Like Air, Really

A couple of weekends ago, Brent watched the kids for me so I could get out of the house. I had no plan; I just knew I needed space between me and the continual onslaught of noise and need. I left while the kids were resting, around 3:00. I didn't come home until their bedtime.

I drove in a bit of a daze to the bookstore. Since jumping from two kids to four, this feeling of fog in my head has never really lifted. Some days I fight through it; some days I lean into it and let everything go. It has taught me to stop being concerned about everything being "just so" - Sadie's hair is usually a mess; I have been unable to host any get-togethers; this blog is terribly vacant lately; I have lost the bandwidth for maintaining well-organized details of any sort. And while this lesson in imperfection is one for which I am grateful, it has cost me the ability to maintain my side of a coherent conversation - and the public loss of my train of thought is sometimes rather embarrassing; unless I'm one-on-one with someone, I generally refrain from talking.

I was only in the bookstore about six minutes before my eyes began filling with tears. I almost started sobbing. The solitude (in the midst of strangers, yes), the instrumental music playing, the chance for my mind to quiet, the peace of the moment overwhelmed me. That hollow, starved place inside me swallowed the solitude and spit out tears.

So I wandered around, picking out a few gifts for people, drinking a fancy coffee drink, and splurging on an Imogen Heap CD. By the time I left, a damp darkness had fallen.

I was not ready to go home.

Putting on my new CD, I drove to the top of a hilly street and parked. The small town lights twinkled and I absorbed the music. I think I was there more than an hour.

This is the thing - solitude is necessary to creativity. Solitude is necessary to good thinking. Solitude is necessary for my mental health. And solitude is the hardest thing to find when mothering a large family.

Something deep within me just split open while I sat in the car. It split, and all the grief of missing my old self overflowed. The self that lit candles and sat alone and created. The self that read hard things and had the attention span to ponder them. The self that went out and walked in the dark. The self that loved being alone in a crowded coffee shop. This noise, this fog, this constant refereeing of ear-splitting squabbles, this never-ending sense that a gazillion things need to be done right now, this incessant multi-tasking sucks the creativity - one of the things that brings life - out of me.

And, oh, sitting alone in the blackness and listening to music was so good. So good.

I don't know what the answer is - I don't anticipate consistently getting more of this time until the little people are older, in school, and easier to care for so that others can relieve me. But I do know that it's OK. This is a season of life. This is one of the costs of mothering. And when we all pull through this I'll be wiser and more durable for it.

All us mamas need something that we don't get while parenting. I guess I wrote this to acknowledge the struggle. It's not romantic - our needs not being met - even if it is for the miracle of our children's lives and growth. But it's OK, sort of, for a while, as it's part of this journey. It's temporary, and it's for the best possible reasons. And as soon as we can, whenever we can, we need to grasp those opportunities to feed our spirits.

Some might advise...just get up earlier, or put some time on the schedule for yourself, or get a regular babysitter or...you name it. The truth is - I would if I could. Really. You don't need to read a post on all the reasons space for myself is limited, but there are reasons. All mamas have reasons that are not simply excuses. One of the things I am learning is not to feel guilty that someone else's solution is not a solution that works for me and my family. (That's another lesson from imperfection and chaos - letting go of guilt and the "requirement" of pleasing others. Those are tough ones to leave behind, but doing so brings tremendous freedom.)

For now I'm going to hold on to that moment. That span of four hours of solitude. It's amazing how long I can go now on a single experience. And I'm going to listen to that Imogen Heap album on repeat while I'm driving a van full of arguing, weird-sound-making children around town. And I'm going to hold my breath until I get another chance to break the surface for a gulp of solitude.

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P.S. In order to write this post I put off going to the grocery store (which I am going to regret later when I need to fix dinner); I took two breaks to read Oli a book; I got Bella up from her nap and changed her diaper; and I still desperately need a shower (which I am going to have to rush so that I can go pick Sadie up from school). Just a reality check.

The Thing that Sucks about Infertility is that It's the Hardest Way to have a Baby

I started out writing this post about the greatest challenge for me as I deal with infertility. And then that one thing turned into two things. And then it turned into a realization that no matter how hard it has been, I really have nothing to complain about. And then the post became moot. And then it became relevant again because suddenly there was a greater truth than the original complaint. So here is my progression of thought along with a happy ending.

