Epilogue

Or, how Emily got her groove back

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." -- Psalms 30:5

As I begin this final chapter of the blog, I first want to thank all of you who have taken the time to read "Caleb’s Story," and to offer your encouragement. I went into journalism and public relations because I love hearing and sharing people's stories. Everyone has an interesting and important story to tell, if you listen long enough and ask the right questions. But while I've been privileged to share some very special stories over the years, Caleb's is the most dear to my heart. 

You could have picked me apart over some of the things I’ve shared in this blog, yet you’ve been nothing but supportive and kind. The postpartum posts were particularly difficult to write, and the minute I hit “publish” I wondered if I had made a mistake. So I was blown away by your overwhelmingly positive responses, and I’ve been so encouraged by the postpartum stories you've shared with me in return.  

Before I describe the road back from postpartum depression, I want to emphasize that this was my journey. In sharing my story I’m not suggesting that if you're suffering from PPD you should do what I did. I'm including specifics in case they're helpful to you, but mainly I just want you to know that you aren’t alone, that hope and healing exist for you, and that even though it might seem like things are never going to get better, this chapter in your life will not last forever.

You will see the sunlight again.  

1-800-Help!

And now to finish the story! As usual, this post turned out super long (believe it or not I ended up cutting a good portion of what I had originally written). But I have covered so much ground in this blog that there were a lot of loose ends to tie up and topics to address. I tried to do it as succinctly as I could, while still covering all my bases. So the first part will talk about the return from PPD and the second part will bring you up to speed on where we are today. 

I ended my Postpartum Depression post at the moment I picked up the phone to call my doctor and tell him what was going on. I talked to the nurse, who said he was out of the office but that she would leave him a message. Before I hung up she told me that if things got worse I needed to call her back right away. 

To my surprise, my doctor called me back later that night (see, this is another reason he’s the best OB/GYN in the world, although I also think doctors probably take this kind of thing more seriously nowadays because they don’t want to see their patients on the evening news). I immediately started sobbing on the phone as I told him my symptoms. I asked him what was wrong with me and why I wasn’t handling all of this as well as all other women do. Then he said, “I don’t know about that. I see a lot of women, Emily, and you’d be surprised how many feel the way you’re feeling.”  

He said that part of the problem was exhaustion and pointed out that sleep deprivation is used as a torture technique in some countries. He said even women who aren't depressed start feeling a little nuts after a few weeks with a newborn. He also said a lot of what I was experiencing was pretty natural considering all that I had been through. I told him I didn’t want to go on medication unless absolutely necessary, and he suggested I see a counselor before he prescribed anything to see if that would help. He ended the conversation assuring me it was going to be okay. I hung up, less than convinced. 

I had seen a counselor before when I was experiencing all the health problems I told you about in my Prologue post, and I had found talking with her to be very beneficial. I’m an internal processor, meaning I think through things a lot before I talk about them. This wouldn't be a problem except most of the time I never actually end up talking about anything. Instead I stuff and stuff and stuff all the thoughts and emotions down until they become too much to hold inside, and then I explode. So putting myself in a position where I am forced to talk to an objective third party about my problems really helps me process them in a healthier way.   

Unfortunately the counselor I had seen before had since moved out of state, but I called her former practice and asked if there was anyone there who could help me with these issues. The receptionist said they did have someone who treated postpartum depression and scheduled me an appointment for the following week.

Seeing a shrink

As I pulled out of the driveway the morning of the appointment, I realized it was the first time I had left the house for days. I felt a thrill of freedom as I drove down the street and looked at the bright blue sky overhead. In that moment, it seemed as if the world was my oyster. I stopped at Starbucks to get myself a decaf mocha (I was still stubbornly refusing to drink caffeine because I didn’t think Caleb needed any more help staying awake at night), and even getting myself that cup of coffee, which once had been so routine, felt like a huge luxury. 

After I arrived at the counselor’s office and got settled on the couch, I began the conversation by telling her I didn’t want to go on medication unless absolutely necessary. My aversion wasn’t due to any philosophical issues with anti-depressants, but because I had been on one before to try to treat my fibromyalgia (that particular drug had a dual use). The medicine didn’t help my fibromyalgia so I went off of it, and then suffered horrendous withdrawal symptoms. I didn’t want to risk that happening again if I could help it. The last thing my crazy a$% needed was more craziness. 

The counselor said we might not need to go down the medication road, and suggested that for the time being we just talk about things. As she started asking questions and I started talking, I realized most of my thoughts revolved around the breastfeeding troubles we were having. I was obsessed with making nursing work, and that obsession was clouding my vision on everything else and causing me to lose sight of the big picture.  

