You see, this particular holiday season has found me far, far down, where the sun just don’t shine. Normally, I adore Christmas and everything it brings, means and stands for, but this year was terribly difficult for a variety of reasons. I’m coming through the darkness onto the other side, finally; to my usual optimism and innate ability to thoroughly enjoy my morning cup of coffee, a beautiful, sunny day and listening to my kids’ chatter.

I don’t know when or why I stopped writing when I am unwillingly visiting The Dark Side (my term for clinical depression). As a tween and teenager, I filled journals with angsty prose, but as an adult, I’ve tended to avoid writing during these trips. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of what will come out. After all, like so many other writers, my hand seems to have a stronger connection to my emotions than my brain does. It can be pretty scary to not realize quite how you feel about something until you write about it.

Then too, there’s the guilt over knowing that in the whole scheme of things, whatever I am going through is nothing, NOTHING, compared to what other people in my life are. This knowledge makes me go inside myself even deeper, because I have no room to complain. I just don’t. I have blessings galore, more than I can even name or realize, and I should be deeply grateful for each and every one of them. And under normal circumstances, I usually am.

But that’s what depression does. It lies to you. It thunks you over the head with despair and self-pity, and when you feel ashamed and guilty for being forced to indulge yourself in it, it lays you out flat with more. It’s ruthless, searing, yet at the same time, incredibly dulling. You go through periods of sharp, spiky emotional pain and others of feeling like someone ripped everything that makes you YOU away. There’s no joy, only brief periods of pseudo-happiness that barely touch the surface.

Thankfully, I haven’t taken a journey to The Dark Side for quite a few years and I’m beyond grateful that the trip is at an end. Depression isn’t something I’m proud of, but it’s something I struggle with from time to time, just like other people deal with diabetes or an overactive thyroid. That many people don’t understand it as an illness, even in this age, is sad and terribly uneducated.

Depression doesn’t define me, but it is a part of who I am. I’d like to think that it has made me a more empathetic person, as well as a stronger person. It has certainly forced me, at times, to work harder than most people have to in order to accomplish the bare minimum.

Here’s to a long, long vacation from The Dark Side, and a light-filled, productive and peaceful 2012 for us all.

Do you struggle with depression? How do you deal with it (medication, therapy, exercise, etc.)? How does it affect your family?

To say his birth was as exciting to me as my own babies’ births would not be at all an exaggeration. The reason I feel so strongly about Tristan’s entrance into the world is because my sister, Trina, asked me to be there for his arrival. Having always been the one in the hospital bed groaning, moaning and otherwise oblivious to most everything around me as I tried to cope with the pain, I wasn’t sure what it would be like to be on the other side of the delivery, but I was excited to pieces that Trina wanted me there.

I got to be there with her and Troy, her husband, pretty much from the time she got to the hospital. It was hard to watch her in labor, especially as it progressed, because I wanted to do something to ease her pain, but knew I was completely helpless other than to encourage her. I wasn’t any more a fan of seeing my little sister in pain than I am seeing my kids sick or injured.

The most amazing part was, of course, when the little guy popped out. I was touched suddenly and rather unexpectedly by the enormity of the miracle this event was and tears came to my eyes. It was one of the most emotional and best moments of my life. When you’re the one trying to get the kid out, your teeth gritted, your eyes clenched shut and your whole body straining, you just can’t appreciate that moment like you do when you’re witnessing it physically unattached and pain-free.

The end result:

My end result:

Horrible, unrelenting baby fever.

Again.

Nothing on this great, green earth brings me joy like holding a baby, particularly a newborn baby, does. I’ve already held Tristan as much as I possibly can and each time, I’m so happy, I want to cry.

So, really, it’s probably the joy that I’m craving more than the actual baby. Because babies turn into toddlers, who turn into little kids, who turn into bigger kids, who turn into teenagers, etc., etc.

I’m not saying my kids don’t bring me joy; they do, on a pretty regular basis. But there’s just something about a baby that is unlike anything else. It’s my form of crack, I guess.

I’m starting to come to terms more with the reality that I’m going to have to enjoy my baby nephews and nieces and, eventually, in the WAY distant future (I hope), my grandchildren instead. My time is over. While that’s supremely sad for me, I’m not going to dwell on it and miss all the cool and amazing moments in my kids’ lives, which are completely different from, but no less important than, a baby.

Maybe it’s time to get the companion dog I’ve been wanting for years.

Do you get baby fever? Are you done having kids but sad that you are? Share here!

