Yes, yes I know…it’s been nearly a month since I’ve written. I hate that I’m not being more consistant about writing, but you know,…I haven’t felt like I’ve had much to say. I started this blog with the intention of being open and honest about my life. Not painting it to be something it’s not, whether good or bad. And that, ladies and gents, is why I’ve stopped writing. I have been going through a really rough (I mean REALLY rough) patch lately. I’ve never felt more alone and yet more claustrophobic in my entire life. Here’s why: I hate the fact that we’re “done” having babies. Now, for those of you who think motherhood is an old 1950’s fad that embodies a weak femininity and poor sense of self….(pardon my french, but…) screw you. I was not forced into having babies and I loved it. Yes, there were moments of pain, moments of nausea, and moments where I felt like a pregnancy would never end, but you know what? I freakin’ loved it. And now that it’s over,…I feel lost. Now most people would say, “Simple solution: have another baby.” Well, yes, that may temporarily allay the symptoms, but I cannot and do not want to keep having babies until menopause. Besides, I know my pregnancies were difficult and I wouldn’t want to risk a life just because I want another baby. Tim and I both agreed Matthew would be our last. And to be honest, when I really focus on all the things that made me uncomfortable about pregnancy, (the constant sickness, vertigo, hip problems, back problems, pre-term labor…) then I can nearly convince myself that “yes”… I can be done now and be happy about it. Then I see a new baby in church snuggled up with his mama, or a birth on TV or in a movie, or just a Disney movie and there I go again…toast. *sigh* It’s getting really old. I hate feeling like I can’t go anywhere or hear anything about anybody else’s new baby or pregnancy without bursting into tears. I really never thought it would be this bad. I mean, I fully expected to be emotional about Matthew being my last baby, but I mean, c’mon… this is ridiculous. I’m scared it’ll be like this forever. I think that’s what scares me the most. I can give myself allowance for feeling this way now since Matthew is still pretty little, but in 5 years? 10? 20? No, then I can’t give myself allowance for that. Simultaneously, I am crying out for someone to hug me and tell me, “I’ve been where you are, and believe me… it gets better.” and on the other hand, I feel like if I suppress these feelings and ignore them, they’ll go away. I don’t know. I feel alone. I feel tired. I’m tired of feeling alone. Oh I have friends and such, and as much as I love helping them and comforting them through their problems and hard times, I hate crying in front of people and this stuff makes me cry, so I don’t talk about it. Really at all. Maybe I shouldn’t be this way. I guess I’m scared they’ll think, “Woah! Okay crazy, let’s tone it down, shall we?” Every morning I wake up and tell myself, “I’m gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.” And I believe it most of the day. Then something happens and I lose it. Having Emma helps. She’s the little miniature poodle I got back in September. Oh my goodness she is great therapy for me. I can hold her and cry and cry and just pet her like a creeper and she just snuggles with me and understands that I need her. She doesn’t wiggle away, or get annoyed. She just cuddles. She really is an angel with fur on. I am so blessed to have her. I thank Tim for letting me have her nearly every day. Consequently to all this depression, I’ve gained back to 10 lbs I had worked so hard to lose. Darn it. Which makes me more depressed. I am embarrassed to recount all the times I’ve reached for food when I’ve been going through all of this. I hate that I’ve turned myself into one of those people who drowns their sorrows in food. I’ve tried drowning it in exercise, but Nutella just tastes so much better than sweat. Exercise helps me though with my depression and I’ve noticed that, so I’m trying to stay consistent. My dear sweet husband has been a saint through this whole thing. Poor man, he has no idea what I’m going through and I wouldn’t expect him to. Having babies is very different to men than it is to women. Meanwhile, I’m trying to keep compiling my mental lists of why my kids getting older is a good thing. It helps when I remember how much I love sleep. And how many sleepless nights full of tired tears I had between my pregnancies and the new babies. Things change like it or not and time passes despite our efforts to make it stand still. That is something I need to learn to embrace. I’ve accepted it, my heels aren’t “dug in” anymore, but I’m not enjoying the ride. I don’t want to be one of those parents that’s so focused on the past, or the future, that I miss the present. So I wake up every day, paste a smile on my face, and tell people “I’m fine.” I am fine. Not great, just fine. But that seems to appease most people and they don’t ask. I don’t want them to, but sometimes I wish they knew. I’m tired of crying about this though and I know if they asked and I told them, I’d cry. I had heard someone a little while ago say they didn’t see what was so miraculous about having babies. I wanted to slap them. Obviously this person had never had one, and knows very little about them. Having babies was awesome. It was something Tim couldn’t do, just me. I felt like I had a superpower. And now that we’re done with that chapter in our lives, I still have my finger in the page marking the spot, hoping I can turn back and do it again. I don’t really want to, but I do. I’ve never been so confused about how I feel in my whole entire life. Bear with me, I am hoping that blogging all this out will help me. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But I’ve been burying myself alive with work to mask the emotions, which somehow still seem to find their way out, so I pile on more…and more… and more. I know I need to give these emotions to God, but I’m scared to do that. Which makes absolutely no sense. I feel like giving these thoughts, fears and anxieties will mean that I have to take my finger out of the place it’s holding in that chapter of my life. I’m scared to do that. Why? I don’t know. I feel like if I give this to God then that’s it, there’s definitely no more babies in my future. (Because for some reason I’m still faintly hoping for “just one more” even though I know it’s not what’s best) I am going to have to start handing Him the reigns though, because this is getting out of control and my arms and heart (and tear ducts) are exhausted. I want to be myself again. I need to take up my shield of faith and stand. One day at a time. Deep breath. Letting it out slowly….
Till Next Time,