Tag Archives: motherhood

Mothers Are Stalkers

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Every mother is a stalker—stealthy as a fox, or loud and proud as a heckler. 

She may try on other hats—friend, playmate, shopping buddy, or cook. But she will always return to the well-worn stalker cap. 

No one knows exactly why. Perhaps all those years of sleep deprivation affected her brain. Or maybe her partner has become boring and she needs to trail someone interesting. Or her dream of being a paparazzo never panned out and she’s done repressing her hunger for juicy stories.

Could it be revenge—on her own mother, or on her child—for needing her when she didn’t want to be needed? Is it fear, masquerading as care? Control masquerading as curiosity? Perhaps sheer boredom is the culprit. 

Or it could be force of habit—one that began while watching an infant’s chest rise and fall, then following a toddler through play structures, teaching a child how to use a toothbrush, then how to handle a kitchen knife. A long stint as chauffeur cements the habit, and by the time a kid has wheels of their own, stalking is like a nervous mother-twitch that can’t be medicated.

Whatever the case, mothers are stalkers, and children are their prey. They follow, but never shoot. They scribble notes and report to their partner in bed at night. They buy new camo when the old is detected, and they keep on stalking even when the tap-tap of their walkers is a dead giveaway.

And, depending on your religious beliefs, upon death they have the best of all—that birds-eye view they always wanted, the ability to hover without being detected, and maybe even a direct line to put in a few suggestions to God about how their child’s life should go.

A Mother’s Mundane Conundrum

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“You’re just making me do it!” my daughter says with a surprising amount of conviction. “You just decided I have to do it.” She’s not wrong. Nothing will happen if she doesn’t clean her room. No one cares about it except me. I feel called out as an unnecessarily controlling parent, just as I do each time one of my daughters confronts me with these sentiments.

It seems I have arbitrarily decided most of the content of their lives. I require showers, food other than fruit and juice, feeding pets, getting out of the house for school—with clothes, lunch, piano books, shoes appropriate for PE, and a sweater. Would anything dire happen if all those things were left undone? No. One or both daughters could go to school late, in PJ’s, without a lunch, wearing the wrong shoes, and sweaterless. In fact, she could probably do that for a week before anything interesting or significant took place in response to her choices.

I dislike this feeling that I am the only reason she does most of what she does. And I don’t like it when she confronts me about it. I don’t know what to say. I agree with her. Most expectations really are arbitrary—for adults as well as kids.

There are plenty of things I could say that I don’t want to say. I could say, “Someday you’ll have a job,” but that has no meaning whatsoever to a nine-year-old. Or, “You have to learn to do things now so I’m not still reminding you when you’re thirty,” but is there any real danger of that? Or, “I’ll be embarrassed if you go to school in pajamas,” but do I really want to teach my kids to make decisions based on my embarrassment? Or, “Nasty things will start growing in your room if you don’t clean it,” —okay, maybe a month from now, so is that really motivation to tidy it up today? Or, “I’m your mom and I get to decide what you need,” except that I don’t think anyone should decide another person’s needs for them. You get the idea.

So here I am with nothing to say, a truthful human being looking me in the face, questioning my demands—and why are they demands? Perhaps because requests and suggestions haven’t worked, or because my emotions are now fueling this high-octane—but nevertheless mundane—occurance.

“You’re right,” I say. “I can’t actually make your body and your arms and legs do anything. But I can remind you there will be no screen time until chores are done. And if you don’t do chores today I might give you an extra cleaning job tomorrow.” This comes out sounding a tad desperate, and something like a threat—not exactly what I was going for. But you do what you have to do.

Motherhood seems to be a mix of desperation and compassion, empathy and threats, logic and insanity. Is that what childhood feels like too?

She whimpers. She complains it’s not fair. But eventually she trudges to her room and starts picking up clothes off the floor. My heart rate returns to normal as I breathe a sigh of relief. With any luck, I’ll have at least five minutes before this conversation repeats itself with my other daughter. Meanwhile, I whimper and complain internally as I return to a pyramid of dirty dishes. I guess we’re not wholly different.

How to Be a Mother

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Breathe. And not just
during the contractions.
You must be well-oxygenated
to care for another human being.

Give up. And not just
once. Keep at it.
You must release your grasp
before your muscles cramp.

Laugh. And not just
when it’s funny.
You must include sadness and shock
and exhaustion in your mirth.

