When Hindsight Becomes Foresight

Spoiler alert: this blog post mentions infertility, depression, and suicidal ideation. I've tried to address these topics with sensitivity and authenticity, but if you need to skip this post for the sake of your own mental health, I completely understand.

About seven years ago, I decided it was time to have another kid. We already had three, but I'd thought for several years that our family wouldn't be complete until we had one more, and now the time finally felt right. My depression was under control, I'd stopped taking medication, and we'd moved closer to family. Plus, it felt like God was telling me the time was finally right. I was energized and hopeful.

I didn't get pregnant the first month, which wasn't weird, so it was fine. I didn't the second month, either--but my sister-in-law did. They announced their awesome news at a family gathering. I probably felt a little bad, but the women in my husband's family are notoriously fertile. It was fine. Completely fine.

I told my brother-in-law's wife that we were trying to conceive. She knew exactly how I felt. Though she and her husband didn't have trouble conceiving, she did have a hard time carrying pregnancies to term. We'd bonded before over our shared misery of having married into such a baby-come-easy family.

Then, a month or several later, she said she was pregnant, too.

This made me feel a little worse--or, you know, maybe a lot worse. I tried to be happy for her, but I wasn't, not at all. Now I was an awful person in addition to *not* pregnant.

This was sometime in the winter, which was colder, snowier, and generally more miserable than my last ten winters had been. I'm sure this had something to do with my worsening depression, but I was too far gone to make that logical connection, and my depression quickly spiraled into suicidal thoughts. Church was soul-suckingly bad, and family gatherings were worse. At least my *other* brother-in-law's wife had no bun in the proverbial oven and showed no signs of wanting one. We didn't talk as much, but I decided we were tight, on the same side, and all of that.

Until--you guessed it--she announced that she was having her first baby.

There were now three babies coming to my husband's family, and not a single one was mine. Why was God rewarding them but somehow not rewarding me? Was I less righteous, less deserving? Then why had I felt so strongly that the time was finally right?

This was in, like, February, and my suicidal thoughts were pretty much out of control. After sitting down to talk about it with my husband's parents, I decided I would give myself two more months to conceive. The thought of giving God a deadline didn't sit quite right with me, but even I could tell that this was rapidly becoming a life-or-death situation. Two more tedious months passed, and I didn't get pregnant.

Still.

I was beaten. I was vanquished. Scheduling that doctor's visit felt like admitting defeat. I mean, I knew I had to do it--for myself, my family--but I didn't *want* to do it. And I didn't understand why God had let me wander recklessly so far down the wrong path.

The day of the appointment came. I told the doctor all my crap. (I've been doing authenticity since before it became cool.) Then she told me something wondrous, something I'd wondered about but never let myself believe: there was a type of medication that would *not* affect the fetus even if I took it straight through an entire pregnancy.

This, of course, was the solution, the detour I couldn't see from where I was firmly stuck. I started this new medication, and after working out the dosage over the next several months, I managed to sweet-talk my husband into trying to conceive again. (He was understandably gun-shy after the year that we'd endured.)

We got pregnant right away, and our Gummy Bear was born in April of 2018.

This wasn't the first time that, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see how Heavenly Father's plan was so much better than *my* plan, but I swore it would be the last. This ordeal had to have changed me. The next time I hit a roadblock, I couldn't spend weeks, months, or years working myself into a frenzy or shaking my fists at God. I had to hope. I had to trust. I had to let myself believe that God really does know what He's doing, that He's looking out for me, and that He knows how to do more with and make more of my life than I ever could alone.

I didn't know it then, but as it turned out, my next hard thing had already begun. EARTH TO DAD had sold to Capstone in February of 2017--right when, incidentally, I was going nuclear--and since then, perhaps you've noticed that I haven't sold a thing. *I* didn't notice right away, but it's become hard to ignore. I also had to leave an agent after he didn't connect with the new stuff I was writing, and the new agent I found had to medically retire in May earlier this year.

But honestly? I'm fine. Actually, completely fine. Do I wish I'd made a sale in the last six or seven years? Um, of course, yes, absolutely. But am I foaming at the mouth because my journey hasn't gone the way I wanted it to go? For once, thankfully, no. I still have some not-great days, but for the most part, I've been able to keep writing, writing, writing and give God the time and space to lead me down the proper road. I hope I'll know it when I see it, but until then, I'm content to keep waiting on the Lord. There are much worse ways to wait.

