Post

My friend, and super-blogger, Jos, wrote an article on Post-baby depression. While reading it I realized two things: first, she's right, it's something women need to be talking about more often and more openly; and second, while I also experienced depression after having a baby, my experience was completely different. So, I thought, in the spirit of sharing our experiences as moms and women, I would share what I went through after each of my babies.

My mom had been staying with us for a few days after getting home from the hospital with Sophie and I distinctly remember a moment when she turned to me and said "I suppose you want to hold your baby!" She can be a bit of a baby-hog and suddenly realized that she'd been holding my brand new baby for most of that morning. I also remember telling her that no, it was okay, she was grandma and could hold Sophie all she wanted. But the fact was, I didn't want to hold my baby. Months later a friend of mine, who had had her first baby about a year and a half before me, asked if I had experienced "baby blues" at all. Of course I said no. I wasn't about to admit that I had felt anything other than total love and admiration for my child. But then she shared with me that after years of trying to get pregnant and eventually using in vitro fertilization, she had looked at her brand new baby girl and thought I don't know if I want you. "That's exactly how I felt!" I told her.

My baby blues didn't last more than a few weeks. And I believe they were mostly due to exhaustion and feeling overwhelmed. And after talking with my friend I learned that they are actually more common than not. But after Max was born, I had a completely different experience.

For about a year after Max was born, I lived in fear. I feared that someone would break into my home and I wouldn't be able to get to my children before they did. I feared that my car would fly off a bridge and I wouldn't be able to get my kids out of their car seats. I feared that if I unbuckled Max while he was in his carrier someone would be able to reach in a take him without my noticing right away. These are probably normal fears for any parent, but my fear was deeper that normal. I believed, truly believed, that something awful was going to happen. I thought there were people with guns in the woods behind my house, watching me. I was sure that even though I couldn't see them, they could see me while I was watching TV, folding laundry, nursing my baby. At times, when I was driving, I would look over at the empty passenger seat and swear that, for a split second, I could see the devil sitting there. I felt terrorized by evil. I was in such a haze that it never occurred to me to ask for help. But I do remember Wade, at one point, telling me that I was not myself. That's probably when I became aware of how different I felt, but I thought that I could handle it on my own.

Eventually I started to come out of it. And one day it occurred to me that I wasn't afraid anymore. But I wish, for myself and for my family, that I had gotten help. I was so consumed with being afraid that I missed out on Max's babyhood. I can never get that back.

Lily is 9 months old now and this is the first time I haven't felt anything other than happiness for my baby. I certainly have moments when I am frustrated, but normal frustration. And of course I have fears, but nothing like I felt after my second pregnancy. I'm not sure why I didn't have post-partum this time around, but I do know that just like every child is different, every pregnancy is, too. I guess I just got lucky this time.

Having a baby (whether birthing one yourself or adopting) is wonderful, heart-warming and exciting. But it's also scary, overwhelming, frustrating, and exhausting. I've learned, over the years, that there's nothing wrong with sometimes day-dreaming about how clean my house would be if I didn't have three little people messing it up all the time. It's okay if, sometimes, I just want a little time to myself. And it's perfectly acceptable to go on a date with my husband purely so that someone else has to put my kids to bed. I wouldn't trade my kids for the world, but if you catch me at the wrong time, I might.

Eyes on the Road

I just signed the No Phone Zone pledge. I know, I'm writing about Orpah again and playing right into the SAHM stereotype of sitting in front of the TV eating bon-bons and watching daytime TV (let's just keep the fact that I watch Y&R everyday our little secret). This whole "me watching Oprah on a regular basis" thing is actually a fairly new phenomenon. I started recording her show a month or so ago when I wanted to be sure to see some guest who I have now completely forgotten. And now that I'm recording it, I'm realizing that she is really quite addictive. And powerful. Lucky for us, she uses her powers for good.

I'm not the kind of person who runs out to get the newest Oprah Book Club book or her latest favorite thing, but I respect her and I would be lying if I said she has no power over me. Since I started recording the show and watching it most days I have noticed that she ends each time asking her viewers to sign the No Phone Zone pledge (there are also bumper stickers and t-shirts!). This really got me thinking...not only about texting, but also about how far-reaching Oprah's power really is.

