The Visit

My parents are here, enjoying the last few days of their visit.

My mom's dream of an airport reunion with Brixton came true when he ran into her arms and let her scoop him up in a big hug.

Brixton has spent the last 7 days doing the following:

-eating jelly beans (courtesy of Grandpa)
-dancing
-eating too much sugar
-going to bed late
-receiving a lot of attention
-letting us buy him kid's meals at restaurants and then not eating them
-spending far too much time in Sephora
-not napping

Brendan and I went to dinner with some friends the other night and it was so nice to not have to cut someone else's meal into bite-sized chunks while mine cooled to a rather Arctic temperature.  I still don't feel like writing, so here are some pictures instead:

 

Hi Again!

Hi friends.

Thanks to those of you who have missed me.

I've had a bad case of writer's block/uninspiring weather/nothing to say.

I've started two other posts and deleted them both.  They were kind of like, "Why am I blogging?" and "I'm not saying goodbye forever, just for now."

But, I hate posts like that.

And it's not true, anyway. 

I still love blogging.

I just want to write when I want to write.

And sometimes it's not time to write.

Right?

{See,  I'm still fun and witty.}

Guess what--

I'm having a baby!!!

That's what I told my mom on the phone today.

She got so excited and started to get her loud mom-panic voice.

And then I said,

Just kidding.

I'm not having another one.  Brendan's researching the Big Snip.

I'm at peace.

Brixton turns two in a few days.

My parents arrive tomorrow from California.

I got highlights again.  My hair's really light now.

I like this new, light me.  Like when I was young.

Kind of like a mid-life crisis?  Nah.  It's just highlights, not a Ferrari/boob job.

 Here's something fun:

Lately I've been having really physical dreams.  I wake up because I'm kicking or striking out.  I haven't done this before, except that one time in 7th grade where I woke up hitting my then BFF when she stayed the night.  

Creepy.

So, there are new things on the horizon.

Summer trips, the collecting of airline miles, the harvesting of radishes and carrots from the garden.

I got my first sunburn in five years the other day.  It just took an hour in the sun to scorch my milky skin an angry pink.  

That's all I've got tonight.

Just wanted to check in and say that all is well.

xo

 

Random April Stuff

**I knew it. I knew in those warm December weeks that we'd be paying for it come spring.  Here we are--paying for it with interest.

**I've been lurking around a lot in Home Depot.  Ever since Brendan gave me the fantastic idea of turning our mud room into a greenhouse, I've been that one weird plant lady in the houseplant aisle that's like talking to other "planties", falling in love with banana trees, and stalking the annual flowers until they come out in the 6 packs.  I have 12 flower boxes to fill outside..and I'm waiting for this darn winter to be over.

**I *just* learned that I CAN do a sock bun in my hair.  After convincing myself my hair was too thin, too short, etc. I met an awesome chick with a big thick bun (NOT to be confused with big, thick bunS).  After I praised her hair, she let me in on her secret and then I demanded a demo.  Sock bun will be my new day 2 or 3 hair style coming up.

**After thinking I was going to tan this summer...I've decided NOT to.  I'm going to learn to embrace and love my pale self.  Anyway, if haven't you heard, pale is the new tan!  I'm just too sad to tan and then see the freckles, melasma, spots that pop up.  So, yes, get ready for some pics this summer of white cellulite in shorts.  It's going to be awesome.

**My parents come in 3 weeks.  Can't.  Wait.  10 days of mom-laughter and the corniest dad jokes ever.  The other day a little package came in the mail.  I was like, Hey, what's this?  And the return address said, "Sephora"  whuuuuu?  Turns out my dad just wanted to send me a little "I love you" gift.  Melt.  Thanks Duey. (That's what I call him when feeling affectionate.  One time, during teenager life I called him a bastard to his face.  How I still have a head, I'll never know.  Sorry about that, Dad.  I love you.)

**I've been a crafting F O O L lately.  Nothing that grandiose, however.  I'm sure I'll do a post.  And I'm pretty sure you can't wait for it.

**My lady friends from high school and I are meeting up in June.  We aren't sure where we are staying, but we are meeting.  We haven't been together in four years, which just seems impossible.  Things I plan on doing with them: smelling them, flat ironing their hair, doing makeup, wrapping one of them up in a blanket and cradling her because she's like my baby sister, wrestling one of them, having a funky dance party with all of them, crying together, all of us smushing on the couch watching a movie, taking completely stupid pictures, and then sobbing when we all leave.  And there will be gifts.  And so much laughter it's like a 72 hour abs class.

