Tender Topics

Friendship Through Infertility (Guest Post)
July 26, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

Today, we are sharing an excerpt of a guest post Kindred Mom founder Emily Allen is sharing over on Lauren Bourne’s “I am Fruitful” blog. Please visit there to read the complete post! This essay is about Emily’s friendship with Sarah Allard who shared an essay earlier this week titled, “Invisible Mothers”.

 

(photo by Latisha Hale)

We are in her kitchen, washing dishes between conversations with the various women who have dropped by for an evening of jewelry-making and friendship-forging. For years, we have been bringing women together for fellowship and camaraderie, playing to both of our strengths—her as a hostess, me as a deeper-conversations sort. She nervously tells me she thinks she might be pregnant. She hasn’t tested yet, but she has a hunch this could be the month. My heart swells with excitement for her. They’ve been trying for a while, but haven’t stressed about it. Both are eager to welcome a baby.

A few days later she tells me.

“Not this month,” she sighs. I’m sorry, I say, and I mean it. She’d be the best mom.

A few weeks later, it is me that has pink lines for the fourth time. I’m a little timid about telling her because it is uncomfortable when mom-with-multiple-other-children tells friend-who-is-still-waiting-for-one that we will be having our fourth baby in March. Still, she smiles and hugs me, and cheers me all through the pregnancy.

Still no pink lines for her.

For months, we pray and cry, and I fumble my way through trying to support her, always feeling like I come up short because I can’t fix the situation. I can’t do much except listen and pray and continue tenderly walk through the waiting along with her.

I give birth and try to figure out the chaos of four kids in my house. Two boys and two girls. It’s all so perfect, everyone says. Surely we’re done. I think we are for a stretch of months until I hear God asking me to surrender my plans. I will, I say to Him. I will receive what You give, Lord, even if that means another pregnancy, and another round of that humbling place of giving my body to the very challenging task of childbirth. I pray and try to encourage my sweet friend who is still waiting and still hoping with the best attitude she can muster.

Still no pink lines for her.

Over a year goes by when a call comes, and she says, “I’m pregnant!”

I cry with joy and the next week I make a similar call back to her and say, “I’m pregnant too!”

She is having a baby! My number five is on the way. We’re excited for each other, and it all feels so wonderful to take this journey together since we’ll be due in the same month.

She’s 11 weeks and eager to see her baby on ultrasound at her OB appointment. I’m a week behind her and feeling the nausea and exhaustion of the first trimester. I’m waiting for her call to gush about the little bean-baby she is growing, except when she calls, she is suddenly solemn.

“There is no heartbeat.”

Read the rest of this essay on I am Fruitful…

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.

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Invisible Mothers
July 24, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics 2 Comments

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

 

The minute you see two pink lines on a pregnancy test after waiting for those lines for years, you start dreaming and planning.

Our baby was due in February, and I imagined having an adorable baby bump in our Christmas photos that year. I turned baby names over in my mind, dreaming about whether our baby was going to be a boy or a girl. I cut out all lunch meat, upped my protein intake, and put the baby center app on my phone. At each change in my body–nausea, bloat, fatigue–I was thankful for signs of a growing life inside my womb. We saw our baby’s heartbeat at eight weeks, and knowing the rate of miscarriage was low beyond this point, we shared our news with friends and family. There had been so much emotion and hope building up to this moment…to this baby. We were convinced this baby was the answered prayer for a child of our own, after year exactly three years of unexplained infertility. All of these details made our miscarriage and the year that followed it one of the most painful experiences of my life.

At the beginning of eleven weeks I spotted a tiny bit. It had me concerned, but I had no other signs of miscarriage and it was such a small streak of blood. I tried to push any concern out of my mind. A couple of days later, we walked into the ultrasound expecting to see our growing baby to put our minds at ease. The stillness of the image made my heart drop into my stomach. My husband and I didn’t say a word, but we looked at each other with a knowing glance. I can still feel my throat tightening, holding back tears, trying to process the loss. I remember the look of shock on my husband’s face. He had been trying to encourage me with complete confidence that our baby was fine.

It was supposed to be a routine and reassuring ultrasound, but instead we found out we had lost our baby.

In an instant, all the hopes and dreams that had been growing within me for eleven weeks shattered. I would never get to see my baby’s face this side of heaven. There was nothing I could do to make a flicker of a heartbeat appear inside the fetus on the ultrasound.

One moment I was a mother with a womb full of life, and the next moment I became  an invisible mother.

The technician left the room to consult with the lead doctor to confirm what we already knew. My husband prayed over me and I lay on the table, numb to the pain. The doctor came in and mumbled something about being sorry for our loss, that the miscarriage was not my fault, and that I needed to talk to my OB for next steps. It was excruciating to sit in the OB’s office, surrounded by pregnant bellies and babies, and because we didn’t have an appointment, the wait seemed like forever.

The days that followed were a horrible nightmare. I had to wait several days for my scheduled D&C procedure and there was something very eerie knowing I had a dead child inside my womb. One day, I was experiencing pregnancy symptoms and the next day I could see my stomach had shrunk, the bloat had gone away and so had the nausea. These outward reminders were nothing compared to the changes happening inside my heart and mind. I went from being completely elated with the excitement of new life, to feeling utterly heartbroken. One moment, an expectant mother, the next moment, an invisible mother.

There are invisible mothers everywhere. Many times, they are not recognized as mothers because they don’t have a baby in arms, but these women hoped, loved, and longed for the babies they nourished in their wombs, no matter how many weeks or months that precious baby grew there. These brave, beautiful mothers have experienced miscarriage, but they will forever remember the baby they never got to meet.

