What's the Rush? My Fears on Baby #2

My daughter Sabrina, at 16 months, is so stinking much fun right now.  I am loving this age. Yes, she has terrible two tendencies already, stamping her feet and shaking her head no to assert her opinions, but she is growing and changing with every second that passes by. Every day is a new adventure and I love sitting back and letting her grow into whoever it is that she is going to turn into as she grows older and more independent.  

Her independence is as endearing as it is frustrating.  Though I get irritated when she arches her back and grunts her displeasure with different situations, I also remember that this is the daughter I wanted.  One who thinks for herself, one who isn't afraid to speak (grunt, shriek, scream, etc) her mind.  One who would rather do something for herself than have it done for her.  And while some things that she'd like to do just aren't feasible at her age, I am insanely proud of her for wanting to do them.  

My parenting journey hasn't always brought me this much joy, to be honest.  It has been a long, hard battle to this point of comfort and enjoyment.  I was ill prepared for the changes that motherhood brought.  I thought I was mentally (and physically) prepared, but that was far from the truth.  While many women have traumatic birth stories, Sabrina's birth was mostly comfortable, about 1 hour of excruciating hip pain, and a begged for c-section which ended a long 17 hour labor.  That part I'd do over again in a minute.  I had a couple rough days after my c-section, but once I was up and walking around and gaining my strength back, my recovery really was smooth sailing.  Getting my staples out was scary and stressful, but the truth is I didn't feel a thing.  They were out before I even had time to squirm.  Easy peasy, right?  

Sabrina is heading towards that 18 month point at which most couples start discussing planning for baby #2.  Or baby #2, child # 3 in our case, as I have an almost 16 year old stepdaughter, my husband's daughter from his first marriage.  The thought of having another baby crosses my mind each and every day, for one reason or another.  But the truth of the matter is, I don't know if I want to.

I'm sure there is a collective gasp coming from society at large right now.  How dare you not be chomping at the bit to have another baby?  That's what you do in today's society!  You have a baby, then 2-3 years later you have another one.  It's just what you do.  Well, guess what.  I'm not feeling it at this moment in my life.  So why do I feel a huge, overwhelming sense of guilt about that?  Why do I feel like I am less of a mother because I am not charging headfirst into baby #2?

I've blogged before about most of the reasons that I am not rushing to have another baby. This isn't new territory. But what I haven't blogged about is the crushing guilt that goes along with it.  

First off, I was not someone who loved being pregnant.  While my pregnancy was pretty low-key, I slept horribly almost the entire time (you'd think that would have prepared me for the sleep deprivation to follow!), had terrible issues with heartburn, and just generally was uncomfortable.  I had no pregnancy glow about me.  I was simply just a woman who wanted to have a baby, and pregnancy was a means to an end.  People would ask me "Don't you just love being pregnant?!" to which I would snort and reply with some sarcastic comment to signify that NO I did not LOVE being pregnant.  I couldn't wait to NOT be pregnant, as a matter of fact, and I can't say that I have ever really missed that feeling since Sabrina was born.  I am happy to see my feet, to be able to paint my own toenails, and to down caffeine by the gallon if I so desire without feeling guilty or being judged.  

Already mentioned how birth was no big thing for me, and honestly wouldn't be moving forward.  My doctor mentioned a VBAC to me, but if I ever do decide to hop on the mommy train again, it would be on a one way track to the operating room for a scheduled repeat c-section.  Why mess with what already has worked?  I don't know that I would elect for major surgery, but since I already had to with not much of a choice, and I know what to expect, I'll pass on the sitz baths and the fear of using the bathroom in favor of a sore abdomen and temporary lifting restrictions.  Judge me if you like, but I have NO guilt about that part of this conundrum I find myself in.  C section or bust.

But seriously, this is the point in this story where things get dicey.  Pregnancy, eh. Birth, whatever, I'll deal.  The aftermath of birth, life with a newborn, AGAIN?  That's where I have my biggest dilemma.  Newborn phase.  Up every 2-3 hours.  While recovering from a c section.  Only this time, WITH A TODDLER!  Oh my.  It gives me palpitations.  

My Sabrina wasn't and isn't a good sleeper.  Still, at 16 months old, she gets up at least once at night.  A vast improvement from the innumerable sleep issues we've overcome in her life, which my sanity and I are immeasurably grateful for.  But still.  I've had a tough track record with her thus far, generally only getting 2 hours of sleep at a time between feedings in the early months, and with her getting up twice at night until not that long ago.  Forgive me if I'm a little gun shy about going down that path again.  I never again will question why sleep deprivation is used as a torture tactic.  I would have given any military secrets I had, along with my left and my right arm, for a good night's sleep.  With Sabrina, I didn't know what I didn't know.  But now, I KNOW.  I know what I'd be in for.  Yes I survived it once, but at some points barely.  