**Brixton has been so funny lately.  His newest thing is to mess his diaper and then place the blame on someone else.  Usually I'll say, "Did you poop?" and he'll say, "Digger" as though his digger did it.  When I ask him what he wants for breakfast he says, "chicken, fries, pizza"  which makes me feel like an utter mother failure.  But since I tickle him when he says those things, maybe that's why he keeps asking for them.  (??)

Have a fab week.  You deserve it.

We Are Mental: Meet Joanna

In the Land of a Thousand Guilts

 

 

 

Hi, I'm Joanna and I blog over at Modest Momma Fashion. I am a wife to an amazing man, a mother to three beautiful girls: Lily (9), Margot (2) and Evan (6 months). Like Kelley, I also wear too much blush  and love fashion. I am saved by Grace and redeemed by Christ, which is probably the best thing I can ever say about myself! This is my postpartum depression story... 

*****

I left the hospital after giving birth to my daughter Margot with a pink sheet of paper that had various toll-free phone numbers and links for postpartum depression support/help. I was supposed to immediately call or visit a website if I felt down or blue - specifically, more down or more blue than what is normal for after giving birth- whatever that might mean.

In the days and weeks following Margot's birth, I felt surprisingly great. I had suffered through hyperemesis gravidirum with my last two pregnancies (and gestational diabetes with Margot), so just by virtue of not being pregnant any longer, I was already feeling so much better. Nursing presented itself as a major challenge, a very difficult endeavor to say the least, but I still felt alright. I saw myself thinning out from the whopping forty pounds I gained and I thought was resting as much as I could for having a six year old and a newborn at home. Things were great, or at least normal.

At my six week postpartum appointment, I waltzed into my doctors office ready to hear how awesome I was recovering and go about my day. When my doctor started asking the standard questions and being visibly concerned with my answers, I knew something wasn't right.

She asked how much sleep I was getting and I admitted that sleep was sometimes difficult because of nursing and how sometimes I felt very tired, but couldn't sleep- even when Margot was asleep because I couldn't shut my thoughts off. She asked if I ever let anyone else help with Margot in the night so I could get a few hours of sleep and I was horrified by her suggestion- let someone else feed Margot? Was she insane? I never wanted anyone else to hold her, let alone feed her.

My doctor continued her interrogation and tried as directly and calmly as she could to suggest I was suffering from postpartum OCD/Anxiety. I basically told her she was crazy for thinking it. Certainly it was fine to prohibit others, even my husband, from holding the baby while on the tile (or helping in any way: no giving baths, burping, changing, feeding, cuddling of any kind could be allowed). Of course it was normal to have a sanitization routine in place for all items belonging to or sharing space with Margot. Obviously, it was common sense to never, ever let anything happen to the baby NO MATTER WHAT. Any diligent, caring, loving mom would know that and this silly, clearly misguided woman was overreacting.

I left her office in such a frenzy of emotion that day. How could anyone possibly think I had PPD/OCD/Anxiety? 

As time went on, I started slowly seeing other symptoms, though at the time I was still in hefty denial. I would have the most horrific, most vivid visions of gruesome things happening to Margot. These intrusive thoughts would just occur randomly throughout the day, sparking my need to protect her and shield her from all kinds of "danger" even more than I was. I was paralyzed with fear. I lived in absolute terror of anything happening to my baby. I'd be taking a walk and suddenly be convinced that we would be hit by a car, struck by a rogue tree branch, terrorists would appear and steal me away from my baby- the worst and most violent, horrifying things could and would plaque my mind at any given moment. I sometimes felt as though I couldn't breathe and my heart would be pounding out of my chest.

I also lived with a tremendous amount of guilt. Nothing I did ever seemed to be right or even enough. I started imposing very strict rules, restrictions and demands on myself with regard to Margot. I felt (real or imagined) pressure to comply to some unknown, unspoken, yet incredibly high standard of motherhood that was crushing and impossible to achieve! I was convinced that I would fail completely as a mother if I ever made a mistake of any kind. I was rigid, anxious and totally freaked out most of the time. I saw and heard everything through this warped lens of guilt and shame and fear.

I acquiesced to my doctor's concerns and saw my primary care physician to get a second opinion. It was determined that yes, in fact, I had PPD and also a thyroid condition, competing for my already raging and out of control hormones. 

