Dear New Mom,

I've hesitated to write this letter to you for a lot of reasons; mostly, I'm afraid you'll think I'm nuts (which, let's be honest, I sort of am), and I don't want to scare you if you're doing just fine. Plus, every experience is so different that I don't know if you'll even need to hear what I have to say. But having my first baby was hard on me, and maybe something in my situation will ring true for you – now or in the future – and you'll know that you're not alone.

I expected to feel instantly bonded to my baby the minute he was born, and I thought there was something wrong with me when I didn't. Mostly I felt scared. I was oozing from every part of my body, I was sore, and I was tired. Nursing HURT. My toes would curl in pain as the baby latched on (and I was doing it right!), and more than once I cried through a midnight feeding while my husband slept soundly. I resented him, a lot. I was mad at him for not knowing that I was so tired I thought I would die of it, how my life had been turned upside-down-inside-out and then lit on fire, while his life was essentially the same. He was working and going to school at the time, so I didn't want to wake him in the night; plus, I was nursing so there wasn't much he could do anyway. But I was still mad. :) And the poor man had no idea what to do with me.

Then there was the boredom. Suddenly, I didn't know what to do with myself. The baby was so unpredictable in public that I hated to take him anywhere for fear he'd scream the whole time. And the loneliness was almost unbearable, but I didn't want to interrupt the well-oiled routines of the other moms I knew. And I think I was secretly afraid they'd judge me.

There were times in those early days when I'd look at expectant mothers and think, “Poor girl, she has no idea what she's in for. Isn't anyone going to give up the act and tell her how hard this is?” At the same time, I was terrified that her experience would be the simple, beautiful transition that mine was not, and I was so mad at myself for feeling grumpy about the whole thing. I thought I must be unrighteous, totally selfish, or broken for my lack of contentment. I can look back now and see that I had postpartum depression, but at the time I just thought I was deficient somehow. How could this thing that I'd been told I was supposed to do, this life's work that I wanted make me so miserable? And since I felt at the time that I was “supposed” to have a gaggle of kids, all I could see was more of the same agony stretching on through the next two or three decades. I was, in a word, a mess. (Okay, two words.)

And now the good news: it got better. I did in fact want to have a second and even a third child, and my experiences have been completely different. I got help for my PPD after #2, using a combination of medicine and counseling to pull me out of what I refer to as “the dark place.” I had only a whiff of PPD after #3, and by the time I suspected it, it was gone.

I don't read childcare books anymore, because they're written about other people's children, not mine. I used to think all my kids' sleep problems were a product of poor parenting; then I had my third, who was sleeping eleven hours straight at two months old, and I realized I had no control whatsoever! I guess that's been the hardest transition for me – relinquishing control. My plans get changed, my sleep interrupted, my patience tested and tested and tested. And at the risk of sounding like that well-meaning but unhelpful friend who pats you on the head as she offers useless advice, I say this: whatever you are doing with that baby is perfect. And whatever you decide to do differently tomorrow will also be perfect. Because that baby is yours to mess up, but you won't. And if you ever find yourself swearing in your mind (or out loud) about how hard it is to be the mom, you know where to find me. I AM SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. I even know a good counselor.

Welcome to the club! I'm cheering for you.

Love,

Brittany

Perfect Peter Strikes Again

Last week I was watching two of my friend's boys, and when it was time to take them home I had to get their carseats into my van, then get my two bigger boys plus hers coaxed into it and strapped in. I figured Peter wouldn't much care for being trapped in his infant seat the whole time I did that, so I left him propped up on the couch while I took care of business in the garage. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled, and when I came back inside this is what I found:

I guess he figured I was never coming back. But at least Caleb had given
him that Power Ranger to keep him company.

While we're on the subject of the Angel though, here are a few more recentish shots:

Cute baby body


Peter's blessing day

My little Greek boy!

About as typical as it gets from the Three Stooges: Truman cheesing it up, Caleb gritting his teeth trying not to squeeze/hit/scratch someone, and Perfect Peter

Bilingual

I suspect that being part of an in-law family is a little like being fluent in a second language. (I wouldn't know for sure since I speak only English fluently, but come along with me here.) It seems to me that you might enjoy the second language just fine; you may genuinely love speaking it and take pride in your skill; you even may prefer speaking it in certain circumstances or to express a particular idea because of nuances that can't be captured in English.

I know from experience that it's possible to be so comfortable and well-integrated into your in-law family that you forget you're not one of them. You adopt their mannerisms and phrases, their tastes, even their history (I tell my in-laws' family stories like they're mine and I was there, when for the most part they aren't and I wasn't!). You may even prefer the company of your in-laws when you find common interests that aren't shared by your own family.

But I imagine that even a fluent, comfortable speaker misses her native tongue and hurts for those familiar sounds in her ears, those syllables flowing so easily from her mouth -- the words she could form from the time before she has memories.