I'm just going to quickly try and brain storm the people and things Oprah has launched into stardom: Dr. Phil, Bob Green, Rachel Ray, East of Eden, Dr. Oz (love him!!). I know there are many more that I don't remember or didn't know about in the first place. It's easy to roll your eyes and act all I liked East of Eden before Oprah did, but the fact of the matter is people listen to her. When she chose East of Eden for her book club, it was instantaneously number one. That means people everywhere went to their computers (or, God forbid, actually went into a bookstore!) and bought that book within seconds of hearing her announcement. That's power!

So, I'm totally on board with her No Phone Zone. If this gets people thinking about the choices they make behind the wheel, it's got to be a good thing. It's not about Oprah, it's about people not dying because someone texted someone else about who's going out with whom, and that someone else couldn't wait to get home to find out the news. It's about the a-hole who almost drove into my car the other day because he was too busy dialing his phone to watch the road! I know I'm not blameless here. I use my car-time as phone-time quite often (I don't text while driving.) as it's usually too loud in my house to talk on the phone. But when I'm driving alone in my car it's kind of like being able to close my office door and get some work done. But that's stopping now. I'm taking this pledge very seriously. I will admit, however, that I chose (there are three choices of severity for your pledge) to not text (duh!!) and only speak on the phone using a hands-free device. I don't have a hands-free device, so that leaves me with not talking on my phone while in the car. Period. Or until I get to Verizon to pick up a hands-free thingy.

I suppose the point is that not too long ago we were all driving without talking on the phone or texting. And just because we can do something, doesn't mean we should (I feel that way about so many things!). And frankly, when it comes to texting, no one can do both at the same time, and do both well. I guess driving badly is worse then texting badly, but man-oh-man those typos would drive me bonkers!

So, when next you see me on the road I'll have my hands at 10 and 2, looking straight ahead with no distractions (other than the three people in the backseat yelling at me that they are hungry or crying because no we're not going to Target just so you can get some bubble gum). I look forward to talking with you. But not while I'm in my car, unless you're standing just outside of my car and I roll down the window...I don't think Oprah has a problem with that.

Shame on Me

I'm watching Oprah right now and, as Ms. Winfrey would say, I just had an A Ha Moment. Her guest, Geneen Roth, who wrote the book Women, Food and God, just said (I love my DVR, I can rewind and pause so I get her words just right), "We somehow believe that if we hate ourselves enough, if we shame ourselves enough, we'll end up thin, happy, peaceful people."

Makes sense to me!

I have spent most of my life unhappy with, bordering on hating, my body. The tape in my head goes something like this: Your thighs are fat. Your arms are fat. Your stomach is fat. You're fat. You're fat. You're fat you're fat you're fat fat fat. I try to be more positive. At times I'm even able to look in a mirror and think that I look alright, but the very next thought is always, Don't go easy on yourself. If you stop trying to lose, you'll start gaining. I would never NEVER talk to another person that way. But for some reason, it's perfectly fine for me to talk to myself that way. And if you're anything like me, then you've made it okay for you to talk to yourself that way, too.

Oprah talked about her January 2009 cover of O Magazine where she had her thin self standing next to her fat self. The caption read "How did I let this happen again?!" She said that at the time she just wanted to get it out there, be the first to say it, before everyone else started in on her weight gain. But now, when she looks at it, she realizes that all she did was publicly shame herself. She said, "And in that cover what I was saying was that the thin me deserves all of the praise and the accolades. The thin me deserves to be loved, but the fat me does not."

That is exactly how I feel right now. I don't have a picture of the current me standing next to the me from August 2008, the thinnest I had ever been, but that image is as clear as day in my mind. A few months ago, at a neighborhood coffee, a new neighbor showed up. Throughout the morning I kept hearing myself say things about having to lose weight, not being able to lose weight while nursing (I loved that excuse!) and not being able to fit into my old clothes. Later, after the coffee was over, it dawned on me what I had been doing. I had been using my own secret code to tell this woman that I don't want to look like this. It's okay to like me because I'll be thin again someday.

