Aimee...*has depression*

*I wrote this post back in the Summer or 2016. It has taken me a very long time to feel comfortable putting it out there. Well honestly, I'm still not comfortable with it but the biggest reason I got the help I needed was because of a few friends who have been very open and honest with their own mental health. If this can inspire just one person to seek the help they need then it will be worth it.*

Note: the italicized parts are what my depression sounds like to me.

I have depression.

It's under control now though so you can stop feeling sorry or embarrassed for me (huge winky face).

I'm pretty sure I've had it off and on most of my life. I went to a few sessions of counseling in college. The counselor I saw decided it was because of stress so I went to a few workshops on stress management. After a few months it went away.

Then I had my 2nd baby and life seriously went down hill. Two moves (one from Logan to Sandy, then from Sandy to Pullman), stressful school, stressful calling, stress about feeling so strongly I needed to have another baby, and anxiety caused by my birth control created an anxious wreck. But I was in denial about what was happening. I had been conditioned that it was only OK to experience positive emotions and that I needed to hide anything negative I felt. And if I was having negative emotions, it was because I was selfish or ungrateful or wasn't reading my scriptures enough. I certainly couldn't talk to my husband about it because then he would be worried about me and he had enough on his plate to worry about. After all, one of the great things about me is he could go to school and not worry about me or the kids. I felt like if I did ever ask him to come home early then I should be ashamed for taking him from his duties to help me with mine. That meant I was less than he was and he was the better person for being able to handle his "job" AND come help with mine.

I had created this alternate universe in my head where it was my job to keep everyone happy and it was supposed to be an easy job. If I couldn't keep everyone happy then I had failed. And who fails a simple job like that? A failure. I'm a failure. And everyone would hate me because I needed help with something. But if I could serve endlessly then that meant I succeeded, even if that meant Dave got to sleep all night AND sleep in while I was running on 3 hours for the last 3 days and still felt like if I didn't pack his lunch then I was the worst wife and I failed.

I was very much afraid of failure and letting everyone down. Asking for help was admitting defeat and letting everyone see I failed. (That's what my depression sounds like)

I once went to the mall (a term used loosely for Moscow, ID haha) and bought a lot of clothes...like a lot a lot. I returned most of it but that should have been a red flag immediately for Dave and me that something was wrong because that's pretty out of character for me. We both noted it was odd I had done it, slapped on a temporary band-aid for what we thought caused it and moved on.

But I still struggled. I struggled every day with knowing what I should be doing and finding the courage to do it. Every day was a constant battle with myself and that's exhausting. Really, really exhausting.

Then I got pregnant (with Calvin) and it all went away. No more anxiety, no more depression, just a wonderful crazy hot summer being huge and pregnant. I thought it was over. I thought that I had only been depressed because I was fighting the inspiration to have another baby (Andrew was 3 months old when I first felt like it was time for another one BTW so I feel pretty validated in telling God "give me a few years, please.")

As my due date got closer I had a weird appointment with my doctor. Our conversation went something like this:
Dr: Are you ready to have this baby?
Me: I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore but I don't know if I'm ready to have 3 kids.
Dr: You probably aren't... (leads into a discussion about postpartum depression. Apparently I'm high risk because I'm young and have lots of little kids and all that.)

Another discussion with my doc about which drugs I prefer for the c-section led him to telling me my preference for one drug over another is a red flag again because it helps with the emotional pain as well as physical pain. Really my preference was because the other one makes me vomit and who wants to be vomiting after a c-section. I know he was trying to help me, it just came off a little...off. But no doctor in UT had ever brought up PPD so I was glad to see it was being monitored.

Because of the things my doctor said, half of me was waiting for the depression to come swooping down and swallow me up since apparently I was a huge red flag and the other half was ready to fight it because I wanted to prove that doctor wrong.

Then I had my perfect little boy. It was wonderful. I started a blog post but never finished or published it. It went  like this: "Remember when I wrote a post about the truth about having a 2nd child... then like 8 people told me they were never going to have a second kid because of it? Well, here's the follow up to that. The truth about having a third baby (in my experience) is that it's the best thing you can do!"