Tell the truth. And not just
to yourself.
You must tell the other moms,
and listen to their tellings.

Accept your new self. And not just
the nurturing and brave parts.
You must accept the anger,
the desperation, the invisibility.

And remember to breathe.

Two New Holes

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Shortly after my May birthday last spring, I acquired two new holes in my body. I had my ears pierced.

One aspect of the conservative Christianity I grew up in is an aversion to body piercings. And tattoos, lipstick, and clothing that reveals feminine curves. When I left home as a I teen, I bought a padded bra, colored my hair with a box of dye from Walmart, and called it good for my rebellion. As a young adult I said I didn’t want to pierce my ears or get a tattoo because I have a low pain tolerance. Also, I faint for vaccinations, blood draws, and if I hit my knee or elbow too hard. (I fainted at the dentist once, and I fainted when I went to the college clinic to get a wart removed from my foot. The nurse sent me to Walmart to buy the kind of wart remover you paint on yourself.)

Why this sudden body piercing urge, you might ask, as I’m nearing the age of 40?

Last year, my nine-year-old daughter Kyli decided she wanted to get her ears pierced. “Why don’t you have your ears pierced, Mom?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like pain.”

“Well, if you really wanted them pierced you would do it,” she countered.

Point taken. So I thought about it. I hoped quiet reflection might reveal something profound, but my reasons were a grab-bag—it hurts, most of my friends don’t wear earrings, it feels weird to do it now that I’m middle-aged, it seems unnatural to poke a hole in my body (morality aside), my parents won’t like it, and so on. Like I said, random, blah, blah, blah.

So I decided to give it a shot, get my ears pierced with Kyli, and see if I like wearing earrings. Rather than take the lead because of lived experience—my usual role as mother—I had the same questions, concerns and curiosities as Kyli. We’d be figuring this one out together.

We waited for the school year to finish since the kids attend a Christian school that doesn’t allow earrings (or colored nail polish—go figure). Kyli wanted to get earrings the moment school let out, so we made appointments at Ulta Beauty for 1pm on May 31st—one hour after school dismissal on the last day of the school year. We snagged Kyli’s bestie, got a bite to eat, and drove to the salon. Inside, past the rows of creams and powders and scents, we found a plump young lady ready to pierce our ears.

I signed the thing they handed me—a waiver?—while Kyli picked out studs. Her bestie pinched her arm hard to show her how much it would hurt. The plump lady drew dots on Kyli’s earlobes, asked us to examine them and approve the placement, then inserted a stud in a white hand-gun. Punch!—right ear done. Kyli’s eyes were wide, a combination of curiosity and alarm, as she took in the experience and tried to categorize it. Painful? Scary? No big deal? Before she could settle an answer, punch!—left ear done.

For the next minute, Kyli’s hands hovered around her ears, her instinct to squeeze them through the discomfort, at odds with her determination not to touch. I watched, ready to comfort. But I wasn’t needed. Bestie dragged her around the store, applying makeup until Kyli’s face was caked with several shades of foundation and blush and her fears forgotten.

Meanwhile, I warned the employee holding the ear-piercing gun that I’m a fainter. Judging by her look of alarm, I guessed she didn’t have a lot of experience with people fainting—either that or she had a memorably bad experience. “I’ll know if I’m going to faint, and I’ll tell you,” I assured her. She proceeded to draw dots on my ears, punch, punch, voilà! Little silver hearts rested on my earlobes. During those thirty seconds, I felt the same wide-eyed, uncertain curiosity Kyli’s face had conveyed, but when it was all over, decided the pain wasn’t worth mentioning. We took pictures, documenting this mother-daughter experience trying something new together.

All summer we cleaned around our earrings, front and back—twice a day at first, then less often. We cleaned them after showers, after swimming, after getting dirty in the yard. We twisted them around in the holes as we had been instructed, and left them in 24/7.

At first, earrings were more unnerving than I expected. It felt wrong to intentionally punch a hole in my body and take special care of it to keep it that way. Usually when I cut through my skin and flesh, I tend it carefully to facilitate healing. This was different. Also, for the first month or two, I felt slightly anxious about having something attached to my body that I couldn’t take off. When I went to bed and took off my watch and glasses, I wanted to put the earrings on my nightstand too. I wanted to take them out so my body could be just my body. During the night, I tried different positions with my pillow to put the least pressure on my earlobes.

