I wake to the sound of my own screaming.
I am gasping for air. Desperately searching, my hands move quickly, fumbling through the sheets. There is a hollow feeling in my chest, a sinking in the pit of my stomach. Hot tears are streaming down my face, the bitter taste of salt. Panicked pleas for help ring in my ears: it is my own voice, though it sounds frightened, foreign. I believe my son is here in my bed: I must still be breastfeeding, I must have rolled over on him. I frantically search for his lifeless body. I imagine blue limp skin. A night terror. Within seconds my husband rolls over and holds up the baby monitor. He speaks in a calm, loud voice: "He is safe in his crib. You're dreaming". He repeats himself. Twice. Three times. His hand is soft on my shoulder. I tell him he is wrong. Then, I believe him. Relief washes over me, a release of the tension, a calming of the panic. My screams turn to soft cries as I try to find the air. My sobs are muffled against my tear-soaked pillow. I want to hide. I want to escape. My husband is running his fingers through my hair, kissing my forehead, whispering assurances in my ear. I am so stupid. This is our nightly routine. The next morning I am standing in front of the dishwasher, unloading the dishes. My one month-old baby is flat on his back, asleep in the pack-n-play. I watch his chest rise and fall with breath. I stare. I need to see that he's breathing, need to see that he's not turning blue. I am picking up pieces of silverware, carefully placing each one in its proper place. As my fingers twist around a knife, I imagine losing my grip. I imagine the knife flying across the room. I imagine my son screaming, bleeding, hurt. My stomach drops. I can't breathe. Thoughts are flooding my head. I can't find the air. That's when I realize it: something is wrong. Keep reading at Holl and Lane!
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There are two pink lines.
I know these two pink lines will change my life forever. I have prayed for these two pink lines. I have longed for them to appear. Yet in this moment, I am overwhelmed with one thing: fear. What if I lose this baby? *** Two years earlier. After counting down the seconds, I open my eyes and look eagerly at the results in my hand. I turn to my husband with excitement as a shriek of joy and disbelief leaves my lips. We are going to have a baby! To assure myself of this impending reality, I take two more tests. Four more pink lines confirm the first two. Each time, I watch those lines etch their way across the width of the white plastic stick. I open my phone and download TheBump app. Four weeks: Your baby is the size of a poppyseed! In this moment, I have never loved something so small so much. I can’t stop smiling. How could I be so lucky? Who am I that God would choose me to be a mama? Who am I that my imperfect and awkward body could create and sustain life? I stare at six pink lines and make one phone call to my doctor’s office. The next morning, I am sitting on a table covered in paper when the doctor opens the door. “Another positive test. You’re pregnant,” she says. I look across the room at my husband with a big smile on my face. “Don’t be excited yet,” she says. “One out of five women miscarry in the first trimester.” My expression falls as the reality of her harsh words sink in. I knew miscarriage was common, but one in five? Those were not the odds I was hoping for. Why should I assume that I’ll be one of the lucky four? When we leave the office, I realize I have left behind the excitement, the joy, the hope. With my doctor’s warning ringing in my ears, my mind is now fixed on one haunting thought: what if I lose this baby? Read the rest on Coffee + Crumbs! There was a time in my life that I had so much anxiety and so few words.