I wasn’t ready to give up on nursing at that point, but she helped me realize that a child needs much more from his mother than just breast milk. There were a lot of other issues we would unpack in the sessions to come, but we addressed the nursing hang-ups first because there were so many emotions and feelings of inadequacy wrapped up in them and they were exacerbating the disconnect I felt between Caleb and myself. 

So before I left that first day, the counselor gave me a homework assignment to do before my next session. She told me to write down the characteristics that marked the kind of mother I wanted to be, and the characteristics of the kind of man I wanted Caleb to become. She then wanted me to evaluate how many of those qualities had to do with me being able to give him breast milk. This exercise proved hugely helpful. By thinking about and writing down my goals and dreams for Caleb and myself, I could see my role as a mother beyond just breastfeeding. It seems so obvious now, but back then it was a big epiphany. 

At our next appointment the counselor asked how the nursing was going and I told her I was still trying to make it work and just didn’t know how much longer I could keep up my insane feeding schedule. She suggested I set a goal for how long I wanted to continue trying. I didn’t need to stick with that goal if I decided once I reached it that I wanted to continue, but at least setting a goal would help me focus on an end point to the situation.  

She also suggested I meet with the psychiatric nurse practitioner in her office, just to talk about whether medication might help. A couple months later I ended up seeing that nurse practitioner and talking about my options. She went through the different depression and anxiety meds that were safe to take while breastfeeding and prescribed one in case I decided to try it. But she also talked about other things I could do that have shown to help postpartum depression. She suggested I take vitamin D and a stress B-complex vitamin, as well as fish oil or flaxseed oil supplements.  

I never ended up taking the depression/anxiety medicine she prescribed, because the vitamins and other things I did ended up helping me enough that I didn’t need to go that route. Plus, I think my hormones just got the time they needed to get back into balance. But believe me, if the situation hadn’t improved, I would have just said "yes" to drugs. I know several people who have needed to take medicine to help deal with their PPD/PPA and once they have gotten dialed into the right drug and the right dosage, it has proven extremely effective for them.

The first turning point

The counseling certainly was a huge help, but the first big turning point for me came one day while I was rocking Caleb to sleep in my arms. I don’t know why, maybe in that moment my hormones started to sort themselves out or something, but as we rocked slowly back and forth in his dimly lit room one afternoon, I felt the ice around my heart begin to thaw. This is so cheesy, but the only way I can describe it is that it felt like that scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas when the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes.

Minutes before I had felt cold and lifeless and empty, and suddenly a sea of emotion flooded through me, filling all the cracked, dry riverbeds in my heart. I held Caleb closer and kissed his soft, pillowy little cheeks while the tears cascaded down mine. 

Something in me changed forever that afternoon. It was the experience I should have had when he was born, but for whatever reason had been delayed until that moment. The connection I had felt with such certainty when I was pregnant was back and it was stronger than ever.  

Things didn’t immediately get better after that. My days still remained mostly cloudy for several months and I still had moments when I felt like I couldn’t go on. But at least I could feel my heart strings vibrating again, and that was enough to keep me going. 

My heart, now laying on top of my chest

What's love got to do with it?

Before I go on I want to share how postpartum depression gave me a deeper appreciation for what I believe to be the true meaning of love. And it’s a point I want to make clear so there’s no misunderstanding. Even in those dark days when I couldn’t feel a connection to Caleb, I still loved him. You see to me, love is most purely expressed through commitment, not emotion. To borrow a definition from Grace-Based Parenting, a book John and I recently read -- “Love is the commitment of my will to another's needs and best interests, regardless of the cost.” 

Don't get me wrong, the feelings I have for Caleb are all-consuming and still surprise me with their intensity. Being his mommy has brought me indescribable happiness and so many magical moments I will cherish forever. Feeling his arms wrapped tightly around my neck as he covers my face in slobbery, open-mouthed kisses. Smelling vanilla and oatmeal soap on his velvety skin after a bath. Hearing his squeals of laughter as he steals the ball and runs away from our long-suffering Labrador. Seeing the sheer delight on his face as he tips his head back to look at the ceiling spinning above him while we dance and twirl around the living room.

These are the romantic moments that add so many vibrant colors to the beautiful picture of love motherhood creates. But when you step back and look at the entire painting, you see it’s the shadows that most clearly define the light. The tears born from sheer exhaustion, the sigh at the sight of another mess to clean up, the hands covered in poop from a nuclear diaper blowout. These are the brush strokes that add the most texture and depth to the portrait of a mother’s love.

It is a love that wages unrelenting war on self-centeredness I didn't know I had. A love that both fills and empties me. A love that lights up my life even as its refining heat burns painfully through all my impurities.

A love that will forever bind my heart to Caleb's.

And to his daddy's.

