Our oldest two have made good progress in swimming lessons this summer, but I’m considering forkin’ out the cash for our younger two to do this. If they ever fell into water, it would be the best money we ever spent. From the ISR (Infant Swimming Resource) website:

The idea behind Infant Swimming Resource (ISR) was born in 1966 when its founder, Dr. Harvey Barnett, was just 18 years old. As an active lifeguard with a passion for water safety, Barnett witnessed the tragic aftermath when a neighbor child drowned. At that moment, he vowed to do everything possible to ensure not one more child drowns…To date, ISR has 788 documented cases of children using ISR techniques to save themselves from drowning.

So in my other post, I promised more details regarding my prolonged blogging absence. Why I make promises like that, I’m not sure, because really, more than a year has gone by and do you know how many details are in a year? Well, there are LOTS of details in a year. And here I sit staring blankly at this darn screen with nary a hint of where to begin.

So I guess I’ll get right to the point. My very worst point. Because isn’t that what you’d really like to know about anyway? I mean, when I’m reading someone’s blog, I’m generally thinking, “OK, that’s nice. But what’s the bottom line here. WHAT’S THE BOTTOM LINE.”

So my bottom (as in rock bottom) was about this time last year. It was probably the day my dad (a seasoned Marriage and Family Therapist who’s seen his share of people with issues) asked me very seriously if I was suicidal. The question alone was enough to take my breath away, but what really frightened me was my answer. I’ve had my share of anxiety and I’m definitely melancholy, but suicide? That was never even on my radar screen until last summer.

I’ve known people who were suicidal and you know what, being on the other side of it was totally different. I figured anyone who was suicidal just wanted to die, to be gone, had no reason to live. I suppose that may be the case for some, but not for me. Actually, I didn’t want to die. To the contrary, I WANTED my children to have a mother and my husband a wife. And I WANTED to be my children’s mother and my husband’s wife. I WANTED to see my children grow up, to grow old with my husband, to enjoy life and to fulfill my life’s purpose. My thoughts of suicide were not out of want to be gone, but simply out of want for <i>relief</i>.

It’s hard to describe, but emotionally, I felt like I was walking along the top of a sharp mountain ridge with steep cliffs on either side. I was desperately trying to keep moving forward but as time went on, I felt like I was losing control.  I was terrified that something was going to push me over the edge…make me snap, cause me to have a nervous breakdown, hurt myself or my kids, I didn’t know what. I asked myself on several occasions, “Is this what it feels like to lose your mind?” The energy it took to simply put one foot in front of the other and keep going was totally exhausting. I completely lacked motivation and my daily goals were literally reduced to two things: making sure my kids had three meals a day and making sure they were safe in their beds each night. Anything on top of that, like having fun, connecting with my husband, seeing friends or going to the store was gravy.

Now, I realize there are a lot of people in the world dealing with far worse circumstances than I was. And I think we humans are designed to withstand periods of intense emotional stress. But for me, the thing that made my situation feel so crippling was that it seemed endless, indefinite. I saw no “light at the end of the tunnel.” I couldn’t imagine how things might change. Stuck. Everything seemed immovably stuck. I now have a new understanding of hopelessness. And as tragic as it sounds even now, it’s the hopelessness that made death seem like a relief.

Keep in mind that the whole time this was happening, I really had no box to put it in.  The symptoms of depression showed up about the same time I found out I was pregnant and I had never had depression before.  But I have had challenging 1st trimesters in every pregnancy so in my effort to make sense of it, I figured I was just having a particularly difficult 1st trimester.  And even though the story sounds relatively coherent now, going through it was a different story.  It was nothing but blackness.

And then there was the guilt.  I cannot tell you how overwhelming the guilt was.  I mean, here I was with SO MUCH compared to most.  I had a great husband, 3 healthy children & one on the way, all my needs were met, etc.  I’d try to will myself out of it–”I just need an attitude adjustment,” or “I need to be grateful for what I have.  So many people would love to have what I have,”  or “I’ve been pregnant 3 other times, I can handle this,” or “Just pull yourself together and suck it up.  Stop being a wimp,” or “I’m sure God called us to this place so stick it out.”  I had one close friend tell me our church was not growing because of me.  I was plagued with guilt.

And then there was the confusion about what God was doing.  To me it seemed like God was showing signs that our time at our church was over.  Meanwhile, Brian was sensing the exact opposite.  And I’m thinking, “What gives God?  We both want desperately to do what You want us to do and we’re asking, so how is it that we seem to be getting totally different answers?”  And then we’d get opposite messages from people around us.  Some would say they thought we should leave; others said they saw us there long term.  I was desperately confused.

