One Thousand Gifts

Last fall a friend lent me the book One Thousand Gifts.  Written by Ann Voskamp, her story is told from one who has experienced unimaginable suffering and yet has learned in spite of pain, to live a life of humble gratitude. I was excited to read this book.  I was eager to inhale her words and learn from her life.  And then as abruptly as I began my journey with Ann, I stopped.  I couldn't read her words. Her stories were intense, her experiences too much to bear.  I couldn't accept her challenge.  To live fully. To live with gratitude in spite of the small and huge burdens of this life.  Of my life.  Of the lives of those I love.

Pain is everywhere.  Suffering is all around us.  We wade in it and are swallowed by it every day.  It's on our television screens and our news stands.  It's across the world, when I hear stories from my own sister who is experiencing poverty and oppression in Africa and Asia.  It is here at home. I see it played out in the life of one of one of my old lady friends. Only, she isn't really old. She's a brilliantly smart 60-year-old woman.  She has her doctorate degree and was a college professor. But now she is battling mental health problems and has been committed to an assisted living home to rot away for the next 20 + years.  Her daughters have all but washed their hands of her.  She is lonely.  She has no control of her life anymore. She asks God,"Why me?" Wouldn't you? 

And then there's my really old friends.  The ones whose bodies are wasting away but their minds are still sharp.  They can't hold their bladders or their bowels.  They are embarrassed.  They are in physical pain.  Even the smallest of movements reminds them that their best years are gone.  They lug around oxygen tanks just to help them breathe.  When really, many of them just don't want to breathe anymore.  I hear them every single day ask the same questions.  "How did I get here? Why am I back to this place of feeling like a child?  Why?" 

I read it in the daily text messages from a friend, living so far away but whose pain is so close I can feel it within my own beating heart.  More bad news.  Still an empty nursery.  Arms just waiting to hold and rock.  Aching to be the mother she knows she is meant to be.  She hurts so deeply each time she has to congratulate a new friend.  She's angry most days.  Always sad.  Always feeling the pain of loss and of unmet dreams.  Always asking, "Why?"

There's Ann's story.  As a child, she watched her younger sister bleed to death in the arms of her parents. As an adult, she watched her brother and sister-in-law bury their two infant sons only months apart from one another.  Wouldn't you as a reader of her book ask, "Why?"

And then there's me. I've been a mess the last several months. I dress daily and I look down at my midriff.  Not growing.  Not safely protecting a new life.  By now I thought I would be rocking the belly band and the elastic waist maternity jeans.  Instead, I just feel empty.  My heart feels lifeless and my hand is often a clenched fist that pumps at God, asking, "Why? Why my baby? Why me?"

Natalie Grant's song "Held" says it well. "This hand is bitterness. We want to taste and let the hatred know our sorrows." And that's what I feel.  Bitterness. Pain. Loss. Frustration at the dreams that haven't come true. And if I have to be bluntly honest, I feel entitled to them all. Why shouldn't I be angry? Why shouldn't I be bitter? Because of my lost dreams. The ones I thought I was promised.  If I let go of them, who will know the pain and the hurt I feel?  Who will pay for it all?

A few weeks back I had a piece of writing published called "Perfectly Imperfect".  In it I made the statement, "I've often wondered to myself why suffering has to be debilitating. Can it not be something bigger than causing us to stop dead in our tracks, refusing to move forward?" I wrote this piece in hindsight of my journey with PPD but before I lost our baby.  I made this statement when life was good.  When I was living on the mountaintop. But what does it look like to really live out these words?  What does living fully and well look like in the midst of pain and tragedy?  What does it look like when in all honestly, some days I haven't wanted to get out of bed in the morning?  When I have cried myself to sleep more nights than I can count?  When I am moving begrudgingly through the valley?  

So this week, knowing that my words were being put to the test, I picked Ann's book back up.  I knew it was finally time to take my journey with her.  In my gut, I knew I was ready to listen this time.  I began to read One Thousand Gifts and to journal and soak up every God inspired line.  