I felt good. I felt SO good. I honestly felt like super-woman. I'd get all three kids (dressed and fed!) in the car by 8 to get Eliza to preschool. I once took all 3 of them to the pool at 7 AM on a Friday BY MYSELF. I had my apartment the cleanest it had ever been. I meal planned and went grocery shopping and cooked meals for my family and often for other families too. Dave was gone most of the time but I didn't even need him.

Then my life slowly got darker and darker. Like when it's really bright and you're driving so you put on sunglasses. Then the sun slowly sets and all of a sudden you can't see and you've forgotten you're still wearing your sunglasses. But by the time I took them off it was pitch black outside.

I felt it start at the base of my neck and slowly creep up my neck and engulf my brain in blackness and emptiness a little more each day. JK Rowling wrote the dementors based on depression and she nailed it. That's exactly what it felt like- having my soul slowly sucked out of me until I was just a body going through the motions, no feeling on the inside.

I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want to do anything. I had no appetite or desire to eat. I was only eating because I needed to make milk for Calvin. That was literally the only reason I put food in my body. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't put anything away. I couldn't get my kids ready to take Eliza to preschool. I didn't want to do my calling anymore and yet I wanted to keep it because helping others distracted me from my own darkness. (I was relief society president which was hard because I knew about a lot of rough stuff going on in people's life and my life was pretty easy in comparison and yet I was so depressed. So I'd beat myself up for not being grateful enough or humble enough and it really made it worse). 

I honestly sat and cried thinking about having to walk out the front door with all three children. I was so lucky that I had many wonderful friends who were inspired to bring me meals and watch my kids. I put on a good face. I'm not sure how many people actually knew what was going on. I even fooled my husband which I was part proud of and part terrified of. When I finally got the courage to tell him he was surprised at how bad it actually was. I was surprised he had no idea how much I was suffering even though I went to great lengths to hide it, especially from him. I finally told him because it was either that or call a hotline. I was never suicidal but the voices in my head were so bad I just needed someone to know what they were saying. I wasn't actually hearing voices, I'm referring to the negative stories I was telling myself, "I can't do this! I hate my life!" was and still is the one played most often. 

In March it hit me. This can't be normal. To go from the feeling the best I've ever felt in my life to the absolute worst? That's not my normal. I've always been moody, but this wasn't moodiness and it wasn't going away. So I called my amazing friend who is a counselor for LDS Family Services. She talked to me on the phone for a while and then suggested I get counseling. But it was an awkward time for it because I was going to be in UT for a month, then Pullman for a month, then move back to UT. I was still struggling with the suggestion that I needed to go. I didn't want to admit that there was anything wrong with me. I didn't want to need "fixing." So I just dealt with it. My amazing friends in Pullman are what helped me deal with it.

I talked to another friend who also recommended counseling. I told her I wasn't sure if I needed it because I was still functioning. My kids and I were dressed and fed and out doing things so it couldn't be *that* bad, right? I wish I still had the text from her but she said something along the lines of: "There's a difference between functioning and living. Counseling helps you live your life to the fullest despite the depression."

But I still couldn't bring myself to do it. Mostly because of the stigma behind mental illness and counseling. Even though I had always been supportive of my friends who struggled and never thought less of them for getting help (in fact I admired them for doing it) I couldn't bring myself to do it and I couldn't bring myself to tell any of my friends who weren't counselors or already really open about their own personal struggles with depression/anxiety/bipolar. Which means 3 people knew, including David. I remember one instance where I was on the verge of a complete breakdown and I wanted so desperately to tell my friend everything I was feeling but I was afraid of what she would think of me. I really liked her and didn't want her to think less of me as a person or as a mom for these thoughts and feelings I was having. I made light of one of my unwanted thoughts hoping she'd probe and she didn't so I left it alone and continued to suffer in my dark self.