After the prescribed six weeks, I hesitated to remove my earrings since they still oozed or bled occasionally. Kyli, tired of waiting to wear a favorite pair of earrings, took out the original studs and sported cute, sparkly flowers for a day. This joyous occasion deteriorated when I couldn’t find the right hole to get the original studs back in her ear. I had erroneously thought a hole was a hole, but the tip of the earring took it’s own course through the fleshy part of Kyli’s earlobe and came out the back in a different place!

Blood, tears, and parental concern and confusion ensued. We survived this try-to-find-the-right-hole circus two or three times over the next week, and eventually Kyli’s left ear was so unhappy she let it heal shut. When school began again in August, she wore a tiny clear stud in her right ear—which still oozed and bled sometimes. She didn’t want to remove that one, but also refused to get her left ear pierced again. We were deadlocked in pirate mode.

The first pair of earrings I bought came from a rock-and-mineral shop in a falling-apart historic building we stumbled across during a bathroom break on a road trip. They’re tiger’s-eye stones. I nearly passed out when I first put them in, but after lying on the bathroom floor and breathing deeply for a minute—usually an effective method to maintain consciousness—I returned to normal.

At this point, I’ve probably had as much fun buying earrings as wearing them. For more than six months, I didn’t leave my earrings out any longer than an hour—the holes still appeared tenuous. Either the original studs or one of my half-dozen new pairs of earrings stayed in my ears at all times. At last, a month or two ago, I slept truly naked for the first time. It felt good as good as I imagined.

In a few months, it will be a year since we pierced our ears. During that time, Kyli’s right ear developed big scabs and pus came out when I cleaned it, over and over, so a few weeks ago she took out the clear stud. It’s healing now, and she’s done with earrings for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m growing into the fun of it. My sister gave me a beautiful pair of iridescent hummingbird earrings for Christmas. Michael gave me a pair of book earrings for Valentines Day—I’d been looking and found surprisingly few options, and these are adorable tiny blue books with real pages. I wore them to the library this week, and felt that same satisfaction I get when my bra and underwear match—a covert sense of matching.

So, friend, if you’re forty-ish and thinking about earrings, here’s what I’ve learned: It’s a small adventure, and hey, maybe that’s what makes it fun. These years lean low on adventure—outside of parenting. And come to think of it, this adventure was tangentially brought to me by parenting—two new holes, the result of a question from my daughter.

How about you—any new holes in your life? Or body?

In Five or Six Hours the House Will Be Quiet

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I’m not okay. This is how I know it’s time to write.

I’m sitting in the kids’ room by the fire I lit for them—my attempt to dote on them since they stayed home from school today.

Sore throat again this morning—it has been almost daily for weeks with my younger daughter, Kyli. The older one, Kayt, said probably nothing is wrong with her but she doesn’t want to go to school. Middle school “friendship” has been sucking the life out of her. I can’t help but wonder if her chronic exhaustion and headaches are as much social as they are physical.

I shone a flashlight down two throats this morning. Kyli’s looked red, and Kayt’s had a weird white blob that dr. google says is a tonsil stone. Never heard of those before.

By the time I sit down to write, it’s midafternoon. Homework time downstairs has devolved. My stomach clenches in response to unharmonious sounds, insufficiently diminished by their travel up the stairs to my ears.

Now Kayt has come upstairs to whine and writhe. Technically she came up to say Kyli is bugging her and won’t stop. Since I made clear arrangements for Kyli to come upstairs if they weren’t enjoying sitting together, I feel a gallon of frustration and a drop of empathy. So I tell her to send Kyli upstairs, and that’s why she’s begging, moaning, and asking unanswerable questions in a nails-on-chalkboard tone of voice. She has a weird thing about not being alone.

At 7:15 this morning, when I usually would have been seeing the girls off to the bus, instead I set up appointments at the urgent care center. This change in schedule involved calling the bus driver and texting, let’s see,—their teacher, my yoga instructor, my husband, and several people I had plans with later in the day.

Did I mention the power outage? Just got yet another automated call from the power company. I have an outage that should be restored by 4:30pm, says the message. The power has already been back on for half an hour, and it’s currently 3:30. Not to mention just a few minutes ago I received an automated call informing me that the outage was caused by wildlife (read “squirrel”), and my power had been restored.