To articulate what I was experiencing required some sort of understanding, an understanding I had not yet achieved. How could I describe the mental battle that took place each time I left the house? How could I articulate the racing thoughts that often washed over me like a warm ocean wave, leaving me drowning, lost, and gasping for air? How could I find words for the bodily sensations I often experienced – the lightheadedness, the feeling of my stomach dropping to my knees, the feeling of my cheeks burning hot, the nervous nausea? How could I articulate these things when I did not understand them? How could I articulate these things when I was still in denial that they were happening to me? A simple conversation or circumstance could send me to a mental and physical place that was completely indescribable and thus a place in which I was truly isolated – a place I did not yet have the language to escape from. I wish I had the words then. I wish I had the words to tell my dear friend why I left her house so early, why I spent most of our time together sitting in a chair in her kitchen, white knuckles gripping my phone. I wish I had the words to tell her I was experiencing a panic attack (or maybe I was actually dying?) and that I wished with all my heart I could just “get over it.” I wish I could tell her I knew the trigger that caused my panic attack was irrational (I mean, I rationally knew it was not a life-threatening thing) but that my body somehow didn’t understand, my body was on a downward spiral of panic that was moving fast and didn’t stop. I wish I could tell her I so deeply appreciated her invitation, her hospitality, her friendship. I wish I had the words then. I wish I had the words to tell my college roommate why I seemed to suddenly be busy when she was sick. I wish I could tell her that sickness was a trigger for me. I wish I could tell her I wanted so deeply to stay and care for her, to bring her soup and crackers, to tell her she would be OK, but my anxiety was so incredibly overwhelming that I did not know how to fight it. I wish I could tell her that each time my hand touched a public surface my thoughts would become fixated on the germs I was inevitably carrying and the extreme urge to remove them. I wish I could tell her the urge would not go away until burning hot water and soap hit my hands, until I breathed in the alcohol smell of hand-sanitizer and felt it burn my sore chapped skin, entering into the cracks and making me feel clean again. I wish I could tell her that sometimes when she left the room I Cloroxed every surface, breathing in that fresh lemon scent and for the first time breathing deep. I wish I could tell her I wanted the kind of friendship that thrived the same in sickness and in health but that it didn’t seem possible for me. continue reading at The Mighty! I wake up to a text message: “Want to take the boys to the beach today?”
I know then that I’m about to experience my first real mom date since I moved to Oregon. I wonder how it could be true – my #momcrushmonday has invited me to spend the day at the coast. The occasion clearly calls for bringing out the big guns – real pants, a hair brush, and mascara. As I get ready for the day ahead, my mind is flooded with anxiety. Will Elliot make it through the car ride meltdown-free? Will the boys get along? Will I forget something important? Will it be too obvious that I clearly do not have it all together? Will I be able to muster up the brain power for actual adult conversation in the middle of the day? I try not to put too much pressure on this casual mom date, but I struggle. It’s been a lonely month living 1,500 miles away from my people, my tribe. The need for friendship is all too real in my heart. I’m anxious, but I’m hopeful. Continue reading at Parent Co! Dear Sleep,
Why have you forsaken me? I promise, we can work this out. I know what I said before, in my utmost ignorance. I know what I said while I was pulling all-nighters in the name of finishing assignments in college: “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it.I know now that I need you desperately. Please, come back to me. I’ve tried to romance you. I’ve tried to remind you of what we once had together. I’ve attempted to draw you in with dimmed lights and fresh, clean sheets, to lure you to myself once again by reading boring teen novels in bed. I’ve bought into the promises of pregnancy pillows, meditation rituals, and even night-time teas, believing in my desperation that they would somehow bring you back to me. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to return to the days of my youth, to our passionate love-affair. Continue reading at Upwrite Magazine! I imagine it. I’m standing over a porcelain toilet bowl, the contents of my stomach spilling out before my eyes. Vomit hits the water. The taste of bile fills my mouth. I feel a deep emptiness. This is my fault. I am disgusting. I am a burden. I am ashamed. I am out of control. Would I choke? Would my son Elliot be scared? I imagine it. I suddenly fall to the floor, parts of my body taking turns shooting straight up into the air as other parts are forcefully slammed downward. A seizure. My eyes are closed, rolling backward. This is my fault. I am embarrassed. I am a burden. I am out of control. Would I black out? What would happen to Elliot? I imagine it. Continue reading on The Mighty! They say “There’s no use crying over spilled milk”.
