You don't "totally get" where I'm coming from

The other day I read a facebook post about "not wishing away" the stages of our children's lives. I'm not a close friend of the woman who said she's enjoyed her babies, toddlers, teens, and adult children. The name of another mom who commented, "I loved it all and now laugh about what used to make me mad" (punctuated by cute pink hearts) is just that. A stranger's name.

I'm happy for them. The world needs mothers who cherish their families. And I try to do the same.

But I don't link motherhood with cute pink hearts.

At the risk of appearing heartless on Facebook (that mecca of mommy mushiness), I commented that parenthood hasn't been a joyful journey for me. My husband and I love the five children who joined our family. We wanted them all and treasure the good times. But dealing with some of their developmental struggles and my own depression continues to create challenges every step of the way.

While acknowledging that nobody likes everything about motherhood, my acquaintance responded that she "totally gets it", then wrapped up her comment with a positive-mental-attitude quote.

Dear mothers who work tirelessly to raise good children and have every right to rejoice in your lives, I admire you. But you don't understand my experience any more than I understand the trials that shape your reality. I'll never presume that I do.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't chronically depressed. I didn't begin to address the cause until after all our children were born. Much as I regret lost opportunities to laugh, connect, and nurture, depression often feels like swimming through jello and I sometimes don't have the energy to do much more than cook dinner and bite my tongue. Too often I don't even do that.

Even though my husband and I wanted children, the joy I hoped to feel was crushed by the weight of responsibility when our first son squirmed on my naked chest. I had to help him latch onto a breast, I had to facilitate bonding within his first few minutes of life while I winced with pain and the doctor stitched up extensive tearing.  The Bradley natural childbirth "bible" had promised that many new mothers could walk out of their delivery rooms. But I fainted from blood loss when my husband tried to help me to the bathroom that night. A nurse inserted a catheter into my nether regions and there I was. Weak. Swollen. Bleeding profusely. And, worst of all, panicked about caring for a helpless child.

Night after night, I rocked and cried and nursed him in the darkness of a tiny room that was already crowded with canned wheat, beans, and powdered milk. The borrowed cradle wouldn't fit by our bed and my husband needed sleep so that he could work and go to school. With no stroller, car, or telephone, I rarely communicated with anyone else or went anywhere. Instead, I tried to rest, do basic chores, and nurse the baby. Then nurse him again and again. I felt inadequate around my mother-in-law who cooed and cuddled him with complete adoration shining in her eyes. The only words I remember my mother saying were, "You need to talk to that baby more."

I couldn't relate to magazine  photos of stylish mothers beaming at their plump little cherubs. Maybe that's why articles about postpartum depression didn't register with my sleep-deprived brain. My doctor never asked me about symptoms. It was 1987.

I felt betrayed by my body that took so long to heal and I couldn't forget the shame of screaming as the doctor's forceps dragged my baby into the world. I loved our son, but in a pattern that spilled into my other babies' lives, that emotion was clouded by extreme anxiety over meeting constant, pressing needs. Months passed before I could laugh.

Yet women at church and the grocery store told me to enjoy him while he was small.

Babies grow up so fast.

For twenty-eight years, I've struggled with physical exhaustion while potty-training unwilling toddlers. Dealing with food issues related to ADHD that eventually affected their growth. Screaming tantrums that escalated into one child's preteen years whenever my husband and I required him to do chores. Every. Time. No matter how much we tried to stay calm. No matter how consistently we refused to cave in.

Several years, disappointments, and thousands of dollars later, we found professional help. By this time the two sons who were having the most challenges were approaching adolescence. One has Asperger's syndrome and the other ADHD. Although we reeled with the lifelong implications, we tried to educate ourselves and their teachers, and to apply solutions. .

It wasn't that simple.

The boys balked at implementing school strategies or being singled out for help with study and social skills. Professional advice sometimes fell on deaf ears. Fed by the fires of contention that energized their spirits and often drew me in, I lived a mercurial existence of frustration and despair. Anger over missed assignments, remediation, and high school teachers who thought coaching was more important than honoring our repeated requests for information about failing grades until it was too late. Sadness over our sons' social isolation when moms posted Facebook photos of their teens dressed up for girls' choice dances. Frustration at student athletes and other peers who didn't think about being inclusive, then judged one son for not serving a L.D.S. mission at age 19. Or busy church leaders who listened absently to my husband's concerns, then tried to compensate by saying, "I love that kid. He's really O.K."

I didn't cry at their high school graduations. Exhausted with relief yet smiling, I watched my husband take photos. One son allowed me to offer a quick hug. The other didn't. Then we pressed forward to appropriately help them navigate more complex stages of their lives, while trying to be there for three other children with talents, dreams, and their often-unmet needs.

Long ago, I accepted the fact that these sons wouldn't achieve the usual milestones at the same rate as their peers. In most ways, their paths have been completely different the typical small-town teen.

So has mine.

I'm often stumbled, then stayed huddled on bruised hands and knees, so consumed by my own pain that I failed to offer a hand to a struggling child.  I've never been a fount of wisdom, patience, or unconditional love. That would be easier to bear if I could look back and see personal progress.

Right now I can't.

So motherhood weighs heavily as I try to muster the willpower to dispel depression.  Again.

Circumstances will never be perfect, but by the grace of God, we are starting to heal and connect on some levels. Sometimes I glimpse a time when all of our children gain independence. I hang onto that and feel intensely thankful when they express forgiveness for my past and present mistakes.

I've shed grateful tears when someone reached out and helped our vulnerable sons. When young women leaders modeled happy motherhood for my daughter, lending strength to their convictions that raising families is a divine gift.

I was there once, a young girl who took it all in. But children aren't adorable playthings to dress up and display in baptism white, prom tuxes, or wedding gowns. I'm only beginning to understand the magnitude of patience and love a young adult child still requires, even when he shoves me aside in a quest to deny hard realities of developmental challenges. To be like everyone else.

I gaze at the heights that most children reach at 16, 18, or 25. We've got so far to climb. He's too big to carry or force up the steep slope. The only thing left is to persuade, to encourage. To keep seeking help.

My husband and I never anticipated this kind of journey. Most of the time we're bone-tired. But we won't give up; every stage requires readjusted expectations, then we trudge on.

People don't need to understand our reality. Just realize that it's not the same as yours. And tidy slogans about positive thinking sometimes feel like salt on blistered feet.

In the meantime, I'll try harder to find delight in unexpected moments of love and humor. Or look into the tired eyes of other mothers at church and focus on what they might not express in words. I'll tell them they're doing just fine. Even if they don't love the new-baby or teenage years of their children. Even if they're barely hanging on until the next stage finally arrives.

Sometimes that's all a mother can do. As a believer in Christ's atoning grace, I pray it's enough.