Mama drama, baby blues

This is not the place to come for parenting advice.  While I cherish all four of my small humans I do not define myself or any project I undertake (like this) by my reproductive experience.  In the begining of this trip I was so sure I would be good at this! I was too dumb to be scared.  I had no idea what I was in for. I had no idea how just being a mom takes you over whether you want it to or not. It has been nearly 13 years since the 19 year old me (to whom I still closely relate) stood in a Rite Aid wondering if a pregnancy test was a wise purchase, it would afterall, leave me without beer money…and I was only ‘like KIND of late’.

I told myself I would wait a few hours to take the test, I was scheduled for a short shift at the restaurant I was bussing tables, for 4.25/hour.  But, because I had admited the extreme possibility of there being ‘reason to spend the beer money’ I simply could not think of anything else!  ‘I’ll take the test, it will be negative, I will relax’, I thought. It was a slow night at the restaurant, I snuck away as soon as I thought I had a few minutes. ‘Wait 5 minutes for results’ the instructions said, wait 5 minutes my (soon to be much larger) butt. I’ve never seen color materialize so fast.  Or lines, or sheer panic.

Once the news set in, all shock turning into a mix of getting ready and being the best ‘pregnoid’ I could be, I spent a lot of time thinking about what kind of mom I would be.  I pictured my child and I having a magical relationship, my voice would sooth, my touch would reassure, my presence alone would be all he’d need…you know, all that crap.  Why wasn’t I panicing about being a knocked up 19 year old art student? I can’t really say, maybe it was easier to focus on the inevitable fact that my son’s birth was indeed happening than it would have been to dive into being ashamed of myself or any of that.  Picturing things working out, that’s what got me through any feelings of fear or doubt.

I focused on being a mom.  River cried all the time.  Screamed, actually. I was sure I was doing something wrong, I was sure he didn’t like me.  I was sure Ben, my husband now, also felt the same way.  I was sure of a lot of dark and sad things back then.  It seemed nothing was working out.  I cried when he cried. I cried when he slept.  I cried when I was alone, I cried in front of people.  ‘I was so wrong about myself, I was so stupid’ I thought, what made me think that I could do this?

I stopped eating, not in a hunger strike kind of way, every single thing just sounded disgusting.  I ate popsicles and Tums.  Not a good diet for someone who was under weight to begin with and is trying to nurse.  I lost the ability to stand up straight, and a sink full of dishes was enough to make me curl up in the fetal position and…you guessed it, cry. It was exhausting I tell you.

It seemed like I lived this zombie life for a year, in reality it was less than 2 months.  Something made me turn the TV off one morning (it had been on 24 hours a day for over a week because the noise made me feel better).  I sat on the floor in the living room and thought about all of the things I had been wrong about.  The way I thought things would be, the things I wanted for this beautiful baby but couldn’t even stand up long enough to give him.  ‘They’d all be better off if I were dead…my mom could take care of River, she’d do a much better job, Ben could go back to his freedom.’  The amount of time I spent entertaining this thought is a testament to the illness that had overtaken me.

A few hours later I was in my doctor’s office, reading about this post partum depression stuff, that thing that weak women make up to get people to bring them casseroles.  That thing I hadn’t even read over in any of the books, and I read ALL the books.  That thing I was much too strong to let touch me.

Within a week I had eaten real people food, slept for 5 hours straight and even spontaneously smiled!  Within a couple of months I was writing again, sewing again, drawing again, burning dinner again, funny again, and actually believing that I could do this.

Like I said, this is not the place to come for parenting advice.  I am not one of those professional moms.  I am an artist, who has given birth to 4 children, married 1 man, over cooked many noodles, taken lots of road trips, and has lots of stories to tell.