when you have no idea what to do, yet you are the one who is supposed to have all the answers? What do you do when there is much too much, and you feel like you're drowning? 

So far this year has been full of sickness, worry, and pain. Before you say it, let me tell you I know things could be worse. I know that people are suffering everywhere. I know that people have lost their homes, their livelihoods, their loved ones. Just last week, my hometown experienced a major flood, that devastated its business district and damaged homes. So, here I am, in my home, with food to eat, heat to warm, and clean water to drink. So, who am I to complain? Good question.

I am weak. From a year of depression, anxiety, and heartache.

I am scared. That all that I cling to will be torn away from me, too. Family that I love, friends that I count on, a place to call home.

I am tired. Of nights spent awake, worrying about being a good mother, a good wife, a good person. Nights with a sick child, watching the monitor, in case his poor body would gag and choke yet again on the contents of his stomach.

In the past handful of days, Mr. D has been sick with a stomach bug, I am sick with a cold, and then Andy got the stomach bug, followed by my cold. To make matters much, much worse, yesterday Mr. D pulled my just-poured hot tea onto himself, and suffered a pretty bad burn. I had to wake Andy up from a nap, so he could help me attend to a screaming child, a soaked floor, and my broken heart. We ended up going to Urgent Care, at my insistence, and were given an ointment to help soothe his burned skin, and help prevent infection.

Mr. D is doing much better today, but I keep replaying the episode in my head. What could I have done differently? Why did I have to put the cup of tea on my place mat? Why did I use that big of a cup? Why?? I know that it's not my fault. Yes, I will not put anything on place mats when we're not sitting at the table. Yes, I will try to keep dangerous things out of reach. But, you know what? I am human. I forget. I make mistakes. And, even if I did everything perfect, just right, Mr. D, and anyone I love for that matter, can still get hurt.

I don't have control. I never will. God has been giving both Andy and I that lesson, over and over again this year. Becoming a parent has taken away that last bit of control that I thought I had. In The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis said it best:

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

Today, my heart is broken. It has been broken before, and it will be broken again. I can only hope that I can learn how to let the Divine Healer mend not only our bodies, but our hearts, too.

9 Days to Gratitude: a Thanksgiving Novena {Day Five}

For those of you just joining in, this is part of a series on cultivating gratitude in preparation for Thanksgiving. You can see Day One here, Day Two here,  Day Three here, and Day Four here.

Also, just as an FYI, these are in no particular order, in case you were wondering why I am rating nap time alongside my friendships and in-laws. These are just the persons/things that spark gratitude in me that particular day. That being said, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Day Five

Today I am grateful for Andy.

This is an obvious choice. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for Andy. So why today of all days to highlight him and our relationship? Well, it started with last night. We had a friend over for dinner, and I was feeling a bit stressed about getting everything done in time and taking care of Mr. D. As soon as Andy got home (from a very busy and stressful week, I might add), he asked me "What can I do that would be most helpful to you right now?" So, he took out the recycling, inspected and figured out why the dishwasher wouldn't start, reset the table with a fresh tablecloth and napkins, and finally, corralled and played with Mr. D so I could work on meal prep. After our guest went home, I was exhausted, and I asked if Andy would mind cleaning up. He assured me that he would take care of things, and then encouraged me to get ready for bed. This morning Andy took Mr. D on an adventure to Lowe's while I got to sleep in. 

                       

I am so blessed to have such a loving, considerate husband. When Andy and I were just dating, I hosted a birthday party for my roommate and friend Christina. Throughout the night, Andy filled drink orders and bustled about to make my guests feel welcome. I know he often doesn't get the praise he deserves, because he is not one to draw attention to himself. He just gets the job done. 

He is the love of my life, my best friend, a great dad, and today I am reminded of just how lucky I am to have him on my team. I love you, Andy.  

Pre-Mr. D at the Mariners' game in 2013

Of Colds and Birthdays {The Disillusionment of Parenthood}

I didn't blog last week because 1) I caught a cold and 2) it was my birthday on Thursday, so lots of celebrations were had (even in the midst of the aforementioned cold...thanks to everyone who made it one of the best birthdays I have ever had!).

