8:02am – Get Clay and I showered and dressed.

8:07am – Technical difficulties. today of all days. We are launching our e-course. Hopefully this will be fixed soon.

9:04am – Have to finish up a few freelance jobs before I head to California tomorrow morning. Off to the grocery store.

9:06am – Pit stop. Don’t judge. I love Diet Coke.

9:56am – The grocery store is 35 minutes away. A long car ride and a big grocery store trip is a good reason for a doughnut stop. At least that is what I tell myself anyway.

10:15am – Groceries for the next few days. I am heading to California for a Dole event, so I figured I would be nice and stock the fridge with some beer for Wes.

10:51am – Home sweet home.

11:00am – I know that it might be weird, but I have to clean my kitchen before I can cook in it. I also have to clean it before bed. I get it from my mom.Totally weird.

11:04am – I also clean out my fridge every time I go to the store. I get rid of anything questionable and wipe down all of the shelves.

11:15am – Time to get cooking. First up, soup and sandwiches for Van’s.

11:50am – Set up soup and sandwich shot. Clay and I eat this for lunch. Clean up and start over.

12:22pm – Start a caramel sauce.

12:45pm – Caramel Sauce with apples for a piece for Betty Crocker.

1:11pm – Next set up, flatbread.

2:01pm – Another for Van’s. This time it is dessert pizzas.

2:37pm – The sad state of my dishwasher. Most days, she is begging for mercy. This is the third load of the day.

3:20pm – Dump my images onto my hard drive. Red needs to be edited.

3:35pm – Will and Ava come home from school. Time for homework. Like how a pencil shoved up an elbow cast becomes a reading tracker?

5:00pm – Cannot go to Monterey without a mani/pedi. So much better.

6:35pm – Tuesday nights are for Dave. We facilitate Financial Peace University at our church.

8:15pm – Home from class, put the kids to bed, pack for trip, write two articles that need to be submitted in the morning, kiss the kids goodnight.

1:21am – Bed. Need to get up for a 5:50am flight.

In the quiet of my new, kid-free days all I could hear was the deep ache in my heart.  I felt lost, no longer needed. I tried to tell myself not to be dramatic,  I had school age kids for goodness sake, it’s not like they all left for college. Still the ache remained.  My friends of older children told me I would come to love my free days, even become protective of them.  I couldn’t even imagine this happening.  Still, to keep myself from being sucked into a self-hosted pity party I began to look for ways to fill my time.  Unfortunately, in my zeal to be productive I soon learned a lesson in overbooking. I didn’t feel any better just crazy busy.

In talking to my husband, I brought up the idea of going back to work full-time.  Although I wasn’t crazy about the idea I really didn’t know what else to do.  My husband, in his ever nurturing way, said he didn’t think that was a good idea.  He told me that I had earned this time after 10 years of babies at home, that it was okay to take some time for myself.  ”Do all the things you love,” he said, “you finally have the time.”

So, that’s exactly what I started to do.

Knowing myself, and the need for a bit of organization, I make a ‘to do’ list each day.  It always includes the things that need to be done to keep the house rolling…grocery shopping, cleaning, laundry. Those completed, I am free to work on what I love…photography, my blog, cooking, running, friends, computer time.  I even bought a puppy and decided to pursue dreams I had previously put on hold because I didn’t have the time (or energy) to devote to them.

It’s taken some time, but I’ve finally found my groove.  And while I won’t say I love my quiet house, these days I’m enjoying my time too much to notice quite as much.

Random question. Did you ever have to write your own epitaph in high school English class or was that just the sort of fun reserved for my own little twisted teenage place in the world? I’m not sure what I wrote back then but these days I have a hunch what might be on my tombstone:

Here lies Erin Cobb

she was productive

except when she was messing stuff up

I’ve always had a knack for getting things done quickly. I think about the task at hand, divide it into digestible chunks, and then tackle it head on. Sure, sometimes it’s at the last minute but in the wise words of my husband, “if you wait till the last minute, it only takes a minute.”  Coincidentally, that would explain why I’m up at 11:46 p.m. pecking away at my keyboard on the evening before this particular article is due.

The point is, getting things done is the name of my game. But it has also been my downfall. See, in my mind every task I’m asked to do only takes about 5 minutes. So of course I agree to them. I’m a yes girl – it’s the way I roll. And then when all of those five minute tasks snowball and spiral down the mountain of my desk I end up drowning in my so-called productivity. And now that you know that about me, I’m going to share with you a few of my daily victories and failures. Here are all the ways I make the magic happen…and a few of the ways I screw things up royally.