Whoever said that was certainly not a breastfeeding momma. I remember a time when Andrew and I returned from date night to find two full 5 oz. bottles of pumped breast milk sitting out on the counter. Elliot had refused to eat them, and in all the chaos of the evening those defrosted and reheated bottles had been left out just a little too long to keep. I felt the tears begin to well up in my eyes. I dumped two full 5 oz. bottles down the drain with shaky hands and trembling fingers. I dumped 30 minutes of pumping down the drain with warm tears flowing down my cheeks - 30 minutes of my “free time" as a new momma, gone, wasted - 30 minutes of not holding that sweet boy that I would never get back. I dumped my liquid gold down the drain and with it, strength. My body, more tired than I ever knew tired could be, had managed the strength and energy to produce such a miracle, such a gift - gone. As I poured that milk down the drain I thought of all I had poured out to make it, the sacrifice I had made, wasted. My dear, sweet, husband was confused - why would I cry over such a stupid thing? I wondered the same thing. I knew no amount of tears would change anything - no amount of tears would bring the milk back. Sometimes instead of crying over spilled milk, you cry over the labor and delivery you had. This week as I’ve been slowly eating all the leftover cupcakes from Elliot’s first birthday party, my mind has wandered back to to his birth and what followed. My mind has wandered back to that cool day in April. On the way to the hospital the air was thick with fog. I can’t help but think the fog was foretelling of what the next few months would be like - a fog of emotion and fear, leaving me unable to see which direction I was going, leaving me gasping for air and fumbling to find a way out. Labor, delivery, postpartum: it. was. just. plain. hard. And I know that no amount of tears can ever change the past. And I know that to some it may seem stupid. But I will admit something: I am still crying. I am crying because those first few moments of Elliot's life were not spent in my arms, his bare skin on my bare chest. I am crying because that moment of waiting to hear his first cry felt like an eternity - I could feel the pressure, the pulling, the ripping out of somewhere deep, but I couldn't hear a cry, and I couldn't hear the doctor say he was beautiful because my mind was drowning in all the what ifs, my mind was still lost in that moment of waiting. I am crying because the doctors talked about an episode of breaking bad as they stitched me back together, alone on a cold table, alone for the first time in months with a piece of me suddenly missing. I am crying because I didn't know why I was shaking shaking shaking during surgery. I am crying because all I felt was fear - where was that joy, that excitement, that feeling of empowerment? I am crying because it did hurt and it kept hurting. I am crying because it hurt to hold my sweet boy those first few months - because I couldn't feed him without putting on more pressure, taking on more pain. I am crying because for the first few days after I brought him home I literally forgot to eat. I am crying because I labored all day and pushed with all my might for two long hours but still had to have a c section. I am crying because I still wonder if I could've done better or tried harder. I am crying because of all the times in those first few weeks (months) I woke up screaming, fumbling to find my boy between my bedsheets even though he was safe in his crib. I am crying because it took me too many months to talk to someone about my postpartum anxiety issues, to admit that I wasn’t okay. And I am crying because of the guilt - because I know it could’ve been worse, it could be worse. I am crying because something deep within me believes that my pain is not valid because it’s not that bad, because everything ended up fine - that because my boy is healthy I am not allowed to grieve what I lost, I am not allowed to feel my pain. Amidst all of this, here are the truths I am choosing to cling to: Pain does not indicate an absence of joy. Allowing myself to experience and express my pain does not mean my joy no longer exists. To admit labor was hard does not mean that I am not so in love with my sweet Elliot. To admit delivery was hard does not mean that I am no longer so deeply thankful for my sweet boy. To admit postpartum was one of the hardest times of my entire life does not mean that it wasn’t also one of the greatest, richest, and most rewarding. I have truly been wrestling with something one of my favorite bloggers, April Hoss, said: “Grief doesn’t negate gratitude”. I am still trying to wrap my mind around this truth. I can grieve what I have lost while still being immensely grateful for all that I have gained. I can acknowledge and validate the hurt, trauma, and pain, while still experiencing and embracing unrelenting love, undeserved blessing, and unparalleled peace. I have decided to become comfortable with this supposed conflict that lives within me. I will resist the urge to define myself in black and white mutually exclusive terms. I will simply accept myself where I’m at. If I want to become better instead of bitter, I must choose to grieve instead of burying my pain. The truth is that amidst my heartache, I am happy - amidst my pain I have an incredible