I am the age of my mother when she gave birth to me. She had been a mother for 22 months already to my older brother when I arrived. My dad was in primary care residency when I was born and actually just came down two floors in the hospital to hold my mom’s hand while she pushed. My mom and dad lived in Charlotte at the time, 3 hours from any family. Dad worked long shifts and mom held down the fort. As I opened up to her about my postpartum depression, she admits she felt the same way but there was no name for it then. You just kept on going and hoped friends would join you for lunch and walks. When my parents moved to my dad’s hometown, my mom thought relief was coming – wrong. My dad, young and a bit naïve to the needs of his wife, played tennis and golf with his childhood friends to relieve the stress of a long day of seeing patients. Mom made friends, organized a mother’s morning out at our church, and because I know how she is, did everything “right” for my brother and me; baby exercise class, walks, very nice clothes, and lots of baths, I assumed, because she swears my children need one every time she is with us. I know now how hard it would be to go at parenting “alone” but with a husband. Well, she wasn’t alone. When I was 5 months old, my dad got her a golden retriever puppy to keep her company. She tells these stories like jokes on a sitcom – never a harsh word about my dad and I know now there never will be. But, what strength I know is in her because I know it is building in me.
I'm a wife to Jeremiah, mother to Henry, Callaway, and twins, Lindley and Mills. I'm a follower of Jesus Christ, a supporter of women through pregnancy and birth, and wanna-be chef. I love the summer heat, reading historical fiction, watching HGTV and Sunday naps.