In Pursuit of Patience

Three and a half years ago, in the fall of 2016, I got the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. This was kind of monumental. From the time Monster was small--from the time he was born, really--I'd assumed we'd have another. I could almost hear her footsteps pattering around the house, and when I looked for my kids, I constantly looked for a fourth.

The timing had never been right. During most of 2013, spilling into 2014, I'd been majorly depressed. I felt like I SHOULD have a baby, but I didn't WANT another, which just made me MORE depressed. I'd been taught for years and years that children were a gift from God and that having and raising them were two of life's main purposes, so if I didn't want another, I was clearly horrible.

After going to a therapist once or twice a month for more than a year, I went back on medication. That put baby plans on hold, as I was under the impression that you couldn't have a baby while taking antidepressants. I was part relieved, part sad.

By sometime in 2015, I was feeling pretty good. I weaned myself off medication without talking to my doctor. (This was NOT a good idea.) Then 2016 struck. As I detailed in this post, Chris received a job transfer that really threw me for a loop. Still, I came to the conclusion I included in that post:

"I believe God was doing more with my life than I could do with it on my own. It's hard to let go, but I believe He loves and cares for us as a father loves and cares for his children. And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him. In other words, when we let Him in, He won't ever let us down."

Three months after writing that, I was getting the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. I was nervous but excited. As I detailed in THIS post, Chris and I had had to deal with infertility before. But this time, I was sure we were definitely doing what God wanted us to do. I was confident that meant the sailing would be fairly smooth.

I smile as I write that now. Hadn't I already learned that God carried out His plan, not what I thought His plan should be? I should have, but I hadn't. I was in for a crash course.

One month went by, then two. A sister-in-law announced that she was pregnant. I was mad despite myself. This sister-in-law had always gotten pregnant on the first or second try. Why had she never had to work? I shared some of these feelings with another sister-in-law, one who's miscarried several times. She completely understood.

Then, a month later, SHE announced that she was pregnant.

I cried a lot that winter, tried to get inside God's head. I hadn't really expected to get pregnant that first month, but what about the fifth or sixth? And why was God dispatching babies to every other family in our family? Was there something wrong with us? Were we less faithful, less deserving?

By the time March rolled around, I thought I was all cried out. Then a third sister-in-law, who'd put off having kids for years, announced that she was pregnant, too.

It was right around this time that I admitted to myself I was probably more depressed than I'd ever been before. I would go on crying jags that would, like, compress my chest and make it difficult to breathe, and my suicidal thoughts were slowly developing into suicidal plans. I spoke openly with Chris about the problems I was having, but they never went away. By April, I conceded to seeking medical help. We scheduled an appointment right away.

Chris went into this appointment thinking our window had closed. We'd tried. We'd failed. Time to move on. That said, I was less convinced. Why had I received that prompting if our family was complete? I know God sometimes allows us to take steps down the wrong path so we can pinpoint the right one, but that answer didn't sit. I was hopeful that the doctor would provide a better one.

Maybe you've already guessed what I learned at that appointment. As it turns out, I was wrong--there IS an antidepressant childbearing women can take from conception to delivery. Multiple studies have shown it has little to no impact on developing babies, and it's safe to take for days, weeks, months, even years.

This changed everything, of course. I walked away from that appointment feeling like I'd found the answer I'd been looking so hard for. And sure enough, a few months later, once this wondrous medication had had time to take effect and I was feeling good again, I got pregnant on the first try.

I could almost hear God's voice speaking softly to my heart: "THIS was the way for you to go. THIS was the path I chose for you. Wasn't it better than the path you would have chosen for yourself?"

What did I say after our house in Mesquite finally sold? "And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him." You see, I ALREADY KNEW that God's way always works out. But when the next storm arose, I forgot and wrung my hands. What will we do, what will we do, what will we do, what will we DO? And yet I already knew: keep calm, carry on, and let Jesus take the wheel.

God allows us to pass through faith-promoting tests and trials just so they'll promote our faith. And if we let them work in us--in us, through us, and around us--then the next time we're confronted with a faith-promoting test, we'll be able to press forward and, if not rest fully easy, then at least rest easier.