I've talked throughout this blog about the many ways John has loved and supported me: through the health problems, the pregnancy, the delivery, and the PPD. And I can't proceed with the rest of this final chapter before first saying that none of what I'm sharing here, NONE of it, would have been possible without him. 

I've always known the measure of the man I married, but the events of the past couple years have brought out further depths of John's character and his unconditional love for me. And seeing how hands-on and doting he is with Caleb has made me fall in love with him all over again and enabled me to appreciate another layer of who he is as a person.

That appreciation runs even deeper when I remember that John had a terrible example in the dad department. His own father was physically and verbally abusive and wielded the Bible as a weapon in an attempt to manipulate and control the family. Yet thanks to the love of a wise mother and the hand of God on his life, John never lost faith, and he never gave into the temptation to wallow in bitterness or to continue the damaging cycle with his own wife and son.

Instead, John maintains the most incredible work ethic I've ever seen and he continually looks for ways he can be a better husband and father. He is the kind of man who still opens the car door for me eight years after our first date (and yeah, I'm the kind of woman who digs that sort of thing), who brings home flowers "just because," who frequently took the midnight shift when Caleb was a baby so I could pump and go back to sleep, and who delights in being the one to give Caleb baths, put him into his PJ's, and tuck him into his crib at night. 

I thank God every day for this man of mine, and the events of the past year have also helped me better appreciate what it means for us to love each other. To quote a line from a poem I came across recently, “Romance is dancing in the moonlight, gazing deep into desired eyes, but love is saying, ‘You’re tired, honey, I’ll get up this time."

Having a baby changes a relationship. Raising our son together has bonded us in a special and unique way, and it also has put our marriage under incredible stress at times. While we still don't fight all that often, we have had more arguments in the past year than the previous seven combined. And whereas in the past we could devote all our time and attention to each other, now the majority of that attention is devoted to Caleb (as it should be).

Similarly to how it took me some time to settle into my role as mom, it also has taken us time to settle into this new parenting dimension of our relationship. We are still very well matched, but if we aren't careful, our marriage can quickly devolve into a mere custodial arrangement in which our communication revolves around trading tasks and talking about things like poop color and consistency. It requires work to keep this from happening, and we've had to work harder on our marriage than ever before.

A real break through came when we read, How Full Is Your Bucket, which showed us how helpful it is when we focus on positives instead of negatives with each other. We're also realizing the importance of carving out time to spend together as husband and wife, not just mom and dad.

So thanks to a lot of communication, prayer, and self-sacrifice, we've never loved each other more, or better, than we do now.

Okay, guys, enough with the mushy stuff!

Chalet Des 'Rents

Okay, well enough with this lovey dovey crap, right? Let's get back to the story. After that afternoon in the rocking chair, the second big turning point came when we visited my parents in late October. Caleb was just shy of two months old and since John needed to take a business trip near my parents’ for several days, we decided Caleb and I would travel over with him and stay at their house while he was working in the neighboring city. The thought of traveling across the state with a newborn was daunting, but the prospect of having my mom’s help was plenty enough incentive to make the trip.  

Staying at my parents’ brought the respite I desperately needed. Becoming a parent myself has given me an even deeper level of respect and appreciation for my own parents, and I can’t tell you how nice it felt to have my mom take care of both me and Caleb in the old, familiar comforts of my childhood home. She cooked meals, watched Caleb while I pumped so I wasn’t stressed about getting those darn things in, and even got up with him all through night so I could just pump and go back to bed.  

It’s amazing what a night or two of better sleep can do for a person’s spirits.  

When my parents said goodbye to us at the airport, my dad handed me a note of encouragement, as he often does, and with a big hug and a cheery smile said, “Sweet ol’ Emmie, everything will be okay,” as he also often does. Then as my mom reached out to hug me, I couldn't hold it in anymore and started to cry, so scared to go back home and reenter the nightmare I’d been living. As I stood there, a frightened and unsure new mom holding her infant son, my own mother held me and whispered over and over in my ear, “You can do this, Emily, you can do this.”  

My parents’ unwavering belief in me has always been a crucial guiding influence on my life. I wasn’t convinced their confidence would prove well-founded this time around. But thanks to the rest and help I received at Chalet Des Mom and Dad, at least my tank wasn’t running on empty anymore.  

Putting on my oxygen mask

I continued to see the counselor occasionally over the next few months and we worked through a variety of issues…too many to chronicle here. But I will mention one thing we talked about because I suspect a lot of moms can relate to it. It’s called “the oxygen mask theory.”  

See, I thought being a good mom meant completely sacrificing my own needs all the time, but in explaining the oxygen mask theory the counselor helped me realize that I wasn’t going to be able to take care of Caleb if I wasn’t taking care of myself, too. There’s a reason the flight attendant tells you that in case of emergency you need to put your oxygen mask on first before you attend to your child. This goes against every instinct you have as a parent, but it makes sense. If you’re unconscious or dead, you’re not going to be able to help your child. Or anyone else for that matter. 