I think I’ve received five automated calls, including one that announced an outage had been reported in my area and a truck had been dispatched. Yes, I’m aware. I reported the outage when an explosive BANG and corresponding flash of light outside the dining room window resulted in all powered devices in our home going blank.

My husband is in Denver for work.

My sister is home with a sick kid as well.

My younger daughter made a “fun cutting station” on the floor in her room, where folks can experience the satisfaction of cutting various materials—like blue yarn (now in pieces all over the floor), tiny foam squares, a rubber armband (okay, that actually is super satisfying), and a plastic packing sleeve.

On the kitchen counter downstairs is a bowl of homemade slime that looks like a hot-pink pile of animal intestines. The dining table is covered with rubber stamps and paper, ink pads and embossing supplies, dirty dishes, purple slime, saltines, and homework.

Finally. I breathe. Here’s a moment of peace. Kyli is taking a break from homework, so I allow Kayt to study upstairs with me.

Kyli is quietly making a creature out of air-dry clay (a substance which already covers a significant portion of the bathroom counter due to a previous creative session this morning).

I don’t like the multiplying messes.

Sibling snarkyness nauseates me.

Most of my day has born no resemblance to the Wednesday I thought would unfold when I opened my eyes this morning.

But I ran on the treadmill and took a shower this morning, and in an unplanned burst of self-care I even dried and straightened my hair, and put in earrings. I’m sitting here by the fire, cat on the hearth, journaling. I did a marvelous breathing meditation from The Artist’s Rule, and I laughed with my girls.

After our visit to urgent care, we went to school and picked up homework (the current quarter ends in two days and there is a small state of panic about grades). Then we filled the car with gas for “real low cheap”* at the station near the school, stopped at Walmart for grocery pickup, and came home for the whole slime-making, lunch-eating, power-outage bonanza, followed by the Sibling Homework Crisis of 2024.

So I’m not okay.

But also I am.

Because it’s okay to not be okay.

And I’m grateful my kids don’t have strep, and … this just in: Kyli is cutting a stick of gum into pieces, holding the scissors above her mouth so each piece drops in … back to gratitude—for the fire warming my feet, for furry and purry kitties, for a relatively small pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. I haven’t yelled at my kids, and I have listened to them. I’m going out with girlfriends this evening.

And—bless Mother God—in five or six hours we’ll (fingers crossed) be tucked in bed and the house will. be. quiet.

*If you want to acquaint yourself with the phrase “real low cheap,” watch this.

Toothpaste

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Toothpaste

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for chocolate chips
melted into a couch cushion,
bandaids on the shower wall,
and toothpaste. so. much. toothpaste—
crusted onto the tube,
smeared on the bathroom counter,
cemented to sinks and walls.

Blessed are You
for Cheerios on the kitchen floor
crushed into powder,
coat wet and dirty
from a night in the back yard,
sandal forever lost
in the mud of Anthony Lake,
chip crumbs in the bunk bed.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for candle wax dripped
down the cupboard door,
Q-tips cut into pieces,
gum saved on the dining table “for later.”

Two young humans dwell here
who create often and live large.
May they always have
permission to be messy and alive,
and enough money for toothpaste.

Prayer, Revised and Expanded

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My journal takes me back in time. September 25, 2015. Thirty years old. Married ten years. Two daughters—Kyli two months past her first birthday, and Kayt a month shy of her third. That means on the day I wrote this prayer I had a one-year-old and a two-year-old. No surprise that “broken,” “scared,” “no match,” and “tired” feature in this heart-cry, penned during a rare stolen moment. My heart bled out through the ink of my pen. I turned to the page and to my heavenly parent, because together they were the safest place I knew.

April 17, 2024. Thirty-eight years old. Married 18 years. Kyli and Kayt are now 9 and 11. We’re deeply settled into the house we were in the process of purchasing in 2015. And I’m writing, which I now realize is not only a safe place for me, but also a creative passion.

Today I’ll respond to myself in this prayer. A spiritual journey is a both/and experience, dense with contrast and contradiction. And so today maybe I disagree with my thirty-year-old self, but my experience and beliefs then were as valid as my experience and beliefs now.

Truthfully, I haven’t been writing spiritual content much recently. I’m weary of cultural Christian ideas, the sin-and-salvation language, the beliefs that tied my hands behind my back. But set all that aside, and there is a friendship. Prayer is a celebration of friendship.

