The Parent Trip: Susan and Phillip Crosby of Fishtown

From the time she was 5 or 6, Susan knew she wanted to be a lawyer. She was equally certain she wanted to be a mother.

But in the darkest and most turbulent times of her life, she didn't think either of those dreams was possible.

By the time she was in college, Susan had twice attempted suicide; in law school, she developed severe anxiety and later was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She grew paranoid; she yanked out her fingernails and toenails. Finally, in desperation, she checked herself in to a psychiatric ward.

Phillip was there the whole time. They'd met as middle schoolers in Jacksonville, Fla.; Susan thought he was cute and sent a buddy over to Phillip's lunch table to ask him out.

It was a stormy relationship, with more time "off" than "on," Phillip remembers, until the night - Susan had left high school early to attend college at Florida State University - when he impulsively drove five hours to knock on her dorm room door at midnight.

"We haven't been apart since," Susan says.

Phillip proposed in early 2001, using the magnetic poetry kit on their refrigerator to spell out, "Will you marry me?" When he pointed out the message, Susan dropped her water bottle on the floor and screamed. Then they exchanged rings - a diamond solitaire for her, a simple stainless steel band with a rubber gasket in the middle for him.

Susan's struggles with mental illness were no secret. In a manic moment, she impulsively bought a Mini Cooper because she happened to pass the dealership. Other times, she sank into depression. "We had known each other for so long," Phillip says. "It was just part of her."

Eventually, Susan found a psychiatrist who prescribed a "cocktail" of medication. "It evened me out; it got rid of the highs and lows, but it kind of made me a zombie," she recalls. There was one more caveat: The drugs would harm a developing fetus, so pregnancy was out of the question.

Phillip made peace with the idea of a childless life. He loved their house in St. Petersburg, within walking distance of First Friday activities; he liked their freedom and disposable income. "But I was still holding on, thinking: I want to have kids," Susan says.

In 2008, the couple relocated to Philadelphia so Phillip could enter a doctoral program in architecture at the University of Pennsylvania. Susan - jobless and off her meds because her insurance coverage had run out - slumped once again. "I was sitting in a dark apartment by myself. It was winter. I plummeted deep into depression."

After several panicked phone calls, she found a psychiatrist who recommended a different mix of medications at a much lower dose. "I want to have kids," Susan told him during her first visit. "You can," he responded. She burst into tears.

They didn't start trying right away. First, she had to persuade Phillip to reembrace the prospect of parenthood. Then she had to find a job, recover from a concussion she'd suffered after a fall, and mourn the passing of their 14-year-old dog, Riley, who had comforted her during so many despondent moments.

"I just concentrated on the fact that I was in a good place," Susan says. "I had a clear mind. I was not trying to rip off my fingernails and toenails. I was rediscovering myself and finding that I still wanted to be a mother."

She learned she was pregnant the day Hurricane Sandy hit; with her office and the university closed, the two hunkered down in the apartment, giddy over the news. After a pregnancy marked by a metronome of morning sickness - Susan vomited each morning and every afternoon - a painful ovarian cyst, and daily ice packs for her swollen feet, Emmeline arrived, by caesarean section, on the fifth of July.

Phillip cut the cord, surprised by its springiness, and brought the baby over to nuzzle Susan's cheek. Postpartum complications - a cervical spinal fluid leak that caused massive migraines - made breast-feeding impossible, so Susan became a "pumping machine," expressing 64 ounces of breast milk daily; they had to buy a second freezer to store it all.

Emme was a sanguine, easy child who slept through the night at eight weeks and once gave a nurse a high-five after receiving four immunizations in one day. And Susan knew she wanted another - preferably close in age.

Not long after Emme's first birthday, Susan got her wish. This time, her morning sickness was more frequent and less predictable; Emme would pat her mother's back and then copy her, pretending to gag over the toilet.

But after her first pregnancy - treated as high-risk because she was 35, overweight, and had bipolar illness - this one was more routine. "My doctors said, 'You're still old, you're still fat, and you're still crazy, but you did fine the first time, and you're going to do fine this time.' "

She did: Millicent was born vaginally after three hours of pushing; she inched up Susan's chest and immediately began to nurse. "The minute she latched on, both Phillip and I cried," Susan says.

Now Susan is back at the office full-time as a lawyer for the city, and Phillip has surprised himself by becoming a work-from-home dad. Parenting two girls has made him a more emphatic feminist, proud of his daughters' pluck: Millie reaching decisively for a sought-after toy or Emme clambering up a playground structure.

Susan thinks about the sliding-door moments of her life, times when the spiral of mental health could have twisted the other way. "When I first got pregnant, I questioned whether or not I would be a good mother," she says. "Everyone does that. But I have this background of mental illness: Was I strong enough to make it through all the difficulties?

"It's not easy. But we get to do it. And it's something we didn't think we were going to be able to do."

If you've become a parent - for the first, second or fifth time - within the last six months, e-mail us why we should feature your story: parents@phillynews.com.

Giving birth, adopting, or becoming a stepparent or guardian all count. Unfortunately, we can't respond individually to all submissions. If your story is chosen, you will be contacted.