My biggest and most real fear in having a second baby is opening myself up to the possibility of having postpartum depression. Again.  For the first 3 months of my daughter's life, maybe more, I lived in some sort of drug-like fog.  I felt everything and nothing all at the same time. I felt more like a bystander in my life than a participant.  I had a physical, visceral fear of nighttime.  Because nighttime brought the hardest hours of the day for me, the hours from 12-6 when my saint of a husband went to bed and I was left on my own with a baby that they told me was mine but I had very little attachment to.  This baby that ate and cried (a lot) and slept (a little).  This baby that I knew I loved somewhere deep inside of me but that I more often than not felt annoyed with. What the hell kind of a mother was I?  One that was just going through the motions, I can safely say now on the outside of my fog.  One that knew what she was supposed to do and did it, but not because of some deep seeded motherly instinct.  My husband, my parents, they tried to pull me from my fog, but the truth was I just had to heal, whatever that meant. Time, I think, was the healer.  It healed my body, healed my hormones, and eventually, after a long while, started to heal my mind.  But there were days that were so dark, so unhappy, so scary, that I wasn't sure how I was going to make it.  

There's no guarantee it would happen to me again.  But there's also no guarantee that it wouldn't.  Only this time, it wouldn't affect just me and the new baby, but also my Sabrina. My Sabrina that has already been negatively impacted by her mother's battle with postpartum depression once in her short life.  Could I really do that do her again? 

I keep telling myself that everyone seems to have a second baby.  It can't be that hard, can it?  Every day I see stories in my Facebook feed about friends of mine with one baby adding to their family with baby # 2 on the way.  I am honestly overjoyed for them.  I know that having a sibling adds something to a child's life.  Teaches them to share, teaches them that sometimes others come first, gives them their first friend. But right now, I am not in a place where I am ready to make that decision for our family.  

There are many practical implications to the decision to have a second baby.  We technically do have a fourth bedroom that we could turn into a nursery, but it has significant drawbacks. It is a tiny little room that has no heating or cooling vent in it.  In the winter, it wouldn't be hard to run a little space heater in there; in fact, we still use a space heater in Sabrina's room and it works just fine.  But cooling the room is a more difficult feat.  It has one mini-window that cannot hold a window air conditioner.   So in the heat of the summer, I honestly do not know how that room would be temperature controlled.  Another downside is that room happens to share a wall with my teenage stepdaughter's room.  Our house is old, has little insulation, and certainly isn't sound dampening.  A teenager and a newborn aren't really meant to share close quarters like that, as teenagers are up til all hours in their rooms and newborns are doing the same...  in far different ways.  I just don't see that dynamic playing out well.  Finally, turning that room into a nursery takes away our guest room, which is used when my parents come to visit but mostly is used as my dog's room.  Yes, Baby has her own room and sleeps on the bed in there every night.  Previously she slept in the bed in Sabrina's room.  She obviously made the move to the guest bedroom when that room turned into a nursery.  If our guest room were a nursery, she'd be out of luck, and so would I, as my dog does not do well with change.  She'd be forced to sleep downstairs, which I don't really see going over too well.

We often go to Pittsburgh to spend time with my parents there, visit extended family, and watch our beloved Steelers and Pirates play.  Traveling 6 hours in a vehicle with one child is painful enough, but throw in a newborn and a toddler?  Those palpitations I mentioned earlier are back.  I do everything but stand on my head to amuse Sabrina on those never-ending rides, but throw in a baby to boot?  Mama might opt to stay home instead.  

I know there are always difficulties in life if you look for them.  And yes, I admit that I am not a glass half full kind of girl most of the time.  But the decision to have another baby is one that is life-changing, and I am not willing to make that decision based on societal pressure, real or imagined, or just because "it's what you do".  I may never be fully ready, but the fear and the guilt that I feel is enough to know that I have to trust my "gut" (as Leroy Jethro Gibbs would say) and just wait.  And if, in the end, our family doesn't add Baby #2, I hope that people won't judge me or think less of me.  It isn't a decision that I am taking lightly, that's for sure.

The Best Worst Year of My Life

Dear Sabrina,


Today, my love, you turn one.  Where the last 365 days have gone is a mystery to me.  The seconds started flying by the minute you were born.  From the minute I heard you cry, strapped to the surgical table in the OR, you had my heart.  There have been some bumps along our journey together, but never once did they make me doubt my love for you.  

