professional photo shoot

A few weeks ago, our little family got some professional photos taken at our home.  The photographer likes to do 7 o'clock in the evening because the light of the sun at that time is great for photos, but since Patrick is in bed by then, we did 7 o'clock in the morning.  We're all up by 5 am around these parts, so 7 am was no biggie for us.  And it was great because we got it done and over with!

Our photographer is Abby Colter of Abby Lynn Photography.  She does such a great job, and really captures the essence of the people she photographs. 

I am SO PLEASED with how our photos turned out!  They are the perfect keepsake for Patrick's first year!  I seriously loved all of them, but here are some of my favorites!!  Warning:  photo overload.

Love love love them!

my depression

There are truly no words to accurately describe my first two weeks of being a mother. 

But I'd like to try.

It's very important for me to write this down.  Now that I am fully healed of the depression, I feel like I need to think back to those days and get some closure.  And I know it sounds cliché, but that horrific experience made me the mother I am today.




I'll start at our stay in the hospital.  I can honestly say that the 24 hours after Patrick was born were the happiest moments I have ever had.  I remember sitting up in my bed nursing Patrick, looking at my husband and saying "I am on cloud nine."  The precious times holding my new baby, watching Jeff admiring him, and seeing the beautiful boy that was nourished and cared for just a day earlier inside my belly made me realize what God's grace could feel like.  And it was powerful...magical.

The hospital stay was the bomb - I loved every minute of being waited on.  HAHA.  Really though, they bring you your medicine, change your sheets, help you in and out of the shower, take your baby at night and bring him back when he's hungry, and each and every nurse tells you how beautiful your son is and how well you did in labor.  What's not to like?

I guess I would say the problems started when we got home.  We picked up Wendy's on the way, sat the baby on the floor in his car seat next to our kitchen table and we talked about how wonderful everything was and how exciting this new life would be.

Then Jeff left for work.

And I was all alone.

I did okay the first couple days.  Really, Patrick slept decent at night, up every two hours to eat and would sleep in between.  I only had a couple crying moments those first couple days, which wasn't bad!

the one and only time Patrick enjoyed the stupid Moby Wrap.

Like I've said before, I wanted to nurse for a year.  That was my goal.  I had a piece of paper hanging on the fridge and I would record the times I was breastfeeding just to keep track.  It was typically every two hours, sometmes every hour and a half.  I remember staring at the list thinking "oh my gosh.  I've already breastfed 112 times."  That was sort of the breaking point.  I felt like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  I might as well have walked around with no shirt on, and I actually did just that one whole morning and afternoon, with a towel on my head to boot.

I started to feel myself spiraling downward into a deep sadness.  I had never felt more alone.  In the past, I loved being alone - I was my own best company.  I didn't understand why I felt that way because it never bothered me before.

About a week after we brought Patrick home, I knew this was worse than the "baby blues" everyone talks about.  I had been fighting the feelings, in denial about them even.  I started considering post-partum depression, searching the internet and then finally thinking YES THAT'S ME.  But depression was something other people had - Jeff and I used to have conversations about people with depression.  What could be so bad?  I can't believe people need medicine for it?  Couldn't they just be thankful for what they had? 

The only way I can describe the overall feeling inside of me was:  DESPAIR.  Despair is defined as "the complete loss or absence of hope."


It was the darkest time of my 27 years on this earth.  I begged God every day to bring me out of it.  Every single hour, every minute, every SECOND, was a struggle.  I cried ALL THE TIME. 

Now, post-partum depression differs from mother to mother.  Some moms don't feel bonded to their baby, or they feel he/she is smarter than they are, etc.  That wasn't the case for me.  I loved Patrick, and I did feel bonded to him as a mother.  But I remember telling Jeff these exact words in between sobs:

"It's like I don't want to take care of him."  I said "I'm so scared." 

Jeff, my rock, my stable and reassuring husband, said "I am too."

I felt lonely and trapped.  And I also felt like I wanted to send my baby back to heaven.  I just wanted to go back to the way things were before, when I could come and go as I pleased, go shopping, go out to eat, do whatever I wanted.

I decided to contact the hospital.  I talked to nurses and told them to have the doctor call me because I wanted medication, and I wanted it now.  I didn't want to feel like that another minute.  I cannot explain to you how SCARY it was.  I was terrified that I would never want to take care of my baby.

I called around to people to ask them if they felt like this, and most of them said well, no I wasn't that bad...

I finally talked to two dear friends who did have post-partum.  One had it for just two weeks (it doesn't sound like long, but when every single minute is horrible, two weeks is a lifetime) and the other had it (she was scared to tell me) for eight months.  It helped talking to them a lot, but it also made me feel worse because I was currently in it, and they were out.  I was jealous.  I felt a LOT of jealousy for a long time.  Jealousy of people without children.  People who could go out and water their lawns or grab a movie whenever they wanted.

My cousin and best friend told me later that I had no expression during that time.  For those of you that know me, I am an outgoing, bubbly, extrovert of a person.  During the depression, none of that was evident in me.  The smiles were fake and the laughter was forced.

At that point my mom and sister came and stayed with me.  Having them there was like a God-send.  I was no longer completely alone, even though I still felt lonely because after all, Patrick was mine and mine only.  They encouraged me to do the things that made me happiest, like going to church and getting outside for a walk.  It helped a little.