Infertility is on my mind of late because I am soon turning 40 years old. As I approached this number, so dreaded by any woman wishing to bear children, I thought: this is it. If I have any shot at possibly getting pregnant, I had better get going on that treatment now. So I did. Seven years ago, or so, we went through a couple rounds of treatment that were unsuccessful...which quickly led to the adoption of Benjamin. This time we decided to try another couple rounds of a slightly more aggressive treatment, but we found out last week that our final attempt still did not take. We're done with medical intervention now.

So it's over. The lingering hope that our unidentified issue could be circumvented by science...done. Moving on. No babies in this womb. The grief finally ambushed me.

My first complaint about infertility is that it just makes growing a family hard. No option is simple. None are cheap. You have to really want to add a baby to your family. And whether you do it through medicine or adoption, it is a long and challenging process. 

There is the issue of money - medicine costs money. Adoption costs money. Money that some folks would use for a tropical vacation or dramatic home improvements or to pay off college loans.

There is the pain factor. Giving oneself shots in the belly is really no fun. Though I must say, I got a kick out of looking at my husband after he jabbed an intro-muscular needle into my right butt cheek and reflecting on how we never anticipated that living out our wedding vows would include sticking a needle in one of our arses.

Adoption requires struggling through mounds of paperwork and jumping into an intimate friendship on the count of three. It requires adding more people to the family, and being available to others who are experiencing a loss at the very moment you are experiencing the joy of addition.

I sum up these challenges with this: for those of us who are infertile, simply getting to the point of attempting to add a child requires a ridiculous amount of forethought, planning, decision-making, and effort. And for every thought one has toward a possible next step, there are numerous thoughts that pop up against that course of action.

The second burden on my heart is that I just want to experience pregnancy and birthing. I am the mama who dreamed of natural birth, of doing things at home, of breastfeeding for an uncomfortably long time. Some of my friends think me a bit of a hippie. Call it what you will, I really wanted to give birth and be present for it all along the way. I do not have that choice...and my heart hurts a bit.

But as much as I am tempted to complain about it, we who are infertile are not unique in our struggle. In a lifetime, a couple will be faced with any number of health challenges, child-bearing or rearing challenges, life-and-death challenges. Some of us get cancer. Some experience miscarriages in between healthy births. Some give birth and then discover their child has a grave illness or developmental issue. Some give birth once and then can't anymore, and their family growth gets cut off prematurely. Lots of couples deal with financial constraints as they consider having another child. Lots encounter struggles during pregnancy or have premature births.

I can't mope about my situation. Especially because here is where it led:

I am privileged to have the children I have through open adoption. PRIVILEGED. They are dear and amazing little people. I have seen God work through our situation time and time again. And how can I dishonor that by rewriting the script this time around? Why would I want to? I don't have any desire to change our past or the family I have been given, so I will look at this latest moment of grief through a different lens.

I will set aside my feelings of loss to embrace our next journey - we intend to pursue another open adoption. Our final one, as far as I can tell. There must be another boy or girl growing in the womb of a mama who is looking for safety and love in a package that resembles our family.  So we will get out there and wait for her.

The thing that sucks about infertility is that it is the hardest way to have a baby. But in the end, that's not so bad.

Where there is a will, there is a more difficult way.

Little P is shaping up to be a willful child. Honestly, I thought I was supposed to get another six months to a year before this kind of behavior hit. Maybe he's an early bloomer. Maybe this means we'll get through this part sooner than everyone else. Or, maybe, just maybe, he qualifies as a, gasp, strong-willed child. (As I write this, a very tired Little P is raging in his bed with the most incredibly high-pitched squeal. Sadly, this is not an unusual sound these days.)

A few months ago I wrote to a friend of mine whose child is, I don't know, maybe six months older than Little P. I asked her what she was doing for discipline...you know, how do you discipline a child who doesn't communicate in English sentences? Or even phrases? She wrote back that her little cherub hadn't really needed discipline yet.

Ahem. Really? (OK, I am exaggerating a little bit for the sake of humor. Please, A.M. still love me and do not take offense. I am trying to be funny.) Really, the child never looks straight into your eyes and then kicks you while you're changing his diaper? Really, he never scoots his butt off your hip and then deadweights himself in order to drop out of your arms when he wants the item you removed him from? Really, the child never does anything contrary to what you are teaching him, contrary to what is good and polite? Really, the child never needs correction?