Around this time I also started reading What Every Mom Needs, a book my mom had given me when I was back home. I don't know if every mom needs the things it talks about or not, but I certainly do. And reading it both validated the needs I had been trying to ignore and supplied me with some practical ways to meet them. 

Once I accepted the oxygen mask idea, my counselor and I discussed specific ways I could go about getting “Emily” back. She told me that to help with the feeling of being trapped I should try to take Caleb outside every day, even if only for a few minutes. (Funny how even a walk to the mailbox can feel like a mini-vacation when you’ve been cooped up inside for so long.) She also encouraged me to create small goals for myself and then concentrate on them one at a time, in order of importance. This exercise helped me focus on the future and on concrete steps I could take to address my problems. Separating them out also helped make my situation seem a little less overwhelming and hopeless.

And so I think I will follow that model to explain the rest of the recovery process. All my issues were so wrapped up in each other that it’s hard to draw clean lines between them, but it’s easiest to explain each one separately. So, here we go! 

Cornered in the nursing mother's room

Nursing was my biggest priority at that time, so it was the one I concentrated on first. Since I shared the rest of the breastfeeding story in the Postpartum Part Two post I won't rehash it here. For those who didn't read it, I'll make a long story short and just say that nursing never ended up working out for us so I kept pumping to get Caleb breast milk until he was seven months old.

After I published that post about our nursing struggles, I got to thinking that I might have unintentionally canonized myself as the patron saint of pumping. So I want to clarify that I pumped that long for reasons and under circumstances that were my own and it doesn't mean that anyone else in that situation should do the same.

And while it might be true that in the end I don't regret what I did, if I were shooting completely straight with you I'd admit that pumping also fed into some of my biggest weaknesses--fear, pride, and perfectionism. I was afraid that if Caleb didn't get breast milk he wouldn't be as healthy. I was proud of the fact that I could tell all the Judgy McJudgersons that I was still getting him breast milk. And I was determined to do it perfectly, pumping for every. single. feed, come hell or high water.

Pumping, for all its merits, cost me precious, irretrievable moments bonding with my son. And the stress I allowed myself to feel over it ruined some of the moments we did have together.

And that part of the pumping saga will always make me sad.

Okay, so now that I've gotten that off my chest (is that a pun?), one thing I didn't mention in the breastfeeding post was something I wanted to share here, because I think it's applicable to more moms than just those who haven't been able to nurse. It's the story of the time I received grace in a place I least expected it…the nursing mother’s room at church. 

One Sunday late that October, we made it to church for the first time since I had gone on bed rest. The loud music during worship time scared Caleb and he started crying so I took him out to the foyer, where one of the greeters said, “If you need it, there’s a nursing mother’s room right down the hall.” He was trying to help, but the last place in the world I wanted to be was in was a room full of women nursing their babies. I could already envision the shocked and judgmental glances they would shoot my direction when I got out Caleb’s bottle and started feeding him Satan’s Milk. 

But I did need a private place to settle Caleb down, so I swallowed my pride, sought out the mother’s room, and was relieved to find it empty. After rocking Caleb to calm him down I started preparing his bottle, and wouldn’t you know, in that moment the music leader’s wife walked in with her son, who was the same age as Caleb. She sat down in the rocking chair facing me and barely had enough time to put on her cute little nursing cover before her baby latched on and went to town. I tried to avert my eyes from the scene in front of me, so foreign to my own experience, and to ignore the sharp, familiar stabs of jealousy. 

We got to talking, and I, feeling like I needed to justify why I was feeding my kid with a bottle, told her the Cliff's Notes version of our nursing struggles. I don’t think she could quite get her head around the fact that a child wasn’t able to nurse, but God bless her she didn’t immediately start preaching to me about the sins of formula. Instead she looked at me with complete conviction and said, “Just remember, Emily, that God made you to be Caleb’s mama, no one else.”  
 
Her softly spoken words sank down deep, hitting the doubt and insecurity that lay at the very heart of my grief over not being able to nurse and applying the balm those wounds had desperately needed.

That morning in my least favorite room of the church, I suddenly remembered that I believed in a God who doesn’t make mistakes. The breastfeeding problems, the PPD, the whole kit and caboodle, had all been under His control. So despite all my second-guessing, no one was better suited for the role of Caleb’s mother because the God of the universe had handpicked me for the honor. And yeah, I wasn’t perfect. So what? Caleb was everything I wanted, and I was the mom he needed.

And we were meant for each other. 