Someday, you will hopefully become a mommy yourself.  And I will long since have forgotten the struggles and the hardships of those first 365 days of motherhood, so I am writing this to you so that you will not feel alone.  I will be there for you in every way I can, but time heals all wounds, and I will have moved on from these memories to those of you growing up, blossoming into a young woman and beyond.  But I need for you to know, to understand, to have a record of what I felt like being your mommy, and what you will likely feel being a mommy yourself.

You will feel the highest highs and the lowest lows in those first 365 days.  The most joyful moment I think I've ever felt was hearing your cry for the first time.  You were real, you were here, you were all ours.  Those first days, I felt like I was in a dream.  You were perfect.  But then the crash happened.  We went home.  You cried.  A lot.  You hurt me breastfeeding... badly.  And things started to unravel.  I cried, every single day, sometimes for hours at a time.  I felt like a failure, like you deserved a better mother.  Those were some of the hardest, darkest days of my life.  I hope, my love, that you never feel anything even close to what I felt.  But in the event that you do, know that mommy went through it with you, and while it was harder than I ever imagined, I made it, and so will you.

Being a mom is hard at any and every point in a child's life, but that first year is especially difficult.  You used to cry and cry, especially in the evening, and there was no way for daddy and I to know what you wanted.  We would take turns holding you, walking you around the house, praying that the hardwood floors wouldn't creak too much.  Praying that the dog wouldn't suddenly see a cat and bark her head off.  Praying that you would find some way to comfort yourself since we rarely seemed to be able to comfort you.  Some nights daddy and I would have to wake each other up for help because you just wouldn't settle down.  We prayed for some relief, for some kind of magic to calm you down.  Patience and time was all that seemed to work.  Sometimes you will be at your wit's end with your own little one, having no idea what to do.  In those moments, remember that mommy went through it too, and that sometimes taking a deep breath and having a good cry can help release tension.  Singing helps too.  

Remember to have fun in those first 365 days, especially those early ones.  I will always feel like I wished our early days together away, because I felt so utterly depressed, so tired, so alone in so many ways.  I look back on that with such regret in my heart.  You were and are such a gift to me, my sweet baby girl, and I wish I had enjoyed you more in your first days of life.  You spent 9 months growing inside of me, yet when you were born you were a stranger in so many ways.  If your little one's first days are difficult, don't beat yourself up sweetheart.  You didn't come with instructions either.  

Finally, my love, don't be too hard on yourself.  Being a first time mom is a HUGE adjustment, one that cannot be overestimated.  Change is hard, even good change.  Be kind to yourself and allow yourself time to adjust to being a mommy.  Someone else depends on you for EVERYTHING now.  It is a huge, scary, awesome responsibility.  Cut yourself some slack, ask for help, remember to do things for yourself too.  YOU matter too.

Sabrina, the joy that you have brought to our lives this past year is immeasurable.  Your smile, your giggle, your babbling, the way you walk through the room like a bull in a china shop...  You have a way of making everyone around you happy.  You have made me a better person.  You have challenged me to have patience, to let go of my perfectionist ways, and to just go with the flow and enjoy life as it comes.  My world, our world, is so much better because you are in it.  I will spend every moment of the rest of my life trying to give you everything, trying to teach you everything I can, trying to make you as happy as you've made me.  Never ever will you know how much I love you, until the day when you have your own little one.  Maybe then you can understand the deep, overpowering, dizzying love that I feel for you with every breath I take.  

To quote our favorite song, one that I've sung to you probably a hundred times in your short life, "I love you in the morning, and in the afternoon, I love you in the evening, underneath the moon..."

All my love, ALWAYS,
Mommy

Why I'm In No Hurry for Baby #2

My daughter is nearly 1 year old now.  She is the light of my life and I could never fully explain the joy that she brings me.  I am happily planning her first birthday party, enjoying this new phase of her being more independent, more toddler like.

But guess what?  I'm exhausted.  Not like "lack of sleep" exhausted (things have been getting better in that regard), but rather exhausted from the busyness of life with a 1 year old.  In addition to my mommy responsibilities, I work full time, which mostly entails me running from one meeting to another, sometimes in a different building altogether, answering endless emails, and just generally running around like a chicken with my head cut off.  

So when people ask me "So when are you guys having another one?" I do my best not to either laugh hysterically or smack them in the back of the head (a la Leroy Jethro Gibbs on NCIS).  Do not get me wrong, I want to have another child.  My husband would do it tomorrow if I were on board.  But quite honestly,  I'm just not there yet.

