In my last post, and the several before that, I wrote about
the struggles of being a new mom: the birth, the piles and piles of stuff you
need to keep the little screamer alive, the emotional roller coaster that is
new motherhood—the hard part. Well, my baby is 10-months-old now and I’m almost
ready to talk about something else. But before I do, I have one last story to
tell...
Having Jack was difficult. And by that, I mean the physical
act of bringing a baby into the world was difficult. After a 16-hour labor and
three hours of pushing with no pain medication (I think someone gave me an
ibuprofen after he was born) I was exhausted. The first things I thought when
they put him on my chest was, “thank God it’s over” and “is his head always
going to look like that?” Imagine Coneheads x1000. It wasn’t what I expected to
feel or what I wanted to feel. I wanted the flood of emotions that everyone
promised me. I wanted the bonding moment and the one-hour of uninterrupted
skin-to-skin before we allowed visitors. I never thought that I would literally
be too exhausted to lift my arms.
In the days that we spent at the hospital after he was born,
I did ok. Maybe even a little better than ok. With the help of my nurses I
wobbled to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. Jack nursed fairly
easily and my milk came in right on schedule. I’ve been told that I was lucky.
We had visitors during the day and the help of our nurses at night. I held my
perfect baby and watched him breathe and Will and I laughed like crazy people
at all the sounds that came from his little body. I loved him. There has never
been a moment in his life when I've questioned that.
I experienced true anxiety for the first time in my life the
night after we got home from the hospital. It was New Year’s Day and Alabama
was playing Ohio State for the first round of college football playoffs. We
decided it would be nice to get out and take Jack to my parent’s house for
collard greens and black-eyed peas and football. When he started crying during
the middle of the football game, I got up to walk him around the house like I
usually did when he was upset. As I stood in my parent’s bedroom holding a
screaming a baby, looking at the reflection of my new life in their mirror and
my confused pup at my feet, it hit me for the first time. I was deeply homesick
for a life I had left behind and I didn’t feel at all prepared for what was
expected of me; what was needed from me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
I cried for the first time since he was born.
My anxiety attacks continued every night at sunset for the
next two weeks. I remember reading online that a lot of women struggled with
“the baby blues” and it usually got better by day 14. I lived by that number.
Every night at sunset my anxiety would come and every night at sunset I would
count the number of days I had left until day 14. I told myself if I was still
having these feelings then, I would tell someone. Sometimes having visitors
would make me feel better, most of the time, it made it worse. The thought of
Will leaving the house or, even worse, Will actually leaving the house sent me
into complete panic. What if the baby cried? What if I didn't know what was
wrong? What if I couldn't help him? What if he didn't sleep? What if I never
slept again? Exactly 14 days after Jack was born, the anxiety attacks stopped.
I still had feelings of sadness and fear and worry, but I could breathe through
them and they didn't come as often.
For the next several months, I lived my life on our living
room sofa. I referred to it as our "headquarters" in conversation—conversation
that didn't happen often. Having a baby, especially when your friends don't
have babies, can be extremely isolating. No matter how much I tried to assure
everyone that I was capable of having conversations that didn't revolve around
feeding schedules and sleeping habits (I actually desperately needed to have
those conversations) it seemed that there was a wall between us that didn't
exist before. Some of my friends found a way to work through that with me, a
lot of them didn't.
It took about six months from the time Jack was born for me
to have moments when I felt like myself again. Moments when the thought of
being a child's mother for the rest of my life didn't seem totally terrifying.
Moments when he slept and I slept and Will slept and we all woke up cuddled
together laughing at each other's silliness. There were definitely moments of
clarity but, more often than not, I struggled with everything that was required
of me to be a mother.
I remember perfectly the day it all changed. It was a sunny
Sunday morning in late September. Will and I had decided we would skip church
that day and enjoy the cooler weather and the noticeable change in seasons. I
spent the early morning watching health food documentaries and making grocery
lists while Jack napped and Will mowed the grass. Later that day, as I walked
to my car with a grocery bag full of fresh veggies for soup, I felt my life
shift back to equilibrium. I don't know how else to explain it or why it
happened in that moment. Maybe somebody prayed me over the edge (I don't know
if it works like that) or maybe it was just my season to love life again, but
something changed that day. For the first time since Jack was born, I had an
overwhelming peace about being his mother. I could still have dinner with my
friends and stay up a little too late talking about life. I could still read
books (short books) and watch food documentaries and even go to the grocery
store by myself every once in a while. There was still room for me in my
life. A forever changed, humbled and a
bit more tired version of me—but me.
I have written all of this as honestly as I know how and as
true as it exists in my heart. There are holes and unfinished thoughts and
flawed reasoning, but that is the life that I have lived. What I want you to
know is that, today, I can say without a second’s hesitation that my son is the
best thing that has ever happened to me. Being his mother is my greatest
accomplishment, my biggest fear and the most humbling of journeys. If someone
had told me six months ago that I would be excited for the weekends that Will
worked because it meant I got to have my little man all to myself, I would've
laughed (or probably cried) in their face and then prayed to the Lord that they
were an actual prophet who knew something I didn’t. There is no sweeter sound
in the world than my baby’s voice when he says “mama.” There is no place I’d
rather be in the morning than standing over his crib as he looks up at me, reaches his arms out and
smiles. I have written all of this for any of you that have ever experienced
some of these same feelings. Because they're valid and because you're not alone
and because it really is going to be ok. I have written this as a promise to
you that it gets better. So, so much better than you could ever imagine.
For more info on postpartum depression or to find
local resources, visit www.postpartum.net
P.S. My next post is going to be about hair or home décor or food or something.