And so far, this is what I have found:

All sin can be traced back to the fall.  This I knew.

Satan, wanted more.  He wanted more. He wanted more power and more glory.  

Satan was an ingrate and he sank his teeth right into the heart of Eden.  

Adam and Eve's fall was a direct result of ingratitude.  

Ingratitude.  

They weren't satisfied with the lot God had given them.  

They believed Satan when he told them God's provision wasn't enough.

Ann writes, "Our fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren't satisfied with God and what He gives.  We hunger for something more, something other."

She goes on to write, "We eat. And in an instant we are blind. No longer do we see God as one we can trust.  No longer do we perceive Him as wholly good.  We eat. And in an instant, we see.  Everywhere we look we see a world of lack, a universe of loss, a cosmos of scarcity and injustice." 

And isn't that where we are?  Isn't that everything I just described?  My sister's calls from third world countries.  My sweet old friends locked away in a place of no control. Empty cradles. Death. Sorrow and loss.  Everywhere.  And then we blame our circumstances.  We blame God.  Because we don't know who else to blame.  Anyone but ourselves.

So the question becomes: Is wrong to mourn and to suffer?  If we are the ultimate cause of our own downfall? It can't be. Jesus suffered.  Jesus himself cried at death.  Then is our reaction to mourning and suffering the problem?

Ingratitude.  It was the cause of the fall.  So maybe that's how we find our way back?  We go back to the source?  We go back to gratitude.  Like Christ did.

Jesus, mourning and crying over the death of Lazarus, stood outside of his tomb and prayed "Father I thank You that You have heard me." (John 11:41)

"On the night when he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took some bread and gave thanks to God for it" (1 Corinthians 11:23-24).  On the eve of God's abandonment to him, Jesus gave thanks.

After preaching to country after country only to receive rejection, Jesus prays, "Oh Father, Lord of heaven and Earth, I thank thee." (Matthew 11:25)

So I've been asking myself this week.  Could I live like that?  Could I open my clenched fists? Could I give up this resentment I feel entitled to and replace it with a heart of constant gratitude?  To trust that which I don't see?  To thank God in the mist of failure and suffering just like Christ did?  Could I return to Eden?  The place that once was, before ingratitude pierced through the perfection?

I'll be blunt again.  I've been fighting this.  Every fiber of my being wants to hang on to the resentment and the pain and the anguish that I feel entitled to.  I don't want to give thanks.  I want to suffer and feel sorry for myself and hold on to my hurts and all of my "what could have beens..."  

But I'm not going to.  And I'm asking you not to either.  If you have stuck with me for this long, I'm asking you to take this challenge with me.  Let's see where it will take us.  Read this book with me.  Buy the book.  Borrow it.  Highlight through it.  Journal as you read it. 

Experience something new with me.  Let's start our list together. List the gifts of your daily life. List them on the good days and list them on the hardest days.  Let's just try this and see where it takes us. Let's list our gifts and go on a search for gratitude like Christ demonstrated so clearly to us.  Like Ann did in her book.  Maybe that's what's been missing?  Maybe we really just need to return back to Eden, the place God gave us before ingratitude took hold.  Today, I begin my list.  Today, I am choosing to find joy and thankfulness in the midst of my pain.  Will you join me?

Today's Gifts:

1. Summer nights spent with new and old friends
2. Six wonderful years of learning to love my husband
3. Hardwood floors that lay hold to tiny bare feet
4. Blue cookie monster cupcakes with googly eyes
5. Naps
6. Yarn for the cat to chase
7. The bubbly sounds of fresh brewed coffee
8. A good sale
9. Dental Insurance
10. A warm rainfall pitter pattering on the roof

Love, 

Today You Are Three!

