It's NOT Mormon Moms Who Are Depressed!

It's all moms!! Seriously. My sister blogged this over at Yahoo! Shine. I think this has huge ramifications, so of course I had to blog it too.

The original article, Trying to Be 'Supermom' Can Raise Risk for Depression, hits the nail on the head. Trying reading the article but swap out "working mom" and "stay-at-home mom" for "Mormon mom" and "Supermom" for "Mother in Zion Syndrome" and you could have any article from the past ten years that's been written about Mormons and depression.

The study does point out, though, that women who work at least part time are less likely to be depressed UNLESS they are women who don't cut themselves any slack. If they are the type of women who have high expectations for things to work out and be perfect, they are in trouble. If they aren't sure how working and having a family are going to shake out, they do better.

It's that last part that I think is important for a couple reasons: 1) the so-called "Mother in Zion Syndrome" isn't a Mormon thing; it's an American thing and 2)it's okay for women to be unsure of their choices and work things out as they go--especially when it comes to division of labor between the spouses.

Sometimes this whole motherhood thing gets so complicated and emotional that as women we fail to realize that each of us is born with different talents, abilities, and paths. We pick on each other and we judge each other and force each other to justify our choices over and over. Think about how many times you've had to justify your job (or lack thereof), your number of children, or the amount of housework your spouse does. If we were really being true to ourselves and, as Mormon women--Christian women, we wouldn't do this to each other.

The best part of the whole article was this quote, "Women who have a realistic expectation are more likely to choose men who are going to help out around the house," Correll [associate professor of psychology at Stanford] said. "If you choose someone who will be a helpmate tohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif you, that may lead to lower levels of depression."

That's true no matter your job status, you marital status, or your gender. As Pres. Uchdorf said, lift where you stand.

Have a great Labor Day!
Oh, and if you want to read a quick tidbit about my sister and I and our angsty teenage mood issues, check out this one: .

The Days Just Keep Getting Longer (the 7-year-old learns to play pranks)

Okay, so my kids are on summer vacation. This is great. I love my kids. We are having a lot of fun.

Except when we aren't.

Commiserate with me, please!

Princess N, who is almost 8, has decided that pranks are super fun and tries to pull them on as many people as possible as often as possible. For example, tonight the DH found the ice cream scooper frozen in the middle of the ice cream bucket.

It was the prank she pulled on me that was a doozy, though. I asked her gather up her laundry so we could put it in the wash (This summer, I'm working on training the kids to do simple chores around the house. This story is indicative of how well it is going.) Well she decided it would be super funny to play a prank on me by wrapping up non-clothing items in her clothing items. I found the headband and the Hot Wheels cars. I even found the feather. What I did not find? A diaper. Thankfully it was a clean one, but yes, my just-reaching-the-age-of-accountability oldest child put a diaper in the wash.

Yes, it exploded.
Yes, there are little absorbency crystals stuck to all the clothes and every little corner and crevice of my washer.
Yes, it's a huge mess.
Yes, she is currently picking every last crystal out of that load of laundry.

I used to look forward to the days getting longer and longer during the summer. But over the last week, can I just say, bedtime can't come soon enough.

I'm pretty sure this is one of those stories that I'll look back and laugh on. But not tonight.

Grrrrr. . . .

An Open Letter to My Mother (Happy Mother's Day!)

Dear Mom--

You probably guessed by the fact that I posted something on your Facebook wall that I didn't get your gift in the mail. Yeah. It's sitting in a pile on my "projects-that-need-immediate-attention" counter, right on top of your birthday cards. Sorry. Again.

I know that nothing I could write in 420 characters or less is really a good substitute for a Mother's Day gift. After all, you were in labor with me for how many hours? 12? 20? 36? And we won't mention the countless hours in doctor/dentist/orthodontists offices. Or the countless meals and loads of laundry. When I think about it that way, even if I got my gift to you on time it wouldn't even up the score.

So, why the open letter on my blog? Two words: Mother Guilt.