Getting Stuff Done:

- I’m pretty dictatorial about my schedule. My morning run must be finished by 7, followed by making children’s breakfasts and lunches, cleaning the kitchen and grabbing a bite to eat of my own. Then into the shower by 8 and heading to preschool by 8:45. On the dot. Otherwise I miss The Writer’s Almanac on the way home – and then everything would go to hell in a hand basket.

- Early on in motherhood I learned to treasure the time when I had sleeping/occupied children and guard it above all else. Household chores are all done with kids awake and in tow. Never, ever will I do household chores while my children are sleeping or at school. Those hours are reserved for my own personal productivity – work, blogging, me time, etc. My philosophy has always been that it’s good for my children to see me maintaining our home and we can easily make that time quality time spent together. Besides, every five year old needs to know how to fold.

- Post-it notes are my friend. I use them daily, with purpose.

- I have a system for (almost) everything and am pretty religious about the family and I adhering to each of them. For example, when the kiddos get home from school I just say, “do your jobs” and they know exactly what that means: go in the house, put your shoes in the basket, put jackets and backpacks on the bench,  put your lunchbox on the kitchen counter and go wash your hands. Over the top? Maybe. But it works.

- This year I switched to a two calendar system. I knew it was time to start using an online calendar, since I hired an employee who needed to keep tabs on my daily schedule. Plus my husband who was tired of manually syncing our calendars every week or so. So I started using Cozi. But after a month with it I realized how much I missed being able to see my whole month at a glance. And now I keep a paper calendar and a digital calendar. Yes it’s more work but it keeps me sane.

- I clean out my email inbox every day or so (except on the weekends). The only way I know that I won’t miss anything is if I get to the bottom of the barrel. So I make it a habit to sit down and plow through my inbox every morning. It’s my digital to do list.

Messing Stuff Up: (Here’s where I confess all the ways I’m a disaster each and every day. Ready for the real fun?)

- Some days I get up for my morning run, have breakfast, check my email and then change right back into my jammies – never having done a run at all. When I first started running the only way I could drag my butt out of bed was to make an internal promise to myself that if I got up and got dressed and still didn’t feel like going, I didn’t have to. And guess what? Some days I don’t feel like going.

- Even though it’s technically my children’s jobs to fold the napkins, sometimes I don’t even want to face the battle. So I leave them in the dryer and just fish them out whenever I need them.

- Sometimes Post-It notes go terribly, terribly wrong. I may need a special edition of Hoarders to save me from myself.

- I’ve been known to rant and rave about someone not adhering to “the system”…only to find that the offending person was me. That’s a nice slice of humble pie.

- Even with two calendars I’m bound to forget things and miss events. In fact, twice I’ve completely forgotten to be home when I’ve schedule clients to come view their portraits. Talk about an awful feeling.

- And right now there are 41 emails in my inbox waiting to be answered. And the earliest one is from December 21st of last year. (Technically though it’s from my husband and shouldn’t actually be counted. Right?)

Here’s the point. Each day we have opportunities for success and failure. Productivity and problems. Some days (or in my case, today) we’re going to lose our children’s gymnastics log book and buy the wrong kind of camcorder tape at the store. (Geez Louise, who uses a camcorder anymore?!) On those days I just smile and remind myself of the mantra of one of my sweet friends, “I’ll never have to do this day over again.”

And  then some days we’re going to fall asleep with the most overwhelming sense of accomplishment and pride in all that we’ve mastered in that particular day. And those are the times I resolve to soak it all in, basking in the productivity, and wistfully rejoicing that “I’ll never get to do this day over again.”

Pssst, come over here.  Yeah, now listen.  I’ve got a secret.  I’m the black sheep of The Creative Mama team.  Yup.  My blog is old and rarely updated.  My business website isn’t linked anywhere.  My Facebook page is incomplete and unpublished.  I have about eight DIY home improvement projects in various stages of completion (or lack of completion).  I’m not exactly the model of the successful creative life.

But in my defense, I do have a condition that is responsible.  Perfectionism.  Whose main symptom is procrastination.  Oh, and fear.

I’m typically in denial though.  I blame motherhood.  I blame my husband’s crazy schedule.  I blame our limited support network.  I blame the weather.

But deep down I know — it’s fear.  Fear of success.  Fear of failure.  Fear of the unknown.

