Motherhood Isn't About Me, But...

So often during the day I write these beautiful posts in my head, with perfectly curated words and gorgeous turns of phrase (ha! Or so I think) but by the time I shuffle J into my husband’s arms and sit down in front of the computer, all my words have floated away. On a good day, I find stilted words instead.

In the months before I gave birth, I tried to prepare myself for motherhood. I told myself that it wouldn’t be about me anymore—that motherhood would be all about whatever my baby needed. I failed miserably in my preparation, of course. I’m still a selfish, normal human. But what I didn’t get until I held my babe in my arms—what I still don’t fully understand—is that while motherhood may not be about me, being baby J’s mama very much is. And that part is harder for this introverted gal than I ever would have expected.

It’s about me when he’s over tired and only my breast will do. It’s about me when he’s been away from me in his dad’s arms for a few hours and his whole face lights up when he sees me. It’s about me when there’s a stranger in the room and he’s not sure if he should be afraid. And it’s about me when he’s learning some new skill and he needs to know I think he’s really awesome.

I’m pretty sure that we all want to be loved. I love that he loves me—that I am so important to him. But I never thought it would be so exhausting, so draining. I never thought that being needed—that his need for me to simply be me—would demand so much growth in selflessness.

It’s this weird paradox, motherhood. It’s about me, but it’s all about him. It’s about him, but it’s all about me. I feel so little, but to him I’m the world. I beg for a break, but I’m incomplete when we’re apart. He brings out my worst and inspires my best. I want nothing more than to be his mom, yet sometimes I want to run away forever and be anything but.

The other day, I found myself intent on finishing the suck pads for our new Tula, ignoring him while he whined for a diaper change. It was all for him, but of course it was really all about me. Likewise when I tidy the nursery while he smiles hopefully at my turned back, or fold the baby laundry while ignoring him in my wrap. It’s so easy to martyr myself for myself, and so much harder to be present for him. But those grins, that unreserved love... I get a glimpse of heaven sometimes.

Sometimes as J’s mom, my heart breaks when I hand him toys  and things, and all he wants is his mama, and all his mama wants is to retreat into her books (so often books on parenting, no less!) and her toys (sewing and knitting and video games, oh my!) and her crappy reality TV (I’m rooting for Gabby on SYTYCD, and Derek on MasterChef, and the wrestlers on The Amazing Race Canada, and I don’t much like Vanessa but I think she should win BB17, and when does the next season of Survivor start, anyway?!). My heart breaks that J still manages to prefer people over objects, yet the person he wants most just wants to sink into oblivion.

But sometimes as J’s mom, I want to love myself a little harder and a little better, because he is a pretty neat kid and he loves me, and he wants me, and he thinks I am just fantastic, and I don’t ever want to make him think he’s wrong about that (and given that he’s a pretty neat kid, he just might be right). I want to love myself a little harder and a little better so I can give him the world, but also because he helps me to see myself a little more clearly—both what I am, and what I could be. And I want to treat myself a little more gently because being J’s mom is hard. Being anyone’s mom is hard. And I love him, and more often than not I do my very best for him, and maybe on days when I don’t (can’t?) do my very best it’s because I haven’t loved myself well enough anyway.

Can anyone relate?

I Knew You

What a few crazy weeks months it has been. A flare-up of already-under-medicated postpartum depression that has left me little more than comatose most days, the death of my grandfather, serious relationship problems with a family member, a teething baby, visiting in-laws, a diaper rash turned yeast infection... when it rains, it pours. I simply haven’t had the energy or inclination to write. But I’m trying to force myself back into some semblance of normality in hopes of tricking myself into a better frame of mind, so here I am. I was going to wrap up the story of how my husband and I met, but then the latest Planned Parenthood debacle happened, and I felt pulled in a different direction.