Side Note: Discipline is often mistakenly perceived in today's culture as punishment. That is not a correct definition. Discipline is actually training or teaching - and in effective teaching there are consequences to actions. Some actions lead to unhappy consequences, corrections, (time out, spanking, inability to have dessert or a favorite toy, whatever) and others lead to good outcomes (freedom to participate in what everyone else is doing, increased privilege or responsibility, happy friendships, stickers on the chart, and so on).

Because, yes, Little P knows that piercing shrieks are irritating and that deadweighting would be an effective escape maneuver (if Mama's arms were not made of steel from lifting his 22 pounds in and out of a carseat daily). He also occasionally throws himself on the floor with a wail because I wouldn't let him eat the powercord or play with glass objects.

So, while Little P is as charming and sweet as ever in public, at home we have battles over boundaries. (I believe in my heart that doing battle over appropriate boundaries is a factor in creating a child who is sweet in public.) And wooooo, boy, when he decides to throw down, does he ever THROW DOWN.

Thus my thoughts that he might be described as strong-willed. These strong-willed children are scary because they require significantly more stamina to parent. They are more dramatic about getting their way, more willing to keep up the fight, and more challenging to the parental commitment to consistency in discipline. It is hard to be consistent when the child is so persistent. Right? Some of you know what I'm talking about.

I could be wrong. I am a first-time parent and do not have the wisdom of someone who has witnessed three different personalities going through the toddler stage. Only time will tell. But I can say that while Little P does not challenge me all that often (he is generally really laid-back, obedient, and easy-going...he is sweet and interested in the world and he laughs easily - my heart melts just thinking about all his wonderful characteristics), when he does, he challenges the core of my being. OK, sometimes it's that bad, but actually I'm learning some tools that are really helpful in these scenarios.

So, assuming that Little P is the kind of child wholly committed to doing battle when he determines a situation worth it, and assuming that I am a mother equally committed to doing battle in order to raise a boy who is kind, considerate, loving of God and others, and with the inner strength to live according to his values, etc, etc, how shall I cope with this challenge?

First off, I think raising a strong-willed child is GREAT. It's just going to require that I become a real warrior on my boy's behalf. See...so many people drift through life. They don't know where they want to go, or they do, but they don't have the huevos to get there. And then they feel bad about not following their dreams, and that leads to more stagnancy and so on. A never-ending cycle. There are many reasons for folks getting stuck like this, but my hunch is that a strong-willed person is less likely to land in this place. My boy who is willing to fight for a glass object at the age of 13 months, fight with a frenzy for the thing he wants, will likely have the gumption to stand up on behalf of the downtrodden in the world some day. Or have the stamina to train for the Olympics or weather an economic downturn if he has entrenuerial tendencies. Whatever his dream is, whatever value he must fight for, he will. If he's not the type to rollover and let it be when he's young, he probably won't when he's old. Or so I hope.

Secondly, raising a strong-willed child is A HUGE RESPONSIBILITY. We've all known a family where the child is a tyrant, a dictator, and a spoiled, immature brat. The parents cower at his demands. Family friends dread their visits and maybe even fall away. Teachers cry tears of frustration. A parent of a strong-willed child better step up to the plate. Better make use of the techniques they know they should be using...even when they're tired and it's easier to give in. A strong-willed child can go out and change the world - what a gift! And yet, it is a gift that requires strenuous effort in training.

The questions become - What boundaries are really necessary? (I don't want to henpeck him and beat him down.) What methods of discipline are appropriate to the person he is? How do I discipline him in a way that teaches him but does not break his spirit?

I have been reading Shepherding a Child's Heart and Love and Logic for the Early Childhood Years. I like both of these books. SCH talks about having biblical objectives for discipline (more than just "being a nice person") and using the two-pronged approach of authentic communication with the child and controlled spanking (as opposed to spanking in an angry or frustrated state of mind and never listening to a child's perspective or reasons for misbehavior). The point is - discipline should aim to train the heart, not simply modify behavior. Behavior stems from the condition of a person's heart, therefore the heart is what is truly at stake.

LnL provides methods for developing appropriate independence in your child and for helping the child see that they alone are responsible for the consequences of their actions. Their choice caused them to lose the toy, sit in time-out, or rush to school in their pajamas - not mean old mama. The methods lead a greater sense of responsibility in the child as well as to easier parenting for the adults due to fewer battles arising.