I was a mess. 

I declined many offers to medicate because I was nursing Margot and no one could tell me with any certainty that the meds wouldn't affect her. I sought out counseling, instead. I started seeing a wonderful woman whom a dear friend recommended. I was very nervous about seeing a counselor of any kind- I felt that there was a stigma about depression and being a Christian- that it was somehow mutually exclusive. My fears, doubts, guilts and OCDs had tainted every aspect of my life, and my faith wasn't exempt from depression. I felt very alone, isolated, and forgotten, even in the midst of a loving God, husband, family and friends. 

My counselor had some hard work in store for me, but first she went to the root of my issues: fear. She gently and patiently counseled me from the Gospel, reminding me that I was fully loved and accepted by God, through Jesus' death and resurrection and that nothing I could do would ever change His love for me. That was huge in my process. It changed my entire perspective on who I am, and how because of the cross, I am free- free to make mistakes as a mother without the whole world crashing down, free to parent and raise my children how Joel and I feel is best without fearing what others think and free to actually live, without guilt! I can't even describe the incredible lightness I started feeling when I heard that. I let those words and that reality penetrate my heart and soul and it was like balm over a gaping, open wound. 

Much of my therapy has been centered on reclaiming my identity in Christ. I have felt so much unspoken (and sometime loudly shouted) pressure about being a mother that I have to remind myself that yes, while I am a mother and being a mom is my life, it is not what determines my worth or my standing before God. I have realized I can't compare myself or compete with others; I can't control every aspect of our lives and most importantly, I need God's grace, wisdom and provision everyday.  

I still feel twinges of PPD/OCD/Anxiety at times, but it is nothing compared to the crushing weight that it was before. I also have many tools and resources now to help me cope with the small flashes of panic I struggle with from time to time. I also still see my counselor. Her help and guidance have been invaluable to me and our family and we are so thankful for her. Joel and I had our third baby, Evan, in September and for the first time, I've had a normal postpartum recovery. 

PPD is no joke and I highly encourage any mommas who might be struggling to please, please, please see someone. There are so many resources available online and through most hospitals, mother's groups and churches now. There is no need to suffer or to feel alone. My email is modestmommafashion@gmail.com and I am always available if anyone needs to talk or needs support with PPD. 

*During my time in counseling, we discovered that I most likely had PPD with my oldest daughter, Lily, but that it went undetected and so I was never treated for it. 

Wow, Joanna--thanks for sharing!  I can certainly relate to what you went through, as I also had those kind of terrifying intrusive thoughts.  Thanks for showing us an example of someone who was able to make it through without medication!  That's amazing!  I know you put in a lot of hard work--and grew in your faith because of it!  

By the way, PLEASE check out Joanna's blog--it's super cute!

Do you want to talk about your struggle with mental illness of any kind and help end the stigma?  I'm taking submissions for blog posts that talk about any kind of mental illness and how you are dealing with it--the more we can bring this issue to light and stop hiding from it, the more we can help each other!

Send me an email at ourcasualfriday@yahoo.com 

 

Parenting in the 80s and 90s

I guess you would call my parents strict when I was growing up.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize they weren't really strict in all areas, just some, and in the other areas I pretty much ran around like a banshee.  Literally.  I was outside (what seemed like) all the time running wild in the woods, stealing neighbors eggs, feeding people's horses, running from dogs, exploring abandoned barns, falling out of trees.

So, for fun, I thought I would reconstruct some of the things they were strict about and their contrasting questionable 80s and 90s parenting.  (I am not slamming my parents.  I had fun growing up.  I just can't imagine giving Brixton these freedoms nowadays or in the future). 

-STRICT ABOUT: Curfew.  This started young.  When I was 6 or 7 they strapped a watch with an alarm on my arm.  When the alarm went off I had five minutes to get home or the Gates of Hell would open.

Contrasting 1980s parenting: After the watch was set, I could go where ever I wanted.  I played alone for hours in the woods, pretending I was a pegasus, a horse, an indian princess, or a pioneer.  I caught snakes, bugs, frogs, tadpoles, and the odd baby quail (which I swear I was told it had to be drowned in a bucket, which made me feel guilty for 30 years, until I asked my dad and he said he just let it go).  I would go to stranger's houses and play in their yards.  I would ride my bike miles away, to abandoned shacks and houses.  I would go to the market and scrounge for cans to recycle so I could buy candy (like an addict already).  One time, our neighbors spotted a mountain lion in the big field across from our house and they found an eaten deer carcass in the woods.  The woods where I played.  So you would think the woods would be off-limits for a while.  Nope, go ahead, Kelley, set that watch.  Go play amongst the rattlesnakes and mountain lions.  Godspeed. 