There are many reasons why I'm in no hurry for Baby # 2.  Baby # 2 for me is child # 3 for our family, since Chris has a 15 year old daughter from his first marriage.  As I've written about before, life with a teenager and a toddler has its challenges.  Chris's daughter is with us full time now, so that means we are responsible for most of the transportation that goes along with having an involved, intelligent, responsible teenage daughter.  Swim practice every day, religious education every Sunday, outings with friends, high school football games, swim meets... The list goes on and on.  Factor into this equation having a toddler, one who gets cranky in the late afternoon and goes to bed by 6:30 every night like clockwork.  Bedtime every night is a three ring circus of my husband and myself giving her a bath, drying her, brushing and combing her hair, putting her PJ's on, and finally putting her in her sleep sack, all the while trying to keep her shrieking to a minimum (bath time is okay, everything else is torture) and praying that she will lay on the changing table long enough to get her diaper on before she starts flipping over, grabbing for us to hold her, etc.  By the time she goes into her crib at 6:30, we are exhausted!

Selfishly on my part, I also want more time with just my Sabrina.  I want to shower her with love and attention and let her continue to be the center of my world.  She is getting to such a fun age, one where we can really start doing things with her more, taking her places and allowing her to begin to explore the world beyond her house and her Nana's.  We plan to take her to Disney World next October, when she will be almost 2, which I am absolutely ecstatic about and cannot wait for.  I want to give her that time, with just us and her grandparents, to feel like she is the center of it all.. because she is!

Recently Buckingham Palace announced that Duchess Kate is expecting again.  Kate and I were pregnant at the same time for our first pregnancies; Prince Georgie was born in July, Sabrina in November.  It was really neat to watch her pregnancy unfold in the press, all the while my own pregnancy was unfolding.  But when I heard that she was pregnant again, my knee jerk reaction was "What was she thinking?!"  Then I remembered that she is a Duchess, has a staff likely at her disposal, although I do think she is a very involved mother to her son.. and then I realized why she would want to do it all again so soon.

Kate, you and I differ on this one.  I am so eternally grateful to have my daughter, to be a mother, and I can't imagine my life without her.  But I am not yet ready to do it all again. I did not love being pregnant the first time, and I anticipate that would not change with pregnancy number 2.  And I didn't even have morning sickness!  But the constant exhaustion, the GI issues, the shortness of breath, the muscle weakness...  While some people glow and love every minute of it, for me it was a means to an end.  (A wonderful, lively, smart, strong-willed end that I love with all my heart.)

But more than any of that, I am terrified of having postpartum depression again.  I haven't yet researched statistics on the re-occurrence of postpartum depression with baby # 2 when the mother had it with baby # 1.  I don't want to know, quite honestly.  I am so scared that I will bring another life into this world, and spend the first months of his or her life falling down the rabbit hole of depression yet again.  Because this time, I wouldn't only be affecting one child, but two.  It was hard enough to get through the first time, but I can't even imagine how hard it would be with two children to care for instead of one.

One thing I know for sure, that I'm sure people will judge me for, is that I will not even attempt breastfeeding with baby # 2, whenever the time comes.  I can't do it again.  I can't face the pain, the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the waiting...  I can't face hooking myself up to a breast pump, I can't face taking on the sole responsibility of providing food for my child.  I just can't do it.  I don't think breastfeeding caused my postpartum depression, but I think it sure as heck didn't help anything.  I was exhausted, beating myself up for my lack of success with breastfeeding, my baby was miserable and hungry... it just was a recipe for disaster.  I can't put myself in a potentially harmful situation again.  While I agree that breastfeeding is absolutely best, for me it's just not worth the risks.

So I'm going to take my time and enjoy life with my darling daughter for awhile longer, before we give her a brother or sister to love.  (And fight with.)  I know that when the time is right, Baby # 2 will come into our world and we won't remember what life was like without them.  I look forward to that day, but for now, I'm happy with life the way it is.

More Than the Baby Blues

I have had the good fortune of working in the health care industry for almost 3 years now. Not as a clinician (lucky for the patients where I work) but as a trainer and now coordinator of the training for the users of our inpatient and outpatient electronic health records. I honestly love what I do. I get to work with some amazing caregivers and learn many things about the medical profession without having to surrpress my gag reflux at the sight of blood, vomit, or worse. I'm not a doctor (or a nurse) but I do play one on TV. 

I found myself on the other side of the computer when my daughter was born. Instead of training users to document on their patients, I was one of their patients. It was a different world, being in the hospital bed, my care up to the same people that I've trained on multiple occasions. It was a very good reality check for me, and it's something that had never left me. 

Today, while in a meeting with a workgroup of users of our outpatient medical record, someone handed me a piece of paper that stopped me dead in my tracks.  The top of the paper read "Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Screening".  Wait, what is this?!  How is it that I, someone who has worked in healthcare and patient documentation for 3 years and who herself has struggled with postpartum depression, did not know that this screening tool existed?  

I did my best to turn my attention back to the meeting, but as I left the room, my mind was reeling. I read the questions, all 10 of them, and I realized that my answers to each in the days after Sabrina was born would have definitely raised a red flag. Why had no one asked me those questions?  