So it is that sometimes I miss the comfort of my "native" family. Not because they're better than my in-law family, but because they're more mine. They have memories of me before I even remember being me, so I see my whole life reflected when I'm with them. They speak my language, if you will. Because they were my family first. And since they don't have to move aside to make room for me there, I suspect they feel my absence more keenly.

Yes, straddling two languages can be painful. You find at times that you've forgotten the right word in both, or maybe you never learned it in either one. But I bet that anyone who knows a second language will tell you (I assume anyway --I'm not bilingual, remember?) that her world is richer for the knowing.

Aha.

My sister recently introduced me to a blog by a Christian writer/mom of three who writes about as beautifully and honestly as anyone I've ever read. One of her most recent posts took sides on a very controversial topic, and while her heart was absolutely in the right place, her doctrine was not.

At last count, there were 668 comments on the post from readers with varying viewpoints, many MANY of them Christians with different interpretations of the Bible. The comments were respectful but passionate, and everyone had a different explanation.

First of all, I was impressed. I was impressed that there are so many faithful people willing to sift and struggle through the Bible to make themselves scholars of it, all with the hope of honoring God, not offending Him, and learning His will for them.

But at close second, I was thinking. "I can't believe what these people don't know! They don't know about modern revelation like the Joseph Smith Translation that clarifies and enhances the Bible. They don't know how the Book of Mormon goes hand-in-hand with it to teach eternal truth. Most of all, they don't know that we have a prophet on the earth today so we never have to, as the blog's author put it, 'decide what parts of the Bible to prioritize and demonstrate in [our] lives.' "(She cited the Biblical scriptures that state women are not allowed to speak in church, wear jewelry, or leave their hair uncovered, ideas which are obviously not supported by modern Christian women. But I digress.)

It has been a long time since I have been part of a conversation like this one. I guess I had started to take my faith, my knowledge, for granted. These people were in real turmoil over the topic at hand, with nothing but their own genuine efforts and an imperfect translation of God's word to guide them. I realized afresh, and maybe for the first real time, what it means to me to know that a prophet speaks to God today. Think about that for a minute: You can know what God's priorities are for your life, not only through your personal relationship with Him but also through His chosen mouthpiece. Two witnesses. That is dazzling doctrine! I'm almost embarrassed to have gone so long without fully appreciating it.

Perfect Peter

That's what we're calling him at our house these days, because he really is the perfect baby. Eats well, sleeps well, rarely cries, and puts up with a lot of tough love:

The shot above and the next four are from a photo shoot
his Aunt Alisa did for us when he was two weeks old.

This one is from a couple of weeks ago...

And these are from a bath just today.

Matt thought he looked like a Jedi in the hooded towel.
I can't get over that deep dimple in the right cheek.
And I can't get enough of this baby.

On Christmas Cards and Guilt

You may have noticed (or not) that we didn't send Christmas cards this year. My excuse is that I just had a baby which, I'm finding, is a great excuse for a lot of things.

"Oh, you need volunteers for the blood drive? Sorry, I just had a baby."

"I'm not going to be able to wait in this long food line. Can I cut to the front? See, I just had a baby."

"You like my stretchy pants? I won't be wearing real clothes for a while, because I just had a baby."

"Honey, I'm going to nap while you wrangle the monkeys we call our offspring. I'm soooooo tired since I just had a baby."

Also, I was thinking today as I arranged for display the Christmas cards I have received (and this is with NO ill-will or finger-pointing to those who have sent them, just an observation as one who has sent and will continue to send such cards), "When did it become a tradition to send pictures of yourself to your friends and family for Christmas? Like this is your gift to them? Photos of you?"

In other words, "Oh, did you want a Christmas card from the Johnsons this year? So you could treasure a photo of me weighing more than I have in over a decade? Sorry, not going to happen. You see, I just had a baby."

Not the birth story

Since I didn't bore the blogosphere with details about my first two births, I'm not about to go ruining my record now. (Ironically, I love reading other people's birth stories.) Suffice it to say that Peter's was my roughest delivery yet, but only because he was posterior and I had to push more than five times. And the labor was only about three hours start to finish -- with a perfect epidural -- so I certainly won't complain!

In fact, complaining is about the last thing I ever want to do again. I can feel that my life is so good, and I can also feel it slipping through my fingers: when I watch Truman walk through the door to his preschool, too-big backpack slipping off of him; when I realize Caleb is so heavy I can hardly hoist him over the crib rail to put him down for a nap; when I try to remember what my older boys were like at Peter's age and the memories, so recent, are already dim.

I've cried blessed little since Peter was born, but in two- or three-minute bursts it comes out. Motherhood will break your heart, one way or another. There is a certain anguish in loving a little person so much and knowing that, in some ways, you will fail him. And with the addition of our third little boy, I feel sometimes like my heart might burst from loving him AND the other two so much -- and, lest I forget, the good good man I married. My love for him has grown with each baby too.

So, no birth story. But man, it's a good life.