Good morning, Lord.

I am in a place I know You do not intend for me to be. I’m literally sick with worry. I can’t stop my head from spinning and my heart from panicking. Please speak truth to my heart and save me from myself.

You can be in this place. It’s okay to not be okay. You won’t feel this way forever. And yes, keep believing there are better things ahead. You are held.

I believe the solution is walking with You, but I can’t even do that. I am so broken, so scared, so selfish. Please do it for me, Lord. Take my heart, take my marriage, take my parenting, take my responsibilities at church and book group and other places, take the move to the new house, take meal planning and grocery shopping, take the lies that cripple me. Take my heart of stone and replace it with a heart of flesh.

What does it look like to “walk with God”? You are beautiful and your life is beautiful. You are worn out. Ask for help. Take medication. Drink coffee. Watch TV shows. Cry. Plan a day for yourself—that is not selfish. Your heart of flesh is already there. And this grieving might be just the thing to help you find it.

I confess my selfishness, my desire for control, my fears, my misbeliefs. They are sin and they do not honor You. Please take them from me. Please fight this fight for me. I am no match for sin, no match for the devil, no match for life.

Overwhelmed, flooded, depressed, alone, trapped. You feel these things deeply. You are stronger than you think, and not as strong as you think. You might have to let get of what you’re holding tight, and holder tighter to the things you’ve been letting go. Don’t know what that means? Don’t fret. God really does have your back, and She’s not the least bit disappointed.

I can do nothing … but isn’t that a good thing? For Your strength is made perfect in weakness [2 Corinthians 12:9]. Please hedge me behind and before and lay your hand upon me [Psalm 139:5]. Please take away my addiction to negative emotions. Teach me to rejoice in Your victory in my life, to give You the glory, to have a heart of thanksgiving.

These things you dream of will happen. You will learn to enjoy feeling happy, to like yourself, to feel gratitude and joy.

Lord, I am lonely. I am broken. I am too self-centered to see the beauty of You and the many good gifts You are showering on me daily. I surrender to You, Lord. Please save me from myself, Lord.

God will save you from yourself by introducing you to your true self. It’s okay to be lonely and broken. You are also brave and kind and capable.

I need time with You daily in prayer and in the Bible but I feel helpless to make that time. Please do it for me.

God loves to spend time with you. She hears you.

Thank You that You see me as I am and love me. I am so tired of myself. I am so grateful that You are not overwhelmed by my brokenness. Thank You that You use brokenness for Your glory. Give me a testimony that will draw others to You. Lord, if I need a mentor, please provide.

Keep speaking these truths. And when you’re too tired to speak them, the Spirit will speak them for you. You don’t need a testimony; you are a testimony. And you always will be.

I am terrified of the day ahead of me. Take this from me, Lord. Give me eyes of faith. Remind my heart to lay everything at Your feet and let You do the heavy lifting. I want to take Your yoke upon me and learn of You, and accept the rest You promise [Matthew 11:29]. I want to be Your servant and friend so that others will be drawn to You.

Oh dear one, these days are so long and so hard. I see you. You can do hard things. And God is teaching you to rest, even now.

Thank You for my brokenness, thank You for trials and difficult times. Thank You that You are enough and everything else is a cherry on top. I choose by the power of Your Spirit to abide in You. Please let me be a branch today. [John 15:4, 5]

Way to go! You are receiving with open hands. But you know, “everything else” is the stuff life is made of, and it’s okay to want it to feel lighter. You are a branch. You are a badass. Many good things are coming for you, and one day you will feel excited about what the day holds. In the meantime, go get some coffee.

On Deprivation

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Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Absence make the heart go wander.

Both, I suppose, are true.

I’m thinking about deprivation—absence—because I have been on a vegetable juice fast for over 48 hours and am deliriously hungry for something I can chew, something with texture and flavor, something buttered. My husband, Michael, has juice-fasted with me these past two days and we are preparing to break our fast. I peeled an assortment of white and orange sweet potatoes, cut them into rounds—cut their fat middles into half-rounds—put them in a casserole dish with plops of butter, and slid them into the oven while it was still preheating.

