by Ashley Haupt | Mar 26, 2014
Last year, I wrote about our miscarriage, which was followed by an unexpected pregnancy. In November, we welcomed a beautiful baby girl, Susanna Grace.
Right on the heels of her birth, we packed up our home, our four children, and the gazillion items we supposedly need to survive, and moved to a new city and a new church for my husband to pastor. Everything about the move was a joyful, fresh start for us.
But I was struggling at our new home. I felt anxious and tired, yet had trouble sleeping. I felt doubt as to every decision I made about Susanna, even though she is my fourth. Too often each day the phrase ran through my head, “I can’t handle this.” I had no energy and zero desire to interact socially, even though I knew isolation was not helpful for me. My husband was enjoying the honeymoon phase of our new church, and I felt heartbreakingly unable to rejoice with him. I was going through my own inexplicable trial. Only it wasn’t really inexplicable.
One morning, I looked up “post partum depression” and clicked on the information provided by the Mayo Clinic. I had every symptom for their section entitled, “Baby Blues.” (Baby blues are slightly less severe than post partum depression, but still a red flag to get help.)
It shouldn’t have been shocking, considering the circumstances. But it was. New moms are especially prone to clouded thinking, due to hormones, sleep deprivation, and the consuming task of caring for a tiny baby.
I wonder how many new moms out there have no idea what is going on. Here are some symptoms of baby blues and post partum depression:
- Sadness
- Hopelessness
- Low self-esteem
- Guilt
- A feeling of being overwhelmed
- Sleep and eating disturbances
- Inability to be comforted
- Exhaustion
- Emptiness
- Social withdrawal
- Low or no energy
- Becoming easily frustrated
- Feeling inadequate in taking care of the baby
- Decreased sex drive
I made an appointment with my doctor that very morning. It was a relief to get help, and I’m doing so much better now. So, fresh from the valley, here are five things I’d like to say to new moms who are struggling emotionally:
1. You are normal. Stop thinking you’re weak, broken, weird, or crazy. Nope. You are a completely normal, red-blooded woman with a body full of “roller-coastering” hormones.
2. It’s OK to be weak right now. Our culture values people who are strong, don’t complain, and sail through every life trial like it’s nothing. Don’t buy into that mindset, because it won’t help you get better any faster in this season. Instead, it will further muddy the waters by introducing shame into an already toxic cocktail of emotions. Not only that, but the Bible does not support this American ideal of individuality and strength. Rather, Paul said, “… I will boast all the more about my weaknesses… for when I am weak, then I am strong” (II Cor. 12:9-10). Be weak, rest in Christ, lean on those who love you most. It’s ok. The sooner you accept what you’re going through and seek help, the faster you’ll be back on your way to being you.
3. Get professional help. See a doctor. Even those closest to you are no substitute for professional feedback on how you’re doing. This is the best way to love your baby, by loving yourself enough to seek the best health, so you can be the best YOU for your baby. I know it’s hard to make that appointment (believe me, I know. I know), but hard things are often the things most worth doing (remember birthing that baby?). Do it. Today.
4. You are loved. It might not feel like it right now. But, (lean in closely here) feelings lie. In Matthew 6, Jesus reminds us that God feeds the birds, yet we are much more valuable to Him than those birds. He sees, He cares, and He will walk you through this.
5. Everything is going to be OK. Sometimes we need to hear that, and since it’s coming from someone who has been there, believe me. It’s going to be more than OK; it’s going to be great! You have created within your very body a tiny, complicated, fantastic little human being, and you can get through this. That little bean that was once inside you will delight you more than you ever thought possible.
Chin up, little mama. The best is yet to come.
by Ashley Haupt | Feb 27, 2014
There was a (brief) time when I felt like my children had stolen some years of my life.
Everyone, everyone tells you that the days are long but the years are short, but you don’t always register that until you suddenly have four little miniatures of your husband clamoring for breakfast before you’ve had any coffee. And for me, that feeling came when I woke up to wrinkles. My face looking older overnight, it seemed.