Before Baby J was born, I hadn’t had much experience with babies. I was the younger of two children. Most of my cousins were older than me; if younger, it wasn’t by much. My friends didn’t have baby siblings. I’d never even held a baby, and my interactions with them didn’t stretch much beyond making faces at the children of overwhelmed parents when they (the children, not the parents!) were fussy during Mass. So I read. And I prayed. And mostly I just wondered what in the world I would do when this little creature was on the outside of my belly and I knew nothing.

And then one cold day in January, after 28 hours of labour and another 30 minutes of pushing, the little creature whom I’d carried for 41 weeks and 5 days (but who’s counting?) was laid upon my chest. We stared at each other. Stared some more. Eyes locked. And my first thought was... you look like an alien (I think it was the giant eyes).

It didn’t take long for me to realise I knew more than I’d thought—not about changing diapers, which was easy enough to learn, but about this new little person (who wasn’t so new to me after all).

As he slowly s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d his way out of the swaddle time and time again, I recalled how he used to try to s-t-r-e-t-c-h his way into more space in my womb. When he cried uncontrollably and wouldn’t sleep one night soon after we were home from the hospital, I finally realised that his clothes were too short for him, and he just couldn’t tolerate it. From day one until today, he has almost always slept fully stretched out, arms above his head. And it came as no surprise, because I knew him before he was born.

I never had to (was never able to?) do kick counts, because whenever I would sit still a moment, he would enter into a flurry of uncountable movements. When I was in motion, however, he was generally still. He loved being worn (despite his general distaste for confinement) from the moment he was born—but he typically kicks up a fuss if I stop moving. And now that he’s getting a bit older, he adores being in his Jumperoo. He has loved motion since he was a bitty bean.

Aside from his propensity to bounce on my bladder at approximately all times, he was a pretty laid-back baby while still in utero. He dealt with a prolonged labour like a champ. I could drink caffeine without him losing his mind! He didn’t give me any major health scares. And he remains an easygoing infant, or at least as easygoing as an infant can be. He doesn’t cry all that often, and when he does, there’s almost always a discernible reason. He’s a great sleeper. He grins readily and enthusiastically. He goes with the flow. He always has!

The same baby who gave me horrible back labour thanks to his sunny-side-up presentation prefers being on his back to being on his belly. Tummy time has never been popular in this house!

And then there’s his heart. I heard it beating when he was still in my womb—that reassuring thump-thump-thump that told me there was a baby in there even before my belly had its discernible bump. That remarkably consistent thump-thump-thump that said “mama, I’m doing just fine!” I rest my hand against his chest, and that same little heart is still beating away. A miracle.

My baby had a personality long before he was born. He had a personality because he had personhood. He was a person. Is a person. Has a soul that will endure in perpetuity. And I am so blessed to know him.

Postpartum Depression Is...

Long time, no post. A pain flare and a postpartum depression flare have been kicking my butt... which prompted me to post the following. Postpartum depression is going to look a little different for every woman. This was (is) my experience.

Postpartum depression is…

Fatfatfatfatfat. Oh no. I thought I kicked the eating disorder a few years ago. I have to keep eating. I have to feed the baby.

Crying. Crying again. Me, not the baby. Why am I crying again? I'm fine.

Fatfatfatfatfat.

Lie awake until three in the morning while babe sleeps peacefully. Not even Nyquil does the trick. Give up. Get up. Clean the house because the house is disgusting I can't stand this the house is disgusting oh God the house is disgusting why did I never clean the baseboards? Clean the baseboards. Pass out at nine the next morning, courtesy of a melatonin-Gravol-exhaustion combination. Wash, rinse, repeat a few days later.

Crying. Crying again. The baby, this time. Me staring blankly while I hold him in my arms. I love the baby. Why is he crying? Oh God, make him stop crying. Please make him stop crying. Husband takes baby and changes diaper. Baby stops crying. Why couldn't I do that?

I want to run away and never come back. Except… I love the baby. How do I run away from everything yet take the baby with me? I'm not allowed to run away, anyway. And where would I go?

