Springtime Depression

I thought about changing the name of this post, coming up with some creative and catchy title.  But I decided not to.  Why sugarcoat things?  Springtime depression.  It is what it is.

According to statistics, about one-quarter of the people reading this will have personally experienced some kind of depressive episode in their lifetime, and nearly all of you will know a close friend or family member who has.  We don’t talk about it much, but it is real.

Most people think that depression is most commonly experienced during the winter and at Christmas.  False.  There is actually a marked decline in suicides before any major holiday.  In fact, December and January have the lowest number of suicides each year.  When are the most?  April and May.

There are theories upon theories about why this might be.  Google “Springtime Depression” and you’ll find a heap of articles discussing the subject.  Read some of them.  It’s fascinating.  Theories range from social disaffectedness to increased inflammation due to pollen.  The bottom line is that nobody really knows for sure why this happens, but it does.

In his poem, “The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot writes:

                April is the cruellest month, breeding

                Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

                Memory and desire, stirring

                Dull roots with spring rain.

                Winter kept us warm, covering

                Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

                A little life with dried tubers.

The speaker is basically contrasting the spring and winter, noting that the emerging life of spring stands in stark contrast with the comfortable numbness of winter.  Ever since I first read this poem, these lines have stuck with me.  They seemed so odd, so contrary to nature.  But knowing what I know now, well, maybe they aren’t so out of place.

When I was a kid, the best playground in town had one of those really big spiral slides.  I loved that slide.  It was huge and metal and scalding hot when the sun was shining.  But if you could manage to slide down, crouching on your shoes so as not to scorch your legs, you whipped around at least 3—maybe 4—spirals. Because of the twists and turns, you couldn’t even see the top of the slide when you were at the bottom.  Unlike the uber-safe plastic slides today, you went fast.  So. Much. Fun.  It was also an exciting feat to climb up the slide, but that was a more dangerous endeavor.  First, you had to avoid burning your hands and feet, which were most likely barefoot because your shoes would slip too much on smooth metal.  Next, you had to be prepared to cling to the edge or get pushed down by someone coming down the slide.  Sometimes we’d have a ‘lookout’ at the top to holler down if someone else was coming. Sometimes we went up in teams and braced one another from falling backwards.  As you inched your way upwards, your hands were sweaty, slipping on the hot metal.  Your legs were shaking.  It was a whole lot easier to give up the climb and slide all the way down, but when you made it to the top?  Exhilarating.

That’s kind of how depression seems to work.  You start to notice that you’ve been slipping down, crouched on your feet and trying not to get burned.  It is tempting to just keep sliding because reaching out to grab that hot edge and crawl back to the top is so daunting.  But you also know that the further you slide down, the higher you're going to have to climb to get back to the top.  Sometimes you don’t even realize you've started to go down that slide.  And sometimes you do, but the bottom seems so far away and the glide downwards so much easier than the alternative.  Sometimes the twists and turns blind your view of the top, and you don’t realize how far down you’ve gone.  You need people to remind you where you are and encourage you to grab that edge, to inch upwards again.

Maybe you’re one of those kids on the slide. Or maybe you are a ‘lookout.’  As we enter into the season most people associate with budding flowers, green grass, and longer days, take note that for some, this is the darkest time of the year. If you are one of those kids on the slide, remember that you are not alone.  Tell someone.  Get encouragement.   An insightful woman once told me that the surest way to let a fear or anxiety grow was to squash it down, try to control it, or pretend it wasn’t there.  Rather, she suggested, it was better to take that thing and hold it up.  Look at it from all angles.  Let the Light shine on it.  Then, and only then, can you really deal with it.  Darkness has a way of letting ugly things grow.  So, my friend, today?  Today when you maybe don’t want to get out of bed and the To Dos of the day seem like more than you can bear, let the Light shine.  Take those struggles, and hold them up.  Look at them straight in the face.  Grab the edge of the slide.  Get a ‘lookout.’   It’s good to have someone to warn you if something is going to come flying down the slide at you, to encourage you when you start to slip, and to be there to celebrate when you make it to the top.  You can do this, my friend.

  

You can search for “Depression help” to find oodles of resources on what to watch for and how to help.

Life Lines

When a friend of mine turned 25, her mom bought her wrinkle cream.  No joke.  We laughed about it, especially since this friend still looked like she had just started high school.  But she used it anyway, and seven years later, she still looks like she's fifteen.  Meanwhile, a delicate web of lines has been weaving its way onto my face.

As I look at the women who have preceded me in my gene pool, I see beauty.  I see strength.  I see wisdom.  I see evidence of lives well-lived.  And I suspect that wrinkle creams will only bring me so far. 