I will probably be publishing further thoughts on these two books. I highly recommend Love and Logic to new parents. If you are a Christian parent or a parent interested in learning about appropriate and effective use of spanking, or of having well-defined objectives for discipline, go get Shepherding.

For now, I hope Little P is strong-willed, and I hope that I am woman enough to match him.

Gratitude

While I have a million things on my to-do list, and ya'll are probably dying for an update on Little P's holiday experience, I pause to share what is bursting from my heart right now. I am in the middle of folding a pile of laundry and the song "How Lucky We Are" by Meiko just came to me over the wireless waves of Pandora. I just have to finally write this stuff down.

Our lives have seasons of their own. Months or years of joy or sorrow or plain old hard work with little relief. And each season feels, when we are focused narrowly on some detail or another, like the rest of our lives. Especially when we are tired or trapped and having a hard time finding hope. Or, in my case all too often (so embarassing to admit, but here I go), my narrow focus leads me to seek scapegoats - people or circumstances outside myself that I can deem responsible for all that is lacking in my routine or relationships or spirituality. Oh, I do love to blame other people and things for my own failures!

But this is not the season I am in right now. My heart is exploding with gratitude.

Yesterday I picked up Little P and we started dancing to some happy song on the radio as we are wont to do. He laughs when I spin around, and he leans back, and his wisps of hair lift up in the breeze created as we turn in circles. As we danced around our incomplete, stained-carpeted, cluttered office I started crying from happiness. To have moments like that with my baby, to be able to stop everything and just love and be loved. To spin in circles and hear my baby's laughter...well, all I can say is thank you. To God, to Emma, to Kevin, to Brent. And I need to remember this when I start getting all microscopic on life.

And I am grateful for my husband. It is generally easy for me to be grateful for him - he is a man of integrity. He is a leader. He is constantly learning and allowing himself to be changed by God and wise people for the better. He is increasing in empathy and love. He adores his son and willingly helps out around the house and with the baby with no complaint. He expresses his love for me daily. He is trying new things and taking on fresh challenges. He is handy with tools and has incredible passion for life. He is strong. He works hard to provide for me and Benjamin, to make it possible for me to stay home with Benjamin.

I am blessed and I acknowledge it. And what a brat I would be if I squelched the joy with ingratitude! Please remind me of this when I start looking for scapegoats. Happy Monday, ya'll. Back to the laundry.

READERS: What are you grateful for? How are you blessed?

Parenting Confessions, Part I

I just returned from my morning with a couple of friends who also have young children (of the under two sort). I just love these weekly gatherings because I get the chance to find out, every now and then, that despite the neurosis brought on by new mamahood, I am entirely normal. It truly is that selfish for me.

We started off, naturally, with a few comments on yesterday's election - largely concluding that we like talking about these issues together because we do not think that any one of us has all the answers and we genuinely want to learn and think about politics, and faith, and culture, and the weird intersection between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of this earth; and we like to talk about these things together because we actually listen to each other and are not merely all thinking about which point or rebuttal we are going to make next. We listen, and we like it that way. It makes for a much more rewarding conversation.

But that's not the confession I am about to make.

The other thing we talked about (as my friends are both pregnant again) was our reflections on the first three months of our babies' lives, and how we dealt with it, and how we felt about it. And before I share my junk publicly, I want to say that I WISH there had been someone in my life about that time sharing their junk with me so that I wouldn't have felt so ashamed and frustrated and inadequate. One of my friends said essentially the same thing (OK, I'm reading into her words a little bit), so I want to proclaim this stuff loudly so that other new moms can know that they are entirely normal when the dark side of mothering pops up now and then.

And, more precursors and assumptions must be declared, let it be known CLEARLY and ABSOLUTELY that I love Little P. Love him wholeheartedly and want what's best for him. And I try every day to be a good mama even when I am tired of the responsibility, and tired of the whining, and tired of being woken up in the middle of the night. So please don't read into this confession any sort of nonsense about me being unfit or unloving or anything.

Deep breath...begin confession.

The first three months, or thereabouts, of Little P's life were awful. So hard. So tiring. So knock-me-over-and-then-kick-me-while-I'm-down. That sounds extreme, I'm sure. In fact, I might be inclined to, for the sake of the blog, call them challenging, or a time of great learning, or some other euphemism...but the truth is that at the time I was going through it, I felt awful, and frustrated, and like an ugly human being. I did not like myself and I resented my baby for putting me in the position of having to learn how totally human I was. OK, now I am creeping you out, so I will give details to help you see what I mean.