I remember hearing stories about moms who "one day went crazy and left her family." I assure you she didn't randomly go crazy one day and up and leave. I can promise you that she fought herself for a long time and didn't get the help she needed. If she's like me, she thought that getting help was a sign a weakness and that the depression had won, she was defeated. So she kept it to herself and did everything she was supposed to to be happy. I bet she crafted and exercised and coached her kids teams. I bet she cooked her husbands favorite meal with a smile on her face while the depression told her she couldn't do anything right and she was stupid and a terrible mother and wife and no one appreciated her and they were all manipulating her and she should just leave. They'd be better off without her. She'd be better off without them because then there was no one to fail. And then one day she was too tired to fight in anymore. She was too exhausted to even try anymore. So she left. And no one knew why because know one knew about her constant battle because it's not ok to talk about it. It's not ok to tell someone "I'm in a dark place right now."

{{{SIDE NOTE

Why? Why?! Why is it so bad to admit we're struggling?

I once overheard the following conversation:
Person 1: It's sad she left her family like that. I really think she struggles with depression
Person 2: That's so weird because she runs a lot.

As if running was a cure. Can it help? Sometimes, when used correctly. But you know what happened when I went on a run all by myself? I had less distraction from the depression and I ended up crouched down in the dirt, sobbing hysterically, mentally and emotionally beating myself up. Um, no thank you! I didn't run again for a very long time. 

(More on that later but basically, if someone tells you they are feeling depressed DO NOT TELL THEM TO GO ON A RUN. Or to get a hobby. Or to start serving others and stop thinking so much about themselves. It only makes us hole up more and is not helpful.  }}}

It was when I could fully understand how a woman could up and leave her family without notice that I realized how far sunk I was and how desperately I needed to get out. And yet I still attributed it to things like the stress of school and moving, and having three kids and assumed it would go away when life "settled down" a bit.

Then we moved to UT and I lived in and took care of an 11,000 sq ft house (no typo there) on a 2 acre lot with a pool, a dog, and 21 chickens for my parents living out of the country in a ward with very few people my age while Dave worked up to 12 hours a day. I can't even begin to tell you how overwhelmed I was.

(This pic sums up my whole experience best. It felt like depression was continuously adding more and more cement blocks and I was just holding on as frantically as possible.

(The picture says: and the worst part is, no one knows how close I am to drowning)

My sister and her family came from out of state to visit for a few weeks. My other sister lives close by so we were all together a lot during that time. I watched both my sisters handle their bigger families with much more patience, care, and energy than I had. I remember watching them and realizing (again) (I was in some serious denial still) that something was wrong with me. They were doing such a better job than I was. They even took care of my kids in addition to their own. And they could do things like make a meal, move plates from the table to the sink, AND wipe off  kids faces and hands after meals. Whaaat?? How did they do that? {That's simple mom stuff though- make food, eat it, clean it up. I was feeding my kids but that was it. We were eating yogurt and string cheese and quesadillas. I was doing the bare minimum and that was even over-exerting myself. I wasn't cleaning up or really even cooking.} I was too tired to get out of bed some days.

I'm not saying that to be self-depreciating. It's just that was the moment I realized and accepted that I truly had depression and it was actually affecting me and more importantly, my family. Because I was so overwhelmed and depressed I was impatient and mean to my kids. They picked up on it too. Eliza copied my same nasty tone on her brothers and on me. I wasn't the only one suffering from my depression anymore. So I decided (many times, actually) to go to counseling. It still took a few times of making that decision to actually call though. I was so nervous to set up an appointment but with a lot of encouraging from a friend and David I did it.

Counseling was such a blessing. I left the first 3 sessions in tears. It was such an emotional workout but I felt so much better. I made huge breakthroughs quickly and I feel very comfortable and confident as like myself again. If anyone is interested I can write more about that too.

I also read the book The Happiness Trap. Basically, it's about how we have all been conditioned that we can only experience positive emotions and how we can learn to live with the negative emotions. It's quite freeing, actually, to allow yourself to feel what you're actually experiencing. I recommend this book to everyone, not just those who are struggling with mental illness.