But whose responsibility is it?  The nurses on the maternity floor?  My Obstetrician?  Someone else, perhaps a nurse following up on me via phone?  I couldn't come up with a clear answer. And therein lies the problem. It is up to everyone and no one to screen for postpartum depression. And so many times, as was the case with me, it gets overlooked. 

They talk to us about breastfeeding. They talk about jaundice. They make you sign forms and watch videos from the 1990s about Shaken Baby Syndrome. They bring you into the office to do an exam 6 weeks postnatal. They remove your stitches or in my case, your staples. They tend to your physical needs, but what about our emotional needs?  Who is tending to those?

Timing is a huge issue with screening for postpartum depression. I myself began to feel the effects of postpartum depression the day I went home from the hospital, when Sabrina was 3 days old. Is this the case for everyone?  Probably not. In my case, if the nurses on the maternity unit had given me this screening test, I likely would have passed. It hadn't hit me yet. For many women, you leave the hospital when your baby is just a few days old, and you aren't seen again for 6 or 8 weeks. By that point, you are already deep in the bowels of postpartum depression if you are symptomatic. I won't go as far as to say that it's too late, but early intervention and education is obviously a better course of treatment.

I was lucky enough to have a husband and family who intervened and forced me to see my OB about my depression issues. Let me start by saying that my OB is a fantastic doctor. The best. I had the absolute best care during my pregnancy and my c-section was quick and easy to recover from. But that day, in his office, all he could offer me was to either medicate or wait it out. In my current, stable frame of mind, I understand why he said that. Clinically those are your options. There's no magic pill that will "cure" you. But that day, in the middle of one of the darkest periods of my life, I felt hopeless. Was there nothing else that he, or any other doctor or medical care provider, could have offered me?  Resources for educating yourself on postpartum depression,  the number to call for a local therapist, even an alternative therapy such as a supplement or herb?  Nothing more than medicate or wait?

For me, that's not good enough. There is too much information available in today's connected world.  We have tablets and iPhones and watches that do far more than tell time. Yet all we can offer to new mothers in peril is medicine?  Nope, sorry. Give them names of books, reputable websites, support groups, moms groups, anything. Give them tools to handle their feelings so that there are no more Paula Yates's. Give them something, anything, because what you are really offering them is hope. Hope that this horrible dark cloud will pass over them soon. To hang in there, just a little longer. That this feeling isn't forever. 

It is time to expect more, to educate, to spread awareness. It is time to not be ashamed.  

Edinburgh Depression Screening- http://womensmentalhealth.org/quiz-are-you-suffering-from-postpartum-depression/ 

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Robin Williams: Gone Too Soon

I am literally heartbroken over Robin Williams' death. And stunned.  It seems so out of the blue. He was one of the funniest men to ever walk this earth.  He had a genuineness about him that made him likable and relatable.  His characters were diverse, showing his depth as an actor and a comedian.

Growing up in the 80's and 90's, he was everywhere.  And to my generation, he was like a father to us.  Movies like Aladdin, Hook, and Mrs. Doubtfire portrayed him in a paternal role, yet always with a spin. In Aladdin, he brought the Genie to life, to look after and grant wishes for his pal Aladdin.   In Hook, he never gave up the love of his son Peter and went between worlds to bring him back.  In Mrs. Doubtfire, that same love drove him to dress up as an elderly woman to remain in his kids' everyday lives after divorce.  He made us laugh, and he made us cry.  We all loved him, no matter what role he played.  He was easy to like, and you laughed on the inside just looking at him, because he was THAT funny.

So the news of his death, a probable suicide, rocked us all to our very core.  How could this have happened?  How could a man, so funny, so loved, have felt so alone that he took his own life?  He had a family who he obviously loved, and who obviously loved him in return.  He had the admiration of his fans.  Apparently he sought help in the recent past, but it would appear to have been too late.  Something inside of him was not settled.  

A few thoughts have stuck out in my mind since this tragedy happened last evening.  The first of which is that depression is real and it is scary.  I know how I felt when I was dealing with postpartum depression, which was thankfully temporary and short term,  and I can honestly say that I was not myself.  I was not thinking and acting and feeling like the real me.  I was going through the motions in life, but I wasn't really living it.  So in that way, I can relate even a little bit to how Robin must have been feeling.  His struggle with depression obviously took him out of his "normal" mind and into a dark and scary place.  Despite all the love that surrounded him, he just couldn't deal with the reality around him.  I know that feeling.  Thankfully my depression never got to the point where I had thoughts of self-harm, but I see how quickly it could escalate to that point.  I am thankful that it didn't for me, and I am heartbroken that it did for him and so many others.