Dear Mackenzie Leigh,
Today you are three.  I can hardly believe it as I sit here and type these words.  Three.  Three?  Really?  Has it already been three years since I held you, my bundled burrito baby, in that city hospital room overlooking our world below?  I remember how tiny you looked, barely filling out those red piggy pajamas I waited so long to dress you in.  I remember your wispy blonde mullet and how you kept yanking off those ugly hospital caps the nurses kept stuffing onto your head.  Even then you knew what you wanted.  I still struggle with memories of bringing you home from the hospital and of being so scared because I didn't know what to do or how to care for you.  I felt so unprepared to raise this little life we had created.  I remember thinking we would never get past those days.  And yet somehow, we've made it here. We've made it to today.  And today, I can hardly look at you without crying happy tears.  Without thinking of the incredible girl you are.  Never in my wildest, craziest dreams, could I have imagined you as you are today.  

Here are my prayers for this coming year for you:  


I pray that your tender heart continues to develop.  You've got such a sensitivity in you and I've seen it from just six months old.  The way you can look deep into the eyes of someone who is hurting and feel that pain with them.  It really is amazing to me to see how God has already given you the gift of compassion.  This year, I am going to pray specifically that God will continue to bring that beautiful heart of compassion to its full purpose.


I pray that with that tender compassion for others, your heart will not be broken.  Because you are so sensitive, I worry that it will allow for too much pain.  And I want you to stay innocent for as long as you possibly can.  This world is filled with too much bad.  And I hope that your tender heart won't show you too much of that bad too soon.  


I pray that you will continue to learn discipline. I pray that you won't be embittered towards discipline.  That you will know see the love that is behind it and how God uses discipline to teach you and others how to live life well.  I pray that God will develop a heart that sincerely want to do right for yourself and for Him.


I pray that you will learn and know that it is okay to make mistakes.  I pray that even from this young age, God will  begin to teach you about grace and the need to have grace for yourself and for others.  I want this so much for you.


I pray that you will have fun.  I see an old soul in you already.  I see that you want to grow up quickly and fast.  I see it in you because you are an only child and because you just want to be a part of the adult conversations. But you are still a baby.  You are my baby.  And I pray that you will know that it is okay to have fun and be silly.  To have dance parties in the middle of the day.  To sing at the top of your lungs when you are happy.  To run through the sprinklers on days that it is so scorching hot and to jump in the leaves this fall when we rake them into big piles in the back yard.  I pray that you will do these things without inhibition.  Without hesitation or worry of you how you look.  I pray that you will grow up slow and have fun every single minute of while you are doing that growing.  


Most of all, this year, I pray that you will know how unbelievably loved you are.  That in the deepest parts of your being, you are certain without a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved. I love you.  Your daddy loves you.  Your ornery kitty even loves you.  Your papas and your grandmas love you.  Your uncle and your aunties love you.  You've got friends who love you. But most of all, God loves you.  He loves you with a love that never wavers.  A love that is stronger than all of the human love combined.  And this year, more than anything, I hope you feel and know this.  

Happy third birthday my sweet girl.  
Love, Momma

Loving & Losing

I’m finding it very difficult to write the words I am feeling tonight.  I’m doing it though because I know that this pain will never be as fresh and as raw as it is now.  I’ve been very open in the past several months about sharing my struggles with other women.   I don’t like the thought of walking alone through my struggles, and I just as equally don’t want other women walking alone.  I don’t believe that God intended us to privately suffer through life’s hardships.  And so, even though this in itself is a very private struggle, I’m going to look for the words to share and to express my heart tonight because I believe other women might need to hear it. 

After Mackenzie was born, I said I was done having babies.  I swore I was done.  The idea of bringing another baby home after having postpartum depression the first time just seemed foolish.  I had one beautiful little girl and that seemed like it could be enough. But in my gut, I never felt like our family was complete.  This past winter I really began to go back and forth about having another baby.  And when I say I went back and forth, I mean I wrestled.  Hard.  Some nights I didn’t sleep.  Some days I cried over the decision.  A close friend advised me to give the decision over to the Lord.  So I did.  I began to pray.  I prayed he would give me the desire for more children.  Some days I prayed that He would intervene and give us a “surprise” baby so that the decision would be less of my own and completely a “God thing”.