Again, I'm not writing this for sympathy. I actually wrote it a while ago and have held off posting it because it's personal and scary to put yourself out there. I didn't even tell my husband about it until it got really bad.  I only hope that it will encourage someone else to get the help they need and to take away the negative stigma for depression.

All About Calvin

1-17-16
It's not a secret that Calvin was not part of our original plan. (He was however a planned pregnancy. I'm not sure why I always feel the need to state that haha. Maybe something to do with not wanting to appear irresponsible or something.)

When Andrew was about 3 months old, I had the distinct impression: “Aimee, you need to have another baby.” So I replied, “I know. And I will. In 3 years.” and the spirit told me again, “No, you need to have another baby now.”

So I told Dave. Andrew was a really hard baby. He didn’t sleep well and screamed at night. He had really bad reflux and our health provider wasn’t helpful with his reflux problems. We’d just moved to a new state with no family around and we hardly saw Dave because of school. I’d just been called to be Relief Society president after going to church literally two times. There was a lot...too much… going on in my life. I could barely even handle my current baby, let alone think about having another.

So Dave and I decided that “now” was relative and probably meant after he graduated, like we’d always planned. Plus I’d even gotten an IUD because I was so certain we wouldn’t be adding #3 until later. We decided to get pregnant with Andrew earlier than we originally planned because I really didn’t want to have a baby in Pullman.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to have another baby. Now. As in NOT in 3 years. So after a few months of fighting the spirit, justifying my reasons for waiting, and even challenging God (remember He is over all so that's not a smart thing to do) Dave and I finally found peace in knowing it was time to add Payne baby #3 to the craziness.

One day I started getting forgetful and clumsy and then really sick while making Dave’s lunch in the morning. We knew I was pregnant but still needed a test. 

Do you know that it’s impossible to find a $1 pregnancy test in a college town 2 weeks after Valentine’s Day? I’m not even kidding I went to 4 stores and they were all sold out. I ended up driving all the way to Idaho* to find one under $20.

I had a healthy pregnancy. Baby measured a few days big at 20 week ultrasound. I was totally right about him being a boy. I’m 3/3 now :). I was huge. In July we went to Seattle for a rotation and so many people asked about when I was due and were surprised to hear that I had almost 3 more months to go! By the end I was so uncomfortable. Sleeping was the WORST. In the mornings I had to crawl to the bathroom. It was pathetic. I was huge and miserable. I finally understand what other women go through. I will forever be much more sympathetic!

Well we scheduled the C-section for Monday Oct 19. I had to go in at 5AM to get prepped for the surgery. I barely slept. I got maybe 3 hours of sleep and wasn’t allowed to eat 8 hours before surgery so I was hungry, tired, and nervous.

They got me set up with an IV and asked if I would let a nursing student do it. I said yes and requested it go in my right arm. She didn’t hit a vein and I ended up with a nasty bruise for a while. The actual nurse then insisted that she had to put it in herself on my left side and said that she prefers placing it in people’s hands. So it was in my left hand, the absolutely last place I would want it (I’m left handed). They gave me fluids and antibiotics and I started getting shaky. I’m not sure if it’s because fluids are cold or because I was having anxiety. Maybe both. But then I started to get nauseous. With my last two c-sections I blamed the nausea on the meds but I'm fairly certain that throwing up is not a side effect of saline. 

Pullman doesn’t have an actual anesthesiologist, they have nurse anesthetists. I had already told my doctor I wasn’t comfortable with that but he assured me they were well trained and I would be fine. My nurse anesthetist brought a student along and asked my permission to have him check out my throat and take a history. Of course I let him because I’d want someone to give my husband, also a medical student, a chance to practice, especially with something as minor as that.