I asked Heidi at some point in the third or fourth month why no experienced mothers ever tell new mothers how hard it is to not get any sleep. What not getting any sleep does to a person. How, in gritty reality, a sleepless woman can be pretty nasty in all her irritability, impatience, and pent-up frustration. I asked...why is it that people make little jokes like a slug in the arm and a "I wish you a good night's rest" har, har comment, but no one ever warns you that it is truly, butt-kickingly, army-torture-testingly hard to get through the sleep-deprived period of new motherhood? She laughed nervously and said that mostly she didn't know, but that we (new mothers) probably wouldn't believe them even if they did tell us.

Now I've met the occasional Pollyana who just adores her needy, squawking infant and functions chipperly on a few hours of interrupted sleep a day, but a part of me thinks that either these women are faking it or they are seriously co-dependent.

Anyway.

In the first two weeks alone, I cried buckets. I was still attempting to induce lactation and was taping this tube on my chest every two hours...or less. I was pumping off and one between "feedings". I tried to move the tube (filled with Emma's breastmilk) around, but it really only functioned if taped in this one spot, so the skin in that area became raw and sensitive with every rip of the tape. I began to dread sticking it on. I dreaded "feedings" where Benjamin would not eat enough, but then would be cranky afterward because he was still hungry. I sat in the rocking chair poking my nipple and the strategically aligned tube back into his mouth. He would suckle, end up pushing the tube out of his mouth, get no milk, then get frustrated. I'd poke it all back in his mouth and start the cycle again. Sometimes he would get the tube just right, but then if he changed his suck he'd lose it again.

This was all frustrating to the point that I hated feeding time. I would sit there sobbing and wanting to scream at him for pushing the tube away. And, he was crying for no discernable reason all the time. Once we went to the bottle and gave up trying to get my breasts to produce milk, he ate well and calmed down a bit. I really think the little guy was hungry the first few weeks.

He also burped up so much milk. I remember holding him in the rocking chair and he was just crying inconsolably. Then he burped, more like barfed, all down the front of me. I had already changed clothes that day due to a previous episode like that, and now my shirt was soaked with warm, sticky, smelly stuff. I cried. I just wanted a day without a screaming baby, without wearing barf; a day where I could get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep; a day where my needs could come first and where I didn't have to be responsible for a little person's survival.

There were other days when the screaming, blurping, and inadequacy made me frustrated and resentful. The frustration came in not being able to stop the crying. This frustration often turned to anger at my baby. On multiple occasions, I had to put him in the bassinet and just leave him to scream by himself...because I had to go into my bedroom and scream into my pillow...I had to pound my mattress over and over so that I wouldn't hit him.

My friend today said she, too, struggled with the inclination to be violent...even though that's not the kind of person she is. She had to hand her son off to her husband for fear she would actually follow through with the urge to shake him. This friend is a peaceful, generally easy-going person (unlike my high-strung self) so I was surprised to hear this. And grateful. Grateful to know that a woman like her also struggled with the latent violent side of her humanity...that I was not crazy.

I said a few times, though always feeling like someone would take my son away for admitting this, that I understood how a distressed and unsupported mother could get to the point of thinking that drowning her small children would be a good idea. I could see in myself the desperation of just wanting to stop the noise. How if I had but just a bit less of God in my life, I could be blinded by that hopeless need for peace, for release from the responsibility and the pounding headache. And if I was such a mother that this desire skewed my perspective, I might believe that drowning would be the kindest way to do it. Supposedly it is a painless way to die.

Adding to the challenge of simply getting through the day was the resentment. Yes, resenting my three-week old baby, can you believe it?! It is tough to go from being an autonomous, independent adult able to choose how to execute her day to someone required to serve, every minute of the day, a demanding creature who needs her for survival. I, apparently, do not have a codependent bone in my body, because I hate to be needed beyond my natural limits. I mean, in healthy friendships where we give to each other out of our natural affinity for and commitment to each other, I am fine with it. That's part of any healthy relationship - we need each other and we take turns supporting each other. But to have my service demanded all the time? Not so managable.

I have heard some women express how much they love the infant stage. They love to be needed, to be the reason for a little creature's survival. I did not. I felt suffocated. I needed a break. I would never have allowed an adult to treat me like that. I have boundaries, after all! Obviously, an infant cannot be treated as an adult. I know this. I thought I was prepared for it. But it's such a different thing, having to actually live it - 24-hour service at the whim of a baby who can only communicate by crying, with no thought for yourself. Damn hard, it is. I found how selfish and needy I am in the process.

