I remember this stage in my other two pregnancies. I remember feeling like a big chunk of the best parts of me had dried up and become shriveled husks of former creativity. With the mackerdoodle I thought my life had changed forever and I would never again hear the fictional characters in my head or have a desire to do crafts or play my guitar. At the time it felt like a fair trade after more than a decade of using those things to mask the pain of infertility. With the cheesedoodle I blamed it on the stress we were going through during that pregnancy – leaving the jobs we’d had for four years, trying to sell our house, thinking we were moving to seminary within months of having a baby.
I also remember a period almost like an emotional and mental springtime coming when each of them were about 4 months old. I began to write again, I made crafts, I planted herbs and ivy. With the mackerdoodle I bought curtains and moved furniture and hung paintings in the house in which we’d been living since days before she was born. With the cheesedoodle I collected acorns and pine cones and put them in jars.
When I sit and stare at my Kissing Frogs file, knowing where it should go, but unable to make it get there; when I look at the blank walls in the play room, or the projects I’ve meant to do since we moved here, I remember that I won’t always feel this way.
This, too, shall pass.