This spring, a reoccurring theme seemed to begin playing out in our lives.  The theme revolved around fear and letting fear control us.  As a couple, we decided that ultimately, it was fear that was keeping us from choosing to expand our family.  And we decided that God did not design us to live in fear. 

And now, it’s summer. And while I would love to share with you the news that we are pregnant and expecting our second baby, I can’t.  I do however, have several positive pregnancy tests lined up on our dresser and a stack of pregnancy books nearby.  And each of them I want to burn.  Or hurl into the nearest lake.  This past week we experienced one of the most gut wrenching and painful things to go through.  We lost our sweet second baby.  To say we are heartbroken would be an understatement. 

 

There are many things that keep running through my head.  Feeling sorry for myself tops the list.  I’m working on moving past that one.  And, as you can tell by the, “hurling my pregnancy books in the lake” comment, I’m definitely moving right along into the angry camp. 

But most of all, I’m just so incredibly sad.  I am grieving the loss of a life that will never be lived. I am grieving for the son my husband will never get to play basketball with.  I am grieving a daughter I will never get to read bedtime stories to or snuggle and kiss goodnight.  I’m grieving for the little brother or sister that Mackenzie prayed for every night as she wrapped her little arms around my belly and gave kisses.

Practically speaking, I know that miscarriages happen.  They happen fairly often and they happen for a reason. I know that this isn’t an experience I am going through alone.  But emotionally speaking, this is just so incredibly hard.  We envisioned a life with this child.  We were planning for a future as a family of four.  We already had names picked out and were mentally rearranging our furniture to make room for this new life.  We were ready for this baby. 

It is a little bit ironic to me, to look back on the journey I have been on as a mother.  After Mackenzie was born I went through a big identity crisis.  I struggled with knowing exactly what my new role in life was.  Was I now “just” a mother?  Could I still be a runner?  Could I still go out with friends and enjoy life even though there was a little person at home depending on me?  Eventually I came to a place of realizing that my identity was not lost but just expanded.  I gained a part of my identity when my daughter was born.  I write all of this to say that that moment I conceived this second baby, my identity expanded even more.  I am not just the mother of Mackenzie.  Now I am a mother of two children.  One of whom I have the privilege of raising here on earth, the other, I believe is waiting for me in the arms of Jesus.  For whatever reason, God chose to bring that baby home to Him.  And it is painful.  This pain I feel, this longing for that baby, is so great and cuts so deep to my heart. And yet, I know that eventually I will be okay.  Not today. Probably not for a long time.  But eventually, I will be okay.

This week was hard.  Probably the hardest week we've had as a family.  And yet, it was a week of bonding.  A week of praying and cuddling and crying.  A week of saying goodbye.

I'm not really sure where we go from here. I can say that fear has once again crept back into the realm of defining my thoughts and future plans.  The idea of trying for another baby and possibly losing that baby too just seems like it would be too much to handle.  And yet, I was reminded today by a friend that ultimately we must choose whether taking certain risks in life are worth it.  If we want to expand our family we are going to have to take that risk.  I believe the risk would be worth it to expand my identity even more.  To become a momma to a third baby would be such a privilege and a risk worth taking.  And someday down the road, I hope to be able to share that happy news with all of our friends and family.

Sharing and Growing

Today, I was so honored to have one of my pieces chosen for the front page of my favorite site Postpartum Progress. This blog site has been an incredible resource to me while I have been on my journey through PPD.  The women who share here are AMAZING.  I am blessed to know them and each of their hearts. And I was completely blown away when I got the email telling me that I was chosen to share a piece of my own.