Because of my experience, I see invisible mothers all around me. I know the pain they feel that too often remains unseen by others. I know what it’s like to pack away the maternity clothes I never grew into. I’ve strained to put on a happy face when I heard of yet another friend’s pregnancy announcement. I’ve received the bill in the mail from the ultrasound where I saw my dead baby. I’ve had the baby center app remind me of how big my baby would have been this week. I’ve watched friends have babies around my due date and wondered what could have been. I’ve experienced the heaviness of Mother’s Day, not knowing my place in the midst of mothers who still have their babies. I’ve had cycle after cycle come and the blood remind me of the baby I’ve lost. I have been at a loss for how to express the excruciating heartache I experienced at that time, and I struggled with the reality that most people never asked how I was doing or acknowledged the baby I lost.

Invisible mother, I see you. I honor the baby you lost; the one you will never forget. I honor the time you spent loving that baby, the effort spent nurturing your body, and the dream of welcoming that child into your family. Invisible mother, I know your heart will never be the same and there will always be a piece of it in heaven. I honor the baby that has forever changed you, the one that made you a mother.

Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her highschool sweetheart and together they are raising their two children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. She is a fair weather blogger at www.thelittledove.com and is often on Instagram.

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I am a Real Mom
July 17, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

I felt like an impostor.

No one had ever called me “mom” before, and I had no swollen belly, no stretch marks, and no attempts at breastfeeding to prove that I was a new mom. But the hospital attendant insisted that I sit in the wheelchair with this stranger-baby while he pushed the two of us through the hospital corridors from maternity ward to exit. “Hospital policy, ma’am,” he said. “Moms and babies ride in the chair.” My husband jogged ahead to retrieve our car, awkwardly balancing the new car seat in one arm and a diaper bag full of diapers and formula in the other. This new practice of carrying baby gear must have felt as strange to him as my effortless trip through the halls of the hospital.

I cried the whole way. Maybe the orderly thought it was some kind of post-partum hormonal bout of tears. Maybe he thought it was new-mom exhaustion or fear of taking care of a baby for the first time. It was neither. It was guilt. I felt like I had stolen someone else’s child and had requisitioned the title of “mother” without earning it.

I sat in the back seat of our car next to the baby because I didn’t know what else to do. After fiddling with the car seat a bit, I forced my restless fingers to be still. I’d spent five years trying to have a baby, and suddenly I was riding in the backseat of a car with a child someone else had carried and given birth to. I wasn’t sure how to move from negative pregnancy tests and temperature charts to feeding schedules and swaddling techniques. My preparation had consisted of mountains of paperwork, not newborn care classes. I had never had a baby bump, but now I had a baby.

As the weeks and months spun out from that first awkward day, I kept trying on the name “Mommy” when addressing this baby who was suddenly my son. It felt strange to my lips, a foreign word that rolled around oddly in my mouth and sounded so impossible to me that I could only whisper it at first. The things that most mothers talk about—the sleeplessness, the exhaustion, the need for adult conversation—I felt that I couldn’t express those things aloud to anyone. I had sought out adoption after years of infertility. I didn’t think I had earned the right to complain, so I didn’t. I gritted my teeth and tried to be thankful for the exhaustion that came with this label of mother I had so long coveted. I was thankful for it, but I was also exhausted. Even when my son grew and had birthdays, I feared that other people didn’t see me fully as his mother. More like a babysitter, maybe, but not a mother. It was a long time before I realized it didn’t matter what others thought, and the only person really struggling to believe I was really a mother was me.

It was a night when my three-year-old son vomited all night long, and I laid next to him in his twin sized bed, holding a trashcan and patting his back while the contents of his stomach emptied over and over again. He clung to me fearfully, whispering that he was afraid he would never feel good again. While he slept, I listened to his heartbeat as his chest rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing, his little body curled against mine.

“This is motherhood,” I whispered to myself, every molecule of my being acutely focused on my son. This unfettered loving, this hyper-focused caring, this generous comforting, this cleaning up of vomit, this watchful sleeplessness, this worry in the pit of my stomach even though I know it’s just a stomach bug. This is motherhood.  Of all the places in the world I could be right now, I would choose this cramped corner of this tiny bed with this feverish little boy vomiting on me. Over and over, I would choose this.  

I am a mother because I was entrusted with this child.

The next day, while I washed sheets and disinfected bathrooms, I kept a close eye on my son. Motherhood didn’t start in my body, but somehow it was innately there in me. As I reflected over that long night, I was washed in the relief of knowing I had nothing to prove to anyone, especially to myself. It didn’t matter how my son came to be my son. He is my son, and I am his mother. I found my mothering self in the nooks and crannies of my days with an infant, a toddler, a preschooler, an elementary student. In the changing of diapers, in the cleaning of messes, in packing lunches and washing clothes, in the nourishing with food and prayer and stories and songs—I found the mother that God had called and equipped me to be. She was there all along. And she loved her son fiercely. Her son.

**

Nearly four years after that long night of recognition, we added another son to our family. This time, I was ready for the wheelchair ride. I rejected the feeling of impostor syndrome, and I knew that in time I would find the confidence to mother the new baby in my arms. No, my children didn’t come to me the regular way babies come to a mother. But I watch them play, I witness their growth, and I see tiny glimmers of the men they’ll one day be. I love, correct, teach, feed, care, comfort, and enjoy these kids of mine. I find a little joy in the normal feelings of inadequacy because inadequacy isn’t the same thing as impostor. Feeling inadequate is the most normal thread of mothering in the world.  

Motherhood is sanctifying work, but it is a beautiful gift. And in the everyday, lovely, gritty, exhausting, wonderful work of mothering, I have learned to embrace the realness of my family.  

I am a real mom.

 Glenna Marshall is a pastor’s wife, adoptive mom, infertility veteran, musician, and writer. She writes to connect the difficult and challenging circumstances in life to the truths found in the Word of God. Glenna enjoys music, coffee, and reading when she’s not writing and parenting. 