-STRICT ABOUT: Not being exposed to bad things.  At least in our own house.  MTV was verboten.  Even VH1 was out. I watched shows like Jerry Springer on the quietest volumne humanly possible while still being able to hear even a slight glimmer of what they were talking about.  This was usually while my mom napped on the couch.  I think she was just happy I was quiet for an hour.  Even if the show was, "My Father is a Transvestite Performer."  Anyway, most of the time, we were pretty sheltered from stuff.

Contrasting 1980s parenting:  The Sleepover.  I can't even begin to count how many times I spent the night at friends' houses.  This continued well into the 90s.  "Mom, Mandy's mom said it's okay if I spend the night at her house.  Can I?"  "Who's Mandy?"  "She's in my class!"  "Oh, okay, sure."  My mom didn't know that Mandy also lived with what appeared to be a few drug addicted "uncles".  Other things sleepovers taught me about: Rated R movies (6th grade at Stacy Beard's house.  It was Maximum Overdrive).  Older brothers can be cute.  One mom told her friend in front of me that I was ugly.  Perverted ghost stories  Ouija boards. Taking walks at 3 am.  When I got older it was sneaking back to my friend's house at 6am, smoking cigarettes like I was somebody important, wearing a dog leash around my neck at the Jack in the Box drive-thru, ER visits at 1 am, walking the flume trail at 2am singing Christmas songs to ward off bears and mountain lions to go camping with a group of guys (it was all innocent--the spirit of my father's talk was VERY, VERY strong--you'll see the part about the talk comes next), and so, so many more hijinx.  Brixton is never sleeping over at someone's house.

Dog leash necklace.  We were just dressing up for JIB tacos and to go to a guy's house for 5 minutes.

Small town stuff.

        Sometimes sleepovers were just about being dorks.  Like dressing up like this.   With a wig and a mom's old prom dress or something. 

1995.  The Tom Foolery of a Girl's sleepover.  My parents had no idea where I was. 

-STRICT ABOUT: Fighting.  With my brothers.  It wasn't allowed even though it happened all the time.  We had to turn to more covert methods such as a passing swat on the head or a stealth pinch.  When my parents left us to go out for a date and I "babysat" (at age 11 or 12), it was on.  We'd lock our youngest brother out of the house while tears streamed down his face (this still makes me laugh).  Then we'd tell him he was adopted.  We'd fight and eat all the candy and sweets in the house like locusts.  I was always a great babysitter.

Contrasting 1990s parenting: In the beginning of 9th grade, I got into a fist fight with a 10th grader.  She was scrappy, she was an experienced fighter (rumor had it she got into fights at the skating rink with cholas.  And you didn't want to mess with cholas.)  and she was mad at me.  After school she punched me in the face.  From there it's just a frenzied memory of hair pulling, punching (no slaps 'round hur), headlocks, and a terrified mother of somebody who got out of her car and was screaming, "Stop!!!" at us.  We got suspended.  I thought I was so dead at home.  Yeah, I got grounded, but I could tell it was a reluctant punishment.  Also, my dad starting giving me boxing tips that night, just in case I found myself in a street fight again.  Something about "reach" and "shuffle step".    **Note: The girl and I?  We're cool now. She just got out of the hospital.  Kidding.  No, we did become friends when we were on the same cheerleading squad 2 years later.  And as much as I always wanted to try out my dad's boxing tips, I sadly never got into another fight again (yet). 

-STRICT (MORE LIKE WORRIED) ABOUT: Sex.  I'll never forget the Great Thanksgiving Incident of 1991, when my dad sat me down at the dinner table and brought out a bunch of pamphlets and papers.  Pamphlets and papers with things like penises and the cross section of lady parts on it.  There we sat, for what seemed like the eternal forever, while he broke down the dirty into minute details--just so I was crystal clear on how it all worked.  Then we had a nice talk about STDs and I think there were pictures.  I couldn't look at them in the eyes for a few days.  My mom didn't actively participate, but she was around, like lurking in a corner, or acting like she was getting something ready in the kitchen or doing dishes.  When I know she was just listening.  After the trauma of that day, I was pretty sure my virginity would be around until at least the death of my parents.

and yet...