The second thought that keeps crossing my mind is to not judge a book by its cover.  Before yesterday, most people could never have imagined Robin Williams as a man with depression who would end up taking his own life.  He was the consummate funny man, his name synonymous with the sound of laughter.  And yet that is exactly what happened.  As a society and as individuals, we are sometimes too quick to judge others only by what we see in front of us.  In reality, that is only a snapshot of a person and of their life, their situation, their circumstance.   I myself tried to put on a brave face during my postpartum depression.  I didn't want to admit to others how I was feeling.  I was ashamed of it, and felt like less of a mother as a result of it.  Those closest to me saw the truth, but those more removed saw my Facebook posts and smiling pictures, not realizing the misery that I was feeling behind it.  I have to believe that this is what happened with Robin Williams as well.  As an actor, he could put on a brave face that probably could fool just about anyone.  I'm sure those close to him tried to help, as those close to me did.  But the truth is, there's no magic pill, there's no cure.  Something inside of you just has to change for the better.  I guess it didn't for him.

Lastly, I beg of anyone that feels the way that Robin did, or anyone who might be struggling with depression as I did, GET HELP.  Please.  Stop caring what society thinks of you, stop caring about others judging you, stop feeling weak because you have a problem.  You matter.  Take care of yourself, physically, mentally, spiritually, whatever it takes to help you find peace.  Life is too short, and you were put on this Earth for a reason.  So please, do something.  Talk to a counselor, talk to a priest or pastor or rabbi, talk to a friend or a coworker.  Go to church, take a yoga class, start a journal, start a blog, reconnect with old friends or loved ones.  Try something.  And if that something doesn't work, try something else, until you find something that gives you even a little bit of peace.  And finally, don't give up.  Just don't.  Call someone, call 911, call a mental health professional.  But don't give up.  

I want to end with a quote from Mrs. Doubtfire that brought tears to my eyes this morning.  This is how I will always remember Robin Williams.  I hope and pray that he is at peace now, and that the angels are roaring with laughter.

"All my love to you poppet.  You're going to be all right.  Bye bye." <3

Staying Home or Working?

        

This morning, we took a walk up to my neighborhood's daycamp to say hello to one of my childhood friends whose kids were attending the camp. It was like a walk back in time for me. I attended that daycamp as a child and worked it as a counselor as a teenager. It's moments like that that make me so happy to be home. I can almost feel the nostalgia seeping from my pores. 

The number of mothers that were able to be there at noon on a Friday struck me. Some are school teachers, so they are off for the summer. Some have flexible jobs where they work from home, or work part time in the afternoons or evenings. And some are traditional stay at home moms. I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for myself and for Sabrina. I hope one day that she can attend that same daycamp that I did, but I know that I won't be able to be there for her like so many of those mothers were. Working will always be part of my reality, lottery winnings notwithstanding. 

I often find myself internally debating whether or not I would want to be a stay at home mom. I know, that sounds kind of terrible. What kind of mother doesn't want to be with her kids as much as possible?  The truth is, I think that if I were a stay at home mom, exclusively, 100% of the time, that I might lose my identity. That I might just see myself as Sabrina's mom, when I know that I am much more than that. 

While I was home on maternity leave, I spent every second of my day obsessing about Sabrina. About her eating, her pooping, how much she did or didn't sleep...  All while still recovering from my bout with postpartum depression.  While this should have been a happy time, 3 months straight spent with my new baby girl, I felt anything but happy most of the time. Many emotions coursed through my veins. Dread of going back to work, fear that once I wasn't around her all the time that Sabrina would somehow not love me or forget I was her mother, worry about juggling working with having a house, a baby, a stepdaughter, and still finding time for my wonderful husband. I just couldn't make it all fit together in my head. 

But the truth is, it did all fit together. And it still does. It took a few weeks, but we eventually established a routine.  Instead of falling apart, we all thrived in this new routine and continue to do so. Sabrina has blossomed since going to "daycare" at Chris's mom's, her Nana's. She has started napping better (not for us of course), learned to sit up and crawl. She hasn't had many issues with separation anxiety and chatters up a storm. She get socialization with her 2 cousins and is used to being around caretakers other than mommy and daddy. She is a well-rounded, happy baby. 

And yet, despite all of this, I still feel guilt and sadness, knowing I will never get to stay home with her on her summers off from school. I'll never take her to the library everyday for story time, or be the mom that works all the holiday parties at school. She will have to go to before and after school care, or maybe be one of the lucky kids whose grandparents pick her up, like I was growing up. And maybe I'll achieve my dream of working part time someday, but I honestly wouldn't bet on it. In this day and age, and with the commitment Chris and I have made to each other to be financially responsible and not spend beyond our limits, the reality is we will always need to be a 2 income family. 