Find her on social media in the following places: her blog Treasuring the Word in Every Season, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

 

 

 

 

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Eggs in a Basket: About Secondary Infertility
July 5, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility* as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

For every photo of a smiling family, there is a story.

You might look at our family of four and think, Picture perfect. They’re so blessed. And I wouldn’t argue with you—God has been good to us. Two healthy little girls, nearly six years apart, one favoring my hubby and the other favoring me (depending on who you ask).

But a photograph doesn’t tell you about the journey to this moment. It doesn’t tell you about the years of longing, about the negative pregnancy tests, about the envy, about the long conversations, about the prayers, or about the loss.

Our story, simply stated, is that pregnancy has never come easily.

Early in our marriage, I watched women around me become pregnant and families begin to grow, the news of each new life delivering a stinging blow to my heart. I dreamed of being called Mom. I wanted to say I was happy for others and mean it. One year went by, then two, then three. I chose ignorance over going to the doctor for a diagnosis, secretly deeply afraid I just wasn’t able to conceive and carry a child. The desire in my heart never faded, even as I busied and distracted myself with long hours at an editorial assistant job and reminded myself to savor the days of just the two of us.

Looking back, the three years of struggling were nothing but a drop in the bucket—I know this now. At the time, they felt endless. Pain in the waiting is real, whether it lasts one year or fifteen.

One cool November day, that season of my life ended and another began. The pregnancy curveballs started early and kept on coming. First, severe morning sickness followed by kidney stones, then a traumatic labor and finally an emergency c-section. God was teaching me lesson after lesson about adjusting my expectations.

Then perhaps the biggest shock, ten months after Evelyn’s birth: Upon waking from another emergency surgery—this time to remove a benign yet rapidly growing tumor—I listened, still groggy from anesthesia, as the doctor standing by my bed explained how they had removed a good portion of my reproductive organs. But don’t worry, he had said. One ovary should do the job of two.

Should.

Did he say “should”? Doesn’t he know how long it took to conceive the last baby, when I had two ovaries? What if all my eggs were literally in one basket? What if that was my “good side,” and now it’s gone?

I felt robbed. The whole thing had been so sudden. My feelings of loss were wrapped around dreams of babies that didn’t even exist, but I grieved. I felt my body had not only let me down, but it had let my husband down, too. What about his family dreams? Together we slowly released our future to God and moved on, focusing all of our attention on our little girl. Even as I clung to faith to sustain me, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.

I needed to believe with my whole being that God’s plan for my family was better than anything I could dream up on my own.

For the next four years I hovered in a confusing place of wondering whether I was even capable of conceiving another child. If it was medically impossible, I didn’t want to know. When you start marking years off the calendar, you begin to assume the worst. Learning about secondary infertility* from an article online was the catalyst for me to let go of my dreams. It was a self-diagnosis, but it was enough. We enrolled Evelyn in preschool; I went back to work. We dipped our toes into adoption research. Life just… moved on. Then, just as we settled into a new normal, we discovered I was pregnant. After all those years of silence from the womb, there was life.

The nervousness, excitement, and complete shock gave way to grief when I miscarried several weeks later.

Sadness swallowed us whole for a while. When I came up for air, my logical side won out, and I reduced the entire horrible experience to a big, flashing sign from God that we weren’t meant to grow our family further—we had a child already, and we needed to be content. 

But God would soon remind me, once again, that He was the one writing the story, not me. He had more chapters coming, and His narrative is infinitely better than anything I could write.

Our second daughter, Daisy, turned three in April.

In this story, the chapter about the flood was followed by the part about the rainbow.

You who are in a season of wondering and waiting, I see you. You who have received a diagnosis, who are wading through the adoption process, who are undergoing procedures, who are grieving loss, asking why—you are not alone.

If you have walked through the dark days and broken through to light on the other side, whether it be through a child you carried, a child brought into your forever home, or simply peace in the uncertainty, praise God! Share your stories and yell hallelujahs for the miracles. But don’t forget those who are in the thick of it. They need you. Be a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. Offer hope. Reach out. Squeeze a hand. Pray.

~

People love to ask why we spaced our girls so far apart. I laugh because we had nothing to do with it—and I’m grateful it wasn’t up to us. They also love to ask if we’re going to have more kids. Knowing the twists and turns of this journey so far, I’d never assume to know the answer to that question. The story of our family is in the hands of the Author.

He writes the best stories.

*Secondary infertility is the inability to become pregnant, or to carry a pregnancy to term, following the birth of one or more biological children, and can be the result of a variety of factors. A diagnosis of secondary infertility might apply if: a couple who has already given birth without the use of medical support or fertility medications is unable to get pregnant or experiences miscarriages after trying for one year if the woman is under 35, or after trying for 6 months if the woman is older than 35. Source and more info: The National Infertility Association (resolve.org)

secondary infertility, hope for moms, encouragement, infertility, grief, pregnancy loss, trying to conceive

secondary infertility, hope for moms, encouragement, infertility, grief, pregnancy loss, trying to conceive

Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who traded in her red pen to chase her kids around all day and share stories over at Write the Rough Draft. Wife of a woodworker and mom of two daughters, her hobbies include photography, reading too many books at a time, and jotting down ideas she hopes to write about when she has a free minute. Rebekah is co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter for those longing for freedom over perfection, and she shares slices of life on Instagram at @writetheroughdraft.

The Kindred Mom Team would love to invite you to follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our email list where we send out updates on our community a few times a month.

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Hope in the Shadows
May 26, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 6 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them.

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast! 


When I think about the topic of mental health, I’m reminded of that hilarious Bob Newhart clip in which a woman enters his office seeking psychological help. Bob initially responds in his typical deadpan humor then yells to his patient, “Stop it!” She is stunned by his calloused approach to her legitimate struggles and leaves his office more confused and discouraged than when she arrived.