And it's not just to new people I meet. It's to everyone. I'm constantly telling friends that I still need to lose this much weight. I can't quite fit into my favorite pair of jeans. Even with my mom and my sister, who I know love me unconditionally, I feel that I need to justify why I'm heavier than I want to be and what I'm doing to change that. My sister is coming into town in a couple of weeks (Yay!!) and guess who stepped up her workout in an effort to lose an extra pound or two more before Molly arrives.

I think I'm a nice person. I'm a good friend and I'm easy to talk to. I'm willing to help anyone who needs it. But from my point of view, none of that matters. Or at least none of it matters as much as the fact that I'm not thin. When I just outright say it like that it sounds absolutely ridiculous! So, I'm vowing to be nicer to myself. If I were my own best friend I would tell myself that I'm doing a good job! Keep up the good work, me, because the goal is totally in reach! You'll get there! I'll get there! I'm going to try to focus on the things I'm doing right...and even more so, try to take the focus off food and weight altogether!

It has occurred to me, in the past, that if I didn't spend so much time, so much brain power, thinking about my weight I could be doing some amazing things! I could be curing diseases. I could be discovering new elements. I could be paying more attention to my kids. Seriously, I could, should, be setting a better and more accepting example. A week or so ago my daughter poked me in my tummy. She asked why my stomach looked like that. I'm not proud of my response. "You, your brother and your sister made it look like this," I said as I pushed her hand away. I wish, instead of blaming her, I had said something like, "My stomach looks like this because I am blessed enough to have had you, your brother and your sister." I don't ever want her thinking she's to blame for my body issues. And I certainly don't want to teach her that a body that has carried and nursed three babies is something to be ashamed of.

This will be my last post on weight, at least for the foreseeable future. Instead of beating myself up all the time, I'm going to kill myself with kindness. And in the meantime I'm going to put my focus on other things. Writing, for instance. Since I write what I'm thinking about, and I'm no longer going to be thinking about my weight, it would make sense that you won't see any more about it. It won't be quite that easy, I know. So friends, when, out of habit, I start talking about how unhappy I am with my body, just change the subject. Who knows, maybe you'll inspire my next post!

The Whole Thing

On a walk last week my neighbor was describing a sandwich she had eaten a few days prior. It was chicken salad, with double melted cheese and dripping in a special mayo. I gained weight just listening to her. This isn't the first time she's talked about her feats in eating. Jimmy Johns, Chipotle and others have also made the list, and the story always ends with "and I ate the whole thing!" Did I mention that my neighbor is tiny? And if I didn't like her so much, I wouldn't like her at all!

When I was first getting to know Tina, I was training for my second Breast Cancer 3Day. I was in the best shape of my life at this point, but I remember standing in her kitchen, complaining that no matter how much I walked, my thighs never seemed to get any smaller. Tina commented that I had worked hard and should be more accepting of my body. Easy for you to say, I thought, In your skinny jeans with your skinny self. But as I've gotten to know Tina better, I have learned that she's not skinny because she starves herself, or because she spends all day working out at the gym. Like my thighs, it's just the way her body is.

Tina realizes how lucky she is. She knows that not everyone can eat like that and look like her (and, by the way, even Tina doesn't eat like all the time!). But I got to thinking that I'm pretty lucky, too. I have to pay close attention to what I eat in order to lose, or even maintain, weight. I know myself well enough to know that if I could eat anything I wanted with no apparent consequences, I absolutely would! Therefore, the majority of the time, I make healthy choices. And because eating anything causes me to gain weight, I have to work out regularly. Again, that makes me healthier than I would be otherwise.

Many years ago my brother injured his back in a skiing accident. He had physical therapy and learned many different exercises he needed to do in order to strengthen his back and keep it from going out and possibly causing permanent damage. He was young, and was bummed that he had these restrictions. I remember overhearing a conversation between Matt and my dad about being disciplined concerning the exercises Matt was reluctant to do. My dad explained that everyone needs to exercise to be healthy, but Matt had added incentive, which was a blessing! Most people who don't have to exercise, don't. And they are less healthy as a result. But Matt had more than just his general health at stake. If he didn't follow through with these exercises he would have serious consequences. I can't speak for my brother as to whether that conversation stuck with him all these years, but it stayed with me. I don't have back problems, but I have issues with my backside, and exercise definitely keeps it in check.