It has been a rough week.  A horrible, terrible, rough week.  And someday, when I have fully processed just how sad of a week this has been for our little family, I will blog about it and share my thoughts.  But for now, for today, being confirmed that my words have meaning, was exactly what I needed to hear.  I wasn't expecting this to be posted anytime soon, let alone on the front page, which is why I feel so incredibly honored.

In a way, it was comforting to be reminded that sharing my struggles is good and worthwhile. That my struggles in and of themselves can be good and worthwhile.  Not easy.  Not understandable.  But necessary for the growth of who I am and who I am still becoming as a person. And for that, this week, I am so incredibly grateful.  I am thankful that even in the midst of inexplicable pain and suffering, the Lord brings us to a new place.  To a place of relying on others and ultimately on Him.

With all of that said, here's a bit of my blog piece that I was honored to share with Postpartum Progress this morning.  Thank you to fellow Warrior Mom, Katherine Stone, for allowing me to share my story.

On Owning Your Struggle with Postpartum Depression

So proud to have Warrior Mom Brittany with us today, sharing her story and why she’s not afraid to be open about her struggle with postpartum depression.

I have dreamed my entire life of becoming a mom. Some of my fondest memories as a child are of mothering my plastic baby dolls and loving on them as if their cotton insides actually held a beating heart. As a doe-eyed teenager, I used to picture what life would be like when my boyfriend and I could finally marry and start a family together. And then suddenly, we were there. We had finished college, married and were living the dream life together in our favorite city. We talked about waiting to have babies, but when it came down to it we wanted to share the memories we were making together with our children.

We started trying for a baby, and before long I was pregnant and barefoot. Literally … I went barefoot to one of my baby showers. We spent nine blissful months “oohing” and “aahhing” over blurry ultrasound photos, meticulously decorating a nursery and waiting anxiously for our baby girl to arrive.

And then she was born. Blonde and blue-eyed and all 6 lbs 9 oz of her was perfect. I remember holding her the day she was born. She was bundled like a burrito and sleeping so peacefully in my arms. My husband remarked that she was like a tiny angel. That night we took rotating hour-long shifts to stay awake with her while the other would sleep. We worried that if we left her alone for all but one minute we would wake to find our baby not breathing and our dream dissolved into thin air. Maybe this first night was a foreshadowing of the anxiety-ridden days to come. 

You can read the rest of the blog post here.  

Next Friday I am excited to be the guest blogger for another one of my favorite sites Just.Be.Enough. It too is an incredible site.  Don't we all, deep down, just want to be enough? I love the ladies who run this site because that's what they encourage.  Living to be enough.

Can't wait to share my own "Just be enough" story with you next week,

Brittany

DIY: Mosaic Mirror

In light of all of the serious posts I've shared lately, I figured it might be time to lighten up the mood and share one of our DIY projects that we've been working on.  I'm a little proud of myself for this one because it actually wasn't an idea that I borrowed from Pinterest.  

Last spring, my boss taught me (and our resident crafters) how to make mosaic birdhouses.  So a few months back I got the idea to create a mosaic mirror for our formal entryway/living room.  I started by collecting various plates and pottery in various blue and green shades.  I bought from The Dollar Tree and from the Salvation Army (during their holiday 50% off sales).  In total, the plates and pottery cost $5.

Next, I bought a flat piece of solid wood... this was a score I found in the "as is" section of Ikea for just $3.99.  I'm not sure what it was originally intended to be but it was perfect (and cheap!) for this project.

This round mirror also came from Ikea for $15.00.

We used the product "Liquid Nails" ($4.00) to attach the mirror to the backing.

These "C Clamps" were from Home Depot and cost under $1.00 each.

We left them on for 24 hours to make sure that the liquid nails was completely dry.