Have you ever been given similar advice when you’ve sought counsel during an overwhelming season in your life? In your grief and stress, maybe you’ve turned to a friend for perspective and she flippantly replies, “Don’t worry. God has a reason for it. I’m sure it’ll all work out!” While those words may be true, they offer little more than a Band-Aid to our gaping wounds. Those oversimplified, cliché answers often leave us feeling unheard, devalued, and isolated.

In my nearly 40 years of life, I have battled depression (post-partum and depressive disorder) a handful of times. I didn’t want to feel like the world was caving in on me, crushing any hope of my circumstances improving but I felt powerless to move forward. I couldn’t just “stop it”, as if depression were some magical switch I could control on a whim. Something was broken in my ability to choose joy and find hope. Jesus seemed aloof, watching me struggle from a distance but with no real concern for the deep sadness that plagued me.

When life feels overwhelming and sad, these are 5 tools that have helped me through the shadows to a place where I can recognize truth and begin my journey toward a healthier way of being.

1. Be honest. I had to admit that I wasn’t “fine”. I needed help in addressing the negative thought patterns that ran circles in my mind. Those who knew and loved me could no longer provide the necessary help. Life felt inescapably sad and stifling. I struggled with ongoing hurt and guilt that required a new way of thinking. Owning my need for help meant risking further vulnerability but it also meant I was one step closer to freedom from the crushing dark.

2.  Call a (trusted) doctor. Sometimes a simple phone call can help with the chemical part of depression. I was at my son’s appointment when his pediatrician said, “So, when are you coming to see me? You aren’t the same vibrant person I met 10 months ago.” I was stunned by her direct approach but that’s exactly what I needed to finally address my overwhelming stress and grief. She encouraged me to consider an antidepressant to help with the probable chemical imbalance. I used to feel shame in taking an antidepressant; I felt like I was being judged for my lack of faith in God to heal me without medication. But that’s faulty thinking. While God’s grace is enough for our needs, He can and does use medication to help us on the road to healing.

3. Find a good counselor/therapist. My doctor referred me to a therapist who specializes in overachieving women who struggle with burnout. (Can you believe that’s an actual thing?) Counseling helped me to process my thoughts and experiences in a safe place, where a trusted guide pointed me to the truth. She gave me time and space to face the deeper issues and gain a better understanding of my life and heart and what God was doing in both. Counseling gave me practical strategies to accept the truths I already knew and to move forward in them.

4. Sleep. Sometimes sleep is the best anti-depressant. I’m learning to turn off the screens an hour before bedtime, read a good book, and go to bed earlier.

5. Focus on the truth. The truth is that God is with us, delights in us, and created us to thrive in using our gifts to serve Him. Daily journaling, intentional times of quiet, cultivating authentic friendships, and listening to good music have all encouraged me to focus on what is true.

I don’t know what you’re facing in this season of life but hope and help are possible. If you’re overwhelmed with sadness, paralyzed by stress or grief and unable to “stop it”, make time to address your pain and struggles. Maybe it’s time to be honest, call your doctor, find a good counselor, get some sleep, and focus on the truth.

Have you struggled with depression in motherhood? What tools have helped you to move through the shadows?

 Katie Carper is a recovering people-pleaser with a strong sense of justice and a deep desire to include the excluded. She’s grateful for coffee, laughter, and this adventurous life with her husband and 4 kiddos. You can find her at katiecarper.com where she blogs about community, faith, adoption, and special needs with hope, humor, and a good dose of snark. She also shares snippets of her life on Instagram. 

 

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Facing the Reality of Mental Health Issues
May 22, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them.

***This week we are doing a fun giveaway in celebration of the Kindred Mom Podcast release (quick links to subscribe to the podcast are on the sidebar, and we have a podcast page in the navigation with show notes for each episode). From May 17-May 24, you can enter to win one of two Hospitality Bundles full of goodies that might help you head up a Summer Connection Group in your local area. There are some beautiful things from Magnolia Market included. Not to be missed! Enter on Instagram (beginning May 17) for the Backyard Coffee Hour Bundle or subscribe to our email newsletter to win the Evening Moms Gathering Bundle. Winners for both giveaways will be chosen on May 24th.***

The car pulled to a stop in front of my family’s apartment, and I looked up to see the shadowy figure of my mom standing at the sliding glass door. I knew that stance well. It meant she was angry. Again. What could I have done this time? It was 11 o’clock at night, which after  mom’s normal bedtime, but I was 21 and had been at a church event with my boyfriend and his godparents.

I entered the apartment to ringing accusations.

“Where have you been? I’ve called everyone including your previous pastor, the police, your boyfriend’s cell phone and his godparents’ house. You couldn’t have been at church the whole time!”

I seethed inside. Don’t I have the right to live my life? How embarrassing that she called the police on me because I wasn’t at home before 10pm. Why is she suspicious of everything I did. Can’t she trust me? I had never done anything to jeopardize her trust. I have never smoked, never drank, never got in with the wrong crowd. I’ve tried so hard to obey. 

I felt trapped in an endless nightmare of wondering what would upset her. She hadn’t always been like this. When I was a child, people sought her out for godly wisdom and frequently visited our home. She was active in church activities and held a good job. My dad passed away when I was 7. The first few years after his death were relatively uneventful but when I was 11 Mom became increasingly paranoid and was admitted to the psychiatric ward for several weeks. After that she was never the same. She was suspicious about everything and everyone. This prevented her from holding a job and she cut off contact with all my extended family. Her irrational anger reared up anytime someone appeared to be against her even when the perceived threat was completely unfounded.

