Sprung
I feel like an old couch. Lumpy, threadbare, and sprung.
In the beginning, it seemed natural to be a bit of a mess. My body was wonked out by pregnancy and chidbirth, I hadn’t put two hours of sleep together since leaving the hospital, and I was home alone all day with this tiny, beautiful person who cried all the time, and couldn’t tell me what she needed.
I remember how I stressed about the dog. She needs a walk, but it’s 15 degrees out! I didn’t want to take the baby out in the cold, but I didn’t have anyone to help me.
I kept thinking, “Tomorrow is the day I’ll cook something for dinner.” and “When the weekend comes, I’ll clean this house”.
When we were on our Christmas trip, I was sure I’d started getting the hang of this parenting thing. I’d finally gotten Scarlett to start napping and I was feeling so much more relaxed. This didn’t take into account the fact that my only responsibility the entire 5 weeks was taking care of baby. Once we got home, the house was still there, looking like somebody had turned it upside-down and shaken it like a snow globe.
I began to feel panicky. I cried easily. I worried constantly about the baby, and felt like a failure on every level. A bad mom, a bad housekeeper, a horrible pet owner, a rotten real estate investor, a needy wife.
Here’s the wierd thing about feelings: you always believe in them.
If I felt overwhelmed, I was sure it was because something was overwhelming me. I just needed to organize more, focus better, cooperate with my husband more efficiently. It didn’t occur to me to wonder if my coping skills were somehow impaired.
Kris was unwaveringly supportive. “I don’t expect you to cook, hon.” he said with a hug, “We’re just going to do whatever we need to do to get through this.” He meant the new parenthood thing. Neither of us was thinking about post partum depression.
Things started to get radically worse when two stressors collided:
- It was time to prepare to go back to work
- The real estate partnership I’d entered into with friends was ready to start the real work
I started thinking about getting a nanny, but the idea of leaving the baby with a stranger terrified me. What if I picked a Bad Nanny? I started thinking about quitting my job, but could not get my mind around that either. Am I really the kind of woman who can do dishes every day and not earn her own money? The crusty house seemed an accusation.
Every day, my To Do list grew, and I couldn’t tell the important things from the ones that could wait. It all seemed heavy and unweildy, and I was this tiny person, shrinking beneath the weight of all her failed responsibilities. I put off deciding about my job. I avoided reading my email.
Kris encouraged me to quit my job. “What is it that draws you back there?”
Duty? Guilt? Money?
The best way I can think to describe it is stark raving panic.
I wanted to crawl into something safe and familiar. Something not too stressful.
We hired a dog walker.
We hired a housekeeper.
I arranged to go back to work part-time.
We begged William to come visit- both to give me the cheer and support of an old friend, and to give me some decent hair.
I still felt anxious and overwhelmed. I made lists, and then forgot where I put them.
After I came home crying from a meeting with my real estate partners (for the third time), Kris and I began to talk about an exit strategy. We also began to talk about getting me some medication.
About one in 10 new mothers experience some degree of postpartum depression. These complications usually occur within just days after the delivery, and can occur even a year later. These symptoms include:
- Sluggishness
- Fatigue
- Exhaustion
- Feelings of hopelessness or depression
- Disturbances with appetite and sleep
- Confusion
- Uncontrollable crying
- Lack of interest in the baby
- Fear of harming the baby or oneself
- Mood swings – highs and lows
Our efforts are having an impact. I’ve been back at work for three weeks now, and the nanny hasn’t given me any reason to panic. Our lawyer is drafting the separation agreement from the real estate partnership, and that’s a huge releif.
Last week, William came. He cooked. He empathized. He took Scarlett and I for a walk in the park. He brought a breezy, relaxed feeling into our house, and he gave me hair like this:
…at least, it looked like that when he styled it.
When I style it, the curl creeps back in and the bangs fly up in the wind, bringing to mind the tall ’80s bangs I’d rather not remember.
Some days I feel like I can concentrate.
Some days, I feel like I make progress on my tasks.
Some days, I even write in my blog.
…and then the accountant calls, or the dog walker doesn’t show up, and we have a hard day.
Next week, I have an appointment with a doctor who, I hope, will give me some of this drug my mother-friends have told me about- the one that helped them start feeling like themselves in only a few short days. I just hope nobody at the office notices the baffled stares and the vacant smiles in the meantime.
If I get that medicine, I think I’ll be in good shape. I’ll have my focus and my confidence back, and all of these worries will take their rightful place in the back of my mind.
Then there will really be only one thing left. I’ll just need someone to say,
“Your hair looks just like Bridgett Fonda!”
Yeah. That will be good.
