Speaking Without Words

Before I decided to go & get my PPD diagnosis, I was having some pretty rough days. And one of the main things that drove me to get it taken care of was the fact that my sweet little Malia was carrying the brunt of my pain on her tiny 3-year-old shoulders.

So not cool, Mommy. So not cool.

I remember one evening was particularly difficult. I had just put Cecily down for her final evening nap so that I could prepare dinner. About 5 minutes into her nap, she woke up crying. This was before we had made the decision to start sleep-training her which meant that, in order to get her to go back sleep, I'd have to rock her for a good 10-15 minutes. I was frustrated with dinner only 1/2-way done and a screaming child upstairs coupled with the fact that even someone simply breathing near me often set me off into sobbing.

David saw my frustration and said, "Let's just leave her be. She's tired. She needs this nap. She'll figure it out."

Well, she didn't. And the longer she cried, the more insane I felt I was getting. As we sat at the dinner table, tears started to run down my cheeks. I couldn't, for the life of me, just ignore the crying. It was grating on my every last nerve. Malia was watching me. I could see her concern, but I didn't care. I was overwhelmed with what was going on inside me. Raising blood pressure, rapid heart rate, stomach-twisting anxiety. At that minute, for the sake of all of us, David sent me and my food out into the patio where I could shut the door to block out the crying.

As I sat out there, eating corn on the cob and sobbing heavily, Malia would take a bite, and then look over her shoulder at me and grin. She knew I was sad (ha! understatement.) and she was making tremendous efforts to cheer me up. At one point, I looked up, and she and David had their heads and hands together as if they were sharing some sort of secret. He was teaching her something. But I could only see through the sliding glass door. I couldn't hear anything.

I watched, still sobbing and troubled, but driven by my curiosity.

Malia's curls bounced as her body language told me she was giggling and excited about what she had just learned. She turned around and grinned at me, holding up her little hand.

Her father had just taught her to say "I love you" in sign language, and she was holding it up, proudly, communicating to me that I'd be okay because, if nothing else, I really am loved.

For one brief moment, the sad tears of despair became tears of gratitude and I remembered, "This too shall pass..."

Thanks for the reminder, Sweet Pea.