I lived day to day, year to year, trying to hide myself away so that I wouldn’t be the target of her fury. Those years took a toll on my mind as well. Since everyone else had been cut off, Mom was the main influence on my life for a long period. At times, her break from reality was a slow fade which pulled me with it. She would talk frequently about how people were against us. I started to believe that she was right: everyone was against me and I shouldn’t trust anyone.

But I was angry. I saw my peers gaining increasingly more freedom with age, while my freedom was continually reigned-in the older I got. Anytime I voiced my resentment, Mom accused me of being rebellious and twisted my words. In the end, I would feel guilty for my reaction and convince myself that I was wrong for feeling that way.

When I was 17 I started working at a local convenience store to help support the family. While I was working one day, a local locksmith named Walt came in the store. He started a conversation with me and found out that I was a Christian. When he left the store that day, God told him that he needed to continue visiting me at the store to demonstrate to me the love of God the Father. Over the next several years, Walt continued visiting me at work. He encouraged me to write down my feelings about my situation, and gradually I began to trust him. Walt’s wife suffered from mental illness, so he was able to help me sort through many of my own issues stemming from my home life and my mom’s condition.

It took me years to understand that mom’s actions and behavior were and still are a result of a mental illness. She remains in denial of it and I was too, for a long time. As I came to terms with her condition, I grew to understand my past, and learned to be more realistic about the future. For so long I lived with a false expectation that she would one day be normal again. Every time she would have another episode, I found myself deeply disappointed.

Living in that environment for so many of my formative years made me realize that I had to learn how to break the cycle for myself and my children. I began a quest to understand my own mind.  I wanted to figure out why my pervasive emotions were overwhelming fear, shame, guilt, and insecurity. I began reading books by neuroscientist Dr. Caroline Leaf, and through her writing, I gained perspective about my own mental struggles. As I studied the statistics, I knew that if I didn’t work to retrain my destructive thinking patterns I would be passing these traits of mental instability on to my own children. As my fearful thoughts would bubble up to the surface, I began the tedious task of painstakingly separating them into two categories: is this a rational fear based on truth or is it something that Mom was afraid of?

I still have a relationship with my mom, but having struggled with anxiety and moodiness when I spend time with her, I’ve had to set boundaries. My husband’s godmother insisted that I had to find a way to separate my mom from her illness, encouraging me to enjoy her on the good days and recognize that on other days it was the illness talking.

Situations still arise when the illness takes me by surprise and I am frightened by its shadowy figure. In those times I learn to screen the phone calls, or turn the issue over to my husband. Denial would lead me to live subjected to the illness. Courage leads me to tough love in the form of boundaries or emotionally distancing myself for a period of time. I choose not to be a victim, and I live each day as it comes, endeavoring to love her despite the sickness.

Naomi Fata is a wife, a work from home, homeschooling mom of three amazing children, and author of Beyond Head Knowledge: Knowing Christ Who Satisfies Our Hearts. She says she is an ordinary person who has found victory in an extraordinary God. Weekly she writes about renewing our minds at Christian Resource Ministry. You can find her on Instagram  Twitter, and Facebook. 

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When Mother’s Day Breaks Your Heart
May 12, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

 

“My hands are empty. There are children running circles round me, but my hands are empty.

I have come to terms with the unthinkable. We have lost again, but is it too much to ask for a souvenir, to want something to grasp and hold tight? I don’t even have a photograph, and this feels too much to bear.

Me with a pile of cameras, lenses, and an iPhone—I didn’t stop time. I was too busy soaking it all in, too busy just being. More than that though, I thought it would last.

I thought I had more time.”

I wrote those words before loss piled up so high I could not see beyond it. I had endured a full-term stillbirth, and then just two months before Mother’s Day I lost a baby at sixteen weeks. I did not know then that I would lose again, at only ten weeks—a loss so early that a camera would not have been able to capture my belly swelling full. Now I know how loss can stand around every corner, how it can make you feel hemmed in from every direction. I know how to weep in the car after leaving the doctor’s office and then drive home to make dinner and quietly tell my children they will not be able to meet the brother or sister that had been growing inside my womb. But I don’t know how to endure another month without a second pink line on the pregnancy test when there are no small footsteps running through the house. I don’t know the pain of sitting by a sick child’s bed or watching them breathe their last.

Loss winds its way into our lives inevitable, but unique. And we women walk wounded and strong. We carry the scars of from laying down our hearts to embrace those we cannot keep. We carry those scars and they are treasures. Our hearts wounded and still beating courageous, speak that we have loved and lost. We have been brave enough give ourselves fully even when the only answer is empty arms.

We women are warriors, and we stand in the flow of time that gives and takes. We stand with strong arms and open hands.

I thought I had more time. I thought if I rooted my feet and opened my heart, a baby would have to take hold. Now I know there is no stopping or rerouting the furious stream of time, moments crash over me, some painful, many joyful. One day there will be more than enough. One day I will embrace my three children flown away, just as I cradle the four within the circle of our home. Until then Christ cares for my little ones, and in this Mother’s Day he holds my heart. A weeping Christ who also bears the scars of loving fierce. A joyful Christ who knows all will be made well one day.

 Sharon McKeeman is a homeschooling mama to three sons and a daughter. She is a Midwestern girl at heart who now lives with her family on the sunny beaches of Southern California, where they enjoy reading together and playing in the surf. She is an author, educator, speaker, and photographer who shares more of her story as @sharonmckeeman on Instagram and at www.sharonmckeeman.com where you will find her blog, Writing in the Dust, as well as her newsletter, Mourning into Joy, which is filled with encouragement and resources for mamas.

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I Don’t Want To Know
May 8, 2017 In Home & Family Tender Topics 4 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

 

Dear Moms of the Internet,

Can I  be honest for a hot second here? I don’t want to know how awesome your life is.