This sentiment was echoed by my friend, today. She said resentment is the exact word she used at the time. She, too, only felt comfortable whispering it to her husband, afraid that anyone else would judge her as a mother if they knew.

For both of us, this resentment made it hard to feel love for our babies during the first couple of months. Of course we acted as if we loved them - we nourished them, we told them we loved them, we cuddled them, we sang to them. We did the right actions and at times felt cozy. But the true bond, the feelings of love came over time. We had to work through that connection.

In my case, I wondered if it was due to the adoption. I wondered if it would have been different if I had carried him in my body for nine months...would I have had an instant bond? Would I have felt less impatience? Would I have wanted to serve him more? Would I have resisted my selfishness with greater ease? But today I heard that my feelings are normal for some moms, even for those who gave birth to their children. I don't say for all moms, because every mom has a unique personality, experience, amount of support, emotional makeup, and so on.

This is the dark side of motherhood. The part that is rarely admitted. I was constantly baffled at how I, a lovingly raised child who had never been treated violently in my life, a woman who was educated, sane, and rational, a mother who indeed loved her child and was supported emotionally by a loving husband, a woman who did not even give birth to this baby and therefore should not be suffering any hormonal changes...how could I be having such a hard time with this?! After all, women have been birthing and raising infants since the beginning of time! It's part of our calling, for crying out loud! What was wrong with me? Where did these violent impulses come from?

So, my confessions were whispered lightly to my husband in tones that I hoped would not cause him alarm, but would betray my sorrow and struggle enough that I could feel some release of the shame. I shared them with Elise, who has no children, and who feels that she would respond the same way because she and I are so alike temperamentally. I would throw little things out to other mothers with a lighthearted laugh and a vague reference to how hard it is to get this whole motherhood thing rolling.

It wasn't until today that I felt really understood. That, in fact, a mother who seems more balanced and peaceful than myself also struggled in similar ways. She said something very wise, I think. She said that it seems like in those early months, God is teaching us how to serve. Think about it...in most instances in our adult lives, we can determine how much of ourselves we choose to give to a person or activity. Sometimes we give more, sometimes less. If something demands too much of us, we reevaluate - and either decide it is worth the cost, or not. We still choose. But with a defenseless little infant, there is no choosing. You simply have to serve. If you chose to have the baby, you chose to invert your life, and now you must learn to serve without regard to self. It is very beautiful, but hard as hell and is certainly not appreciated while you are going through it. The beauty can only be seen once there is some distance between you and the lesson-learning part of it.

I do not believe every new mother feels the way I did, but I know some do. And for those who do, it could be life-changing to hear others talk about those feelings. I found that these experiences were particularly difficult to bear for a few reasons:

1) I thought I was strong. My default mentality is one of general enthusiasm and optimism, one of "Of course I can!" I did not anticipate being brought to me knees emotionally, physically, and mentally by motherhood...at least not until the teen years.

2) We battle a lot of romantic notions surrounding infants. New mothers have a certain glow of happiness around them. Babies are so innocent and perfect and precious. Everything is soft blankets and skin-on-skin and joy incarnate, right? Happy loving families and such. Not loneliness when your husband is at work all day and you are exhausted. Not desperation when the crying won't stop. Not feeling gross and subhuman when your spit-up drenched shirt and pant leg are sticking to your body. When culture is not honest, when there is an overload of sentimentality, we are let down by reality. We are disappointed and demoralized. If we know we are heading into battle, in a sense, we can be surprised and delighted by the beautiful, peaceful moments. We can relish the sleeping baby rather than dread the moment he will wake up crying. We can say, wow, that was easier than I thought, rather than why isn't my life as happy as it's supposed to be?

So there it is...for what it's worth. I hope that if you are experiencing some of those emotions and struggles, you can take comfort in knowing that you're not alone. And the good news is, this time will pass.

My pieces of advice?
1. Cling to God.
2. Talk to your husband or mom or friend about it.
3. Keep a long-term perspective - it will not always be this bad. In fact, motherhood becomes fun eventually. It usually helps once you hit the sleeping through the night stage.

READERS: What did you struggle with in your early days? How did you feel? What did you keep secret? What helped you get through it? Anonymous replies are totally understandable. :)