I'm lying on the bed wailing. It's been hours, I think. An hour at least. I don't know how long. I can't talk. I have no words. Words take energy. I have no words. My husband lying next to me, only holding back tears because his crying would make mine worse. Could mine be worse? He falls asleep—exhaustion. I make it three steps towards the door before I collapse on the floor and wail some more. Snot on the floor because I have no energy to lift a tissue. I hope that comes out of the carpet. Disgusting.

Wake the baby to change his diaper, because he needed to be changed an hour ago. Failure. No words, still.

Go away, God. God, where are you? Why won't you fix it? Go away, God.

"You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I made this for you."

"I can't."

Fatfatfatfatfat. More tears. Mine. His.

The baby is crying again. Please God, make him stop. I love the baby. I love the baby, so why can't I just get up and change his diaper? Husband takes the baby and changes his diaper. I love the baby… right?

At the doctor. "My mood is down, but I want to wait it out a little longer." I don't want to wait it out. Why did I just say that? I don't want to wait it out.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." I'm sure I don't want to wait it out. Why did I just say that? I'm sure I'm an idiot.

Seething rage. My husband is making dinner. Why isn't he watching the baby? He offered to watch the baby so I could make dinner. Why can't we just skip dinner? Why isn't he watching the baby? How dare he not watch the baby and give me a break?

Through tears, to my husband. "I'm fine." I'm not fine."You don't seem fine."

"I'm fine! Leave me alone!" I'm not fine. Why do I keep saying I'm fine? Why can’t I just say I'm not fine? I'm not fine!

"You don't seem fine."

"I would be if I didn't just spend time cleaning disgusting bathrooms! I hate this! I hate everything!" I hate you? I'm almost yelling. I'm not fine.

I'm in tears, and "I'm sorry. That wasn't okay. I'm sorry." I love you. Please forgive me. Oh God, what if he doesn't forgive me? "I'm not fine. I'll go back to the doctor. I'll get a referral to the psychiatrist. I'll go to the psychologist. I'm sorry." Finally, I said it. Why was that so hard? He forgives me in the time it takes me to apologise.

On the floor again. The kitchen, this time. The bowl of soup still untouched at my place. I'm wailing. An animal sound. I don't recognise the sound of my own despair. My husband lying next to me. My son in his swing. I'm wailing. Get up. Go do it. Your child needs you to.

The baby is crying again. I stare at him, blankly. My husband rescues me. Rescues him.

I stand. I walk upstairs. I pick up the box of Gravol. Maybe it's enough. I hope it's enough. I don't have the energy. Do it. Your son is better off without you. You owe him this. My husband catches up to me.

"What are you doing?"
"Leave me alone." Don't leave me alone.

"I can't do that." He's almost in tears. Again. Or maybe he is. Mine blur my vision too much to tell.

"Please. Just for five minutes." Leave me alone. Do it. Please.

"Why? Will you be safe?"

"He's better off without me."

Medication in a locked box. My husband in a sleeping bag in front of the bedroom door.

"He's not better off without you."

Yesheis. Yesheis. Yesheis. I failed him. I always fail him.

"Yes he is. You both are."

Ripping open skin with a pair of nail scissors, because they're the only thing I can find. Husband's razors hidden away.  Must hurry, so he doesn't realise I'm not just peeing. Just one more jagged tear. Why did I ever bother fighting the urge? Long sleeves forever now.

Visit from a friend, arranged by a worried husband. She prays I get my Simon of Cyrene. Maybe I will. Maybe I have. When's the last time I showered, anyway?

Fighting over meals. Again. Failed promised submission. Might as well submit. I can just cut away the lost piece of myself.

I'm home alone for ten minutes because I promised not to kill myself before talking to a priest. I didn't promise not to hurt myself. The baby's not crying, but he will be soon. A mad dash through the house trying to find something better than the nail scissors. No success. The nail scissors will have to do. Another jagged slice.

The psychiatrist has a cancellation tomorrow. Can I make it? I can make it.

"This was a stupid idea. What if she commits me?"

"It'll be okay."