So to wrap up the nursing section, I will just say that I still struggle with insecurity, sadness, guilt, and jealousy over the whole thing. But at least I can now say that breastfeeding doesn’t define me as a mother. Over the course of his life, Caleb is going to need so much more from me than the milk I gave him in his earliest days. And sure, breast might be best, but there are going to be lots of instances where John and I aren’t going to be able to give Caleb the best in life…the highest quality education, the safest car on the road, the most advanced health care. We can only give him our best, and as the old cliché goes, trust God with the rest. 

Made for each other

It takes a village

In talking about the road back from PPD, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank all the family, friends and co-workers who helped me in those first few months with Caleb. Not only did they make it possible for me to continue pumping as long as I did, they also very likely kept me out of the nut house. 

One of the things I value most in people and in relationships is authenticity, so I'm incredibly grateful to have friends who keep it real with me. They are friends who, when I revealed the mess my life had become, showed up with a broom and a hug. They are people who, despite their own busy lives, brought meals, watched Caleb so I could pump and sleep and sometimes actually take a shower, and even spent the night with us when John was away since that’s when the anxiety attacks got so much worse. One friend even traveled across the state to spend the week with us when John had to take a longer trip. Other friends and family members who couldn’t be with us physically sent over encouraging texts and emails and sent up a boatload of prayers. The list goes on and on. 

There’s a reason they say it takes a village to raise a child. And I'm grateful I learned early on how valuable it is to have a good support network as a parent.

Counting my blessings 

While we’re on the subject of gratefulness, I will add that gratitude made a big difference in battling my postpartum depression. I’m not saying that thankfulness is the cure for PPD or that being grateful took away all my problems. But it did give me a different way of looking at them as well as something else to focus on besides them. 

It gave me the invaluable gift of perspective.

Living in America, where we devote a good deal of resources to building and maintaining our comfortable lifestyles, I often forget that Jesus didn't promise me life would be easy. In fact, He promised it would be hard. So instead of expecting that life should be a breeze and then feeling uniquely afflicted when it's not, I'm learning to accept that hard times will come. And as a result, hopefully I will eventually become less resentful and unsettled when they do.

Meanwhile, as I started obsessing less over our nursing failure, I remembered just how many things we had to thank God for. Against all odds and by the skin of our teeth, Caleb had been born full term. He immediately entered a loving home with parents who could care and provide for him. I have a loving husband, a supportive family, and incredible friends. 

For most of the world’s women and children, this is not the case. Last October, right in the thick of my depression, a documentary based on one of my favorite books, Half the Sky, premiered on PBS. I watched it in very short increments, but even seeing snippets of those women's stories helped me start putting things back in their proper perspective.

True, times had been tough for me lately, but at least I had the necessary resources to deal with my problems. And at least those problems didn’t include things like sex trafficking, slavery, maternal mortality, and gender-based violence…the kinds of horrors daily endured by so many women and girls around the globe.

Then things got more personal after my sister-in-law and her husband returned from Kenya, where they visited an orphanage, Gates of Hope, that the whole Proffitt family supports. As I looked at pictures and videos of the children, full of so much joy in the face of such incredible hardship, and heard that they were eager to know how we were doing, well I was just blown away. These kids in Kenya had been thinking about and praying for me, far more than I had been thinking about and praying for them lately, and their faith and compassion both humbled and inspired me.

So then I also started considering the plight of people in my own city. All the women and children who were suffering from abuse, poverty, health issues, and myriad other crises, and who didn’t have as many options or places to turn for help as I did.  I don't mean to invalidate my own or anyone else’s suffering. There's a facet to pain that can’t be quantified or compared and we all face problems that are real and legitimate. I’m just saying that when I’m hurting it’s easy to turn inward and forget the world around me, which really only leads to loneliness and despair. So when I instead turn outward, I find my pain has given me better eyes to see the pain around me, a deeper empathy for those who are suffering, and a stronger resolve to do something about it. 

A few of the beautiful Gates of Hope children

My hips don't lie 

In my postpartum post I also mentioned the problems I was having with my pelvis. At my six-week postpartum appointment I told my doctor about these continence problems and pelvic pain, and he said if those problems persisted much longer I would need to see a urologist. I didn’t want to go on drugs or have surgery to try to fix these problems unless absolutely necessary, so I started trolling the internet for answers (what did we all do before Google, anyway?). Through that research I learned about pelvic floor rehab and its postnatal applications.  

By the time November rolled around the problems weren’t improving so I did some more searching and found that one of the main hospitals in town had a Continence Center that was run by physical therapists who specialized in pelvic floor rehab. I called my doctor, who made the necessary referral, and then scheduled an appointment. Making time for weekly physical therapy sessions on the other end of town was the last thing I wanted to do, but I also knew that I couldn't keep peeing my pants as often as my kid was. I had to put on my oxygen mask. 