Years ago, when Michael and I hadn’t had sex for two months, we sought counseling. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to have sex, we just weren’t having it. It was too risky, to vulnerable, took too much energy. It was intimidating, easier left undone. I had a cognitive desire to partake in body-to-body intimacy, but my emotional and physical self was highjacked, under the control of an exhausted mommy-brain and a litany of fears that I would never be enough. The counselor’s advice? Abstinence. Set a period of time in which we would not allow ourselves sexual intimacy. See if our desire found space to rise up and write the story. I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t remember if it worked. One way or another we got back into a rhythm of intimacy.

After 20 minutes I returned to the kitchen to stir and fork the potatoes. The smell drew me in. I began almost to feel the potato on my tongue—the texture, the saltiness, the butter and warmth, even the way those sweet potatoes would feel in my stomach, a meal of substance. My fork couldn’t pierce the potato chunks. I set another timer and returned upstairs to my bed, where I lay devouring a book about writing.

I went to a MOPS meeting once and listened to a woman talk about having sex daily—or more—with her husband. It appeared to be an intentional stress-management technique: stop in the bedroom before a stressful meeting, and return there after the stressful meeting. Was this couple addicted to sex? Maybe. For better or worse, I have been more addicted to abstinence than indulgence. I am better at not relating, not watching, not eating, not sexing, not reading, not cleaning. The one exception, my most joyous indulgence, is sleep.

The second 20-minute timer on my phone made me jump. This time the fork sunk into the potatoes. I speared two chunks and returned the rest to the oven. With vigor I blew on the procured samples, fearful of burning my tongue in my excitement. I felt almost guilty eating those potatoes by myself in the kitchen—like candy Michael didn’t know about—first one piece, then the next. How quickly it became pedestrian, the tasting, the chewing, the swallowing—I have done it a million times. How rapidly I moved from fast to feast. Yes, absence made the heart grow fonder, but it wasn’t a new fondness; it was a remembrance, a desire to return to what nourished me. So if absence makes the heart go wander, is it because the thing that it left was not nourishing?

Motherhood subjected me, unwillingly, to sleep deprivation. Did my heart “grow fonder” or “go wander”? It got bitter. Seethingly bitter. Now that I sleep most nights uninterrupted, do I appreciate sleep with greater depth? Yes. But I also hold it more loosely, because I experienced the pain of losing it when I held it with passionate desire and commitment. Honestly? I wish I had let myself “go wander” during those years of little sleep—drink coffee, ask for help, eat chocolate, binge on a TV show. Loyalty can be a real drag.

I fetched Michael from his office with the promise of “real food.” He nearly leaped from his chair. A few minutes later we sat behind a white plate piled high with the entire contents of the baking pan, Michael’s arm around my shoulders, each with a fork in hand. We ate in satisfied silence, broken only by exaggerated mmmm’s, and an occasional thought from the day.

Motherhood also pried rigidity from my desperate, clinging hands. Unwillingly, I abstained from control. This was the worst kind of deprivation. Eventually I grew tired of dwelling on what I couldn’t have, so I wandered over to the “flexible” aisle and shopped there. Did I sometimes miss the old feeling of having control? Sure. Would I return to the way I was before? Hell no. These days I can be late, forget an item at the store, give a friend wrong information, leave the dishes in the sink and the laundry in the washing machine for days—and come back around to it when I have the time and capacity. Sometimes a forced absence is the only way to move forward.

At this moment, I am more grateful than usual for food. I am grateful for farmers and shippers, grateful for money to buy food, grateful for peeler and knife, oven and spices, and perhaps most of all, tastebuds—proof that pleasure is God’s idea, and food Her sensual offering.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Absence makes the heart go wander.

Absence makes the heart glad it left behind what it didn’t need.

Try absence sometime. See which way your heart turns. Maybe you will become grateful for something plain. Maybe you will discover a new love. Maybe you will leave behind a person or habit you don’t need.

“Sell Your Cleverness”

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“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

– Jalal ad-Din Rumi

I wish I’d had a good enough read on the market to sell my cleverness before it plummeted in value, which happened sometime after my second daughter was born. Cleverness worked like a charm when I was employed. Often I held the unnamed distinction, boss’s favorite. So I brought cleverness home when I quit work for full-time momming.

In retrospect, I should’ve sold cleverness the moment I stepped out of my office for the last time. But at that point bewilderment was nowhere on my radar. I didn’t know anyone who traded it, had never even heard of it.