Remember when I was young and wore flowy dresses all the time? You know, the ones that I was constantly staining with the dandelions that I never did figure out how to make into crowns? Those were the days when, if wasn't wearing a dress, I was wearing my swimsuit and standing on top of the jungle gym singing my guts out. Those were the days that I used to go to your community health education classes and "help" you teach by drawing on the whiteboard and playing with the example baby and CPR dummies. Those were the days that I was carefree and I was your daughter and, most importantly, you were mine.

My mother-- the lady who picked me up from kindergarten and took me to the KFC drive-through for those chicken nugget sandwiches that were the perfect size for little fingers. The one who actually watched me at my swim lessons and willingly retold the story of how I jumped in the pool when I was less than two years old because I was destined to be a good swimmer. The one who had the nerve to tell me that all the kids at the bus stop were making fun of me because I was acting like, well, like a geek.

I don't remember when exactly it was, but there came a point--probably during my tween years--when I realized that you weren't just mine. There were things you had to do for other people. And things you had to do for yourself. I know you knew I didn't get it. You'd get this far away look on your face and a sort of heaviness would settle on you.

There was the day you told me about a box. That there was this box inside you. And it kept getting smaller. And darker. And you felt like you couldn't breathe because, even though the box was inside you, you were inside the box. So you were going to go back to school. You were going to try working. You were going to get out of that box. You weren't going to suffocate.

The look you gave me then--that searching look in your eyes, that lift in your eyebrows, the dip of your shoulders--that was the look of Mother Guilt. I know it is because I have looked at my own children with searching eyes, lifting my eyebrows, and slouching my shoulders. And what I feel is a crushing, frustrating feeling of Less Than: Of being less than the other women around me; of being less than my children want and need me to be; of being less than I want myself to be; of Mother Guilt.

I bet that when I was young there were times I told you I hated you. I probably slammed my door and yelled. I probably called you names and tried to sneak around you. I don't remember any specific thing, but I bet you do. I know I remember all the times my kids have yelled at me and said they hate me. Those moments were so shocking that they are seared into my memory. The pain of those moments fades with time but the memory of them is uncanny. And that give me a new kind of mother guilt.

Did I mention I was sorry?

A lot of folks at Mother's Day talk about how perfect their moms were/are, how preternaturally perfect women in general are. But you and I both know that while women the world over may have natural inclinations toward goodness, beauty, and truth they are also human and frighteningly imperfect. I remember the pain I felt as a child when you let me down and I now know the flip side of that pain when I let my own children down. None of us are immune from the frailties of mortality, not even mothers.

But here's the important thing. Mom, please don't skip this part. I'm glad that you weren't perfect. It's okay. In fact, it's more than okay. It's exactly as it should be. Please know that I learned and grew from the moments that you were wonderful and the moments that you weren't. Honestly, I wouldn't have you any other way.

Now, since you are a mother I'm pretty sure that you will still feel sad and embarrassed that you ever had shortcomings. You will wish I didn't mention them here. I bring them up only to let you know that I love you--and not just in spite of, but rather because of.

Because you had shortcoming and struggles and difficulties, I knew it was okay when I started to flounder. I knew it was okay when I started to question and wonder. Those things made you a person and, over time, made me into a person. So while neither of us are cardboard cutouts of Donna Reed, pictures of perfection in shirtwaist dresses and pearls, we are real. When people look at us they know what they are getting. And that's a good thing.

I love you, Mom. I love your good intentions and sensitive heart, your tenacity, your sense of humor. I love you like a daughter loves her mother and like a woman loves her friend. I hope you hear that love in my voice when I call you just because I'm bored or when I solicit your advice because my kids are sick. I hope it shines between the lines of Facebook messages and emails. And I hope you feel it now radiating across the ether.

I love you.

Happy Mother's Day.

And, yes, I will put your present (and birthday cards!) in the mail tomorrow.

Love,

Laura

Welcome to Depressed LDS Woman (with a little Mirthful Monday thrown in)

Hey folks, guess what! There's another Depressed Mormon Mommy out there! And she blogs!