The cold started on Monday, with feeling really down, physically and emotionally. I felt like my legs were made of lead, and I was moving through molasses. By Tuesday, I had a sore throat and a runny nose. This was the first time since Mr. D was born that I have been sick {a miracle, which I praise God for}. That's right, I haven't been sick for more than 8 months!

Well, anyway, by Tuesday evening, I was feeling extremely sorry for myself, because here I was, sick and exhausted, and I still had to take care of Mr. D. {Wow, I can really hear the whine in that last sentence}.

Do you ever have those moments (or days, weeks, years?!) when being an adult seems like a cruel joke? Is this what I was looking forward to, when I was a child? Attending to a suddenly mobile child, who is on a napping strike, while feeling absolutely miserable?

So, I was lying in bed at 5pm, while Mr. D finally took a decent nap, when my husband comes home from work. Now, I am not exaggerating at all when I tell you that I was counting on Andy coming home to relieve me and let me finally get some rest. It was the only thing that got me through that day.

Andy would come home, and rush to my side. "How are you feeling, darling?" He'd then offer to watch Mr. D, and make dinner. He'd even go to the Infant CPR class that I signed up for. "I'll take care of everything. You just focus on getting better."

Instead, Andy came home feeling just as terrible as I did. He crawled into bed next to me, and started expressing how terrible his day had been. The gloom from the day settled firmly upon us. I realized that I wasn't going to get the night off. So what did I do? I got angry.

I jumped out of bed, and in a frenzy of frustration, I started getting ready to go to the class. I had 20 minutes to make dinner, eat dinner, and get out the door. Like a petulant child, I yelled, "This week stinks! I don't even want to have a birthday. There's nothing to celebrate, anyway." I slammed cupboards and banged pots and pans. I was a mess.

Andy came into the kitchen, and asked me how he could help. I motioned for him to take over the chopping, since I was in no condition to wield a knife. He said calmly that he thought it would be better if he went the the class. He also reminded me that we were on the same side. With tears and sobs, I sputtered, "I'm just so tired. I just want to be selfish for a change. Why does being an adult have to be so hard?" For a minute, we just stood there in the kitchen, grieving together the disillusionment that can accompany parenthood. Being a parent is hard. Harder than I ever thought it would be.

Parenthood (like marriage) is often painted in extremes: the newborn peach fuzz and coos vs. the colicky screaming banshee; the precocious lisping preschooler vs. the biting tantrum terrible twos/threes; the Gilmore Girl-like adolescent camaraderie vs. attitude-laden wild child. These are all real experiences for real parents. But more often than not, it's the day-to-day annoyances and grievances that wear us down. It's the constant death-to-self that you experience when you are responsible for another life. Rain or shine. In sickness or in health. Whether you feel like it-or not.

This is where the difficulty lies; but this is also where the grace lies. The grace to admit that it is hard. The grace to ask for forgiveness--and accept it. The grace to face disillusionment together, holding on to each other, and the promise of a better tomorrow.

{And it was}

My First Birthday as a Mrs.; My 26th as a Marie

It began with roses.

Twelve red ones the day before my birthday. Andy came home with them after work. “But my birthday isn’t until tomorrow!” I said. He grinned; he had surprised me by being early. The following morning, he let me sleep in (that’s not unusual, I often sleep longer than he does). I awoke to the smell of waffles baking and to the sound of classical music from the radio. {Andy is in charge of making breakfast on the weekends, and he is quite the breakfast chef—waffles, bacon, eggs, pancakes, hashbrowns (made from scratch!), French toast casserole, etc. But this was a weekday!}

Groggy and sleep-headed, I slowly made my way to the dining room. Waffles stacked high, freezer jam and butter to accompany them, tea, apple juice, a present near my plate, two slices of a pear in the shape of a heart on my plate, and the roses he had brought home the night before all awaited my enjoyment.

We savored our breakfast, taking a bit longer than we usually do on a weekday. Andy had given me a beautiful card and two items I had requested (the movie Casablanca and a salad dressing shaker) and one that he had selected (Sabrina, with Harrison Ford). “That’s the version I grew up with,” Andy explained. I had brought the original version of Sabrina (starring Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn) into our marriage. “I thought we could add it to our collection.” 