Why am I sharing this now? Because I'm waiting to hear back on a non-writing endeavor that would mean the world to me. And because I've been on submission with one project or another for the past almost a year. I HATE being on submission. It's dumb and demoralizing. But as I hope I've FINALLY learned, I know how to handle it.

Have I had difficult days? Sure. Have I prayed for an end? Of course. But more often than not, I've prayed for strength to persevere, and that's made all the difference.

Book Review: WHAT HAPPENED by Hillary Rodham Clinton

In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't vote for Ms. Clinton. (I didn't vote for President Trump, either, but that's a whole other blog post.) Still, when I saw that she was writing a memoir about the campaign, I knew I wanted to read it. I'm a political news junkie, so I gobble up campaigns like I gobble up Thanksgiving dinner. Also, like so many pollsters, journalists, and outside observers, I was completely flabbergasted by the election's results.

What I Liked

I went into the read expecting it to be about the behind-the-scenes drama that must be part of a campaign, and for the most part, it was. But it was also about Ms. Clinton's day-to-day life now. And her early years as a lawyer and an activist. And her mother's truly inspiring life story. The truth is, I wish I'd had access to this book BEFORE the general election, because it definitely reshaped my opinion of one of this generation's most prominent political figures.

Though I like to think of myself as a fairly nonjudgmental person, I've come to multiple conclusions about Ms. Clinton's life that probably aren't accurate. For instance, I've always assumed--and I'm embarrassed to admit it--that President and Ms. Clinton's marriage is a marriage of convenience, political gain, and mutual tolerance. I've also assumed that they only had one child because they didn't really like each other. And yet the text is sprinkled with references to their relationship that overwhelmingly paint a picture of affection and respect, and she also alludes to her struggle to conceive multiple times.

Oh, man, can I relate to THAT.

Do I now agree with all of Ms. Clinton's views? Well, no. Am I interested in reading Donna Brazile's just-released book about Ms. Clinton's alleged takeover of the DNC? You bet. But I feel like I relate to her in a way I've never related to her before, and when you see pieces of yourself in another human being, it's harder to demonize them or think of them as other.

What I Wish There Had Been More/Less of

As I mentioned above, I soaked up the details of her life like a cactus soaks up water. (A few vignettes about her law career literally made me laugh out loud.) I wish she'd spent more time on those early experiences; I especially wish she'd spent more on her struggle to conceive. There are SO MANY WOMEN who are grappling or have grappled with infertility, and I think we need to talk more about these struggles, not less. Other women need to know that this is a far-reaching issue that will likely touch them in some way and that infertility isn't something to be ashamed of.

Also, given that she spent a justifiable whole chapter on Russia's meddling in the election, I was surprised she didn't mention Mitt Romney's 2012 quote. Do you remember when, in a primary debate (and again in a debate that fall), Mr. Romney labeled Russia "our biggest geopolitical threat" and basically got laughed off the stage? Doesn't it turn out that he was right? That was a huge moment in the 2012 election cycle, and given that she referenced previous elections and candidates on more than one occasion (including Mr. Romney in several other situations), I was surprised she left that out.

Finally, the e-mails. Yes, they were a huge deal--she quotes multiple statistics that only go to show how over-hyped they were--and yes, they probably had an impact on the outcome of the race. But there are only so many times you can rattle a dead man's bones. While I was interested to hear her take on how those e-mails were covered, she brought them up so often that the force of her argument was lost. (Also, you can make statistics say almost anything you want, so it would have been great if she'd included several conflicting statistics and accompanying analysis.)

Long blog post short: whether you voted for Ms. Clinton, President Trump, or Mickey Mouse, I think this book is worth a read, if for no other reason than that we believe in giving everyone, winners and losers alike, a voice.

To Be, or Not to Be, Content

One of Honey Bear’s favorite scriptures is Philippians 4:11: “Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

It’s a lovely thing to write, of course, but what makes it even lovelier is knowing that he wrote it from jail. Paul, as it turns out, spent a lot of time in jail; scholars often refer to the books of Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, and Philemon as the prison epistles, since he penned all of them from the slammer. And yet there he was, in jail, reminding the Philippians, and all of us, that it’s not about the prison, but the prisoner. That it’s not about life, but the liver (not the organ, mind you, but one who lives). We can all be as content, or not, as we choose to be.