Go check out Depressed LDS Woman's blog. She's just getting started and has some good stuff. It makes us all stronger when we own our struggles and share them with others.

And for some more fun, here's a relatively recent article on Mormon women and depression. Well, really, in an oddly disjointed way, it's about Mormon men and depression--which makes it extra fun reading :) And the pic to go with the article is classic:


Tell me, is she depressed or playing hide and seek? Maybe she's washing her face? Or hiding from the mess on the kitchen floor after dinner like I do? Depression is just so hard to figure out!

Have a Mirthful Monday!

Postpartum Depression: 1 week out (I Want My Mommy !!)

Baby is one week old now and I'm not depressed. I haven't even had the baby blues. What I am is anxious. Well, that and charmed by sweet new little one. And feeling quite blessed to have three other beautiful children. And excited for what the future holds.

But, really, I'm feeling pretty anxious.

See with each baby my mom comes out to visit and takes over the cooking and the laundry and the cleaning. She coos over the funny faces that my baby makes. She plays with the older kids. She chats with me through the somewhat endless hours of nursing.

And then she leaves. As in gets driven to the airport and flies across the five states that separate us and goes home to my dad and little sister.

That's usually when I start to lose it. Turns out I'm a pretty good mom when I not the only mommy in the house. But when it's just me I get easily overwhelmed.

Knowing this, we've planned. I started taking Paxil just after Baby was delivered. My husband is taking some time off work next week. And, since school is almost out, I'm going to my mom's so that she can keep mom-ming me and my brood a little more. We're calling it a family reunion (except my brother can't come, which makes it not much of a reunion at all!), but I think we all know that it's actual just a bunch of people willing to sacrifice so that I don't go crazy.

And that makes me feel overwhelmed in a whole new way. A good way. There are people who love me and when I ask them for help they are willing. Even when it means getting overrun by hordes of preschoolers!

Everybody needs a mommy. Especially when you are a mommy. I wonder how many cases of PPD could be ameliorated if we were all able to mom each other a little more.

Thoughts on Motherhood (No Baby Yet)

Seriously.

I'll be 40 weeks on Saturday and no baby yet. I guess that's a good thing, but I am starting to get tired of this. I've never gone overdue, but there's a first time for everything!

Anyway, being astronomically pregnant on Mother's Day was an interesting experience. People around me kept hoping I'd go into labor because it would be so poetic to be in labor on such an auspicious day. I kept thinking I didn't want to share a day that is supposed to be about me with someone else! Then I realized, as I got kids ready for Church and walked with them through the hallways and tried to fulfill my Primary calling, the only reason Mother's Day meant anything was because it WASN'T about me. It's really about my kids and the fact that I am willing to try and corral them into some semblance of civility in the hopes that someday they will quit being just kids and turn into people.

Anyway, kudos to the rest of the women out there who bravely put up with the children (and sometimes man-children) around them in the name of the greater good. Being a mom is an awesome, awe-inspiring job. But it's also the hardest thing a gal can do. So, if you're like me (and every other woman in existence) and you're one of those women who wonders if you're really doing a good job and if it really matters and if it's really worth it I'll tell you, "Yes!" Even when the sentiment and the nostalgia have been wiped from your heart and the only thing facing you is the muck and hard work of mom-ing, I'll still say this is the most important thing you can do.

So much of the value in mothering is the fact that the women of the world keep showing up--even when it's hard and they're making mistakes. Mothers don't let your imperfections of their own imperfections or the any other imperfections stop them from loving you.

We attended my husband's grandma's funeral last Friday and I was amazed at what one woman could accomplish in a lifetime. She did a lot of the homey, stereotypical woman things like make afghans and cookies--which she enjoyed and were worthwhile and blessed people. But the thing most people remembered? Her hearty laugh, strong handshake, and the fact that she always looked you in the eye when she spoke to you. They were simple things that have reached across generations. That is what's at the heart of being a mother.

So, I'm going to go mom my kids now and wonder what on earth is actually going to expel this new being from my body. And remind myself, that even when it's not pleasant, even when it's dirty and hard, it's worth it.