For years exercise was torture and I thought of healthy food as boring and no fun. Then, about four years ago, something changed. I made my workout into "me time" and I actually started looking forward to it each day. Instead of looking at food as entertainment I thought of it as fuel. Sure, I still like to indulge from time to time, but I know the consequences. And most surprisingly, I've found, when I put healthy food in my body, the bad stuff has less of a hold over me. Or, instead of eating the entire piece of chocolate cake, I am happy with just a bite or two.

But all of that is on a good day. I still have days, weeks, months, when I forget how much better I feel when eat right, and I give in to the temptation. I rarely miss my daily workout, but it's so easy to negate all that time and energy with one bad decision. When I was pregnant I let myself eat whatever, whenever, and that continued while I was nursing. That's all done now, and I'm paying the price. But I'm getting back on track and coming to the same conclusion I had before: I feel better on every level when I take care of my body.

As much as I would love to have Tina's metabolism, the fact is that I don't. But I do have the knowledge and power to make healthy choices. I suppose that will have to do.

The Joneses

The other day, as I was walking on the treadmill at the YMCA, my neighbor and good friend hopped on the one next to me. She asked what we had decided about our house, moving or renovating. My answer wasn't very exciting. We've decided to get a new kitchen floor.

She and I got to talking about living in our neighborhood, any neighborhood, really, and getting sucked into "having it all" because the people down the street do. Or they appear to, at least. There is always someone who has more. More money, more house, nicer cars, designer clothes. And for a minute (or a month) I felt compelled to compete with them. I forgot how blessed I am and I started thinking about what I didn't have and what I could do to change that.

When I was fifteen we moved to Saratoga Springs, NY. My parents built a beautiful house in a very nice neighborhood. At one point, years later, my dad and I were driving down North Broadway, a section of Saratoga that is lined with huge, gorgeous mansions. As we passed one that looked like an actual castle (pictured), I turned to my father and said, "Who needs a house that big?" My dad replied, "I bet people drive by our house all the time and say the same thing." Wade and I certainly don't live in a mansion, quite far from it, actually, but we have a comfortable home. We have more than we need, and more than many others have.

Sometimes, too often, really, instead of looking around and being thankful, I take inventory of what I'm lacking. But more purses, fancier furniture and the latest technology is not going to lead to happiness. Maybe happiness in that moment, but not long-lasting happiness. I can think of many different times that I thought some thing would make me happy. A Barbie doll, Guess jeans, a car, a house. It's funny, I remember wanting so many things, but when I tried to write a list of them, I couldn't remember very many at all. But what I do remember vividly is committing my life to Christ, getting married, and having my babies. I remember trips with my family, boat rides at Rabbit Lake, Wade proposing at St. Olaf on his birthday. I want my life to be about memories. Not about things. Someday, when Wade and I move from our family home to a cute little house in Minneapolis, I want few boxes and lots of memories. I want my kids to look back over their childhoods and remember when we colored pictures together, built with Legos, took vacations or went to the park. When I'm gone, I want them to be wading through memories, not stuff.

It's so hard, finding the line between enough and too much. I've started asking myself, Do I really need that? That helps, much of the time. But it's impossible, I think, to only buy things we need. It's impossible, also, to always determine the difference between what we need and what we want. We need food. But do we need fruit snacks? We need shelter, but do we need a 3,000 square foot house? I need to wash clothes, but do I need main floor laundry? I don't know the answer. But I do know that I trust God will provide for me, and that should be the enough I'm looking for.

I think, earlier, I was caught up in creating my dream house. But then I looked around at the home I already have. It's more than enough. That's when I realized the change I was looking for needed to be in me.