 I've discovered that one of the ways I stay sane in this journey of parenting is to always, always involve my daughter in my projects.  It would be easy to brush her away and tell her to go play toys.  But really, what does that accomplish?  I would feel annoyed and she would have her feelings hurt.  She's three and she wants to be just like her mommy.  So, I let her join in.  And this was no exception.  Watch my rock star girl as she shatters some dishes and pottery.  This was definitely our favorite part!

My beautiful girl!

See?  Doesn't she look so excited! 

Next we used clear tile glue ($3.00) to attach the broken plates and glass.  

When all of the pieces were glued on... we took a several day break.  This was tough work!

Eventually we got to the messy part.

Plaster of Paris is a powder that, when mixed 2 parts to 1 part water, creates....goop. Or grout.  Whatever. Regardless, it was messy.  We also mixed in some gold acrylic paint to give the color a tint...which we found out didn't do much of anything in the end.

Yes, that's my absolute STUD of a husband!  

We (completely) covered sections of the tile with the grout mix.  A note to anyone who tries this project- the grout does dry fast.  When it says 6-8 minute drying time on the container, it really means 4-5 minutes.  If you cover too much of the tile, you won't be able to wipe it off in enough time and you'll be using a razor blade to scrape grout off of the colored tiles.  Like me below...

Wipe the tile off with a sponge or a towel that you don't mind throwing out after the project.  Make sure you have a bucket of water nearby to rinse and re-rinse the towel.

And finally...

The finished product!  We're very excited with how it turned out!

In total the project cost us around $25 ($40, if you figure that we used $15 of an Ikea Gift Card).  It was a lot of work but we both agree, creating something together (as a family, no less) holds much more meaning to us than if we had slapped down our debit card and bought a mirror from Target. 

Next up, I'm finishing this Pinterest find "tutu table" for Mack's bedroom!  I'm hoping that when I share it with you, it will look as cute as the one in this picture :)

Putting Out The Fire

I haven't struggled with postpartum depression in over 20 months.  But hey... who's counting? :) What I do still struggle with is panic attacks.  The only way I can think to distinguish between the two is like this:  postpartum depression was a fire that lit immediately after I gave birth to my daughter and continued to burn out of control until I took control.


Panic attacks come upon me like the leftover burning embers from the fire that was once postpartum depression.  These burning embers flake from the died down fire and come upon me at inopportune times during life. Over the past year or two, I've learned to recognize signs and signals that tell me I am close to having one.  My husband and I have (finally!) nailed down caffeine as a significant catalyst for my attacks.  Which is frustrating on so many levels- the most frustrating being that after Mack was born, my sleep deprived self was inhaling regular coffee by the pound.  Had I known three years ago that my anxiety was being severely heightened by caffeine, it would have been cut from my diet immediately.


I can tell when an attack is coming on because my pulse begins to race.  My concentration falters and I often find myself pacing our house and ringing my hands.  Things that wouldn't usually bother me (like extra loud noises or the sound of my little girl whining about something trivial) suddenly become things that set me on edge.  My mind becomes a mess of anxiety, overcome with insecurities and accusations that remind me of my past.


Sometimes I can defend against these attacks and strong arm them.  Other times, I lose myself to them, and I find myself an inconsolable, blubbering mess, unable to rationalize against the malicious thoughts that have invaded my reality.  As much as I am grateful to be beyond the dark cloud of PPD, these panic attacks do make me feel like a freak. I've had them in the middle of a Subway sandwich shop, in the bathroom stall of a church, and recently at a friend's wedding.  And it's hard.  Hard to know that people have seen you at your worst.  Hard to know that you have made a fool of yourself in a public setting and have given others the chance to judge as though you can't handle life.  It's hard to realize that sometimes you really can't handle life like you want to.


Katherine Stone, the founder of the incredible site Postpartum Progress, describes her own experience with a perinatal mood disorder.  She writes, "Before, back then, I believed the real me was the person full of anxiety.  The person who was and would always be ill.  The person who was not and would never be fierce.  I was never going to be loved by my children and would never be a good mom.  I believed those things."