Well then the nausea was really kicking in because I was watching the clock and it was getting closer and closer to go time. My doctor came in and was talking to the anesthesia people and mid conversation with them he suddenly asked if I was feeling nauseous. I wanted to say I was fine but I really was about to throw up so I told him the truth and he had the student give me something nasty to drink. It helped a little. I’m really impressed that Dr. Adkins saw me do some non-verbal cue that I was feeling nauseous out of the corner of his eye and took care of it. He’s a fabulous doctor.

They walked Dave and me to the operating room and I was seriously panicking. Dave and a nurse were completely supporting me because I could barely walk and was shaking so badly (I’m gonna stick with it was because of the cold fluids haha). I kept apologizing for being such a wuss but everyone kept telling me I was doing great. Everyone said that with Andrew’s c-section too. It kinda annoys me because I’m not doing anything. I’m being essentially carried everywhere because I’m too worked up to walk or I'm laying on a table sobbing while a doctor cuts me open, retrieves my baby, then sews me up… but I’m the one doing a good job? Nope, I’m the pathetic mess who is terrified of labor but really wants lots of babies. The doctor again assured me that how I was feeling and acting was completely normal. In fact, he’s had a patient have a panic attack on the table so don’t worry, you’re doing great. (How embarrasing, right?! At least I'm not THAT bad...) (read on friends, read on.)

They made Dave wait outside the operating room while I got my spinal block. I have no idea why he couldn’t be with me, no one would tell me. He was with me when I had my spinal with the other 2 so I didn't expect this. I was sitting there on the table waiting for several minutes awkwardly making conversation with the nurse trying so hard not to cry. They finally gave me my shot but I hated that I was clinging to a random nurse (she was fantastic though BTW) instead of my husband. The shot hurt really bad. But it was the student doing it. I didn’t realize that allowing him to check my throat meant he was running my anesthesia! I wasn’t happy about that at all.

They put on my blood pressure cuff (maybe this happened before the block?) but I was shaking so hard it couldn’t get a good reading so it just kept getting tighter and tighter and not releasing. If there wasn’t an IV in my other hand I would have ripped off the cuff. I insisted that it was going to end with my arm being amputated but they made me take deep breaths (didn’t do anything) and eventually it released.

Finally Dave was brought into the room and I was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably and nothing had even happened. I was so embarrassed.

They finally started going and I was a wreck, I got really nauseous again, certain I was going to throw up so I’m crying more because I don’t want to and I’m begging for them to give me something to make it go away. They told me they did. I told them it’s not working it’s not working it’s not working oh there it is… relief. Then that stupid blood pressure cuff is trying to squeeze my arm off again. Deep breaths they say, deep breaths. Well I was numb higher than I remember being with my last c-section. My arms felt really heavy, I couldn’t lift them which was good because I seriously wanted to rip out my IV and the blood pressure cuff. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see (the curtain and everyone around me blocked my view, my vision was fine). I kept complaining about everything, I’m itchy, I’m cold, I’m going to throw up, etc. And with every comment my doctor calmly told the anesthetist student to change something with my meds and then it went away. He’s amazing, people, amazing!

Then I lost it. Like completely. Full on anxiety/panic attack. I envisioned myself ripping everything off my arms, and running out of the room. That image kept going through my head over and over. I was sobbing and shaking and telling them how much I didn’t want to do this, I needed to get out, RIGHT NOW. Dr. Adkins calmly told me that it was ok to feel this way. My brain knew that something traumatic was happening and was responding in the appropriate manner- fight or flight. Apparently my body was choosing flight. My panic continued to escalate and I remember everyone asking if he would give me benedryl. For some reason he hadn’t and didn’t want to but eventually I was able to calm myself down and relax to a point of blocking everything out except voices. Then when one of the nurses peered over at me and reported I was asleep, (I basically was, but I was aware of people around me and could hear them) I realized that he’d probably given me some help in calming down :).