Last year I launched a family and children’s portrait photography business.  I swore I would be kind to myself, and not expect too much or try to grow too fast.  I was determined to pace myself, develop my workflow, cultivate my style and literature for the business.  And here I am, with spring springing, and very little progress made.  I’ve always been one who works best with a deadline.  Now it seems the deadline is here and I didn’t even know it (or perhaps I ignored it).  I have actually had some inquiries already and two sessions booked.  And none of that literature or workflow is ready.  Still no Facebook page.  My site needs updating.  Where did that productive winter go?

I can blame the waves of illnesses that have been ravaging our home as of late, but I know a big part of my problem is worrying that it all just isn’t good enough (darn perfectionism).  Is my logo trendy enough?  But still classic?  Is the language in that email spot on?  Does it really have my voice?   I’m a details person, but then I get hung up in the details.  And then I procrastinate.  I’ve created a logo months ago, but still haven’t instituted using it.

So I’m coming to you, my fellow creative mamas — hold me accountable.  I’m issuing a challenge to all of us.  Let’s spring clean our creative lives.  I pledge to finish that Facebook page and institute some workflow rules for myself.  I pledge to let go of perfectionism, and just DO IT.

Where could your creative life or business use some sprucing up?  Do you need to clean out that supply closet?  Organize your fabrics or yarns?  Do you need to purge all those rejected photos from your hard drive?  Do you need to finally print the good shots?  Does your logo need freshening up?  Should you finally launch that Etsy shop?

Share with us your goals, and I promise next month I’ll have an update and we can cheer each other on.  Let’s blossom together.

I have tried to write this 4 times, and it never comes out the way that I want it to.

This week has been nothing short of amazing. I was so scared to hit publish when I shared my story with the world. I had kept it a secret for so long, that it felt strange to tell it for the first time to the Internet. But sharing my story helped heal me in some ways. 4 years later, I realize that I was not alone, and there were so many other women struggling alongside me. Our wish is that women will be able to share their stories with other mothers. Let them know that they are not alone, and that we all are in this together. There is no shame in what you are going through.

If you are suffering in silence, or just struggling, we beg you to get help. Husbands, mothers, doctors, midwives, friends, relatives, church leaders, whoever you feel comfortable going to, please just go.

If you suspect that someone you know is struggling, please be patient with her. There is a good chance that she is not sure what she is going through herself. Be a good friend. Offer to bring her a meal. Be sensitive. Take her baby for a bit so that she can rest. Stay connected. Clean her house or do a load of laundry. Just listen. Take her out for a walk. Bring her flowers for no reason. Drop off a Starbucks. Take her out for lunch or dinner. Just please do not give up on her.

Ask her to seek help. There is a good chance that this will be met with resistance, or even anger. Encourage her to speak to a professional that can help her get the help that she needs. For herself and for her baby.

Thank you for sharing your stories in the comments. We were honored that you shared them with us.

For a recap of this series:

The Gift of Postpartum Depression

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Crying in the Shower: My Experience with Postpartum Depression

Postpartum Anxiety

Postpartum Depression by Erin Vey

Journey Through the Darkness

There is Hope

I have learned to go easy on myself; I have learned how to slow down. I have learned how to celebrate baby steps in my day to day. I have learned that finding the time to make a cup of tea before I have to get the kids out of the house in the morning is cause for celebration. I have learned to say “so what?” to the fact that I wear a daily uniform of jeans and a t-shirt. I have finally just given up on making excuses as to why I don’t wear make-up. I have learned to allow the laundry to go another day, and I now believe that if breakfast is “the most important meal of the day,” then I am doing my children a service by giving it to them for dinner too. I have learned so much in the past three and a half years.

This past September, I wrote about a spectacular morning I had experienced. I was able to drop Number One and Number Two off at school, and then headed to the food store with Number Three, just two months old at the time. I headed home, put the groceries away, and then swung by the park for some exercise before picking up the older girls from school for lunch. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but for me it was a very big deal. I’ve learned to be proud of myself for having days like that because three years ago, I would have not been able to do any of that. In fact, if I even thought about doing any of that, I would have had a massive anxiety attack that would probably have taken most of the day to overcome. I know how much strength it takes to just get out of bed in the morning when you are suffering from depression.

