As we settled in at the kitchen table with the Mamaroo humming nearby, I asked her all the normal things like:
"How are you doing?"
"How is baby sleeping at night?"
"Have you had a lot of visitors?"
"Is your husband being helpful?"
Her response to everything was as expected ("I'm fine", "We've had a few rough days", "Not too many visitors but wow, this one family member just wouldn't leave..." "Husband got up with him last night! Yay!"), until she said this:
"Everyone keeps checking on me, making sure I'm doing okay. It's like they think I'm going to go crazy. I know that the post-partum depression thing is so common now. But I'm doing fine. I'm just perfectly okay."
And she really is, at least by my outsider's point of view. She looks happy, and has acknowledged the difficulties of (new) parenthood, but most importantly, she has not been overtaken by them. She was content in the sleeplessness and the coos and the hour it takes to leave the house to go anywhere and the endless dirty diapers. The cuddles and gassy smiles and new baby scent and pure love made it all worth it to her.
As I walked back to my car after lunch, happy mom and baby standing on the front porch behind me, a moment of guilt hit me. Horrible, terrible, raw, painful guilt.
I never felt that way after my son was born.
There, I said it. It's out in the open (and the internet is a wide open, scary place filled with judgment and mean people). After my little boy was born, I was immediately overtaken with fear and helplessness and anxiety. Sheer panic set in when he was a week old and my husband went back to work. I was 100% in charge of this little human who would simply not stop crying, and I was the only one there to fix his problems. My little boy, whom I love dearly and would protect with my life, remains the most difficult child I have ever encountered (and I was a teacher). God bless him, but the kid cried for six months straight. All day long. Half the time, he whimpered through his naps. He was not a content baby, and if his eyes were open, he was upset. Over-stimulated is what the doctor called it, and later rendered his diagnosis to 'high-maintenance' (whatever that is). Whatever those things meant still meant I was alone and scared and had no idea what I was doing. I was exhausted, and begged for help that nobody could give or knew how to give, and through that six week journey, I cried as much as he did. I would lock myself in the bathroom the moment my husband came home from work so I could stand in the shower and sob hysterically, wondering what lesson God was trying to teach me by giving me a baby that seemingly hated me. My house felt like a jail cell and no one I knew had the key to freedom. Looking back on these sentiments, I realize how utterly ridiculous I sounded as I know my son loved me and needed me, but I was paralyzed with fear. The day my six week maternity leave was over was the happiest I had been in six weeks.
I went through the first year of my son's life in a haze, the fleeting happy moments I would allow myself to feel clouded with anxiety of what the night would bring (would he ever sleep? would I ever feel normal again? why am I not enough for him?) or what event outside of the home we couldn't attend because I was afraid that his incessant crying would upset other patrons more than it did me. I took cute pictures with him when he was sleeping or in the few moments after he was fed as that was the only time he was even remotely content in an attempt to convince myself that I was a good mom, and I was enough for my son. Looking back at those pictures, I realize I only took those pictures for two reasons: (1) to convince other people that I was a good mom, and (2) so my son would have pictures to look back on his childhood where his mom didn't have mascara stained cheeks and puffy eyes.
My family said I was just emotional, and my husband, bless his heart, stepped up to the plate a hundred million times more than any other dad would have in his position to fill a role I could not muster myself. He didn't understand my stupid hormones, or why I was sobbing hysterically in the bathroom for the fifth night that week. He only knew that I needed a break, and was always eager to give me one. My friends were probably terrified of me. I don't blame them. I terrified myself. When my doctor asked me how I was doing, I proudly stated that I loved motherhood and that my son was the best thing to ever happen to me. (He is, by the way, but at that moment, I felt like I was lying through my teeth.)
Looking back on this time, I realize that I suffered from undiagnosed post-partum depression so badly that I thought I would never see the sunshine again, even though it shone down upon me daily. I lived in a dark cloud where a thunderstorm was constantly brewing in my head and the pressure I felt to be a Pinterest mom (you know, the babywearing, breast-milk factory that had organic homemade baby food and the perfect developmental activities for each milestone) made my head want to explode. I didn't even feel like myself; how could I be a good mom, too? Every single day was a struggle for me, and I felt an amount of shame that no new mom (or person, for that matter) ever should. I was so embarrassed to be around my family and friends out of fear that they would see right through my shiny facade to see the helpless, anxiety-ridden mess I was on the inside.
I wish I had known I was not alone. I wish I had known that I was not crazy. I wish I had received the help I so desperately needed so I would be able to look back on my son's first year of life and reflect on his childhood with sappy nostalgia. Seeing my sweet friend today in all of her new Mom glory made me realize that.
Fast forward almost two and a half years later, and I have found bits and pieces of my old self and have reinvented myself as a different person. I'd like to say new and improved, but we'll let Bennett be the judge of that in about 16 years. Maybe I've screwed him up for life, but I'd like to believe that I have redeemed myself. Every now and then, I find that pesky depression rising up, calling out, reminding me that I am failing, but I know now that I can swallow it back down and forge on through the tantrums and messes and sleepless nights. The depression is a constant reminder of all the things I was not able to be for my son when he was an infant, but it also serves as a reminder of all the things I can be now that I feel semi-whole again.
My son is my sunshine, my moon, my stars. He makes me laugh every single day, and there is no sound in the world greater than his giggles. I pray that my dear friend only ever knows those feelings of joy and love, and never those of resentment, fear and loneliness. Parenthood is so, so hard, and sometimes it is alienating and scary, but it is also so rewarding, and if I could have learned to let the little things fill me up with love, I probably would have lived through those first twelve months rather than just survived them. My only hope is that my son knows how deeply my love runs through my veins.
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