I had my moments of anger towards God, but mostly I felt abandoned by Him.  I definitely felt abandoned. Surely He saw me in pain; did He overlook me?  But as I said, this is how I felt; it wasn’t what I knew the Bible promised.  I knew the Bible said He will never, ever forsake me.  But was this an exception?  Was He really a good God?  At this point, I was even questioning whether I still believed the Bible.  In the end though, I chose to believe, not because I felt it (CERTAINLY not because I felt it), but because He had proved Himself over and over again before.  And believe me, I had to dig deeper than I’ve ever dug  in order to hold on to the promise that He never lets go and that He IS good, even when things seem so bad.  His goodness is transcendent, even if I can’t see it.  So I hung on…and I made it clear to Him that I didn’t know how long I could keep holding on.

Meanwhile, Brian and I were completely missing each other in every way.  We argued constantly.  We were both dealing with so much stuff (me with my junk and him with the huge responsibility of leading a church that was clearly at a major crossroads).  Saying we were on different pages is the understatement of the century.  But then, in the course of 2 days, God broke through as if to say, “ENOUGH!  The confusion is over.”  It was at that point Brian realized how badly I was doing.  He immediately resigned from his position…and watched his vision die right before his eyes.  I know it was enormously painful for him.  As far as I’m concerned, his sacrifice on my behalf is probably the single most healing part of my recovery to date, and a real-life example of Ephesians 5:25 (”Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…”).

So, we sold our home and many of our possessions, we moved across the country to my parents’ house, Brian found a teaching job, we found a new church home that ministers to our souls, we bought a new home and we’re starting a new chapter.  I have no doubt we’ll be in full-time ministry again but I’m grateful for this season of rest and reflection.  There is a lot to process after an experience like ours and I expect we’ll be doing so for years.  But one thing I already know: I hit bottom…and there was my Rock.

I went shopping the other day. If you’re like me, you might need a little refresher course. I mean Shopping. In a store. As in, I was trying to find a few articles of clothing. For me. Not for my husband. Not for the kids. Not for the baby. For me. Every once in a while I’ll pick something up online, but I can’t remember the last time I actually went shopping for myself in a store.

And do you know what I walked away with? I walked away with nothing but this one burning question: WHY DO I TORTURE MYSELF?

OK, first of all, what is up with my body? That’s what I wanna know. How is it possible that I have increased by 2 sizes? I just had a baby, true, but I’m not talking about the nearly 40 pounds (yes four. zero.) I gained during pregnancy. No, I’m talking about the literal 2 extra inches in hip bone circumference.

The medical establishment would have us believe those labor pains are our bodies pushing that baby out. I say no. That’s just a ploy to make us feel empowered while giving birth…and to make us do it again. Actually, the pain we feel is not the baby coming down the birth canal but our bones being cranked into a new (and wider) position. See, if they told us the truth (i.e. that you will go up at least one dress size for every kid you birth), I suspect we would see a steady population decline as women everywhere would just say no. But I digress.

So anyway, shopping. I go to the store and head straight for the, what else, but the clearance rack. I’m looking through the clothes and find a skirt that seems cute. I look at the tag. Wow! What a steal. Wonder if it’ll fit. I doubt it. But I’ll give it a whirl.

Then suddenly, I’m overcome by panic. I start pondering the price of the skirt and I wonder why it’s so cheap. Is it on clearance because it is so ghastly that no one who’s anyone would wear it? Is it so 5 seasons ago? If I wear this skirt, will other women look at me with pity just as I look at those poor souls who still wear banana clips in their hair?

The truth is, I have no clue what I’m doing. But I’m desperate for some clothes…at least that’s what my mom told me the last time she came to visit and you know if your mom has to tell you that your things are looking “a little ratty” that it must be pretty bad and my mom is definitely not the type who would normally make a comment like that except to be helpful and supportive and it was so obvious she was doing it out of love because along with her comment came the promise to send over a few gift cards to help with the problem.

So now, as I’m pulling things off the rack, I’m extremely self-conscious. I’m thinking, “What if people see me with something in my hand to try on and it’s really hideous? What will they think?”

So here’s what I do: I find a basic piece of clothing, a pair of black pants actually, because black pants are always in style, right? and I put those on the outside of the stack of clothes I’m going to try on because those are the most visible and then if anyone looks at the clothes in my hand to try on, they’ll just see the black pants and maybe they won’t see the rest of the stuff I’ve chosen just in case any of it is really horrid.

You think I’m lying, but I kid you not. I really do this.

And then I start roaming the aisles of the store and I find women who appear to be about my age (or younger, but not too much younger because the real young ones are always about a size negative 3 and I just don’t get that) and I check out what they’re wearing. At this point I just need some ideas.

So I’m finally ready to try all these things on that I’ve so painstakingly gathered but when I get to the fitting room, I’m informed that the dressing rooms are closed—they close 30 minutes before the store closes (and the store is closing in 5 minutes) so now I’m just feeling plain dumb. But they’ll be open again tomorrow morning at 9 or 10 or whatever, but that doesn’t help me because the 45 minutes I managed to find between feedings, bedtimes and meals to make it to the store this day was a complete fluke and will probably not happen again for another 3 years. Second, I am obviously a total shopping idiot and why would I want to return to the store a second day in a row to confirm that fact?