My dear friend, Amy, a freelance writer who is currently fighting her second battle with breast cancer and has a gorgeously-written blog on the subject, It’s in the Genes, once told me that she gets crabby when she’s not writing regularly. At the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, even though it was when I was working in the Herbalife club most of the time (and NOT writing) and I was, in fact, becoming crabbier and crabbier.

It has now been around a year since Amy’s crabby comment and I think I now finally and fully understand what she means. Even though it was crazy trying to blog every single day in May during the Blogathon, I was happier because writing brings me such joy. I know it may not seem that way, considering how often I have actually blogged since May, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter how busy I am, I must, for my peace of mind and well-being, write for fun at least several times a week.

This probably stems from the pile of journals I started keeping at the age of 11, along with the stories, poetry and songs I was always penning. Writing is a huge component of who I am, and that’s something I need to remember, not stifle.

Truth be told, writing of any kind has been difficult to squeeze in these days what with the kids being home almost 24/7, plus my office job for LOGIA, which I love and am completely grateful for, but which does not afford me the time to write that I used to have. I miss my freelance writing business dreadfully and hope that someday, when the economy is better, I can get back to it, at least part-time.

In the meantime, plan on seeing me here much more often. I need to carve out a bit of time here and there to write, and this is the best place to do it.

Plus, I have so much to write about, I can’t even decide where to start!

What activity in your life is essential to your mental and emotional well-being? Why?

The days Logan isn’t in school, he follows me pretty much everywhere, all day, and never stops talking. If I’m working in my office, he’s right there next to me, hauling in his toys or digging in my desk for miscellaneous odds and ends he can play with. His latest project, which so far has lasted this entire week, is to take paper clips, rubber bands, pencils and binder clips and attach them to the little kid chairs I have in here to “build a dinosaur.” I’m pleased that he has such a vivid imagination.

It’s not that his jabbering isn’t utterly precious or that I don’t love hearing the sound of his sweet, helium-infused voice. The expanse of his imagination sometimes blows my mind as I listen to his musings and watch him play with simple household objects as if they’re the world’s greatest creation. I just sometimes wish he had a mute button.

It all started in January 2000, when Rachel and Andie were just a year-and-a-half old and the family found out that Carmen had ovarian cancer. The tumor in her ovary had burst, spreading cancerous cells all throughout her abdomen. Carmen’s prognosis seemed relatively bleak, though her doctor kept reminding us that people are not statistics and every individual is different. I remember her friend, a long-time cancer nurse, telling us that in her experience, we would be lucky to have Carmen for another two years.

The mother of six — my kids’ dad is the oldest — Carmen’s youngest, Kirk, was only 8 at the time. “I just want to live long enough to get Kirk out of the house,” she told me on more than one occasion. A noble goal, I agreed, but secretly I thought it was unrealistic.

But that’s Carmen for you;  unrealistic, full of hope, always looking for the positive in any situation. It has served her well over the 17 years that I’ve known her, from her proclamation that her twin grandsons, born at only 24-3/4 weeks of gestation, would “be fine” (they were), to her stubborn determination to get her youngest child through high school before she left this world (she did).

We’ve had multiple scares with her over the years as her cancer came back numerous times. Every time, she cheated death. She dwindled down to nothing but skin and bones and made us all draw our collective breath in fear that this time would be the last, but looking back now, I see that there was always a strength about her, a strength that seemed to say, This isn’t going to get me yet.

This time is different. That energy has finally faded away, like glistening raindrops in the sun. Not that she isn’t still strong, but it’s a different kind of strength, a quiet, reflective inner peace she demonstrates, knowing that she won’t be with us much longer. Her eyes, sunken from her prolonged fight, are still bright in her translucent face, and though she seems almost to be floating somewhere above us much of the time, already halfway to the next life, she’s still there to pat our backs and give us her love as we take turns shedding tears over our impending loss.

It is truly a tragedy that the world will be losing Carmen. She is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known and despite the fact that she could have so very easily (unwittingly, of course) made me feel like I’d never measure up as a wife and mother in comparison to her, she never did. Instead, I found myself trying to emulate her strength, her peace, her faith and the way she treated everyone with sincere love, care and respect. She taught me some of the most valuable lessons of my life, simply by her example. There is no way that I would be the person I am today without her having been in my life.

A little blog post is not even close to enough room to describe the loss of her in our lives. She has been an inspiration, a blessing beyond measure, a mother and grandmother unlike any other. I cannot begin to adequately express the sadness we feel upon losing her, nor the peace of knowing that she won’t be suffering much longer, that she will soon be in a better place and that our lives have been all that much more enriched because of her presence in them.