There. I said it. Now you know what a terrible person I am.

You post pictures of yourself with your two-year-old baking oatmeal cookies in a perfectly tidy kitchen. My two year old couldn’t sit still long enough to stir a bowl before it would splat on the floor. Besides, where are you getting all this time to bake? Ugh. I don’t want to know.

You post pictures of your children reading on the couch together – heads nuzzled into each other’s shoulders. My kids can’t sit in the backseat of our car without someone, somehow having their eye poked out by another. Why are your children so calm and considerate towards each other? Don’t tell me that you don’t feed them anything with sugar in it. I don’t want to know.

You post pictures of your picture perfect living rooms with fresh flowers and classical books sitting prettily on your coffee table. Is that a 9-year-old, in the background, practicing the piano without being asked? Nevermind. I don’t want to know.

You post pictures of yourself with a laptop, cup of tea, and a candle lit. You tell us that your husband has taken the kids away for the whole day so you can have “time to yourself”. Taking “time for myself” is when my husband is home and is able to fend off the children while I try to take a poop in privacy. Did you just say that you are taking this, “time for yourself”, to write your book on how to be “a mom who creates meaningful moments”? I absolutely don’t want to know.

I don’t want to know how awesome your life is.

I want to know that your two-year-old had a tantrum after you told her she couldn’t eat the cookie batter.

I want to know that your children read for about 5 minutes before one of them jumped on the other one’s head and tried to blame the whole scandal on the dog.

I want to know that your living room only looks that lovely when you are taking a picture for your Instagram. While you were positioning your classical books on the coffee table, you  were screaming at your nine-year-old, “If you don’t practice your piano, I am taking the iPad away for a week!”

I want to know that the entire time your husband took the kids away so you could get a  “break”, you wasted it by perusing on Pinterest and stalking everyone else’s feeds saying, “I wish my life was awesome as how their’s looks.”

When I see the edited and filtered version of your life portrayed on the Internet, I feel inadequate. I feel like I am the only one who is struggling to stay afloat. I feel like your life is always awesome and mine is not.

I want to know this is not true.

Your friend,

@InadequateMom
#idontwanttoknow

Noelle Rhodes is a researcher, speaker, and podcaster. She is the podcast producer/host for Friending Podcast and is a regular co-host for the podcast, Slices of Life. She lives in North Jersey with her hot husband and two wild children. She is a big fan of Constant Comment Tea, the Oscars, and Lesley Knope. Noelle is passionate about helping women empower women through the art of friendship.

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Saving Sarah: A Journey Through Darkness
May 3, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 10 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

Anita’s note: Sarah has given me permission to share her story. We first shared her story in October of 2015 for the #write31days challenge series 31 Glimpses into the Unquiet Mind.  

——–

The hiss of the bus stopping at the United terminal at the Newark, NJ airport stabbed me. We grabbed our suitcases, in preparation from finishing our transfer from one terminal to another on the airport bus.Two years had passed since that fateful night when we almost lost Sarah, and I hadn’t expected my eyes to tear up as traveled through an airport we had never been to before.

Questions bounced around inside my head as I gripped the my suitcase handle. Had Sarah stumbled off this very bus the night she almost died? Had she listened to the swoosh of the automatic doors and smelled the jet fuel before collapsing on the tarmac? My mama-heart wanted to know the details of that night, even if they hurt. Even though two years had passed, I wanted to make sense of all that had happened during that dark period of her life.

Every momma wants to soothe, protect, and bring light into our children’s nightmares–whether our child is five, 15, or 25. I will probably never know exactly what happened that night, but I believe that praying for my daughter made a difference in the outcome of her story.

The very night that sirens wailed and flashing lights converged on the scene while paramedics knelt at Sarah’s side, I knelt beside my bed, 2000 miles away, clueless to her plight. I knew she was in danger, but I didn’t know how much. The urge to pray was so great that I did something I had never done before–I sent out requests to some of Sarah’s mentors and friends and asked them to pray with me.

We didn’t find out until over a week later that paramedics rushed Sarah to a hospital near the airport and eventually released her after 12 hours. It took months for the full story to emerge.

Our well-brought-up-Christian daughter, the one we strove to instill with the proper balance of caution and freedom, had accepted some drug-laced ‘candies’ from strangers. Without even stopping to think of all the lessons we’d taught her, she had popped the candies into her mouth and ended up passed out at the airport on the tarmac between terminals. While it wasn’t exactly an overdose, it did require hospital observation.

At almost 21, she seemed too old to accept and ingest candy of questionable origin from people she had never met before. After all, we taught her all about stranger danger from an early age.

Had we failed as parents? For the past two years, Sarah’s behavior had bewildered us. She started binge eating and gained weight. She went away to college and struggled to get good grades—despite her 4.0 high-school GPA. She lost confidence in her ability to reason and think and write.

When she couldn’t decide on a major, she went to Argentina for a year, where she seemed to suffer from the throes of first love as well as deep depression. When she returned, the first love was a thing of the past, but the depression remained.

We took her to counseling. She continued to gain weight. We took her to psychologists. She spoke of going for a walk at night and stepping in front of a car.  She came home to stay with us until we could figure things out. I spent hours on the phone trying to find a treatment center that our insurance would pay for.

After seven months, the depression loosed its grip upon her life and she returned to her cheery self again. She stayed up late at night, sketching and painting. What a relief that she had found interest in something—anything, again.

Sarah’s grandparents invited her to travel with them to Puerto Rico for a month.  After one week away she seemed to implode on the stage of social media before our very eyes. She met some guy online and fell in love again.

Sarah started bragging about her drug use.  Drug use?! Our daughter had safely navigated her early teen years without ever experimenting with drugs. The news devastated me. When I tried to talk to her about it, she unfriended me on Facebook.