No, I think I’ll stick to shopping online. It’s so much nicer to be humiliated and confused in the privacy of my own home.

(If I’m lucky, I’ve got about 45 minutes of uninterrupted time to get this post posted before someone wakes up around here. We’ll see if my calculations are correct.)

I am, as you can tell, alive. So is the rest of the family, including Bambino Numero Tres. All I can say is, WE. MADE. IT. (So far so good anyway.) Praise God!

Here he is…our little Sausage (my husband has a habit of assigning edible nicknames to each of our children—Burrito. Morsel. Sausage.) HE. IS. A. GIFT. Thank you all for your prayers and well wishes. I have enjoyed all your comments and emails.

So, here’s the story:

I last posted on April 13, just a few days before my due date. Well, my due date came and went with no baby in sight. I think everyone in the world who was pregnant and due in the month of April had their babies…meanwhile, I was still WAITING. I was starting to get a complex—like maybe God had forgotten about me (”Hey God, are you remembering that there’s a human inside here that really needs to come out? I beg of you, please GET HIM OUT.”)

Well, a week and a half later, I was told to call the hospital at 5 pm. Supposedly they would tell me to come in later that evening to be induced. Well, I called at 5 pm only to be told that I’d have to call back the following morning at 6 am because the Labor & Delivery department was too busy to fit me in. (I really didn’t want to be induced, but having to wait another 12 hours was akin to torture at that point.) Well, no matter, because I went into labor on my own 4 hours later. I showed them.

So, I had my first contraction at about 9 pm, we got to the hospital at about 11 pm, the baby was born at 1 am. 4 hours, start to finish. Not bad (excluding the pain, of course). Needless to say, I was extraordinarily grateful.

Things went quite well (if one can say that about labor and delivery), however I still made a few mental notes along the way. I thought I’d share them with you…

Giving Birth to Baby #3: Notes to Self

1. In the unlikely event I decide to become a manufacturer of hospital beds, I hereby solemnly swear that I will never make a hospital bed that only comfortably fits people LESS THAN 5′2″.
2. In the unlikely event I decide to go to Medical School and find myself working as a Resident in the Labor & Delivery department, I hereby solemnly swear that I will never, under any circumstances, fire questions at a woman who is clearly and unequivocally in the middle of a contraction. Such behavior is completely ASININE. What’s more asinine, is REPEATING MY QUESTION OVER AND OVER AGAIN THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE CONTRACTION…BECAUSE MAYBE SHE JUST DIDN’T HEAR ME THE FIRST TIME.
3. In the unlikely event I decide to go to Nursing School and find myself working as a Student Nurse in the OB ward, I herby solemnly swear that I will not enter the room of my first “real” patient 428 TIMES IN THE SPAN OF 6 HOURS. I will recognize that my patient HAS JUST GIVEN BIRTH TO A SMALL HUMAN AND COULD PROBABLY USE A LITTLE SLEEP. Correction: My patient could probably use a little sleep, but will never have the privilege of doing so IF I CONTINUE TO WAKE HER OR HER BABY UP EVERY 5 MINUTES BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO GET EVERY LAST EXTRA CREDIT POINT AVAILABLE TO ME. I will resist the urge to overachieve.

Well, apparently my 45 minutes are up. Kidlets calleth.

Until next time I have such a rare opportunity…

I am definitely a fan of the Carnival of Beauty because among other things, it allowed me to “meet” a bunch of you that I probably would not have had the pleasure of knowing previously. I’ve enjoyed the comments you all have left and now that I’ve read them, I will vanish into oblivion for an undetermined amount of time. No offense.

It has nothing to do with you but everything to do with this child I’m carrying who is bound to arrive at any given moment and if he’s anything like my other two, will cause such a bad case of sleep deprivation that I will hardly function outside of nursing, sleeping and going to the bathroom for about who-knows-how-long.

I should probably also make feeding my other two children a priority lest they waste away, never to return. An occasional meaningful conversation with my husband should be a priority too—it’s the least I can do since I’m sure he will prove once again how exceptional he is by being a great labor coach, getting up with the baby in the night 5.46 million times, cleaning the house, cooking meals, doing laundry and occupying the time of the other two while I’ve got an infant attached to me 24/7.

I’m sure many of you other mothers can relate when I say that other than those few things, I expect the rest of my life to virtually fade into a fog around me. I imagine blogging will be one of those things.

Having said that, I’m not closing myself off to the possibility that a short post here and there might provide just enough mental stimulation to keep me feeling like a human being. But I’m not making any promises. My sister just gave birth to my first nephew on Tuesday and each time I talk to her (or my mom who’s there with her), I’m remembering—I mean, REMEMBERING—what it’s like to have a baby.

I’m not officially due until next Tuesday so there is a possibility you might hear from me up until then. But if you come back to visit and you see that I have not posted for a very, very long time, just know I am somewhere between giving birth and getting to the point where I actually feel like I might make it out alive.

Just thought I’d warn ya.