My hope is that I can show Sabrina that it is okay to be a working, professional woman while still raising a family and having a happy marriage. I hope that she knows that I never chose working over her, that I made the absolute most of the time I had outside of work to be with her.  I hope she can appreciate the situation I find myself in, and that she might find herself in one day. I hope she knows that it's okay to be a stay at home mom, a working mom, or something in between. The most important thing is not if a mom works or stays home, but that she loves and spends time with her children, making a lifetime of happy memories. 

But that doesn't mean I won't still envy those daycamp moms. 

A Glimpse into Postpartum Depression

                                  

I wrote this on December 14, 2013. Sabrina was just under a month old. And I was near rock bottom with my postpartum depression. I tried writing down my feelings to help to deal with them. I hate reading this. It breaks my heart. Postpartum depression is real, and it is scary.  I hope I never feel like this ever again.

Failure

My daughter is 25 days old today. This had been the hardest 25 days I could have ever imagined. If I could sum it all up with one word, it would be failure. From the start I have been a failure as her mother. I went into labor 3 weeks early. Fail. I couldn't even keep her inside me for the right amount of time. I was in labor for 13 hours, pushed for over an hour, and she made no progress at all coming down the birth canal. My epidural fell out and I was in terrible pain in my hips. My doctor gave me a 25% chance of delivering vaginally. So I opted for a c section. Fail. My daughter came into the world in the scary, cold, sterile environment of the OR. Instead of being born the way god intended and being put on her mothers bare chest, she was yanked from me "sunny side up" and shown to me as I laid strapped to a table. As they checked her apgar and everything, I couldn't see her. Instead I was being sewn up. When they went to move me to recovery, I got extremely nauseous and vomited all over myself. Fail. Instead of bonding with my daughter, I laid in a dark room shivering with just a nurse and 2 nursing students. My husband couldn't find me so I just laid there, alone, wondering what my daughter looked like, if she was okay. I didn't get to hold her until almost 2 hours after she was born. Was she wondering where I was?  Did she long for my warmth?  Fail. 

Next came breast feeding. The single worst experience of my life.  So badly I wanted it to happen, to come naturally, but it didn't. I was instructed by nurses whose idea of instruction was to grab my daughters head and force her on my nipple, while I writhed in pain. Over and over I was told I wasn't doing it right, that's why it was hurting. My daughters strong arms fought me every step of the way. I hated every second of it, but kept telling myself it would get better. We came home, and it didn't get better. It got worse. I got worse. My postpartum depression was swallowing me whole. I couldn't get any sleep. This little person kept screaming for food and I as her mother was ill equipped to give it to her. Yet another failure. Finally, I went to seek help. The lactation consultant was much better than those in the hospital. She was aghast at the state of my poor breasts. 2 blood blisters and horribly cracked nipples. I had tears in my eyes from the pain, from the exhaustion, from the bitter disappointment in myself. All the while my daughters skin continued to yellow from jaundice. She wasn't getting what she needed from me and it was getting worse. I fought with myself. Was formula so terrible?  I didn't want to give in. I agreed to pump instead of latching her to give myself time to heal. But at 4 am I wasn't producing the supply I was told she needed. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. So I gave in and gave my daughter formula. I could hear all of the breast feeding moms let out a sigh of disappointment in me, but nothing was worse than the disappointment I felt in myself. I hated everything. I hated being a mother. I hated this new life of mine. What had I done?  The depression was so all encompassing.   I had longed for a child my whole life, yet now I had one and I couldn't bring myself to enjoy her. What was wrong with me?  I didn't recognize myself in the mirror. Everything I thought about motherhood was a lie. 

I continue to fail. Daily. I have stopped pumping and am strictly formula feeding. Because I couldn't handle it. So now my daughter has to have formula. She is constipated from it, wriggling in pain. Because I couldn't handle it. I have failed her time and time again. I have failed my husband. His older daughter was breast fed and is now top of her class, a dancer, piano player, singer, flute player...  I can't help but equate that to her being nursed as a baby. So now I've failed Sabrina and Chris both. 

I try to do my part around the house during the day when the baby is sleeping. I try to keep up with the dishes and make dinner whenever possible. I try to take care of the dog and let her know she's still important. I try to be understanding with my husband, that he has to work all day and still he comes home and helps out with Sabrina. He lets me sleep a few hours before he goes to bed, later than he wants to I'm sure. I try not to be angry when he wakes me up, when I desperately want to sleep more, because it is not his fault. I try to be everything to everyone but I fail over and over again. 

I want to feel whole again. I love my daughter, but I want to be the person I used to be, just with her in my life now. I don't know if that person is gone or not. I hope not. But I don't want to be a failure anymore. I want to do something right, be the right person for everyone's needs. I want to be me. 