Ode to My Mother

My mom is beautiful.
She is smart.
She is kind.
My mom has a quiet voice, except when she is yelling.
My mom thinks her way is the best way (and what's frustrating is that she's usually right).
She's a volunteer.
She is a neat freak.
She never sits down.
She once said the word "turd" and I still laugh out loud every time I think about it.
My mom is very hard on herself.
My mom does not approve of my tattoo.
My mom is classy.
She is sophisticated.
She is a Christian.
My mom is a wife.
She is a grandma.
She is a sister.
She is a daughter-in-law.
My mom should be an interior designer.
Or a fashion consultant.
Or a nutritionist.
My mom won't admit that she had secret stashes of candy when we were kids.
My mom likes to read.
She likes to knit.
She likes to shop at Savers and Goodwill.
Or Marshalls.
My mom has good taste.
My mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies.
She makes the best pancakes.
She always has dried apricots.
She loves flaxseed.
My mom has very strong opinions.
My mom's face tells all her secrets.
My mom's hands hurt her.
My mom was "green" before the term "green" existed.
My mom is never happy with what she orders.
Or her haircut.
Or her clothes.
She is usually happy with her children.
She is always happy with her grandchildren.
My mom is funny, or serious, depending on what you need her to be at the time.
My mom is strong.
She is honest.
She is thoughtful.

My mom is my mom and I love her very much.
Happy Mother's Day!

All Apologies

I'm a bad apologizer. Well, I used to be, at least. The turning point for me was a few years ago, during an argument with Wade. I have no recollection of what we were arguing about, but I remember that it ended with my saying "I'm sorry that you made me so mad." At that point Wade just burst out laughing at how ridiculous and non-apologetic my apology was.

I've been thinking about apologies quite a bit lately. I suppose because I feel that I'm owed a few and I'm not getting them in the form or sincerity I had hoped. But that's not what this post is about. It's about how apologies go wrong.

Let's start with the "kid apology." These are easy to spot, just stop by my house at any given time on any given day. Max hits Sophie or Sophie takes a toy away from Max. One or both of them step on Lily. After the appropriate discipline actions are taken, the perpetrator says the obligatory "I'm sorry." It's usually said as quickly as possible and lacking any eye contact. Some parents add the mechanical hug to make it more heartfelt, but I've just forgone that all together as it usually leads to another wrestling match and more forced apologizing. Now, I agree with the concept of having my kids apologize and every once in awhile I hear those words spoken from their sweet little hearts. But for the most part these words carry little meaning. And I've wondered at times if, by forcing my kids to say they are sorry, I'm teaching them it's the words that matter, and not the feeling behind them.

If you're anything like me, it's really hard to admit when you're wrong (mainly because I never am). But that's what a real apology is, or at least what it should be. It's about taking responsibility for words or actions that in turn hurt someone else. Admitting that what you did was wrong. Even when it's unintentional. Even when you didn't know better. Even when you thought what you were doing was right.

Unfortunately, many apologies have all the right words, but manage to somehow shift the blame off the offender. "I'm sorry that your feelings are hurt." Sounds alright, but where's the ownership? If your feelings are hurt, doesn't it make you feel better if I acknowledge that I'm the one who hurt you instead of deflecting the blame off into the universe.

My other favorite is the "I'm sorry, but..." It never ends in the true spirit of an apology. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you scared me." "I'm sorry I hit you with my car, but when you crossed the street I didn't see you." "I'm sorry your hair turned green, but you said you wanted to try something new." That but completely negates the heart-felted-ness. There's no admittance of wrong doing. As a matter of fact, more often than not, the blame is put back on you, the one who was wronged.

What I've found over the last few years, however, is that when I really apologize not only does the person I hurt feel better, but I feel better too. There's something cathartic about asking forgiveness and then letting the guilt go. But it's not the words that make the difference, it's the emotion, the feeling, behind them. It's in the eyes of the one apologizing. It's in the acknowledgment and release of the pain. It's a place for the relationship to start healing.

The words are just the beginning. What proves a true apology is what follows. I believe that an apology is like a promise. It says that I will not hurt you, wrong you, in that way again. It doesn't matter if it's saying hurtful things, cheating, lying, hitting, whatever it may be, it won't happen again. And if it does, that promise is broken and the next apology means a little less.