Of course, it was overnight. Over nights of turning my extended womb over in bed like the closing of an enormously heavy encyclopedia and the countless nights of nursing newborns. Over nights of croup fever and stomach flues that shocked us awake to the rancid smell of vomit in bed.
I was there for all the years between 25 and 30, I was. Yet those years slam against me all at once, like a slap in the face when I get up in the morning to a face that aged without my permission.
It’s true, my children have stolen from me.
This morning, Isaac stole half of my second piece of pumpkin bread, and approximately 300 calories I didn’t need. (He also stole my heart with the cuteness of how he said “punkin bed” in his two-year-old voice.)
Yesterday, Abby stole my seat beside Susanna so she could captivate the baby with her songs.
Last week, Susanna stole my dignity by pooping all over the nursery volunteer at church, exposing the fact that I had no back-up outfit in my cute new diaper bag.
During the years of 2010 and 2011, Benjamin stole my pride and impatience, and my ego still hasn’t recovered.
They have stolen my time in front of the mirror and on the treadmill, pursuing vanity and self-satisfaction. They have stolen large portions of my laziness with their constant needs.
Benjamin David
They have stolen my have-it-all-together reputation, my I’m-too-big-for-my-britches self-importance, my sub-conscious “life’s-all-about-me” philosophy. They have stolen my lackadaisical attitude to finances, and my desire to go to the mall and spend money I don’t have on things I don’t need. They have stolen my ability to take blessings for granted, and my prideful resistance to receiving help from others.
They have stolen my judgmental attitude towards other parents, my “I would never do that” Pharisee’s heart, and a lot of my shyness when meeting someone else with small children. All in all, I think they really have stolen years of my life.
Addition by subtraction.
by Ashley Haupt | Feb 21, 2014
We have a strong-willed son. A son whose first word (and only one for a long time!) was NO, a son whose first impulse is rebellion, a son who doesn’t care one jot about smiling at church members so his mama and daddy can look good, a son who tells it like it is even when it’s brutally honest, a son whose will is made of iron.
I love him like crazy. Crazy love, people.
He’s four now. Two years ago we were fighting daily battles with him, hard. I remember many solitary walks, pacing the church parking lot after Tim got off work, begging God for wisdom, strength, love. Truly, I was making it day-by-day, trying to maintain consistency and calm discipline.
Something inside me realized we were in a crucial season. We could either give up out of frustration and exhaustion (and some days I wanted to!), or make the hard choice to fight for our son. We had to remind him daily who was boss. We had to earn the right to be his authority by following through each time he disobeyed. But we knew we weren’t just fighting for respect and authority as parents. We were fighting for his compliance to all the authority he would encounter in life, including God’s authority.
Slowly, day-by-day, we won the war for his soul. Eventually, months later, we stopped to reflect and realized that the daily battles were over. Obedience was expected, and obedience was rendered. Occasionally, we still have a skirmish, but I don’t like to think about where he would be (where we would be!) if we gave up and relinquished control.
We faced another anxious hurdle as we approached preschool. Would our teaching transfer? Would he transfer the concept of authority to others, or would he challenge the teachers continually and force their hand to administer consequences? I can’t tell you the relief I felt after his first semester of preschool. He thrived. He wasn’t perfect, he had grumpy days, and there were a few consequences and some apologies made, but overall he thrived. He made friends, built robots, and to my great relief, his teachers liked him.
They chose him to play the starring role in their preschool Christmas play, The Gingerbread Man. Anyone would enjoy watching their preschooler perform, but the event had special significance for me. Tears welled up as I watched Ben swagger to the microphone and belt out his lines with confidence. Run run, as fast as you can; you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!
He has embarrassed me, frustrated me, exasperated me, infuriated me, and driven me to my knees more than any of our other three children.
And because of that, I am forever grateful. Because I belong on my knees anyway.
And because of that, I am so very proud of him, who he is becoming, and the progress he has made.
And because of that, I love him with this crazy love. The love of one who has chased that squirrely little gingerbread man down the road too many times to count, dragging him back into the arms of grace.
He’ll turn five in two months, and I surprised him the other morning by scooping him up in my arms, wrapping his long wiry legs around me, and holding him close. I told him I loved him. He laid his head on my shoulder and exclaimed, “I want to be like Daddy when I grow up . . . because I want to marry you, Mommy!”