She met more guys on line, gun-toting terrorist types. She wanted to meet them, so she planned a trip to Europe. She informed us that it was her life and she would live it the way she wanted to.

When I pointed out that she had only $125 in her bank account after purchasing a one-way ticket to London, she accused me of interfering in her life. She lost her ATM card, but continued with her plans of ditching her grandparents at the airport and catching a flight to London five days later.

Fear squeezed me breathless when she got arrested for shoplifting the last week of her stay in Puerto Rico. Shoplifting?! Our responsible daughter, who had held down a part-time job from the time she turned 15, had shoplifted?

We didn’t know Sarah any more. She had morphed into someone who did incomprehensible things and spouted vitriol all over social media. But we loved her and wanted to help.

Unfortunately, once a child turns 18, parents have minimal ways to help. We can’t just haul our 18-year-old off to a psychologist and demand to join the session. We can’t even talk to the psychologist without our adolescent’s permission.

All we could do was pray. Pray for understanding. Pray that she wouldn’t make it to London. Pray that she would come home. Pray that she wouldn’t die penniless and friendless in some dark alley.

It took another week and a few miracles to find out what ailed Sarah. Something we had only joked about a time or two but had no real knowledge of: Bipolar Disorder.

For months afterwards, I let guilt beat me up on a daily basis. If I had only known more, I could have spared Sarah the heartache and trauma of her manic experience. Once I read a few books about bipolar disorder, I couldn’t believe that we, her parents, and the entire medical community, had missed the diagnosis.

But unlike diabetes and pneumonia, bipolar disorder never presents itself in an orderly progression of symptoms and clues. And once an adolescent turns 18, he or she has the legal right to autonomy from concerned parents. The median age for a bipolar diagnosis is 25, which means that half of those diagnosed receive their diagnosis at an even younger age.

If we had been informed, we could have guided Sarah to find the help she needed before the drug-laced-candy-from-strangers incident and collapse at the airport. We could have sought treatment before she did drugs. We could have prevented so much heartache if we had only known a little more.

In the year leading up to her diagnosis, I spent hours and hours on the phone. I argued with insurance agents about accessing treatment. I discovered that the standard for coverage for mental illness differs greatly from medical coverage.

Insurance companies only want to pay for in-house treatment if a patient is in immediate risk of dying. In the case of an eating disorder, the patient must be almost dead (they actually asked how much weight Sarah had lost or gained, and whether or not a physician would attest to her imminent demise). For a mental illness, the patient needs to have expressed suicidal ideation within the last 12 hours.

As soon as a patient shows any sign of progress, the insurance company will no longer pay for treatment–even if the parent, caregiver, or spouse (who know the patient better than anyone else) has concerns about the patient’s health or safety. To make matters worse, one can only find in-patient mental health facilities and partial-hospitalization programs in larger cities. The closest facility to our hometown required a 90-minute drive each way.

Sarah spent ten days in a mental health hospital, and keeping her there that long took constant communication with the medical staff and the insurance company. We knew the real Sarah, and we knew she wasn’t ready to reenter society. But we had no choice. They discharged her to my husband’s care before she was ready to live on her own. The ten-day reprieve did give us time for a crash-course on her illness so that we could understand what she faced and continue to provide support for her.

It took almost three months after her hospitalization for her psychiatrist to fine-tune Sarah’s medications to the point that she could re-enter society and cope with the emotional trauma of her actions during her manic phase.

Supporting a family member who has experienced a mental health crisis is similar to supporting a cancer patient who has finished chemo. It takes awhile for things to return to normal. We got frustrated at times with Sarah’s lack of progress, until we remembered that trauma to the mind takes time to heal, too.

If only we had known more about mental health issues, we would have been able to distinguish between rebellious behavior and behavior that signals a possible mental health crisis. We would have kept track of her behavior and had data to present to her medical providers that might have helped them make a diagnosis sooner.

Sarah suffered from orthorexia* her sophomore year of high school, so I was convinced that help for her problems with depression and binge eating could be found in an eating disorders program. Because we had a good relationship with Sarah before the crisis, she willingly let us talk to her medical care providers–which was both good and bad.

Good because we could answer questions and give information (Sarah struggled to remember details during this time period). Bad because at times we felt as everyone assumed that WE were the problem. The medical professionals wouldn’t believe us when we explained that Sarah wasn’t acting normal.

A mama has to have persistence in order to advocate for her child (or other family member) when it comes to mental health issues. Standing up to insurance companies does not come naturally to me. I avoid conflict and I hate talking on the phone. But Sarah’s life depended on my willingness to advocate for her. Without that persistence, Sarah would not have received the help she needed.

We have learned as a family how to deal with Sarah’s diagnosis. For the first six months, Sarah asked me to call or text her each day at the specific times she needed to take her medicine. She ask me to be her accountability partner, and I periodically check up on her to see if she feels like she is taking good care of herself (regular sleep, exercise, and diet all play a part in regulating bipolar disorder).

I encouraged her to find a counselor near her school so that she has a disinterested third party who sees her on a regular basis to monitor her. Sarah chooses to disclose to her potential employers that she has bipolar disorder and gives them permission to contact her psychiatrist. In other words, she is building a safety net for herself. Her life belongs to her, but I’m thankful that she has invited me into her world.

*orthorexia is similar to anorexia, with an emphasis/obsession on right eating that results in weight loss and withdrawing from social situations where food (especially food that the orthorexic deems as ‘unhealthy’).

Anita Ojeda has a passion for educating people about the early signs of mental illness in adolescents. She writes about her caregiving journeys on her blog www.blessedbutstressed.com. When Anita’s not lurking outdoors looking for and photographing rare birds in odd places, you can find her hanging out with her husband, camping with her kids, or mountain biking with her students.