Contrasting 1990s parenting:   I was 13 and I had a boyfriend that was 17.  RIGHT? AND MY PARENTS KNEW THIS!! This boggles the mind.  I started high school when I was still 13, since I have a November birthday.  They were like, "Have fun!" when they dropped me off at the movie theater to meet him.  And he wasn't like a great guy or anything.  He smoked.  He looked like Christian Slater (I thought) which was pretty dangerous in 1991.  His friends were disgusting.  We only dated for like a month or so, but one day after Thanksgiving and THE GREAT TALK, my then boyfriend tried to grab my (non-existent) boob. And my father's terrible words, "Erection, Syphilis, Testes" flashed through my mind and I almost threw up. We broke up the next day. 

Also, I didn't own a lot of clothes.  We didn't have a lot of money for stuff like that.  But we did have money for me to buy the shortest skirt in the world, with which I would wear black tights and platform heels.  Hello, hooker?  I wore that skirt out.  I had no idea at the time how provocative it was.  One of my teachers noticed.  He wrote in my yearbook, Kelley "Long-legs".  Can you imagine that today?  He'd be strung up and called a child molester.  I never told on you Mr. Bailey.  And
 you're retired now so it's all good.

One day I got all brave and wore that skirt without tights and with a pair of 4 inch platform strappy heels.  I die of embarrassment every time I think of this.  How in the world did no one tell me I looked like a hooker???  My own parents said nothing.  But I should have known by then.  I was 19.  They were done.    I worked in the Dean of Students office.  The ladies there were perturbed by my outfit, but nice about it.  The recommended that a skirt should never go above where your hands hit on your legs.  Finally a rule!  I still abide by it.  

***

My parents were great.  They taught me a lot.  They did a lot for us.  They just choose their battles elsewhere.  GO PARENTS! 

2013 Ultimate Blog Party!

Is it really time again for the Ultimate Blog Party?!!

This is my 3rd year participating and if you haven't entered in your blog yet--go!!  It's so fun and a great way to find new blogs to read!

If you're visiting for the first time, welcome!  My About page and The Babe page have a lot of info about who I am and who I want to be!  I hope you'll leave a comment that you visited so I can take a look at your blog too!

Now off to eat some leftover Easter candy (if by leftover you mean just bought at the Target 50% off sale...and that is what I mean...)

Sowing Memories

Today felt like spring.  We walked to the park and met with friends. Watched a few trains go by. Shared snacks with dirty fingers and thieving powdered-sugar doughnut mustaches. 

Brixton walked a ways away, chasing birds.  I let him run until I felt that tug of the mother-rope that said, "Get him." 

We found ourselves in the furthest corner of the park, me content in my bright patch of sunlight, watching while Brixton explored, imagined, and learned.

Out of the fray of the playgroup, I could hear them all.  Mothers laughing, kids running and playing.  And the sun shined down upon us all, so warm. 

These park days are limited, I realized.

One day I will drive past this park and remember. 

Remember his little feet running, running so fast, running nowhere and somewhere at the same time.

We won't play there anymore.  That time will pass.  And only the echos of our play will remain there, voiced in the next rising generation of children and moms who are just starting on their journey to make memories and pass the time.

God is so good.

He lets us recapture a bit of our childhood through our children.  We stare at our children's faces while they are taking in a new experience, looking for that glint, that smile, that spark that says, wow!  Childhood is too, too short and that never becomes as painfully obvious as when you become a parent.  So we long to have children, to give them our experiences, to show them new ones, to bring to life a world that can be so full and tender. 

If having a child is like reliving a bit of your own childhood, then I can only imagine that being a grandparent is like reliving the early years of your own precious child's life.  I often imagine Brixton small again, so pocket-sized and helpless, sleeping contentedly in my arms.  How I long for that again!  It dawned on me today, this cycle of life.  Living it, reliving it, loving, and longing to love again. 

One day, if Brixton has a child, I will take that little one to the parks I used to play in as a little girl.  Except I won't only be thinking of my own childhood, I'll be remembering when I brought Brixton there to play, to jump, to breathe in the same dust and smells that I did so long before.  

Today I laid soaking up the sunlight, making memories in the park, because it's our time to plant these seeds of childhood.