Honey Bear is great at this, at living in the moment. Me, not so much. There’s always something nagging at me, some little voice reminding me that life will be better when.

Funny thing is, that when is always changing; no matter how swiftly I pursue it, it’s always sliding out from under me, like my shadow in the golden hour of afternoon. In junior high, I was certain high school was the paradise I’d always waited for. But once I got to high school, I just wanted to get to college. Once I got to college, I just wanted to graduate. And once I was married, I just wanted to have kids.

I’m not sure why, since I’ve never been much of a baby person. (My mom and sister still tease me for holding up a diaper when I was fifteen and asking, “Uh, which way does it go?”) But as I mentioned in this post, there was a time when I wanted babies so badly that I was issuing silent hexes on every pregnant woman I passed. For two years, I was miserable, or, at the very best, not content.

And now I look back and realize there were so many good things about that time, before Honey Bear and I had kids. (All of you parents are chuckling right now, I know, but really, I’m trying to be serious.) Honey Bear and I were so young and in love that we could barely look at each other without giggling, and our quaint basement apartment, with its two bedrooms, crown molding, and almost empty fridge, was positively palatial.

(You may be wondering about the fridge, but honestly, after sharing a refrigerator with five other girls, having an almost empty one was nigh unto Elysian. That other fridge was so crowded that our milk would often freeze--and that was on the warmest setting.)

We’re still young, of course, and still very much in love, but it’s not the same now. We don’t exist just for each other anymore. And sometimes, I miss that. I think I miss it more because I didn’t fully appreciate it back then.

Now my writing career has given me another chance, since where I am right now--unpublished--is not where I want to be. But whether or not I reach that summit, I’m determined to love the climb. Because I’d much rather live in the middle of all these lovely words than outside of them. There is contentment in that.

Comparison, Thy Name Is Krista

Of all my faults (and I have a few), the one I seem to grapple with the most is my tendency to compare. Now I’m not talking about arrogance or superiority here, although I manage to pull those ones off pretty effectively sometimes. No, the real fault I struggle with is jealousy: comparison from the bottom looking up.

My first real encounter with this so-called green-eyed monster occurred not long after my husband and I were first married. It started when, a few months later, we discovered we were pregnant. But it didn’t become a problem until, exactly nine days after that, we lost the baby.

Another month went by, then two. We started trying to conceive again, but nothing. And nothing. And still nothing. By the time six months had passed, my insides started twisting whenever I spotted a pregnant woman--and let me tell you, I was a professional pregnant-woman spotter by then. By the time a year had gone by, my insides stopped feeling altogether.

I don’t know why I held onto the jealousy so long. It’s pointless, exhausting work, after all, and I was hurting no one but myself. Thankfully, my pain--and with it, my envy--gradually did begin to mellow. I realized that I could look at expectant mothers again without wanting to scratch their eyes out (horrible of me, I know, especially since pregnant women had been involved), and I remembered this talk by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, a leading authority in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and a beautiful writer to boot.

Despite their religious overtones, his words apply to a large number of life circumstances, including baby craving. They reminded me that, in the grand scheme of things, another’s success is not my failure. That even when we seem to be competing against each other, we are really just competing against ourselves.

Now I’m having to relearn this lesson in my quest for an agent. It’s so easy to read about another aspiring author who’s just landed that dream agent, or placed seven partials instead of six, or sent a full manuscript to the same agent who only requested my partial (notice how each one of these is becoming more pathetic), and think, “What makes them so special?” or “Why can’t that be me?”

But the fact of the matter is, that success is not my failure. In fact, that success should only give me hope. Because I am not of the opinion that agents are only looking to fill a fixed number of slots on their rosters and turn everyone else away. They are simply looking for great stories, and I just have to find the one who thinks my story’s great. If Aspiring Author Number One can do it, then so can I.

Easier said than done, I know. There are definitely days--and sometimes weeks and months--when all of this feels hopeless, when I’m positive I’ll never see my words in print. But those days and weeks and months eventually pass, and hope returns. That’s what’s so great about being human: We’re generally hopeful creatures. And hope is a powerful antidote to envy.