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Exploring Autism
April 23, 2017 In Childhood Tender Topics 2 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community.

 

Most nights, when I climb the creaky ladder to the top bunk for evening prayers, I find Steven, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed larger-than-life eight-year-old, hiding under a mess of scattered paper airplanes, Junior Factoid books and origami. Or Iʼll find him thrashing about the upper bunk, skinny legs flailing all over the place as he squirms to avoid momʼs hugs and kisses. Thereʼs a mound of blankets and pillows without cases at the foot of Stevenʼs bed. His bright blue quilt, the one from Target with the primary-colored cars and trucks and navy border, itʼs somewhere beneath the rubble.

If Iʼm lucky, Steven will settle down long enough to demand for me to fill his volcano-red Hydro Flask thermos with fresh water.

“It doesnʼt taste right!” he petitions. Next, heʼll try to tickle me. Or heʼll slap my arm and yell “Tag! You’re it!” followed by “Tag dad!”

Before I leave the room to search for my husband, I lean over and remind our son, like I always do, that if I could choose one boy out of all the boys in the world, Iʼd choose him, every time.

Inside, however, Iʼm waving a white flag in surrender. I love my boy, of course I do. Steven is a bright child, full of life, full of love. But itʼs hard being his mom. The older he gets, the quirkier he gets, the more difficult it is to raise him. Then again, parenting Steven has always been a challenge.

We had a run-in with an elderly gentleman at the Fred Meyer pharmacy when Steven was a toddler. We were there for my annual flu shot. I was seated on a vinyl covered chair next to the man. Steven and his big sister, Emily, were parked across from me in an albatross of an orange double jogging stroller. Steven began to screech his high- pitched screech. Itʼs what he did when he was frustrated. There wasnʼt a toy or board book from the diaper bag that would calm my son when he started screeching, not even the Cheerios from the plastic container I carried with me at all times.

“Canʼt you make him stop?” the old man demanded.

“Iʼm so sorry, thereʼs nothing I can do.” I apologized.

“I have four children,” he continued the rant, “and my wife never allowed them to act like that.”

I longed to cover my head and bolt from the pharmacy. However, even if I could flee to the sanctuary of my Subaru Outback in the parking lot, experience taught that Stevenʼs screeching would start over again the next time we ventured out.

The pharmacy debacle was years ago. Minus the screeching, Stevenʼs behavior has improved little over time. Which brings me to a Saturday, not long ago, when we came to visit my mom and stepdad at their home. It was the week after Daylightʼs Savings and I had myself a little breakdown in the spare bedroom that doubles as momʼs craft room. Steven and his sisters were coloring and playing LEGO across the hall, mom was quilting. She was in a hurry to finish because her quilting group met on Monday. I sat on the antique bed, next to mom, unable to control the tears streaming down my cheeks, mostly out of exhaustion from the daily, sometimes hourly, meltdowns of the last eight years, and because I felt like a big fat failure for not knowing how to help my own child. Mom listened as I vented, and gently, between stitches, asked if Iʼd considered the possibility that Steven could be on the autism spectrum.

“I didnʼt want to say anything because youʼre so sensitive,” mom began. “But it concerns me that Steven didnʼt lock eyes when he was a baby.” She continued, “Even now, he refuses to hug me and has trouble sustaining eye contact for more than a few seconds.”

“Heʼs a unique boy,” I agreed. “Itʼs like heʼs a walking encyclopedia, constantly spilling out facts about oceanic zones or heʼs looping around the family room reciting multiplication tables.”

After a pause, I continued, “And itʼs like he truly believes Iʼm trying to torture him when I make him wear the Star Wars shirt from Gymboree, or when I forget to pre-wash a new shirt.”

I couldnʼt help but think of the way Steven scrunched up his face in disgust if he detected the faintest bit of apricot lotion on my hands when I handed him his glasses in the morning; and how he covered his ears and screamed during the fifteen-minute drive to my parentsʼ house because we forgot to turn off the rear speakers in the minivan.

Later that night, at home, while the kids slept and my husband streamed Gold Diggers on our television through Amazon Prime, I sat at the oak computer desk in our family room and googled autism.

Itʼs been a month since my breakdown in momʼs spare bedroom. Weʼre in the early stages of the autism evaluation process with Steven. Iʼm not sure if high-functioning autism is what weʼre dealing with. But we’re headed in the right direction, no matter what the outcome. We’re getting the help we need to learn more about our son and how his beautiful mind works, the reasons for his meltdowns. Weʼre learning that itʼs not his fault. Itʼs not our fault. Iʼm not a bad mom after all. Iʼve simply been using the wrong set of tools for the last eight years. Knowing this brings me peace and great hope.

Itʼs bedtime once again for Steven. We say our prayers. Steven asks God to help our dog love him more than she loves his sisters. Itʼs the only thing heʼs willing to pray for these days. Iʼm trying to give my son a good-night hug, but heʼs thrashing around under the blue car quilt, begging me to find him. I press on and try once again to gather my blue-eyed boy into my arms. He pushes away. I lean in once more because I have something important to say.

“Steven,” I tell him, “look at Momʼs nose. You donʼt have to look me in the eye, just look at my nose.”

When he does, I remind Steven, as I do every night, that if I could choose one boy out of all the boys in the world, Iʼd choose him.

“Out of all the boys? In the whole-wide world?” he asks.”

“Yes Steven,” I replied, “Iʼd choose you, every single time.”

Nicole Kristin Twedt is a writer, encourager, wife and coffee-drinking mama of three in the Pacific Northwest.  Nicole’s funny last name is Norwegian and is pronounced “tweet,” which tickles her to death since she has a thing for birds.  She writes about being brave and living in hope when life is hard.   You can find her at nicolektwedt.com.  (family photo by Lissa Whitlock)

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