And I'm okay with that.

In this culture of cosmetics and anti-aging potions and lotions and eternal quests for the fountain of youth, I am okay with wrinkles.  

In fact, I am more than okay.  I value them.

You see, each one of those beautiful little lines tells a story.  Together, they tell my story.  

My story of days spent on the ball field, the sun shining, eyes squinting, a breeze blowing, a dust of brownish-orange sand splattered across my socks, a faint smell of leather stuck on my fingers.

My story of nights spent rocking babies and finding pacifiers and taking temperatures and tucking in the blanket extra tight instead of sleeping.

Those wrinkles tell about when I've laughed and when I've cried.  They tell about the days I've worried and when I've celebrated.  Those wrinkles tell my story.

Heirloom

A few years ago I determined that I would age gracefully.  I decided that I would make it my goal to move through and among the stages of life with as peaceful and positive and forgiving of an attitude as I could muster.  I decided that I wouldn’t lament the wrinkles multiplying, or the age spots that are spreading, or the ways that my body used to move that takes just a bit more effort these days.  I decided that I would not long for days of the past but remember them, fondly, and look forward to the days ahead.

Today that determination was put to the test.

My baby…my still-1-year-old-for-another-23-days-but-who’s-counting baby said “bye bye!” to the crib that has furnished our home for almost 4 years.  We took out the screws that held together the heirloom that somehow comforted—and contained—10 years’ worth of babies in our family.  Six children slept there, and cried there, and babbled there, and searched for pacis and blankies and loveys inside the crib that was built by a father, by an uncle. 

The babies
siblings + cousins = lifelong friends

Today we set up a “big boy bed” for my baby who is still my baby even if he does not sleep in a crib.

This determination to age gracefully and move peacefully to this next stage of life…it’s tough.  But I will do it.  I will.  I will.  I will.

And I will also imprint the memories of this phase that is fading deep in my mind.

I will remember how it felt to lift his body up over the railings and lay him gently down, bottom first, then his head, tugging up the blanket, and making sure to tuck in his arms just so. And I will remember how large that crib seemed as it held his teeny-tiny newborn body, swaddled into an impossibly tight burrito. And how we found his “big” brother, who was younger than he is now, curled up, asleep, around that tiny baby burrito when he started to sleep in that crib.

I will remember how he called for Ma Ma!  Momee!  Momma! each time he woke up, even after he knew he could climb out on his own.  I will remember the excitement that shook his thick little body when he found out he could sleep in a big boy bed. I will remember the laughter as my two babies, two brothers, made their own memories, giggling their way to sleep.

I will remember that I cried because no matter how gracefully we embrace the changes in life, it is still a little sad to say goodbye to a phase that brought so much joy.  And I will remember that these tears are good for the soul.  Remembering our story is worthwhile.  It matters.  Never stop telling your stories.  I will remember that these tears are layered with anticipation about what lays ahead.  Because, though the road is uncertain, there is joy in the journey.

I Tried to Be Good, and I Failed

Today I had A DAY.

You know, one of those days.

From before I even rolled out of bed, things seemed to be going the wrong way.

I was up too early.

I had too much work to do.

The kids were up before they should have been.

Everyone was crying.  EVERYONE.

My mind was racing with thoughts about Why didn't he do this?  And Why did you do that?  And, C'mon!  Just do this!

And I realized that if I stepped out of bed with all of that going on, I was going to have a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

So I prayed.

I prayed that God would fill me with the Holy Spririt.

I prayed that He would use me to breathe love and life into my husband, my sons, my students.

I prayed that--no matter what--this day would not be about me and what everyone could have--should have--would have done for me.  Instead, I wanted to be other-focused.

As an only child and a millenial and a human-being, let me tell you, this is very hard.

But I tried.

And then I failed.

And then I tried again.

And then I failed again.

And then I realized that I could keep trying over and over and over and I would keep failing.

And then I got very annoyed at this whole business of caring for other people who do not do what you want them to do.

So, I did what any millenial would do:  I checked out of real life and checked into my phone.

(Not my finest moment, but God used it.)

I had an email saying that the weekly kids' clubs at church were not happening tonight.

No!  I need that time!  Don't you know that I NEED THAT TIME tonight?  I silently screamed back.

And then I kept reading.

There was an activity to do with your kids.

You were supposed to get a dirty penny and wash it with vinegar.  The vinegar wouldn't really work to clean the penny, but then you'd add salt...and..WAH-LAH!

Shiny, clean pennies.

You'd explain to your kids that you were like the vinegar and can't really do much on your own.  And then you'd tell them that the salt was like the Holy Spirit and without the Spirit we can do some but mostly we are useless.  And then the kids would have this A-HA!  moment.  And then you'd all drink hot cocoa and hug.