Then I heard it, the doctor invited Dave to watch him pull out the baby and announce, “Wow! This is a big baby!” Surely he was joking. Or hasn’t seen a baby in a really long time. But then I heard the nurse shout out “8 lbs 10 ounces.” If I could have talked I would have asked if their scale was broken. My other babies were 6 lbs 9 oz and 6 lbs 7 oz. He was making some weird coughing sound and they had to check him out because it could mean something was wrong with his lungs but he was fine, there was just a lot of fluid in his lungs. The doctor told me I had a LOT of fluid. I felt totally justified in all my complaining the last few weeks.

The doctor stitched me up and of course Dave asked about what suture pattern he was using. Then later Dr. Adkins taught him how to do it with their shoelaces :) Seriously best doctor ever.

Calvin was a large and swollen (from all the amniotic fluid) newborn. He looked totally different from my other two and I kept asking to make sure he hadn’t been switched or anything (lingering anxiety I guess). But we eventually bonded. I’m not sure if it’s all the drugs or what but it takes me a day to really feel connected to my babies. It’s just so surreal at first.

My pain was managed excellently. I talked to my doctor beforehand about my previous births (a c-section is still a birth even though a lot of people treat it like it’s not) and we (HE) adjusted my meds accordingly. For example, I scratched my face raw after having Andrew so he cut my morphine in half. I had a nausea patch for 3 days so he changed something else to make me less nauseated from the drugs. He also gave me a side tap which numbed my abs for 24 hours, which helped me get onto oral meds faster since the IV meds make me sick and they won’t switch you if you’re puking. After the surgery he mentioned how sensitive I was to the IV meds. I guess at one point my heart rate dropped to the 30s.

But my recovery was AMAZING! I got my catheter out that night (I thought he was joking when he made that goal for me) and was up walking really soon. My energy and walking ability leaving the hospital was where I was at 2 weeks post Andrew and 2 weeks post Calvin I was doing things that I was doing 2 months post Andrew. My doctor explained that he uses a different technique that causes less blood loss and less trauma to the mother. I think every doctor should use this technique :)

I still prefer Alta View hospital over Pullman Regional but it was still a good experience (you know, other than the major panic attack during the actual surgery). Some nurses were fantastic, some weren’t (whereas all my nurses at Alta View were fantastic). I really REALLY wish there was an actual anesthesiologist there. But overall I was happy with my experience. Dr. Adkins and Dr. Guida did a wonderful job with the surgery and my and Calvin’s care. In a perfect world I would have Adkins come to Alta View for my next baby :)

*Idaho is like 5 miles away.

Is it too much to ask

(Jan 15 2016)

I love motherhood and I love my kids. There is nothing more fulfilling for me to do right now. But every day I find myself asking myself, is it too much to ask...

• To sleep past 5:30 AM?
• To do my makeup without having to do my daughters too 
• To eat a meal without a child touching me
• To sit and eat for longer than 5 minutes without being asked to do something
• To not help Eliza do absolutely everything 
• To have the kids do the dishes...and vacuum... (OK at 1 and 3 it probably is)
• Have more than one room clean at a time
• Have time to finish a project. Just one.
• To get a nap
• Have my husband give me an hour massage every night? (probably it is)
• To not hear "MOOOOOMMM!!! MOOOOMMM!!!! MOOOMM! litererally every 5 seconds?

What is home?

In August 2014 my parents drove me, squished in the back seat between Eliza (barely 2) and Andrew (2 months) of our Hyundai Sonata, to Pullman for the final two years of Dave’s vet school. It had been a stressful summer (see my previous post “The Truth About Having Two Kids”) and I was ready to move on to this next phase but still sad to leave the only place I’d called home.

I walked into our apartment, seeing it for the very first time and I was crushed. It was not what I expected. I walked through each room clenching my jaw tightly trying to hold back the tears. I repeated over and over to myself “I hate this place. I hate this place. This isn’t my home. This will never be home.” I knew that eventually I’d break down and start to like it here (because I’m a big softy) so in my anger I promised myself that I would be sure to hate this place every day. No making friends. No pictures on the wall. I could not let this become home because I hated it.

Well Dave convinced me to put the pictures on the wall. I protested to him, out loud, that despite the family collage above the couch, this would never be my home.