Then we had a serious discussion about the breastfeeding.  It was making things worse and I needed a way out.  My mom went and bought me the cadillac of breast pumps so I could get out if I needed to.  Pumping sucked.  It was gross too.  And time-consuming.  And it took motivation.  Which I did not have.

The next option was to begin formula-feeding Patrick.  The thought DISGUSTED me.  I felt like a horrible mother even considering it.  I used to watch people put that nasty powder into water and I would about gag.  But I had to do it.  I wanted to feel better.  I was more disappointed in myself from that decision than anything else in my entire life.

As we began to use formula, it helped a lot.  Things got worse before they got better though .  I would say the lowest point was at the two-week mark.  I never ended up getting medicine, but from there things did gradually get better.  But it wasn't overnight.  It took a long time to feel happy and to accept this new life.  Probably three months or so.

I look back on that time and shiver - it scares me to death that I could feel like that.  And it mostly scares me because I don't want to feel it again.  And having more babies would give me that risk.  Although I will know what it's like to have a newborn baby the next time around.

I have accepted and now LOVE my new life as a mother.  I feel everything that any normal mother feels for their child.  I would risk my life for him.  I would lay my life down for him.  If someone tried to hurt him I would gladly go to prison after killing them, and I am dead serious. 

I love this child more than myself and I thank God every day that I was able to get through the tough times because the utter joy of just looking at my son makes my heart beam.

Patrick at 3 months.  When I knew I would completely heal.

Thanks for listening.

epic fail

If you've been a new mom in your life, I'm sure (I hope) that you've experienced a complete and utter failure in a planned excursion with your child(ren).  I have been envisioning a trip to the beach with Patrick for quite some time.  It took like two months to compile everything in my head I would need to take with us - umbrella, beach chair, lunches/snacks, sand toys, bottle, swimmie diapers, hat, sunscreen, beach towels, juice cup, etc. 

I made the decision to go last Friday.  That means I started packing Thursday.  I always do that when I know I have something coming up, that way I can add to the bag as I think of things.  Okay so everything was ready.  We were cute, and super excited!  We had to make a pit stop at the Drug Mart in Huron on our way to Nickelplate Beach for some sand toys.  So here is where the horiffic day started. 

NO.  SAND.  TOYS.  "Oh those fly off the shelf hunny, they've been gone for a while.  But I've got this!"  She pulls out some contraption that a Kindergartner wouldn't even be able to figure out.  I stare at her.  I stare at my nine month old.  "Um, no thanks."

IT'S OKAY!!  We trucked on to the beach.  We paid $5 for parking (in quarters) and park.  I start thinking hmmmm I should probably take the stroller so I don't have to carry all our gear plus a 21 pound kid.  So I load all our clean and perfectly packed gear up onto the stroller.  It falls over because I don't have Patrick in there yet.  So I load him in and start trekking.  Nope, not happening.  The sand was so thick and the stroller was so heavy.  We weren't moving.

IT'S OKAY!!  We'll just carry everything.

A quarter mile and a really short of breath Stef later, we make it to our spot.  I plop Patrick down and start setting up.  He is loaded with sand as soon as I set him down.  Oh, there's sand at the beach?  And it's really messy?  Who knew?  Not me.  So I get set up and I have yet to put sunscreen on Patrick.  Great, he's full of sand.  I get him naked and rub the sunscreen into his grainy skin and put his swimmie on.  Okay cool.  We're good.  No, he's thirsty.  He's pulling himself up onto the beach chair trying to pull out his sippy cup from the diaper bag.  There is now sand all over the cup and chair and bag.  UGH!

IT'S OKAY!!  Just let it go.

"i like everything.  i can adjust."

"i dunno, it's kinda gross."

"yeah i just wanna go home."

So I put him in the little waves and we sit and play for like ten seconds and Patrick starts whining.  I'm like oh gosh.  I should leave.  We should leave now.  But I really want to just be laid back, and to be honest, just the thought of packing up all our shit made me exhausted.

At this point we were both soaked and FULL of sticky sand and it was horrible.  I mean I wished so bad that I could go back an hour and make a new decision to stay home.

We had been at the beach a total of five minutes.

The decision was made.  We're getting the hell out of here.  No perfect picnic lunch.  No perfect afternoon siesta on the lounge chair.  No perfect giggles while creating sand castles.  All my hopes and dreams.  Down the toilet.

The beach SUCKS.  Note to self and other new clueless mommies:  do not take a baby to the beach. 

So even though I was embarassed beyond belief, I unscrewed the stupid umbrella, packed everything up and we trucked back to the car through the sand.  By the time we reached my vehicle I felt like I had run a 5K.  Well, like a half mile because I hate running.  It was so hard.  I threw Patrick into his carseat like he was a sack of potatoes (right in his swimmie and full of sand) and blasted the air conditioning.  I drove outta there like a bat out of hell and I made a beeline to the nearest Wendy's to eat my feelings.  I wanted to cry so bad but that chocolate frosty and 5-piece nugget really helped me keep it in.

We pulled in the driveway to our house and on our way up to the house my neighbor pulls up.  Now mind you, she's on a three-wheeled motorcyle and wearing a terrycloth tube top.  She's also nearing 65.  She talks my ear off for a frikking half hour about her kid dating some chick with 5 kids and they need a place to stay bla bla bla.  OMG.

Finally, Patrick and I get in the nice warm shower and see the pile of sand at the bottom of the tub and we're reminded of the awful first trip to the beach.  I really hope that someday we can laugh about this. But right now, it is just so sad.  And such an epic fail.