***

I had been crying in bed for about 90 minutes when I finally managed to get sweet Number Two to sleep after another cluster-feeding marathon. I somehow managed to make my way to the living room, sleeping newborn in one arm, squirming 16-month-old in the other, tears still streaming down my face. I remember I was wearing my favorite pair of black yoga pants and a black nursing tank top. I sat cross-legged on the floor with my back against the couch. The room was hot from the early morning sun shining in. Number Two was swaddled tight and nestled into something by my side – pillows? The swing? I can’t remember now. She would only sleep in my arms, so I’m sure I had her snuggled into something soft and warm. Number One was occupied. TV? Snack? Playing in a box? Whatever she was doing, it probably involved watching something animated.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I picked up the phone and called my husband. I had been alone with the girls for 2 hours that morning, and all I could think was, “Lord, please don’t leave me alone like this any longer. Please. I just can’t do it. I won’t make it.” When my husband picked up his phone, I couldn’t get more than one word out, I was crying so hard. I just sat there in the same yoga pants that I’d been wearing for the past three days, crying. With every tear, I was begging him to do something to help me.

One of the side affects of my depression was memory loss, so what happened following that call, along with the next four to six months from when I picked up the phone, is pretty vague. I do know, however, that my husband was home with me within an hour after that phone call. He picked me up off of the floor, pulled me in close to him, and told me it was going to be ok.

At that time, I had a lot of people telling me that it would be ok, that things would get better. That was really hard for me to listen to, because how could they know that? They couldn’t! There was no way that they knew that I would be ok. That we would get through it. I’m glad that I had a steady stream of reassurance coming at me, even if at the time it made me furious. I would think, “Great, some day things will be ok. That is fine, but what about right now? I want to be ok now.” I had a lot of frustration and anger, especially since it took months for the antidepressants to kick in, not weeks like I had been told. Every now and then, I would dream about an “ok time.” Those dreams were fleeting, but having faith and hope, no matter how faint and delicate, were something for me to think about instead of the feelings of sadness, loss, and anger that were taking over my life. I felt like such a failure, and was filled with dread and hopelessness. I had to take my days, literally, one minute at a time. I could not think about anything that would happen in the next hour or beyond without panicking. But having my support system tell me that “at some point” things will be ok again, that “someday” I wouldn’t be completely debilitated, and that they would be there with me until “that time” was reassuring.

No matter where you are in your postpartum journey, whether you have just been diagnosed, you are considering asking for help, you are working minute by minute to break out of the fog, or you are maintaining your recovery, you need to know that you will not feel like this forever.

It will get better.

You will not feel like this forever.

Meg Fahrenbach is a full time mom, wife, and fun haver. All of her “extra” time is spent as a professional photographer, quilter, cook, blogger, and avid reader. Her dreams consist of traveling to Paris, as well as having her images and writings published. She believes that we all have the power to make our dreams come true.

Tea & Brie
Tea & Brie on Facebook
Tea & Brie on Etsy

It snuck up on me. Again. We were supposed to head home with our precious bundle, our first baby girl, instead we were staring at the bright glow in the corner of the room. She needed at least 24 hours under the lights and the last thing I expected was to feel it. You know, that feeling, the beginnings of the darkness.

My husband had brought our two boys to the hospital so we could all spend the day together. There were five of us in that tiny recovery room and I began to feel incredibly claustrophobic. Breastfeeding was a struggle, people were constantly in and out, and my sweet baby was stuck in a blue tanning bed. I began to feel hungry and thought it would be nice to get out of the room for a bit so I decided to take the boys down to the cafeteria.

Not even ten minutes into our little journey did I begin to panic. In the elevator the boys argued about who would push the button. In the cafeteria they ran around like maniacs. In the parking lot as we quickly ran to the car, my three-year-old refused to obey. My heart raced and my body hurt. Hurt from the quick delivery and hurt from the deepest part of me. That aching center that knows what comes next.

I began to cry. Right there in the hallway. Big, sad, crocodile tears. Here I was just days post-partum, walking was a challenge let alone keeping my emotions in check. I cried all the way back to our room and when my sweet husband saw us walk in, he quickly began to encourage me – asking what was wrong, though I imagine he knew.

You see, we’ve been here before. 2008 brought the birth of our second child. Along with that precious boy came one of the hardest times in my life. I would soon learn that not only did PPD plague me, but severe anxiety as well. Days went by in a blur, and though I knew I should be feeling far better than I did, blissful even (like I did after my first baby) the fact was I just plain didn’t. I would sit there on the couch in a daze, brand new life in front of me. A life I longed for and prayed about, yet I felt just incredibly awful – inside and out. Ridden with a crippling anxiety and feeling of utter bleakness, I had so much guilt I could barely stand it.

Blessed with an incredible (and I mean incredible) husband, a house, two cars, healthy boys and an amazing family – I couldn’t see past what was right in front of me. And what was right in front of me was dark and bleak and painful and heavy.