joy, amidst my hurt I am blessed and I am truly grateful. Love is never a waste. One of the reasons I literally cried over spilled (breast)milk is because of the waste -the sacrifice I had made now seemed to be rendered useless. But I realize now that it was not - this act of love for my son, although perhaps not received the way I had hoped, was indeed not wasted. Any time I am giving of myself I am living a little more like Jesus. Any time I am setting myself aside in an act of service, I am living as God created me to live. How could such an act ever be a waste? As difficult as it is to admit - my labor and delivery experience was not a waste. The two hours of pushing did not end in the birth experience I had hoped for, but that does not mean that my efforts were wasted. Love and sacrifice are never a waste. And I believe in a God who does not waste pain - who uses all things for his glory. I choose to believe that none of this was a waste. Through this experience I have learned more of God’s deep love for me, more of who I am and who he created me to be. It was all worth it. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Although this has been one of the most difficult and painful experiences of my life, I would do it all again and more for my Elliot. There is no burden that is too much to bear for him. Nothing compares to the joy that it is to be his momma - who am I that God would choose me for this? Every part of this story was more than worth it. Whether it’s spilled breastmilk or a hard labor, my prayer for us mommas is this: May our grief be a gateway to peace and healing May we have patience and grace for ourselves as we do for our littles, may we actively and radically pursue acceptance instead of guilt May we walk alongside one another, sharing our stories, sharing our lives May we fix our eyes on the God who sees us, who does not waste pain, and who will one day wipe away every tear from our eyes The day he was born. Time seems to have passed like the blink of an eye, wasn't it just yesterday that he fit snugly into the crook of my arm, yesterday that he first smiled and laughed, yesterday that we stayed up late into the night staring at one another, learning one another like this, face to face, for the first time? Yet it seems like a lifetime ago.
Who was I before I was momma? What was life before I found it in his soft blue eyes? What was joy before seeing his whole face light up when I walked into the room? What was defeat before the battle of beginning breastfeeding, the inevitable guilt of motherhood, the lack of sleep and self and sanity? In a sense it seems like he was always there - how could he have missed my wedding? Where was he when his daddy proposed or when we first moved into our house? Yet life changed the day he arrived. A line was drawn in the sand, a moment diving time into before and after. One day that rocking chair was supporting me, tired hips anxious heart waiting waiting waiting, and just a few days later I was there again rocking, a new woman holding a new boy. Wasn't it yesterday? But just now his weight felt so heavy on arms instead of hips, I watched his sleeping face and remembered how he looked so many months ago, that same sweet face that same sweet peace, before the rolling over and sitting up and eating food, before the smiling and the laughing, when his warm little body would melt so easily into mine and we would just be there, just breathing and learning this new life together. I've been trying to listen to what they say, trying not to blink. I've been trying to soak up all these moments that I don't deserve, these memories that are all too wonderful, too much to be contained inside this faulty mind of mine. I feel like I'm already forgetting - what was it like to hold him then? What was he like before he smiled? What was he like before twenty pounds and twelve month clothes? I can't even imagine him. I'll replay the video clips on my computer screen and try to relive the moments in my mind, to feel them again in my heart. Yet in the same breath I look forward and wonder, still waiting waiting waiting - what will he be like in a month? A year? Preschool? High school? I cannot even imagine him, I cannot fathom him. Please let me not waste this moment, another grain of sand slipping through my fingers, falling carelessly through the hourglass. Let me breathe in this moment and live it for all that it is. My sweet Elliot, I will soak in the moments, I will live them and breathe them and remember them for the both of us. I will soak in the feeling of your soft warm breath on my cheek. I will remember those moments when I hear that you’re awake and I walk around the corner of your crib - such anticipation, such careful steps. You see me and your face is full of joy and you greet me with a laugh, a smile, words that only we understand there together. I will remember those moments in the middle of the night. I confess that when your voice comes through the monitor sometimes I am excited. I am excited that I get to hold you one more time before sleep separates us again. I am excited to watch as your eyes grow heavy with sleep. I am excited to be there together, rocking back and forth, feeling the calm of one another’s presence, breathing the same air. I will treasure those moments that I feel your love. Though you've never said a word, I hear