After her initial exam, the therapist pulled out a model of a woman’s pelvis to help explain what was going on. It was like that “Don’t Do Drugs” commercial with the egg in the frying pan. She said, “Here’s a normal pelvis.” Then she stretched the model out and mangled it all up and said, “This is what carrying your baby that low for so long did to the muscles, organs and joints in your pelvis.” I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I still don't regret a single second of the time Caleb was able to stay put in my belly.

Over the next several months the therapist worked with me on a variety of exercises and pain management techniques. I’ll spare you the gory details (hey, when has that ever happened?) but suffice to say that while some things will probably never be completely fixed, physical therapy did wonders for me.

Now obviously, this stuff is the height of TMI, but I wanted to share it because I've since talked to other women who have dealt with some of the same things but have had no idea this kind of therapy exists. So I know there are those among you who have been suffering through these issues in silence, and I want you to know that there's hope, and you might not have to wear Depends from now until you die! 
 

Looking past the looking glass

"The key to beauty is always to be looking at someone who loves you." -- Julia Roberts

Once I got my pelvis back on track, I was finally able to start working out again. In March, I went to the gym for the first time in nearly a year. While it wasn’t pretty and I didn’t do much, it was a big step toward feeling like myself again since exercise has always been such a big part of my life.

I’ve only made it to the gym a few times since then because it’s hard to get there with a baby. So I've mainly worked out at home when I get the chance, with the help of a few weights, some 10-minute workout videos I found on YouTube, and the Tracy Anderson's Post Pregnancy Workout DVD I bought off Amazon for $10. (Which is awesome, by the way, if you can get past the celebrity endorsement interview with Gwyneth Paltrow, in which she insists that "every woman, e-v-e-r-y woman, can make time to work out every day." Seriously, Gwyneth, I want to still love you, but you need to stuff some more kale in your mouth and shut up already.)

As soon as the snow cleared last spring, I also started taking long walks with Caleb in the stroller. I hate running and I don’t have a jogging stroller anyway, so they’ve never been more than just walks. But we have a great time, and Caleb's smiles and laughs provide great motivation as I push him up our neighborhood's gigantic hill, listening to sweet pump-up jams like Katy Perry's "Roar."

While I have regained a lot of my former strength and can now fit into my old jeans again, I'm not going to sit here and brag that I've gotten my body back. Because the truth is my clothes will never fit quite the same way, my once-flat stomach will probably always have a bit of a pooch, and my skin is very likely going to stay kind of squishy.

And you know what? That's okay.

Thanks to Caleb, I look at my body differently now. Before the pregnancy I had somewhat of an antagonistic relationship with it, always pushing it to go faster during my competitive swimming days and then getting so frustrated with it during all the chronic health problems. Now I can see, though, that the value of my body doesn’t depend on how it performs but on the simple, unchanging fact that it has been made in the image of God. And its beauty doesn’t hinge on how closely it adheres to standards set by my time and culture, but on the degree to which it resembles the body of Jesus, used in the service of others. 

I know it sounds trite, but it's true.

A blog post I read awhile back, "These Are The Lines Of A Story," really resonated with me because the writer so beautifully expressed what I'm trying to say.

"We journey from a seed in our mother’s womb until we are planted in the grave with ever-changing bodies. Time scratches out its passage across my looks and the looks of all those I love. All our lives, our bodies manifest evidence of an existence marked by gains and losses. We gain and lose pounds, muscle, bruises, teeth, and hair. We lose elasticity and gain wrinkles. We gain scars. Our bodies process and carry our experiences, not without complaint, but with an unfailing perseverance that is worthy of both gratitude and honor."

I still hear the critical inner voices sometimes, but instead of listening to them I'm working on treating my body with nothing but respect and gratitude. After all, God performed a miracle through this busted up jar of clay, and I get to look that miracle in his bright blue eyes every day. The reflection I see there, not in the bathroom mirror, is what truly matters to me now. 

The man in my mirror

Snapping the measuring sticks

As I shared in the postpartum post, another reason I lost my identity when I became a mother was because I kept trying to wear everyone else's. I felt like I wasn’t a good mom because I wasn’t this mom or that mom and I sure as heck was never going to measure up to my idea of the Perfect Mom. But as I’ve talked to other moms, I’ve realized that none of us really measures up to the Straw Moms we’ve created in our minds.  

So you know what? One day I lit a match, used all the measuring sticks for kindling, and set fire to my Straw Mom. And as I watched her burn to the ground, I felt a huge burden lift off my shoulders. I could finally stop trying to be like other women and just focus on being the person God made me to be.  