Fast forward three years. Everything about my children was unpredictable—what they’d eat, when they’d sleep, which emotional roller coaster they’d ride next. Their chaotic reach extended far beyond the length of their dimpled arms, changing my relationships with friends and extended family, my calendar, the size of my purse, and my mental health.

Cleverness steadily dropped in value. Too exhausted to do anything about it, I felt relieved when my portfolio manager stepped in and started buying… wait, what? You’re buying bewilderment? How does one trade with a currency that by its definition means you don’t know what you’re doing?

Before I knew it, cleverness held only 5% of my total investment. Bewilderment dominated my portfolio. I didn’t like it one bit. But, over time its value increased.

I mourned cleverness far too long, pining over it and remembering its heyday. I wanted it back. I took some small amount of comfort in knowing that every parent before me learned to invest in bewilderment. But mostly I missed cleverness. I went to therapy. That helped. I deconstructed my faith. That helped. I got on medication. That helped. I dropped most of the balls I was juggling and concentrated on just a couple. That helped.

Reluctantly, at the growth speed of a bonsai tree, I grew into ownership of bewilderment. I kind of started to like bewilderment. It gave me permission to have no idea what I’m doing as a mom, to not know what God is up to, to let my marriage be messy, and my friendships be spontaneous.

Truth be told, had Rumi sat me down on my last day of work and advised me to sell cleverness and buy bewilderment, I would’ve told him cleverness had always served me well and motherhood would be no exception. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

At the time of this writing, my daughters are 9 and 11 years old, and I’m settled quite nicely into bewilderment. But I have a suspicion that my portfolio manager is on the hunt for something, maybe a new investment that will climb in value during the kids’ teen years. I am definitely not okay with this, but I have a feeling I’m gonna have to run with it. I mean, it couldn’t be worse than selling cleverness to buy bewilderment. Could it?

One Year on Antidepressants

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The year after my daughter Kayt was born felt like three years. I guess that’s when my depression began. I often said I would’ve rather given birth a second time than gone through that first year with an infant. After a lifetime of receiving praise and recognition at work and school, the transition to an unnoticed 24/7 job was rather like being plucked from the heart of New York City and dropped in backwoods Alabama. Nothing worked the way it had before.

Kayt was perfect. Even the nurses in the birthing ward said she was one of the cutest babies they’d ever seen. I liked many aspects of caring for her, but I didn’t like being tired all the time, and I didn’t like having little control over how I spent my days. As months and years passed, my resentment grew. I was angry that I didn’t get to rest. Rest always felt like a liability because it could be interrupted at any time by someone else’s urgent needs.

Depression runs in my family—both sides—but I understood little about depression. I thought it meant feeling dark all the time, being unable to get out of bed, unable to accomplish anything. Since my go-to when I’m stressed is to do more, my productivity was rarely affected by my sense of well-being (or lack thereof). I plodded on, day and night. Cook, clean, shop for groceries, open mail, plan birthday parties. Nurse babies, read to toddlers, remind preschoolers to get dressed, fight with kindergartners about the letters of the alphabet, drive kids to and from school. I was often up at night. My kids never did that magical thing the parenting books call, “when they start sleeping through the night.”

When Kayt was 21 months old, our second daughter, Kyli, was born. A year later we moved to a larger house in the same town. The girls woke several times every night for weeks after we moved. A few months later, I started counseling. I was perfectly miserable in my perfect life, and I wanted help.

My counselor, Beth, became a trusted partner on my journey. She saw me—the real kind of seeing—and she started me on the path to seeing myself with compassion. But after seven years of intermittent personal therapy and marriage counseling, Michael and I found ourselves in a dark period. My depression deepened around April that year, and by the time it leveled out in June, it had made a significant negative impact on our marriage. I resisted our marriage counselor’s nudges toward trying antidepressants, until the moment I decided that if I could do something to spare my husband from a hollow wife, and my kids from an angry mother, I ought to try it.

My kind doctor offered to see me one morning before her first patient, so I didn’t have to wait months for an appointment. She prescribed Fluoxetine, and in mid-July last year, I began the drug experiment. Four days in I wrote, “I have had a significant increase in difficulty with sleeping (which is usually a non-issue for me). I have had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and going back to sleep, and twice I’ve been awake long enough in the wee hours of the morning that I start to feel nauseated and have to eat something before I can go back to sleep. Michael and I both feel that I do have improved emotional capacity. It has been a tiring week, but my ability to handle things without getting overwhelmed and shutting down seems to be better than usual. And I would say I feel less dark and discouraged, despite the difficulty sleeping and the resulting tiredness.”