And so we wait for her final curtain, for the goodbyes we’ve been saying in our hearts for years, for the end of an era and the beginning of a new one in which we will tell each other stories to keep her memory alive in our minds, as well as in the minds of those grandchildren who will never have the chance to know her in person.

We love you, Carmen. You have touched many lives, more than you probably know, and your legacy will live on. Heaven will be a happier place with you in it.

Reading an article about difficult mothers in my latest issue of Psychology Today the other day didn’t help this deep-seated fear, let me tell you. Now I’m more paranoid than ever about my mothering abilities. I should probably dub myself the Hypochondriac of Parenting Mistakes.

I think the root of my fear resides mostly in the fact that I spent the better part of a year in a horrible depression. Even though it was something over which I had no control, I feel guilty about it to this day, and probably always will.

It started when I was pregnant with Logan, when it was all I could do to get myself out of bed in the morning, let alone take care of my then-5-year-old twins and 1-year-old son. I was a virtual zombie. I spent many days in my pajamas, not bothering to do anything with my hair or face. People kept telling me how terrible I looked. Out of necessity, my daughters learned how to make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Once I gave birth, Logan’s newborn neediness and sweet demeanor helped keep me going. He evolved into the easiest, most peaceful baby in the universe and I came out of my shell little by little, with the help of medication, therapy and my kids.

I look back at that period as one of the darkest of my life. It breaks my heart when I think about how fast my girls had to grow up and assume responsibility that they never should have had to because their mother — me — couldn’t function right or well.

Even though in my head I know I was sick and unable to just buck up and be happy, I feel regret and shame. My head knows that the extenuating personal circumstances going on in my life at the time sparked and kindled my struggle with depression, but that isn’t enough to assuage the feelings of failure, no matter how temporary my failure was.

I have days when I think I’m a pretty darn good mom, especially after being around other people’s kids (ever notice how that almost always makes a parent grateful for her own kids?). My own children tell me I’m a great mom, though I imagine the window for that sort of comment is short, considering my daughters are months away from being teenagers.

But I’m painfully aware of my shortcomings, my many flaws and the fact that no matter how hard I try, I will fail them all in one way or another. The best I can do is to try my hardest, let them know that I love them beyond measure and hope that when they grow up, any wounds I left can be healed by their knowledge that I did, indeed, do my best.

Next: How my depression affected Miss Type-A.

One of my dear college friends informed me tonight that his 5-year-old son, just a month younger than Logan, has a brain tumor. He and his wife just found out yesterday, after a couple weeks of the little guy complaining of headaches and not walking quite right. Today, after an MRI, they found out that he has a tumor near his neck. They have no idea if it’s cancerous or not, but they are heading to a big city to have it removed. Hopefully the weather will be cooperative tomorrow morning so they can get there, as they weren’t able to fly out today due to weather.

Please, give your kids an extra hug and kiss and remember how much you love them, even if they do drive you absolutely crazy at times. All the “stuff” in the world can’t make up for the loss of a child.

If you’re a praying person, please add Mark and his family, especially his son, Elliot, to your prayer list. They need all the prayers they can get that this tumor is benign.

You’re in my thoughts and prayers, Mark, Elliot and family.

Approximately 16 miles down the road, I got an urgent text message from the kids: “Remy killed Tiger!”

Remy is our little Yorkie-Poo and Tiger was one of our two farm kittens. Rachel brought Tiger over from her grandparents’ ranch to keep our kitten, Calli, and her mother, Meow, company. Tiger was hand-picked because she liked to follow Rachel around whenever she was outside. Since R much prefers the company of animals to that of humans, Tiger was the perfect addition to her slew of non-human pals.

Remy, the perpetrator of this crime

This, I knew, was devastating news as Remy had (accidentally?) killed Calli’s sibling a couple months ago, when the kittens had just started opening their eyes. We think he just got too rough with them because he’s a very sweet and playful dog.

I called to see how everyone was. Andie, as usual, answered in her business-like, rather unsympathetic, tone. I heard crying in the background.

“Are they OK?” I inquired, wondering how she could be so unaffected.

“I don’t know. Cody and Rachel are bawling. Here, listen,” she answered, holding the phone closer to the sobbing kids.

I heard howling cries from the pair of them, sounds of despair and loss, and I knew this was worse than I had initially thought.

“Rachel wants you to come home,” Andie said, getting back on the phone.

Oh no. By this time, I was halfway to town, my van bumping over the isolated, poorly paved road.

“Hang on, I’ll call you back,” I said.

I pulled over to the side of the road. What to do? I was completely torn.