Once again, a couple blog posts really helped me in this area (man am I ever eating crow for all the times I used to make fun of this whole "mommy blogger" phenomenon). The first, “Quit Pointing Your Avocado at Me,” basically encourages women to make the Mommy Wars disappear by refusing to participate in them. The second, “Mom Vs. Mom: The War I Didn’t See Coming,” encourages moms to stop imitating and judging each other and instead combat our insecurities by embracing our identity as people whom Jesus loves unconditionally.
  
Now, I'll admit that while I'm trying to run my own race, my stubborn competitive streak still gets the best of me sometimes. I still struggle with sizing up the progress of my fellow runners and still indulge in occasional pity parties when it seems they've been given an easier course to run. But with time, I'm slowly getting better at fixing my gaze straight ahead and minding my own danged business.

Marching to the beat of a different drum

As I also shared in the PPD post, another part of my identity crisis revolved around the fact that before Caleb, a lot of my identity had been rooted in my sense of accomplishment. As the months passed and Caleb got older and we all got more sleep, life started feeling less like one long Groundhog Day. I also got to know Caleb better, which enabled us to settle into more of a rhythm. (As my mom says, parenting books can help, but in the end each child writes his or her own book.) And I also was able to start this blog and take on some freelance writing jobs, which gave me the opportunity to use different skills and flex writing muscles that had begun to atrophy.

While life feels a lot less like running on a hamster wheel now, I'm still someone who needs to feel like I'm making a difference, so at times I still struggle with feeling like I'm not actually accomplishing anything. Doing and redoing the same things can make it seem like I'm just spending my days building sandcastles, only to see them get washed away by every evening tide. 

But at least now when I'm in those moments, I can look at the big picture and remember that in these early years of taking care of Caleb, John and I aren't building sandcastles. We are laying a foundation. For the love and care our son receives from us now will affect his physical, mental and emotional well being for the rest of his life.

And thanks to another blog post I read awhile back, I also now believe that all the small, seemingly insignificant aspects of child-rearing not only making a difference to my child, but to God. The post is titled, "On Momotony and Sacred Work," but I think it can speak to anyone who acts as a child's primary caretaker, not just moms, and it can apply to whatever tasks take up a person's day, not just childcare.

Thanks to that blogger's wise words I now see the sacred in simple, everyday tasks, and I find comfort in the knowledge that the loftiness or lowliness of the particular activity doesn't matter so much to God as how faithfully I am doing it...and all the other things He has called me to be and do. And when I approach life as though even the most mundane activities carry lasting meaning, I can derive purpose and even wrest satisfaction out of otherwise mindless activities like washing bottles and scrubbing out spaghetti stains and trying to put a diaper on a moving target as he tries to squirm off the changing table (okay maybe not that last one, that crap's still straight up annoying.) 

And you know, when all is said and done, this really is a short season of life. There will be others for John and me to do things like sleep in, spend more than two minutes on personal grooming, and go on a date whenever we darn well please. The days with a baby can be long, but the weeks and months really do fly by, so I want to savor all these moments (even the ones that make me want to run screaming out of the house with my hair on fire) while they last. Because this short, crazy, wonderful season will be gone before we know it.

And it won't be coming back.

Still a lemon, just less sour

Okay, just one more loop for me to close before I start wrapping up this novella of a post. 

In my prologue, I shared with you about how all the health problems had left me feeling like a lemon. And in the PPD post, I revealed that the preterm labor, the difficult delivery, and the postpartum depression had left me completely broken. 

Well, I could wrap this whole thing up with a nice, neat bow and tell you that I've found the secret to turning all my lemons into lemonade. But the truth is, in many ways I'm still a lemon. Because in many ways, I am still broken.

The difference is that I’ve begun to see that brokenness differently.  

A few years ago my mom introduced me to the writings of Joni Earickson Tada, who was paralyzed in a diving accident as a teenager and has since become a prolific writer and speaker, particularly on the subjects of chronic pain and suffering. I have since read two of her books, When God Weeps: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty, and, A Place of Healing, and this year I've been working through one of her daily devotional books, Diamonds in the Dust. She’s become one of my favorite writers, and her words continue to comfort, convict, and inspire me.  

On the subject of brokenness, Joni writes this (and I paraphrase): If you study broken glass in the sunlight, you can see that it’s full of a thousand different angles, each one picking up a ray of light and shooting it off in a hundred different directions. This doesn’t happen with plain glass, like a jar. The glass has to be broken into many pieces to reflect that kind of light. 

What’s true of shattered glass is true of a broken life. The breaking process is excruciatingly painful. Quite often it is ugly. And a life in pieces can seem like it's ruined forever. But given time and prayer, I’ve found my world shines more brightly than if the brokenness had never happened. Because when I allow God’s light to fall upon those dark, broken places, He produces something truly beautiful. He uses the broken pieces to reflect His light in a thousand ways I couldn’t before.  