I would finally get the courage to seek help – not only through my doctor and medication but a truly wonderful community of friends. The process was slow, of healing. The journey is slow. The depression subsided some but the anxiety held on. I struggled to see past the day. I struggled to feel normal. My therapist encouraged me that anxiety comes along with PPD quite often, yet I felt odd and out of sorts. A feeling that would become a norm for me.

As the few years would pass, medication was a part of my daily routine. If I skipped it, I felt it. Immediately. We began to talk about having a third baby, but I was nervous. Scared, apprehensive, and yes, anxious. When we had decided to wait a year and prepare for a huge life change (husband quitting his well grounded, safe job and joining me in the photography business) we were surprised with that baby #3. Yes, on his last day of work I saw those two pink lines.

Fear overtook me. When I say overtook me I mean absolutely smothered me. We were now uninsured, and though we had a handful of sessions, weddings, and mentoring booked, we felt felt a bit unemployed. Not only that but pregnancy is not easy on me – horrible morning sickness, pre-term labor, and bed rest were in my history.

As expected I was sick. Sicker than sick. I began to really worry about how I could work (as the main shooter, hubbie was going to be doing all the admin work) being as sick as I was. I lay in bed day after day, struggling to eat and struggling to live. A new aching came over me. It was familiar and scary at the same time. Those are some of the darkest moments of my life. Moments and days and weeks and months I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I saw life through blurred eyes. There was a healthy, growing baby within me and it took everything in me not to wish it away. I would soon learn that there is such a thing as perinatal PPD and I had it, oh did I have it.

Our worries would come true and the business took a plunge. I couldn’t book another session to save my life. Our wonderful plan, our perfect leap of faith teetered on the brink of failure and so soon after we’d made it! I was humiliated. I was worried. I was so incredibly disappointed. We were now facing big, bad decisions. Scary ones. We had our own business in an economy that wouldn’t support it. The photography industry was changing and we couldn’t keep up with all of the others out there offering what we were offering for half the price. We realized the business wouldn’t flourish, with as sick as I was and an impending bout of bed rest. My husband tried to get his job back to no avail. My depression deepend and on a warm day in July we solemnly packed our belongings and moved an hour east to live with my inlaws.

The course of my pregnancy would find us having lost our home, our family vehicle, our insurance, our business and our peace of mind. I hid away. I was embarrassed and struggling daily.

So as the birth of our wee girl approached I prepared. I knew PPD (and anxiety) could be around the corner, especially after such a stressful pregnancy. I hoped beyond hope that I’d avoid it, and thought that having dealt with it before I’d be able to ‘handle it better’.

This wouldn’t be the case however. That day in early January in the hospital cafeteria proved so. As my husband took the boys home that evening and I stared bleakly at the glow of the blue lights covering my sweet girl, my heart just plain sank. I felt what little energy I had slip away and the next morning would ask for an Rx of my precious Prozac again.

Eight weeks have passed and I’d like to say I’m on the mend. Each day is a new struggle, though some are definitely better than others. The events of 2011 changed me, they changed us. This PPD is different than what I experienced in 2008, but it still hurts, and it is still hard.

I find one of the most difficult things is feeling so isolated in this. Though of course I know I’m not, I know so many friends struggling with it right along side me, it is still difficult. Feeling as though I carry this giant sign that says “I have PPD and anxiety” and the weight of that is so heavy. Certain things will trigger me and I have to really work hard at overcoming it.

The birth of spring, just around the corner gives me hope. As weather warms and flowers bloom, I feel the anticipation of good things ahead. I have such wonderful amazing friends and family, a husband that though he doesn’t understand this, does his very best to encourage and uplift me – and for them I am eternally grateful.

Each day is a new gift, and I’m doing my best to see it as that. Walks in the sun with my baby girl, getting out for coffee with a friend, shooting for myself, even taking a long hot shower in the evenings knowing the pitter patter of little feet won’t interrupt. These are helping, healing me. Slowly, but surely.

PPD (and anxiety for me) has become a part of me and a piece of this puzzle that makes me the woman I am today. I hope that someday in the future I can use the difficulties I’ve faced to help another. If I do, if I can encourage someone else that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, it will all be worth it.

Angie Warren is a writer & photographer living in northern California with her husband, two sons, and brand new baby girl. She shares her heart & images on her own personal blog . a lover of film & digital, Angie shoots with varying mediums and aims to document the big & little moments in her life.

Read more of Angie’s journey here.