I still didn’t leave the apartment. I let grandparents and Dave take Eliza out to the playground for as long as possible. I couldn’t leave the apartment.

Well eventually Dave had to start school and I couldn’t keep letting Eliza watch 5 episodes of Curious George a day so we starting going outside and we both started making friends.

Oh and I was called as Relief Society president after only attending church twice. So then I really couldn’t keep my promise of not making friends.

My heart was slowly changed. I love it here. This is my home and I cry harder at the thought of leaving than I ever did at the thought of staying.

I have the best friends here. These last two years have been the absolute hardest and most trying years so far, but they have also been the best. I required a lot of help in that time because my husband was gone 90% of the time and my kids are ridiculously and exhaustingly emotionally needy. I’ve had many meals, treats, and cards brought by on bad days and someone noticed. I’ve had friends come over at bedtime and help me rock my babies to sleep. I’ve had friends talk me through dark moments of my life when I was so depressed I cried just thinking about having to put all three kids in the car. I’ve had friends help me grow and change and teach me how to be a better mother, wife, housekeeper, cook, seamstress, and person in general. I’ve had friends here who I can trust with my children. I’ve had real friends, best friends.

So Pullman, WA as I drive away 2 years later (with three children this time!) much more comfortably in our red Minivan, the Hot Tamale, I must thank you. Thank you for being a random small town in the middle of a giant wheat field filled with the best times and people I could possibly have hoped for.

Whose Life Is It Anyway?

The other day I ran into a friend while I was taking the kids to the park and she was going to go pick up her husband from school to take him somewhere else he needed to go. She joked that her life revolved around his schedule. Which then got me thinking how much my life seriously revolves around my own husband and kids. Since kids and vet school, my life has not been my own. I don’t get to determine basically anything for myself. I guess I pick what we eat...but even then I can’t take more than 2 bites without having to get up and help someone. That’s been weighing on my mind a lot lately and I’ve been feeling rather taken for granted and unappreciated. It’s been frustrating as I notice more and more and more how much everyone else controls my life and how little I get return. My friend Candice summed it up nicely: “[Motherhood] requires so much more inner strength, personal sacrifice and unsung effort than anything.”

The other night, after a few long weeks of Dave coming home after 9, whiny, cranky kids with eye/nose/ear infections and teething, and doing everything for all three of them because they are either unable or unwilling to do anything themselves, all these feelings came to a head and I broke down.

As I was sitting there, mourning the loss of my own life, the spirit whispered to me, “Guess who else didn’t live a life for himself?” And I suddenly realized that all this sacrifice I’m doing is actually making me more Christlike. Remember when John the Baptist died and Christ went to mourn his loss and people still followed him? 

Matt 14:13 When Jesus heard of it, he departed thence by ship into a desert place apart: and when the people had heard thereof, they followed him on foot out of the cities.

Sound familiar, moms?? It might as well read: "When mom heard the fighting, she departed thence by sweat pants into a desert place: and when the children had heard thereof, they followed her on foot into the closet/pantry/bathroom." 

Matt 14:14 And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them

Wow. I don't know about you, but when I'm at my low points as I'm sure Christ was upon hearing about the death of his dear friend and cousin, my reaction is sometimes loud and always selfish. "Why can't I have any privacy?!" But what did Christ do? He was moved with compassion and healed their sick. 

This was the whole reason Christ came to earth. He came for us, not for himself. My children need me like I need Christ. They are as dependent on me as I should be on Christ. 

We are supposed to become like he is. So if any of you feel the way I've been feeling these last few weeks, don't feel lost anymore. Being a woman, a mom, or a wife, requires us to give every part of us to those around us. But it is not all for naught. We have our reward as we become Christlike through these trials.  

John 15:13- Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

Carl Heinrich Bloch - The complete works

Outfit of the Day

Today I'm excited to share with you my outfit of the day!! You guys I have been waiting so long to be able to share this with you. Unfortunately what I'm wearing is so exclusive (or old...whichever) you probably won't be able to find them anywhere but I will link you to what I can!).