And sadly, I did too.


After Mack was born, and the "baby blues" didn't end within the first few weeks, I convinced myself that I was meant to live like that.  I thought that part of having a child, was dying to myself and learning to cope and complacently live like that.  I know, it sounds absolutely pathetic.  And yet, this is what I actually believed.  I wish more than anything that I could go back to my (then) self and shake the living daylights out of whoever that girl was.  I wish I could tell her to relax and let the baby cry sometimes.  To tell her everything would be okay and that life would become filled with more joy than she could have ever dreamed of.


I guess the biggest difference between my experience with my (then) postpartum depression and my (now) panic attacks, is what I truly believe about myself when all is said and done. When I've finally silenced the overwhelming voices in my head and the shaking of my body has calmed.  What do I really and truly believe about myself as a mother?  What do my daughter and husband see when they look at me?  What do I believe now that I didn't and couldn't believe back then?


I cried the other day, as I read Katherine Stone's experience of returning to reality after one of her panic attacks.  She writes, "Now, I am awaiting the moment when I go back to feeling like the real me.  It might be later today.  If not, it will most certainly be tomorrow.  I'll go back to feeling strong and fierce and as though the ground I'm standing on is not buckling.  This, right now, is not me.  This thing is the thing that tries to deter me.  I will allow it a few minutes to do that, but then I will go back to me.  I am a good mother."


I cried, because I resonate so strongly with every word that she wrote.  This person who is still overcome by occasional bouts of panic--this woman is not me.  It is not who I am.  It is not who I will ever be.  Those fears of being a bad mother, they are gone.  The feelings of being crushed by the weight and responsibilities of motherhood?  They don't suffocate me anymore. And even in the midst of my occasional panic attacks, I now know and believe these in the deepest parts of my heart:


I am an excellent mother. 
In this place and time, I am meant to be a mother.
I bring joy to my daughter and my husband each day.
I am strong and resilient.
I am brave. 
On my most difficult days, I will survive.
Anxiety does not control me.  
Fear does cripple me.
I know how to love. 
I know how to be loved. 
I do both well.
I am an excellent mother.

"She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." Proverbs 31:25

Are You Mom Enough?

I replay a lot of memories from the first year of Mack's life.  Many memories are wonderful while others I would like to forget and pretend they never existed. There is one memory I find particularly humorous as well as equally horrendous.  

We had just picked up our 6-month-old from the church nursery.  It was wet and rainy in Chicago so JB ran to the parking garage to get the car.  While I stood in the lobby waiting, two elderly women begin to "oooh" and "ahhh" over Mack.  This wasn't unusual so I played along. At some point, the "small talk" turned to the topic of breastfeeding.  How and why, I'm still not sure but I can say without a doubt that I was not the one to steer the conversation in this direction.  The fact that I'm addressing this story in a public blog is actually surprising to me since any topic of female anatomy usually makes me blush.

I remember halting all of my participation in the conversation at this point.  I let the two elderly women take over and I was generally interested to hear what they would say and how the conversation would play out.  Perhaps this was my first mistake.  Maybe, I should have taken my squirmy baby and made a run for the rainy streets rather than wait for the safety of my car.  But I didn't.  I stayed and found myself in the crossfire of two judgmental, old hags.  

...Oops, did I just write that?

I listened.  I listened as they talked together about God's purpose for breastfeeding, how breastfeeding is the natural, God intended way for babies to be fed.  At this point I couldn't necessarily disagree with anything I was hearing but none-the-less, because of my horrible six week, hell-of-an experience with breastfeeding, I was beginning to blow steam from my corner of the room.  