"I can't deal with this." I'm jumping-out-of-my-skin anxious. What if she commits me? I can't deal with this.

In to see the psychiatrist lickety split, comparatively. Two weeks wait time, give or take, plus fifteen minutes of eternity. Back on drugs. At least I wasn't committed.

Home visit from a priest. "Will you hear my confession?" Guess that means cutting is back off the table. I should probably eat, too. Anointing of the sick. I suppose I qualify.

The sun seems a little brighter. The snow is melting.

Keep seeing the psychologist—"Pills aren't skills." Get out for a walk. Get up when I want to curl up.

I think I remember how to smile. Maybe the baby is better off with me.

The baby cries. I love the baby. I love the baby!  I change his diaper.

{SQT} My 3-Month-Old's 7 Favourite Solids

Despite my repeated insistence that he will not start on solid foods until at least 4 months, and probably 6, my 3-month-old keeps trying to eat the world. So for my first Seven Quick Takes, I thought I'd list, in no particular order, my babe's 7 favourite solids:

1. Spit-up-covered receiving blankets. I guess they taste kind of like food? He loves to grab these and stuff them in his mouth when I'm trying to burp him, making my task that much more difficult.

2. His outfits. Also typically covered in spit-up and apparently delicious.

3. My hair (which, let's face it, is probably also coated in spit-up). He grabs a big ol' handful and just stuffs it in his mouth. Well, Spikybean, I lose handfuls every time I even look at a brush, so why don't I just give you some of that and you can stop hastening the balding process?

4. His knuckles. He's not much for thumb sucking, but his knuckles are JUST THE BEST. Mmm, delicious.

Here's an unrelated picture of our groundhog friend, because I'm sure babe would love to stuff it in his mouth, too, if only it would fit.

5. His O-Ball rattle. Too bad he can't actually fit it into his mouth. And then he gets really, really mad that he can't fit the whole thing into his mouth and mama has to take it away.

6. His parents' fingers. Preferably several from each parent, at the same time. At which point he gets really, really mad that he can't fit them all into his mouth and mama has to take them away.

7. His double-ended rattle. Sometimes he can fit this in his mouth, if he grabs it just the right way. The rest of the time he gets really, really mad. Or just resorts to kind of licking at it while only getting a bit mad.

Linking up with Kelly at This Ain’t the Lyceum for Seven Quick Takes because—let's face it—a link party is the only party this mama will be attending for a really, really long time.

Ten Things I Wish I'd Known before I Gave Birth

I read about a million "what you need to know before giving birth" posts before I gave birth, and yet I still ended up in the delivery room woefully unprepared for what awaited me. So this is my contribution to the collection—things I've never seen mentioned before, or in a few cases, things that I didn't believe or that just didn't sink in. So in no particular order, here are ten things I wish I'd known before I gave birth:

1. Labour is no joke. You'd think this would be obvious, yet it was even tougher than I expected. I thought I'd sail through a med-free birth, since I'm used to dealing with chronic pain. Not so—I was begging for pain relief just several hours in, and asked for an epidural somewhere around hour thirteen. But even more unexpected than my inability to deal with the pain was how utterly exhausting the whole ordeal was. Next time I hope to be in better physical shape so I can deal with the marathon!

2. I was worrying about the wrong things. My number one worry? Dealing with the poop (and to a lesser degree, the other bodily fluids). I've always had a weak stomach, and I feared that I would vomit my way through every diaper change. In fact, I did vomit during my first diaper change—but it turns out that was a result of some postpartum nausea issues and had very little to do with the diaper change itself (it was at most a trigger). Proof? We switched to cloth diapering at my request when babe was about a month old. I promise—those things you're worrying about? You'll get through them.

3. Speaking of nausea, postpartum vomiting is awful. Do whatever you can to avoid it. Although I never conclusively determined why I had several bouts of vomiting, I suspect that the cause was taking heavy-duty doses of naproxen with inadequate food. I thought I was eating enough, but the vomiting suggests otherwise. For those of you unaccustomed to naproxen, ibuprofen, and the like—be warned: they are hard on the stomach. I initially thought my vomiting was from pain, so I would take more of the painkillers (always keeping within the prescribed dose, mind you), and it would result in—you guessed it—more vomiting. So be careful, and take with plenty of food and water.