#Jeggings: my mom gave them to me when I was awkwardly pregnant...too big for normal clothes too small for maternity. She probably got them on #clearance at #Walmart

#Top:  $5 Utah State University athletic department. Leftover t-shirt from when they hosted a high school track meet.

#Hair: left-over slept in pony. Love my #SecondDay hair!!

(Also featured because I know you'll ask!! Equate body lotion with #exclusive pump handle, soft soap hand soap $1, multiple use spray bottle (got it at Lee's grocery store...sorry to my readers outside of Northern Utah)

(If I was a real blogger and got paid $400+ per instagram post featuring a brand I'd probably spend a few minutes getting ready too.)

!!Stay tuned for my big nursery reveal!!

My anti-blog blog post

I used to click on every parenting related article my friends shared. I’m sure you’ve been there too. They captivate you with titles like “Why I don’t teach my child to share” and “5 reasons we don’t home school.” Then usually they provide a very valid, very convincing (at least for me. but I’m easy to convince), very one sided opinion. Then I would always read the comments and I always regretted it. People are flat out mean! They would call the author and anyone else who agreed stupid, or a wide range or other insults. Or those in support would be overwhelming in their defense of the author and there would be full on comment wars between people who probably don’t even know each other in real life.

I finally got sick of it and now I scroll past links in my Facebook feed. Every now and then I’ll read one here or there but I can’t stomach it anymore. I just can’t. I get it Moms, I do. We’d love to be more social if we could but we have kids, laundry, dishes, husbands, church, crafts, and a whole slew of things that take up our time. Our one year old couldn’t care less about listening to our opinion on baby wearing or co sleeping. So when we have a free minute to click on a link and feel a connection with another human being, even if it is virtual, we take it. Finally we can share our opinions with the world and feel like we are being heard.

But we’re also getting hurt. Before clicking on a few interesting looking links I had no idea that I was a weak self-absorbed person for even considering a repeat c-section. And the fact I had an epidural with my first delivery? I have zero mental toughness.

I had two experiences that made me realize how damaging mommy blogging (and commenting) can be. My best friend from high school was visiting me when our babies were over a year old, maybe 14 months give or take. She was sitting on the ground and her daughter started pulling at her shirt so I asked if she was still nursing. She looked embarrassed and stuttered over an answer so I quickly jumped in to tell her that I was still nursing my baby too. She looked so relieved. Because we were in person, I could see that my question made her feel uncomfortable so I was able to react and make the situation better instantly. That is impossible to do online. This experience actually made our friendship stronger because we had yet another thing in common. And then we had someone to turn to when we had questions later. This was even better than reading an article that discussed the benefits of nursing past a year. It was more than knowing a group of random women are still nursing, it was my best friend who is going through the same thing I am, feeling the same things I am and now I can talk to her whenever I need to! It was a much more positive experience than other “conversations” I’ve seen online about nursing past a year. Women have been called everything from selfish to helicopter based solely on the age they stopped nursing. Because that’s clearly a fair basis for harsh judgments.

Another day I was at the park with a different friend and we were talking about our babies (as always). She told me her son was on formula because she didn’t like breastfeeding. She did it for a few months but it wasn’t the magical special bonding experience breastfeeding proponents make it out to be. It wasn’t painful or hard, her son didn’t have reflux or allergies, she simply chose not to do it. I replied that I understood and for me, nursing was less hassle than formula and Eliza never liked formula anyway. Then we moved on. No vicious comments about what a terrible mom she was for not breastfeeding when she could. Or that she was putting her child at a disadvantage. Think of all the moms who want to breastfeed but can’t and she was throwing that amazing gift out the window.  I wasn’t criticized for being weird and nursing past 6 months.

These two experiences made me realize the power of actual human interaction. Maybe we should all put down our phones and our computers and have an actual conversation with an actual person sometimes. We just might come out feeling validated and enlightened even when someone has a different opinion.