During the first few weeks of Israel’s life, time seemed to be my enemy. Because of the depression, every moment felt like an hour, and nothing got better or easier. It was a fight just to do the necessary things to take care of myself, much less all of the responsibility that comes with a newborn. I not only felt bad physically, but I was in such a mental fog and emotional mess, that everything was difficult, “pointless,” and painfully slow. Sometimes I couldn’t even shower. All I could do was sit and sob and say the same things over and over. “I can’t take this anymore.” “I don’t understand!” “It’s not supposed to be this way.” “What’s wrong with me?” “I don’t feel like I’m really here.” One of the hardest things about “time” was all of the moments I lost with my new son. My moments with him were not peaceful, and a lot of them were stolen all-together because of me having to “get rest,” or go to doctors appointments, counseling sessions, etc. It felt like I would NEVER get better. Even when we would all get out of the house and go ride around, grab lunch somewhere or go for a walk…anything we could think of...it was survival…something to pass time. Nothing was enjoyable. I knew that if I did make it to the end of another day, I dreaded the thought of starting another day just like the one before. (Groundhog day!) I would look back on my day, and it was like a big, long, blur. The weeks went by faster than the days. Mondays kept coming, reminding me that Izzy was another week old, and that we still weren’t home. Another hard week was beginning. Oh God, how much longer? One day, I sat on the couch beside my mom, tissues in hand, and looked at the clock on the VCR. “It’s only 5 o’clock, Mom!” I cried and cried. I felt stuck in that moment. In the days that followed, we began to guard that time of day, and tried to do something besides sit on the couch and cry, before the clock hit 5:00pm again.