On the one hand, I was halfway to my destination and it would cost gas and time, neither of which I had much of, to go back. Also, my sister was presumably waiting for me to meet her. Then, of course, there was the oh-so-powerful draw of the baby fix I was so desperately wanting. My arms literally ached to hold my two-week-old nephew.

On the other hand, two of my kids were at home, broken-hearted and grieving, with no one there to comfort them, certainly not their responsible, if unmoved, sister. I pictured Rachel, ten years down the road, in session with her therapist, saying, “Yeah, there was this one time when my dog killed my kitten and my mom DIDN’T EVEN CARE!”

Sighing, I knew what I had to do, even if I ended up being of virtually no help, which I highly suspected. It was a pivotal parenting moment, one of those that would surely etch itself into Rachel’s memory, and probably Cody’s too. No time or gas is too much to let my kids know that they are first, that their needs are my first priority, that I love them beyond all reason and would do anything for them.

I’ll never regret my decision. Even if I wasn’t a whole lot of help, beyond some comforting hugs and words, I firmly believe that coming back home made an impression with my kids, just as it would have left them with a bad memory if I hadn’t.

And besides, I was able to get my baby fix later that afternoon. In the end, we all got what we needed.

What are some of your pivotal parenting moments? How did you handle them? Do you wish you would have done anything differently?

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My kids have a new baby cousin, Luke, and we finally got to see him for the first time yesterday. He’s three weeks old now and the most precious little guy. I got to hold him for quite awhile (not as long as I would have liked, of course) and it was pure bliss cuddling that tiny little body, listening to his adorable baby noises, inhaling the sweet, new-baby scent of him and watching his hands and face move as he slept.

But holding Baby Luke left a distinct longing in my soul and I found myself envying his mom, even though she was sleep-deprived and basically playing the role of milk machine/chew toy. That amount of time when your child is an infant and you meet her needs in a fog of sleep-deprivation and happiness occasionally bordering on hysteria just blurs by, especially when you have more than one to take care of, as I always have.

Maybe that’s why I feel the impact of baby fever so strongly; since I’ve always had more than one child, I never got that uninterrupted, blissful time with a first baby that most new moms enjoy. I experienced it to a degree with Cody because by that time, the girls were 4, but it’s not the same.

“You’ve had your turn,” I kept reminding myself as I reluctantly placed Luke back in his lucky mom’s arms. “You’ve had more turns than many people get.” The self-talk didn’t help one bit — the longing for a baby of my own hung on.

I don’t know how to stop my at-times-overwhelming desire for another baby. Even thinking about the fact that I would be, in effect, starting all over again doesn’t decrease the want.

So I guess my options are these:

* force my soon-to-be-delivering little sister to move in with me (or at least close-by) so I can get baby fixes whenever I want
* get a tiny indoor dog who will happily cuddle with me
* wait another 12-20 years to hog my grandchildren, assuming they live nearby, and meanwhile get my occasional baby fixes here and there

Sigh. I just don’t think my sister is going to agree…

Ever get baby fever? Are you sad that you’re finished having kids even though you don’t REALLY want any more? Share your baby fever experiences here!

After the births of Cody and Logan, who are 18 months apart, I firmly believe that with the exception of the newborn phase, having two kids fairly close together is quite a bit harder than two at once, at least in the beginning. With twins, they’re in the same stages all the time so you don’t have situations going on such as the older child on a mission to destroy everything in his path while he knows you’re trying to feed the baby.

When Cody, still a baby by all definitions, first met Logan, he was keenly unimpressed. His first greeting? He climbed up on the couch where I was sitting with Baby Logan and attempted to head-butt him off of my lap. The next several months were very difficult, between Cody’s misguided attempts to get my attention and trying to tend to Logan’s needs. Multiple times a day, I remember silently blessing moms with children so close together.

Of course none of that matters much once they get past a certain age. Now that my kids are all getting older (<<sad sigh>>), those age relationships don’t mean a whole lot and in fact, I’m grateful for them. I couldn’t have special-ordered the kids’ birth orders any better. The girls have been together their entire lives (and even still, at the age of nearly 11, quite often sleep together) and the boys are so close in age, they have just about everything in common and they spend the majority of their time with each other as well.

My mom always told my sisters and me that we should be especially nice to each other because we’d be friends for life, advice at which we rolled our eyes, of course, but she was right. I now count my two sisters as my best friends.

I feel incredibly blessed when I look at my two groups of kids, best friends and playmates. Their relationships will last for a lifetime.

What sorts of relationships do your kids have with each other?