Except that I was the one with the A-HA! moment.

After I'd stepped out of bed, I'd pretty much been trying to be a good mom and a good wife and a good teacher and a good worker all by myself.  And I sucked at it.

I didn't leave any room for the Spirit to work in me.  Through me.  For me.

I was the vinegar.

And the Spirit is the salt.

And I need a whole lotta salt in my heart.

And so do you.

Because, no matter how hard you try, you will never be good enough.  You will never be strong enough.  You simply aren't enough.

But there is one who is.

And He wants oh-so-much to show you just how great He really is if only you'll let Him.

Go on.

I dare you.

For the times they are a-changin'

I once read that one of the oddest things about life is that you never really know when a new phase of life is going to start.  Days drag into days, and into weeks, and into years, and every day seems exactly like the day before it.  Then all of a sudden, your tiny frog-legged baby is having a baby of his own.  It's crazy, right?

I remember being a little girl and asking to ride on my uncle's shoulders for the one hundred and bazillionth time. Sometimes he said Yes, and sometimes he said Not now, and sometimes he said Just for a little bit and...well, you get the picture.  But I remember walking home from the zoo, past the crummy camping grounds that used to be along that stretch of the road, and he said No.  And I was feeling grumpy because he'd been saying No for a really long time.  I couldn't remember the last time he said Yes.

And that's when it hit me.

Things were different now. 

I was growing up.  It would never be the same as it was before ever again.

And I was sad.

Really, really sad.

Sometimes you can prepare for the changes.  You know when Kindergarten starts and when you get your driver's license and when you go to college.  Those are big and they are important and I will probably be a blubbering wreck when my kids do all of those things.

But it's the things I can't prepare for, that I don't see coming, or that I do see coming but don't know when they will come...it's those things that really grab me by the throat.

Today I took my boys to the park.  And they ran and they screamed and they climbed on everything in sight.  And I realized that I had been there, watching and standing and laughing.  And that was it.   I didn't carry anyone up the stairs, or help anyone over a wobbly bridge, or guide any clumsy feet down a slide.  They could do it without me all by themselves.

Oh sure, I still need to issue the occasional regular warnings about not throwing rocks or not climbing on things that aren't meant for climbing or not wrestling random kids at the park, but my role is shifting from that of a constant helper to more of a guide, a coach, a trainer.

A friend once told me that for the first 12-18 months after her second child was born, she mostly focused on keeping her kids alive.  I totally get that.  Somewhere in the recesses of my memory there is a shadow of myself screaming, No, don't put that in the baby's mouth!  He can't eat goldfish!  She said that eventually it changed.  She said that eventually her kids played together, and everything became so much easier.

In those first months of having two kids to care for, I clung to her words.  She said it would get easier.  She said I wouldn't always think about just surviving this day.  She said.  She said. She said.

And you know what?  She was right.

I don't know when, but eventually I stopped worrying that the toddler would poke out the baby's eyes if I had the audacity to take a shower.  Soon enough I was able to put food on their plates and eat my own lunch with both hands.  And one day I realized that these two little people, whom I've loved on and fretted over for two lifetimes, love each other back.

And that is awesome.  So so so awesome.  There really is nothing greater than hearing the sound of two people whom you love share a deep, deep belly laugh.

And I am so excited to see what the next chapter holds.

But it's strange, these days of autumn.  Every time I go outside, I breathe as deeply as I can and notice how the sun feels warm and toasty on my skin.  These days are numbered.  I won't know the last time I go outside in my flip-flops, or the last time we run to the store without jackets, or when the days of playing at the park are through until spring.  I know it is coming; I don't know when.  But I know that I have it today.  And I am grateful.

So today, I challenge you.  I challenge you to look at your life, at your day, and find one thing that brings you joy.


And be grateful.


Soak it in.


Breathe deeply.


Cherish this moment.

Dear Max

Today you put on your shoe.

All by yourself.

Not your rainboots, that you slip your feet into with ease and then clomp around like a tiny herd of elephants.

Not your sandles, that you squeeze between your toes and slip the strap over your heel, always on the wrong foot.

Today you put on your tennis shoe.  All by yourself.  The one with the velcro strap that you have to undo and redo in just the right spot.

That one.

You did it.

Without me.  All by yourself.

You yelled, "Mommy!  Mommy!"  And I looked at your feet, knowing that there were no shoes there the last time I'd seen them.  I asked if you did it by yourself.

You said yes, and you asked if it made me happy.

And I said it made me very happy.

And I clapped.

And I smiled.

And then I hugged you.

And when I hugged you, I shed a tear.