A few weeks later my sleep had mostly returned to normal. By October I was settling into feeling more alive than I had in ten years, so when Michael suggested that the medication was affecting my libido (it was), I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not sacrifice my mental health for an orgasm. After working through that with our counselors, it was smooth sailing.

Fall became winter and I marveled at my capacity to enjoy life. I felt a renewed sense of agency as I regained the ability to choose a response other than anger to life’s frustrations. I knew I was lucky to have responded so well to the first medication I tried. A few friends had cautioned me or expressed concern about antidepressants, and I was well aware that a wide range of negative effects were possible. But the primary effect the medication had on me was to make me feel human again.

As spring approached, I wondered what my annual spring depression would look like. Three years in a row I’d darkened inside as the days grew longer and trees blossomed. My doctor said I could increase my dose of Fluoxetine if needed. Three weeks into April, I did. In my notes I wrote, “To this point, I have only positive things to say about being on Fluoxetine. I have come alive, enjoy so many things, and am more flexible and joyful. Started feeling my spring depression a few weeks ago, so I’m planning to try the higher dose for a month. Then hoping to go the opposite direction and maybe stop taking it later this year.”

Five days later I wrote, “I feel blank, like this higher dose of antidepressants has removed all ability to feel, all motivation, and almost all thought. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it up for a month. I write from my mental and emotional activity, so if there isn’t any, I’m not sure I’ll be able to write. I do have three topics in mind though, so I will try to write, and I will drink coffee and text friends and maybe do some yard work, definitely take a shower, force myself to cook, invite myself to enjoy the sunshine, maybe color some birthday cards for friends. I know I am okay, but I miss feeling it. I guess the plus side of being emotionally numb is that I don’t respond to everything with anger.”

Ten days later: “Thirty mg of Fluoxetine is a mixed bag. Motivation is down, libido is down, I don’t feel much emotion, haven’t cried except when Phred died (the family cat), and it seems like writing is more of a struggle. I’m just more numb, more blah. On the other hand, I feel pretty calm, not very angry. I’ve been more easily in touch with what I like and what I want, instead of what I should do, and I’ve been doing more fun things with the girls—a little less focused on tasks and more oriented to quality time. It’s weird to in some ways be more connected and in some ways more disconnected.”

After only two weeks on the higher dose, I was unable to refill one of my prescriptions and I dropped back to 20mg of Fluoxetine. A few days later I wrote, “I’m feeling good about it, now. I was pretty ‘muted’ and I’m feeling a bit more alive the last couple of days, and not too heavy.”

My spring depression slowly receded, and this summer has been the least stressful summer since kids came along 11 years ago. There’s no way of knowing how much of this has to do with antidepressants. My relationships, personal growth, the ages of my children, and even what I choose to eat and read are all in the mix. Ultimately, I’m glad I threw some drugs in there. I feel like I got my life back this past year, and I rediscovered the version of me that isn’t bitter and exhausted.

What have I learned about my mental health during this past year? I’ve noticed some things that don’t help me: exercise, to-do lists, a full schedule, guilt and shame (which can come from self-help books, religion, and—most often—my internal dialogue). There’s a longer list of things that do help me: small groups, one-on-one time with friends and with my spouse, coffee, writing, stillness, being flexible (I’ve learned this significantly reduces anger), learning to stay in friendship with myself and live out of my Spirit center, time in nature, recognizing when I fear myself, and allowing myself to experience intimacy and connection out of my imperfections (not my perfections).

My doctor encouraged me to take antidepressants for one full year and go from there. I’m a few days past the one-year mark, and trying to make a decision. I slept like shit last night and I feel like shit this morning, which makes me hesitant. On the other hand, I know what to watch for when I decrease medication: anger, loss of friendship with myself, feeling overwhelmed/helpless, moving from enjoyment to duty, feeling afraid. I’ll start my lower dose on Friday and see how it goes. There’s nothing to be afraid of. God and I and most of the people in my life are on my side. I’m not in a battle against myself (despite what the church taught me). I’m part of a big, dysfunctional human family, where everyone belongs simply because we are alive. And ultimately, belonging (and drugs) is the way out of depression.