As Joni writes, “The color and dazzle of light sparkle best through things that are shattered. Your life may be shattered by sorrow, pain, or sin, but God has in mind a kaleidoscope through which His light can shine more brilliantly.” 

Where are they now?

Okay, enough about me, let’s bring you up to speed on the real star of this blog! Caleb is now a happy, healthy, highly active 15-month-old, who fills our home with laughter and the constant pitter-patter of busy little feet. Each stage brings its own joys and challenges, but he really is at such a fun age right now. 

John and I sometimes joke that we should have named him Samson, because physically he is the strongest kid we know. That strength serves as a daily reminder that God sometimes very specifically grants prayers requests, since our mantra during the pregnancy had been, “Please, Lord, make him healthy and strong.”

Our strong little Samson

And yet the name “Caleb” still really does suit him best, because the strongest thing about our son is his heart. He is highly inquisitive, and he is as sweet as he is strong-willed. He has the world’s best smile and the most tender, loving spirit. He's the kind of kid who notices a child crying in the corner of a crowded room and brings him a shoe (he's crazy about the things), then gives him a hug and kiss.

This sweetheart of a boy is my most precious gift, and being his mother will forever remain my greatest joy and highest privilege.

The bed rest days are behind us, but I still worry about Caleb. I probably always will. Motherhood has brought healing to my life in many ways, but I will always bear the wound that comes from having a heart that now walks around outside my body. In that, I am no different than scores of mothers throughout the ages for whom each new day brings fresh reasons to weep for someone else's children and fear for our own.

So even though the anxiety attacks are thankfully behind me, at times I still feel terrified. John and I are raising our son in the shadow of Sandy Hook. In an age where bullies, predators and pornographers can exploit and ensnare him with the click of a button. In a scary world indeed.

Yet I can't let my concerns over what lies around the corner control me, or Caleb. I have to choose faith over fear. As William Blake once wrote, “He who binds himself to a joy, does the winged life destroy; but he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.”

For if my pregnancy with Caleb taught me anything, it's that I will never be able to completely protect him from harm. I couldn't even when he lay nestled in my womb, closer to me than he ever will be again. I can't now, as his eager little feet begin toddling away from my arms. And I certainly won't be able to once he sprouts the wings that will carry him away from the shelter of our home. 

The other day that cheesy Michael Bolton song, “Go the Distance,” from the movie, Hercules, came on when I was playing a Disney mix for Caleb. It immediately made me tear up (admittedly that doesn’t take much these days) because it brought to mind my own strong little Hercules and my biggest dreams for him.  

John and I can’t shield Caleb from every storm in life, but we can give him some things to help him overcome the obstacles and finish the race set before him. We can give him the lasting security that comes from knowing he is loved unconditionally, by us and by God. We can give him the sense of significance that comes from knowing his life has meaning and purpose. And we can give him the strength that comes from being able to rely on a resilient Hope that can withstand even the most difficult trials. These are the things my parents and John’s mom imprinted on our hearts, and the gifts we want engrave on Caleb's to carry him through life long after we are gone.
 

Time to say goodbye

Okay, well it's high time to wrap things up, huh? As I said in the Prologue, I wrote this blog for a number of reasons. It has been a valuable tool in helping me process some very tangled thoughts and emotions. It has been my gift to Caleb, so that he will always have a record of his earliest days. And it has been my love letter: to all the people who helped and prayed for us during that time, to the husband who remains my rock and my puzzle piece, to the precious son whose incredible life story is only beginning, and to the God who truly makes all things possible. 

But ultimately, I wrote “Caleb’s Story” because it's a story of hope. Whether you’ve been reading this in the midst of a health crisis, a scary and difficult pregnancy, a battle with postpartum depression, or some other trial that has left you feeling lonely and hopeless, I want you to know that you’re not alone. And while it might seem like the dark days are here to stay, I truly believe there is a Light more powerful than any darkness that befalls us.

Weeping may endure for one night or a hundred, but joy will come in the morning. 

"The Couch Chronicles"

 So in conclusion, I don’t know where Caleb’s story will take us next. But I have faith in the One writing it, and I'm so excited to see the pages unfold. And since the Christmas season is now upon us, I’ll close with the words of Matthew 1:23, “And they will call His name Immanuel, which means, ‘God is with us.’” 

In keeping with tradition, I will leave you with two songs. The first, “Our Hope Endures,” by Natalie Grant, has become one of my theme songs in life. The second, “Wedding Day,” by City Harmonic, is one I heard for the first time several months ago, and it immediately struck me as the perfect song to use to end this blog as it tells the larger story of which Caleb, John, and I are just one small part.


You guys are the best. Thank you for reading.