We got ready for Mass at our parish. Such a great way to start out any day, but especially important ones like birthdays. Afterwards, we stopped and talked with one of our friends. Andy brought me home, and then he went into his “office” and I started studying in my “office.” Andy had arranged to make dinner that night, and I had suggested a recipe that I love and Andy has made before: Kidney Cornbean Pie (thanks, Christina!). That would have been treat enough, but Andy also made Rice Pilaf (a family specialty) and a delicious Waldorf salad.

We then sat down to watch our new version of Sabrina. About halfway through the movie, Andy got up to get some dessert. We had Klondike bars in the freezer, so I assumed that was what he was getting. Well, from the rustling of a paper bag and the striking of a match, I started to wonder if Andy had something else in mind. He came out of the kitchen with a DQ ice cream cake (the “log” version) with one “candle” on top, and started singing Happy Birthday. I made a wish, and blew out the “candle,” which turned out to be a matchstick (Andy realized too late that we didn’t have any birthday candles).

The Birthday Celebrations Continue the Following Day...

The original plan was to celebrate my birthday as well as Andy's Grandpa Dick's birthday (which are both on September 17) at Andy’s family’s favorite restaurant, Anthony's Homeport. Anthony's is basically the best restaurant ever, as it has fresh, awesome seafood, and all of their locations provide stunning waterfront views (and if you're lucky, views of the mountains). We try to go on a weeknight, because before 6 they offer "sunset dinners," which include an appetizer, salad or chowder, a main course, and then dessert, all for about the same price as a normal entree. Delicious and economical? I'm there! 

Unfortunately, Grandpa Dick and his wife Mary couldn't come to dinner with us, as he was feeling under the weather. But very fortunately, our friends Adam and Caitlin and their adorable 18-month-old Claire were able to come instead (and of course Maggie was there too...we can't wait to meet her in the next month or so!). So a good time was had by all (although I'm not sure that Claire was impressed by the whole "gourmet mashed potatoes on a cracker" idea: it ended up on the floor.) 

My mother-in-law Merrie gave me my very own "Today's Your Special Day" plate, which is a tradition in Andy's family. Plus, as she pointed out, this plate can be used on any "special day," not just on birthdays. Oh, the great things you can find at Value Village and Goodwill!

We left the restaurant feeling very full (as usual) but very happy! 

Thank you to everyone who made my day(s) special! From phone calls, thoughtful cards, fun gifts, and quality time, I felt loved and cherished. Here's to another year full of exciting adventures! 

For All the Saints

Saint Clare and Saint Francis of Assisi

We look to the saints, and follow their gaze heavenward.

Today is the Feast of All Saints. This is one of my favorite feast days. First of all, it is the feast day of ALL of those that the church recognizes as being in heaven. That means it's the feast of St. Francis of Assisi just as much as it is the feast of St. Francis de Sales. Three hundred years separate the two in earthly reckoning, and the differences also extend to dispositions and roles in the church. But today (and, in reality, through all eternity) they are honored side by side--completely united in the love of Christ.

My love for the saints has increased, rather than decreased, as I have gotten older. Most people become more cynical as they "grow up"--leaving behind those childish notions of piety and devotion. I also feel the tugs of the secular world, telling me to abandon those silly traditions and live in the here and now. "Why must you always be looking to the things and people of the past?" one childhood friend chided me once. I didn't have an answer for him then.

But now I think of the great people of the past as more than models of virtue and holiness. They are truly friends, comrades in the fight. And we are so blessed to have an abundance of friends to choose from. Depending on your own personality and inclinations, you can have the quiet, humble St. Therese of Lisieux for your patron or the boisterous, bumbling Saint Peter. Both were incredibly in love with Christ; both strove to join him someday in heaven. Both were missionaries: St. Therese as a missionary of prayer--never leaving her Carmelite convent; St. Peter as a missionary of action--spreading the Gospel far and wide and leading the Church as the first pope.

They are patrons, in that they are looking out for us, aiding us in their prayers and intercession. And so I pray to them, for their help and guidance. They have won the fight for themselves, but now they are like generals in an army, guiding and molding those still engaged in battle.

Is devotion to the saints foolish, childish, or even superstitious? In 1 Corinthians 2:14, St. Paul writes, "a natural man does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; and he cannot understand them." God's ways are not our ways; rather they are beyond our understanding: truly mysterious and truly glorious.

Love

"When you know how much God is in Love with you, then you can only live your life radiating that Love."

Mother Teresa