4. The bad stuff doesn't necessarily hit right away. I was expecting the worst—severe postpartum depression, body image issues, major hair loss (okay, so that's comparatively minor, but I do like my hair!), and even the possibility that I wouldn't feel any love for my newborn. For the first several weeks postpartum, though, I was happier than I'd been in months, I thought I looked pretty great for the mom of a newborn, and I was madly in love with babe (oh, and my hair remained firmly attached to my head). Things started falling apart about a month in, and I was no longer quite prepared—I thought I'd made it through safely. I don't intend to scare anyone, merely warn you that the sky doesn't always fall right away, but it's still worth keeping a watch for symptoms that need to be managed for a while after birth.

5. Being prepared doesn't make you immune. The one thing I was still on the watch for, even at the one-month mark (although I'd let my guard down somewhat) was postpartum depression. Yet the preparation did not make me immune to it, or even somehow better able to deal with it, as I'd somehow convinced myself it would. The depression hit, I went into denial, and I responded by becoming self-destructive and despondent. Knowing it might happen isn't magically prophylactic. It turned out to be crucial to my treatment and recovery that my husband knew what to look for, and persisted in trying to persuade me that I needed help.

6. You will probably do things you said you never would. It's okay if you do (provided, of course, that no one is being endangered). It's also okay if you don't. Some of these things may even be positive choices that you said you wouldn't do because you didn't think you'd be capable! After all, I swore I would not cloth diaper, yet here we are.

7. Breastfeeding is really hard at first. I'd read this about a million times, but I still didn't fully believe it. I wish I'd spent more time reading about the logistics than I spent reading about how hard it was, because then I might have realised that I should concentrate on growing about three extra hands. Of course, reading only helps so much; it's getting the muscle memory and coordination that really takes time and effort and ultimately makes or breaks you.

8. Not everyone who tries to help you is actually helpful. This is related to the previous point. I knew people would probably give me lousy parenting advice, and I was prepared to ignore that. What I didn't expect was lousy breastfeeding advice. Despite what I was told, it is not normal for a babe to feed for five hours straight with no break whatsoever—this is not cluster feeding. Cluster feeding is normal, but there are (short) breaks. I wish I'd done enough research to recognise the difference between non-nutritive sucking and nutritive suckling, because then I might have been able to take a few catnaps at least, and wouldn't have ended up sleep-deprived to the point of beginning to hallucinate.

9. Not every sleep-deprived decision you make is wise. For the first several days after we got home (as well as most of the time we were in the hospital), I took on the brunt of baby care, especially at night. I got very little sleep, and my husband got plenty—uninterrupted, even. I reasoned that if I protected his sleep, we wouldn't both crash at the same time. What it meant, however, was that I crashed hard, rather than both of us simply ending up tired but functional. When he caught on to what I was doing, he was more proactive in taking baby shifts—and I was easily convinced to let him. Check your reasoning with someone else!

10. Water is your friend. TMI time: it really hurt to pee for the first while postpartum (unsurprisingly). In fact, I scared my husband by crying the first several times I went to the bathroom, because it was just so painful. The more it hurt, the more I restricted my fluid intake so I wouldn't have to go so often. BIG MISTAKE. As I eventually figured out, being dehydrated increased my pain exponentially. In fact, pee pain quickly became a great gauge of whether I'd taken in enough fluids. It hurt a little if I was properly hydrated. I wanted to die if I was dehydrated. Stay hydrated, friends. Stay hydrated.

There are other things I wish I'd known, or done differently—my hospital bag packing, for one—but these are the biggies. Perhaps there'll be a part two in the future, though!

What did you wish you'd known before giving birth? Or, if you haven't given birth, what would you like to know?