To any parent out there in the trenches of disciplining a strong-willed child, press on! Your labor will yield the harvest you desire.
And don’t forget that Grace, once it has chased down and chastised and doled out consequences, always ends with a hug.
by Ashley Haupt | Feb 3, 2014
We watched Disney’s “Frozen” as a family one day before Thanksgiving, and just three days after, I gave birth to our fourth child. We almost had the theater to ourselves, which was lovely since we have four children (six and under) with varying degrees of noisy reactions to the movie. All of us, even our two year old, thoroughly enjoyed the fun night out. But my heart was especially stirred during the song, “Let It Go,” sung by Queen Elsa as she escapes to her mountain retreat to finally embrace her icy magical side. Since then, I have noticed that many other people had a similarly strong reaction to that song.
So, why do we love the song, “Let It Go”? Because we have all been shamed into secrecy by the bully of Fear. Poor Elsa’s well-meaning (but ill-fated) parents gave her the worst advice by telling her to “conceal don’t feel; be the good girl you always have to be.” Not only is it impossible not to feel, but it’s impossible to always be a good girl. Not one of us is all good all the time and secrecy seals our lips and our fate to hide from the world. Sin and shame love darkness, but the light brings healing and freedom.
Christians make the same mistake if we try to get others to stuff unruly feelings rather than bring them into the light of God’s love. We tend to classify feelings as good (joy, gratitude) and bad (anger, frustration), but these labels are not helpful. We all experience a wide spectrum of emotions arising from the circumstances of our life. The goal is not to become a frozen Christian who never feels anything negative, or we would all need to become monks in isolation. Rather, we should feel what we feel and bring our emotions into the presence of Christ to find help in our time of need. There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. (1 John 4:18) God is more than big enough to handle our emotions; He created us to experience them.
Each of us has also had the desire to flee from life when our emotions escape and everything hits the fan. But as Elsa discovered, it doesn’t work. We leave behind a wake of consequences (in her case, an eternal winter) that ultimately follows us and finds us in our remote kingdom of Self.
I’m not suggesting we let all of our emotions out into the public sphere, but I am suggesting we process them in the presence of Christ. We should take time to be with what is true in our hearts in honest prayer. I am suggesting that we cast off fear because we might need others to help us sort out the mess. And that’s when we find, as Elsa did, that love is so much more powerful than fear to transform the world around us.
Image: © 2013 Disney
by Ashley Haupt | Jan 30, 2014
This morning I sat on my couch before the sun came up, holding my warm coffee cup in one hand, nine-week-old Susanna cradled cozily in the crook of my arm. I soaked up the details of the moment: the tiny fringe of her eyelashes, blissfully closed, the delicate baby hands protruding from the ruffled hems of her pink sleeper. She smiled in her sleep, chubby rose-petal cheeks bobbing up, too. This moment is my manna, and I must gather it daily to be nourished.
When God gave manna to His people in the wilderness, it was given daily, faithfully, but could never be hoarded. Every day, I have an opportunity to gather my own manna, nourishment for my faith and my joy, evidence of God’s work in the minute details of my life. It’s His grace to me, falling softly like manna in the morning, so quiet and beautiful I could easily miss it in the rough barrage of life’s fast pace.
Yesterday, as I drove home from Wal-Mart, two-year-old Isaac sat in his booster seat belting out the song, “If I Were A Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. Only weeks ago, he called his baby sister “BabyAnna” instead of Susanna, and now he says her name correctly. He’s growing up daily, and with two talkative older siblings and a baby sister whose cries trump a lot of toddler chatter, I could miss him. Moments with him are my manna, too.
We wonder why we doubt God’s love, but sometimes I think we’re just missing it. We wither for lack of observation. Daily He sends the grace- manna falling like silent snow, but we’re too busy running after our own frenetic preparations to notice. He’ll nourish us if we let Him. This lesson is for everyone, but children are natural hourglasses, and the sand of their life-hours never stops to wait for parents to get a clue.
Wherever you are today, be present. Look for manna, give thanks, and be nourished.