your love loud and clear. Your love is spoken through soft cuddles and gulps of milk, through laughs that seem to move through every ounce of you, through smiles and long stares and big wondering eyes. I can feel your love, sweet boy, through the day in and day out, through the seemingly mundane miracles of everyday life that you and I get to share together. Do you feel my love too, do you know it? I will treasure those moments when your tiny hands wrap around my fingers and you hold them there like you’re holding something precious that you want to keep. And those moments where time seems to stop and my eyes are full of tears and my heart is full of love and I am just full full full and overflowing. Those moments that empty me just the same, empty me of my breath, of what I thought life was, of all the thoughts usually racing racing racing and just leave me still, just leave me quiet, just leave me peace. Those moments when I brush your tiny soft fingers against my lips and hope not to wake you. Those moments that replay over and over in my mind. I will remember. Please, let me remember. The sound of your laugh, so full, so abandoned. The sound of your voice, so fresh so new. The sounds that set off symphonies within me, playing and replaying, keeping me in tune, keeping me humming, singing, dancing, giving me life and breath. This, forever, I will treasure - please, let me never forget. Those moments that your eyes dance with sleep and your lips move soft and slow and you’re somewhere in a dream and I am somewhere lost in a moment - watching in wonder, careful, quiet. You are delicate. You are pure. My sweet, Elliot, I will be present. I will remember. So many have said, “treasure the moments, they go by so fast” “they grow so fast”, “hold them while you can”. And I am trying, oh, how I am trying. I can feel these moments slipping through my hands, flowing past me like wind, washing over me like water. But this memory of mine grasps tightly to what it can and the picture will play, over and over… I breathe in these moments with joy for all that they hold, I breathe them in with joy as they hold me, and I am floating somewhere in the clouds, somewhere in this love that lifts me. I’m watching these slow motion memories in my mind, treasuring each moment, thanking the giver of the gift and knowing I’m not entitled and I don’t deserve it but that I am blessed. So I will live this life being careful not to blink. So I will live this life. I will be present. I will remember. I remember standing so still, my eyes fixed on rows of bed sheets, my heart overwhelmed. Every other person and product inside Buy Buy Baby became a blur, noise floating past me like clouds in the breeze, and I was in another world. My sister in law stood with me, quiet, softly asking what was wrong, how she could help.
You see, this is the moment that it had hit me: this growing thing in my belly, this kicking rolling punching breathing boy was a boy all his own - a little person with his own humanness. I was buying bedsheets and making plans, all the while not really knowing him. What would he look like? What would he enjoy? Would soft blues and greens catch his eye? Would safari themes or nautical patterns make him smile? Monkeys or elephants, solids or stripes? I was overwhelmed with the idea of having so much say, so much power. In this moment I would choose what laid under him as he slept at night, the theme that surrounded him on his four walls. And this was only the first choice to scan with my handy dandy registry scanner. There were so many more. And then once we left the store, the decisions wouldn't stop - there'd be more, more, more. Would I choose the right thing? Breastfeeding or formula, cloth or disposable, co-sleeping or crib? I stood there in that moment feeling the weight of the one living inside me, feeling the weight of the role I would play for him. I was asking the question of monkeys or elephants but I was really asking this: am I enough? Will I be a good mom? Do I have what it takes? Can I be what he needs me to be? I had always heard of the motherly instinct, but would I have it? What if I didn't? Would I love this boy and bond with him and nurture him like he deserved? It's been months since that moment and I still find myself asking questions - sometimes I find myself frozen in fear, unable to move forward, afraid of making decisions, afraid of making mistakes. But here is what I know: I know that I love this boy like I never knew I could love someone. I know that I would do anything for him. I know God chose me to be his momma. I know I may not always get it right, but as long as I love him, I am getting it right. I know that my sweet Elliot loves the color red. I know that his eyes light up when he sees his daddy or when he pets the cat's tail. I know that he loves to look out the window to watch the cars go by and to eat mashed squash and to hear his momma sing. I know where his tickle spots are, I know how to make him laugh, I know the difference between his cries. I know that no matter what choices lie ahead, there is one that truly counts - to choose love. And I will choose it. I will choose love every moment, every day. I know that no matter what I am facing, I do not face it alone. Like my sweet sister-in-law standing still with me in Buy Buy Baby, slowly talking me out of my state of panic - there are mommas who have gone before me and will walk with me, mommas who have been there before and who will be there by my side. What an honor to stand beside woman warriors, mommas who constantly pour themselves out for their littles, mommas who choose love even when they are tired, who choose love even when they don't feel like it, who choose to put the needs of others above themselves day in and day out, who choose sacrifice and support. What a group to be a part of, to share solidarity with. I know that my sweet boy has a daddy who is confident and brilliant, brave and decisive, selfless and sure. I know that I have a husband who is always seeking to serve us, who does not hesitate to sacrifice for us. I know that I have a best friend to parent with, someone who truly sees me and notices me, who encourages me and pushes me to be better. I know that I am parenting on a team, and that my MVP doesn't mind listening to me ponder and wonder and fret about every little decision, he doesn't mind talking me out of the circles I get myself talked into. I know I have a husband who will make decisions with me, who trusts me and believes in me, and who will support me no matter what. And I know that there is grace, and that "grace is greater than guilt". So in the moments when I'm overwhelmed with the unknown, I will choose to remember this, to tell myself what I know: You are the one God chose. You are not alone, momma. You love, and love is enough. On days like this I am tempted to make a list. I’m tempted to make a list of every single thing that has gone wrong today, to rehearse the list over and over in my head. Every time the inevitable chaos ensues, I repeat the list to myself, adding to it each time. With each rehearsal I think to myself “Is this really happening? Can one more thing go wrong today?” With each rehearsal I add lament and self-pity, anxiety and self-doubt. With each rehearsal I ask why me, why today? With each rehearsal I wonder if I am enough, if I am too much, if there is something wrong with me. I repeat the list over and over and over again.
The question is this - why do I feel the need to create such a list? to tell myself over and over again of all the things going wrong? to remind myself of my own imperfection and my momentary circumstances? Why am I so quick to think that playing this same tape over and over will do any good? Today is too much for answers to such questions. Instead my answer is this. I will choose to make a different list. I will choose to list who my God is - He is my Father and he cares deeply. He is my provider and he sees my need. He is my comfort and my strength. My God is in control, so I don’t always need to be. He has everything in his hands, so I don’t need to “have it all together”. God is bigger than this moment. I am dependent on him for every breath. I will choose to list who I am. I am loved, accepted, and empowered. I am chosen by God to be His. I am chosen by God to be Elliot’s momma, to be Andrew’s wife. I am chosen for such a time as this. I will choose to list the things that I am grateful for, the blessings God has given me, the ways I have so clearly seen God work. And when the old list resounds in my head, I will speak louder. I will choose a different list. The car is in the shop again. God is my provider. Elliot has been screaming for 2 hours straight. God chose me to be Elliot’s momma. What if? What if? What if? God is sovereign. This week Andrew and I decided to meditate on Psalm 112 in prayer. In our meditation we are asking God to reveal to us what it means to fear Him - how we can be more like the righteous ones this passage describes. A day like today is no mistake. We are learning that we are not the center of the universe, we are not the main character in the Story. We are learning that to fear God means to let go - to let go of our pride, our entitlement, our anger, to let go of the desire for control. We are learning that to fear God means to pursue Him instead of our own perfection, to pursue Him instead of a life free of chaos, to pursue Him above all else. Psalm 112[a] 1 Praise the Lord.[b] Blessed are those who fear the Lord, who find great delight in his commands. 2 Their children will be mighty in the land; the generation of the upright will be blessed. 3 Wealth and riches are in their houses, and their righteousness endures forever. 4 Even in darkness light dawns for the upright, for those who are gracious and compassionate and righteous. 5 Good will come to those who are generous and lend freely, who conduct their affairs with justice. 6 Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever. 7 They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord. 8 Their hearts are secure, they will have no fear; in the end they will look in triumph on their foes. 9 They have freely scattered their gifts to the poor, their righteousness endures forever; their horn[c] will be lifted high in honor. 10 The wicked will see and be vexed, they will gnash their teeth and waste away; the longings of the wicked will come to nothing. |
About the AuthorMy name is Selena. This is what makes my heart full: my husband Andrew, my sons Elliot, and Jude, youth ministry, Jesus, writing, knitting, deep talks, good reads, a good cup of coffee, laughing out loud. Archives
September 2017
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