Because I was happy.  And I was sad.  And I am feeling all of those things at the same time.

Being a mom is weird.

Yesterday you needed me to do everything for you.  Every little thing.

But today you put on your own shoe.

And I'm a mess.

You are going to be 3 in a few months.

3 years old

I remember when your dad and I celebrated our 3rd anniversary after we started dating.  I bought him a bunch of balloons and tied them to his motorcycle.  We had a big dinner and exchanged cards and presents.  It was a big deal.

Three years was a long time.

But, I swear, you were born yesterday.

How could you have been alive--in my life--for 3 whole years already?

No way.

That simply cannot be.

Yesterday I finagled those froggy newborn arms and legs into impossibly tiny outfits, and today you are putting on your own shoe.

How do these things happen?!?

Breathe, momma, breathe.


I need to slow down.

I need to freeze this moment in time for just a little bit.


Because I want to need to remember the way that you...

...say "Mommy!  Mommy!  Hurry!  Hurry!"  when you are excited.

...and say "Mommmyyy..."  all long and drawn out when you make a new discovery.

And I don't want to forget how you...

...put your head down and say "Oh man..." when you find out that things aren't going your way.

...hold my hand when we walk across a parking lot.

...insist on opening the door to walk into the garage all by yourself.

...turn everything into a ramp for your cars.

...make me "breakfast" in your kitchen.

You seem to think I love cupcakes and tea.

...ask if Daddy is home whenever we pull into the driveway.

...lay on the floor...or your bed...or the couch...or anywhere to "look at pictures" in your books.

...shout "Good morning, Mason!" when your brother wakes up from a nap.

...stick out your tongue just a tiny bit when you concentrate.

How much longer will you...

...say "my" instead of "I" ("My did it!")?

I can't bring myself to tell you that you are saying it wrong.

...raise your voice to a tiny squeak when you say something is "tiny little"?

...ask what that sound is?  And that sound?  And that sound?

When did you stop saying "sound noise" and start just saying "sound"?

When did you learn to say it like everyone else?

Why didn't I notice that change?

...ride "zoom!  fast!" on your motorcycle up and down the hallway?

...tell me that you're sorry and that you "lub" me?

...look so sad and conflicted when you know you've done something that you shouldn't have?

...remind me to pray before we eat or see an ambulance or feel sad?

...ask me to hold your hand when you have a hard time falling asleep?

As I write this list I am struck by how many of my memories are noted by your words. Your simple, sweet words.  

When did you start talking?  Or saying sentences?

I swear it was yesterday that I thought you'd go to kindergarten saying only the word "dis"...

I should be going now.  

You're putting on your other shoe, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Love always,

Mom

Dear Mason

Today I realized that you are 10 months and 4 weeks old.
That means in one week you will be 11 months.
That means that turning *1* is right around the corner.


But, I'm not ready for that.

Nope.

You cannot turn 1.  Not yet.  Not now.

For now, you are still my little baby.

My 10 month old I-don't-care-how-many-weeks-because-I-don't-want-to-think-about-it baby.

So, I just need you to stay in your chubby little 10-month old body for another minute.

Because I want to remember all of the ways that you...


...flip open those blue eyes that melt my heart.  Still.  Every single day.

Even strangers stop to tell me how beautiful your eyes are.

And how you...

...curl your legs around my hips when I carry you.

And when you...

...crawl across the house to find whichever room I've gone to.

...smile, laugh, and flip around every time a cat is within eyesight.

...breathe in and squeal with delight as excitement takes over your little body.

...laugh as you splash in the water.

...try to convince your fingers to do what you want them to do as you are learning to stack cups.

I don't want to forget how you...

...work oh-so-hard to get food on a spoon and feed yourself without it falling off.

...toss your water cup to the floor immediately upon finishing.

...yell for "Da!  Da!"

...wrap your arms around my shoulder and bury your face in my neck to give me a hug.

...smile.

...cry.

...wake up at 5:30 a.m. 

Actually, I could do without that one.

...mold to my body, legs curled down and head nestled close, as we glide in the rocking chair.

...beam and giggle when I discover which word you've been trying to say.

...walk along couches, tables, chairs, toys, legs, beds, or anything else at your height.

...spit things out when I ask.

Really, this makes my job so much easier.  

...laugh hysterically when I tell you not to do something.

This is only cute right now.  If you are thirteen and reading this, it is no longer cute.  Seriously.  Pack your bags.  You're going to boarding school.

...stop crying as soon as I pick you up.

Because for now, today, in this moment, you are my sweet little baby boy.

And, no matter what, you will always be my sweet little baby boy.

Even when you aren't so little.

I love you, Mason.