Do I believe that breastfeeding is the most nutritional way for a baby to be fed?  Absolutely.  Do I believe that God's original intent was for mothers to feed their babies in this way? Yes. Do I believe that it is the best option for every mother out there, today? No, I absolutely do not.  In a perfect world, every mother would deliver her baby and he or she would immediately take to feeding from the breast.  We don't live in a perfect world though. We live in a fallen world. My baby and I fought tirelessly to make breastfeeding work.  In the end, it was not the natural, God intended way for me to feed my daughter.  For us, the most bonding and nurturing took place with her at my breast.... while I fed her from a bottle.  

With all of that said, I'll get down off of my soap box and tell you how the conversation took an even greater turn for the worst.  As I stood listening to these two women converse back and forth, one of them turned to Mackenzie.  She looked directly at her, smiled and said in a chipper voice, "You're such a happy baby.  You must be breastfed." 

Oh. No. You. Didn't.  That was all I could think.  That is all I can still think to this day.  I love old people.  I work with old people for God's sake.  But never before have I wanted to all out sucker punch an old woman.  As far as I'm concerned, this old lady might as well have written the headline for Time Magazine's May issue which begs the question to all non-breastfeeding moms out there, "Are you mom enough?"

I left the church that day feeling angry, guilty, judged and just plain flabbergasted by the nerve of these  women.  But the saddest part, is that, like these women, Time Magazine's recent issue has demonstrated an unfortunate truth.  There are actually moms out there who pit themselves against other moms, and build themselves up, surely convinced that they are making better choices for their child(ren) than other moms.  To this I ask: Where is the support?  Where is the encouragement? Where is the camaraderie that can be found just in the basic fact that we are ALL moms who are trying our damn hardest to love our kids and give them everything they need?

I have struggled greatly with this concept since giving birth to my daughter.  And maybe it all goes back to our inherent desire to be seen as "Wisteria Lane" type moms.  But really, when I'm talking to another mom about how my daughter just can't get the hang of potty training, I don't care to hear about how my parenting style is the problem.  If you ask me, that's judgment.  That's you telling me in your "ever-so-smug" way, that you are doing it "better". What I really want and need, is for you to tell me, "She's going to get it!"  or "Hang in there, toilet training was hard for us too!"  When I'm exhausted and having a day where I feel like I can't do anything right as a mother, the last thing I need is for another mom to showcase her child as an angel, all the while helping to build my "Failure Mom" plaque even larger and shinier.

I'm not writing to bash or criticize Time Magazine, Dr. Sears or even his attachment parenting philosophy.  Although I will admit, after seeing the front cover's bold headline, I was quite prepared be hot headed and angry at whoever wrote the article.  Oddly enough, I finished reading and found myself wondering why the headline, "Are You Mom Enough?" was even on the cover.  I didn't come away from the article convinced that it actually made any headway with convincing society of Dr. Sears' successful child rearing style.  If anything, I felt like parts of the article took aim at mocking him and his followers.  More than likely, the title was a gimmick to sell the issue and draw in readers.  I read it... so it worked!

My purpose in writing today is primarily to vent.  Don't we all just need that sometimes?  I also love to encourage my momma friends out there who are having a rough time.  Because whether we would like to admit it or not, we all have those days.  And please, please don't be one of those who looks snootily at the mom in the grocery store who just can't seem to keep her kid in line.  She might just need a big hug and for someone to tell her she's doing the best she can.

The other night, Mack was having trouble sleeping. Although, we try not to make rocking her an every night event, I am fully aware that these moments are becoming fewer and farther between now so on this particular night, I picked her and her tattered blue elephant up and we all snuggled together.  As I quietly rocked her and "Ted", I heard her whisper, "I love you Momma.  I'm ready to go in my own bed now."  I whispered "I love you too" and tucked her back underneath the covers.  As I fell asleep that night I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with joy.  I didn't need to breastfeed my daughter to bring her to this place.  She is safe and secure.  She knows she is loved and she is happy. And at the end of the day, If my daughter is all of these things, then I know I must be doing something right.  And I can fall asleep and rest easy knowing that, I am mom enough.