Down Came the Rain: My Struggle with Postpartum Depression

My struggle with postpartum depression was one of the hardest, most unexpected obstacles that I've ever faced.  I never really expected to be "one of those" moms.  I'd never really had issues with depression previously.  I was a bit of a worrier, but that's something that I've inherited from my dad, who makes worrying a hobby and a career both.  I had read a story about a young woman from my hometown of Pittsburgh, about my age, who had many issues with postpartum depression and ultimately ended up committing suicide, leaving behind her husband and newborn daughter.  I remember being really affected by that story.  It scared me.  I couldn't really imagine how she must have been feeling, to take her own life, but I knew I never wanted to feel that way.

I remember Chris asking me in the hospital a day or two after Sabrina was born if I felt "okay", if I was having any issues with postpartum depression.  And I answered honestly, that I wasn't.  I felt great in the hospital.  I was healing quickly from my c-section, taking advantage of the nursery to keep my strength up and sleep when I could.  

Once I went home, I felt off.  After that first horrible night, with almost no sleep, I felt worse than I've ever felt in my life.  My c-section was a breeze compared to that.  I didn't feel comfortable in my own home, in my own skin.  This was my first clue that something was horribly wrong.  

Life those first few days home was spent going through the motions.  I fed Sabrina when I had to, but I was still breast feeding, and it was horrible.  I was only getting an hour or two of sleep at night between feedings.  I am not a day sleeper, so I couldn't catch up then.  Sabrina was getting more jaundiced, and I felt scared because of that, but still very out of it, almost like I was in this sad fog that I couldn't come out of.  

My parents and Chris all intervened and asked me how they could help, did I want to go talk to someone.  We went to my OB about it, and he said I could either take an antidepressant, which would take months to really stabilize me, or I could wait it out.  I left with a prescription for Prozac.  I filled it to appease those around me but had no intentions of ever taking it.

At the time I was also experiencing a lot of physical symptoms.  Trouble sleeping, even though I was exhausted, night sweats, headaches, dizziness.  I just wasn't myself.  I felt okay during the day, but then nighttime would come, and I would turn into a different person.  I cried, became visibly anxious and upset, just wasn't myself.  

I remembered hearing many years ago that Brooke Shields also had issues with postpartum depression with her first daughter, Rowan.  In the middle of the night, while holding my sleeping baby, I downloaded "Down Came the Rain" onto my iPhone Kindle app.  While reading her words, I felt like I wasn't alone, for the first time since Sabrina was born.  Much of what she wrote I could have written myself.  Feeling detached, hopeless, not feeling connected with your baby.  How awful is that, not being attached to your child from minute 1.  That's what we mothers are programmed for.  And I wasn't.

I remember one of my lowest moments vividly.  Chris was holding Sabrina, and he kissed the top of her head.  I realized it hadn't even occurred to me to kiss my daughter.  My only daughter, who I had longed for and dreamt of my whole life, and I hadn't even kissed her.  I knew then that something was seriously wrong, and I had to fix it.

Ultimately I did take the antidepressants, although Prozac only made my headaches worse.  So they switched me to generic Cymbalta, which I am still taking today.  I feel much better than I did then (obviously), less anxious, not depressed.  Eventually I'll taper off of it, but for now, I'm not messing with what is working.  I did go to one counseling session, when I was going back to work, but I didn't really get a lot out of it.  For some counseling works wonders, but for me I just didn't feel it was the right fit for me.

It's hard to describe how I felt 8 months ago, especially now that I've come through the other side of it.  It is the hardest, scariest thing I've gone through.  I luckily never felt so out of control that I thought of harming Sabrina.  I took excellent care of her, however detached I may have been at the time.  It was myself that I wasn't taking care of.  I felt like the saddest, most anxious zombie, just walking this earth blindly, with no purpose, no emotion, no nothing.  Just walking.

To anyone out there who may be experiencing this, or who knows someone who is, GET HELP.  What worked for me may not work for you, but please do SOMETHING.  Talk to a friend, find a moms group, talk to your mom, start a blog, send an email, contact me.  Don't wait for yourself to feel better.  You might get better magically overnight, but you might not, and you can't let yourself get to a point where you might harm yourself or your little one.  

Finally, don't be ashamed.  No one asks to get postpartum depression, just like no one asks to get regular depression, or cancer, or diabetes.   Everyone reacts to giving birth differently.  Talking to others will help you and it just might help someone else in the long run.  That is why I want to write this blog.  Because I was ashamed at first, and I know now that I am thinking clearly again that there is no shame in this condition that so many get yet so few talk about.  

Believe me, it does get better.