This Momz Needs A Time Out

๐Ÿ“–Story Time…๐Ÿ“–

December 29, 2018

Today was a bit of a rough day.

It wasn’t a bad day, per se, but it was definitely rough.

3AM

๐ŸšฝI had gotten up to pee for like the millionth time, and Vinny was up playing with his new Leapfrog talking Scout puppy he got from his “Old Man (my Dad)” for Christmas. I could hear it cycling through its various phrases and nursery rhymes, picturing Vinny grinning each time it responded as he pressed its paw. I decided to just go back to bed and wait to see if Vinny would just fall back asleep. I drifted in and out. ๐Ÿ’ค

4:30AM

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plz.

๐Ÿ”ŠOver the monitor I could still hear, “I’m feeling…happy!” “Let’s play together!” “๐ŸŽถOld McDonald Had a Farm…๐ŸŽถ” I had to go in and take the dog from him so he’d go to sleep. He was not pleased with that, but after Dad came up to help soothe him he went to sleep. ๐Ÿ˜ด

I, however, did not, despite my very best efforts.

7AM And On

๐ŸŒžThe beginning of the day went fine. We had breakfast, played, went for a walk at the Mall and played at the indoor playground. He tried to run out of the play area, so I had to herd him back in, to which he responded with the beginnings of a tantrum. ๐Ÿ˜ช๐Ÿ˜ช In order to avoid a category 5 meltdown, we unfortunately had to take our leave. It was more or less his nap time at that point, anyway.

๐Ÿ’คNaptime itself was fine, as it typically is (#blessed๐Ÿ™). When he woke up, he was pleasant. It looked like all he needed was a little more shut-eye! ๐Ÿ˜Œ

Then it was dinnertime…

๐Ÿฆ–๐Ÿฆ•He refused to eat his dinosaur chicken nuggets ๐Ÿ™…โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ˜ค (yes, I broke down and gave him chicken nuggets…but at least they were made with cage-free chicken and weren’t loaded with additives and whatnot, so the box said ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™€๏ธ). I fought him for what felt like an hour. Then finally I melted some cheese on top them, and he ate them. ๐Ÿง€๐Ÿ™„

๐Ÿง™โ€โ™‚๏ธThe rest of the evening (aka the witching hour, the period of time after dinner leading up to bedtime when he’s at his peak potential for crankiness) was spent trying to do things he knows he’s not supposed to, and having a fit when he was told to stop.

I might have lost my temper a couple of times… ๐Ÿ˜ซ๐Ÿ˜ค๐Ÿคฌ

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#theanthem

When he went to reach for one of the (admittedly) poorly placed Christmas decorations we still had out for the fiftieth time that day, that was when I snapped. I grabbed his arm, and he turned to look at me.

“I. Said. NO!!” I shouted, my voice cracking upwards five octaves. I glared at him, pulling him away from the object he was trying to meddle with.

“What is wrong with you?” I hated the words as they left my mouth, but couldn’t stop them…I knew it was my fault for leaving that stupid thing there. He had more or less left it alone before, but I really should have known better. ๐Ÿ˜“๐Ÿ˜“๐Ÿ˜“

And then he just looked at me and said, “Mumma, Mumma,” and hugged onto me.

๐Ÿ˜”What kind of monster am I? 

๐ŸผAbout this time was the time for his evening milk, which I supplement with probiotic, DHA, and vitamin D in, so I like for him to drink all of it. Of course on this particular day, he refused to drink the last two ounces. ๐Ÿ™…โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ˜ค

This infuriated me.

I brought him up to bed in an angry huff. When we got into his room, just as I was about to place him in his crib, he clung to me, again said, “Mumma, Mumma,” and began kissing on me. He just kept nuzzling and hugging and kissing my face, leaning back to look at me and saying, “Mumma…”

I looked at my child, whose large brown eyes glistened in the low pastel light of his humidifier. I could see him smiling sweetly at me, his face the complete opposite of a mirror image of the ugly angry troll face I more than likely wore. ๐Ÿ‘น๐Ÿ‘บ

๐Ÿ’”I broke down and started sobbing, clutching him to my chest, and he just kept on loving me. I rocked him back and forth until I could get it together, kissed his forehead, gave him his pacifier, white noise giraffe, his “babies (two teddy bears),” and his Leapfrog dog…turned to off mode, of course.

๐ŸŒ…Tomorrow would be a new day, I thought. And indeed it was, as is every day.


I don’t deserve this child. He drives me crazy lately, but some days I really feel I do not deserve him…

๐Ÿ˜”๐Ÿ˜ชI’ve been in a funk lately. I’ve had work deadlines looming with daunting projects I’ve yet to piece together, ๐Ÿ“‘๐Ÿ“ฉโŒš deadlines I’ve missed completely that luckily I’ve gotten extensions on, ๐Ÿ˜ฐ๐Ÿ˜ฐ๐Ÿ˜ฐ family and social issues,  ๐Ÿ˜“๐Ÿ˜ฌ๐Ÿ˜”a house that’s an absolute mess that I can’t seem to keep up with,  ๐Ÿงบ๐Ÿงน๐Ÿ—‘๐Ÿงผ๐Ÿฝ๐Ÿงฝ a bedroom that at my 35 week milestone finally had a newborn station set up, ๐Ÿšผ๐Ÿงธ๐Ÿคฑ and the aforementioned bedroom still needs to be Marie Kondo’d TF out of, ๐Ÿ“ฆ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿ‘š๐Ÿ‘• and of course a hormonal roller coaster that rivals the worst of all of my years of PMS since age 12. ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ก๐Ÿฅบ๐Ÿ˜ฌ๐Ÿ˜ช๐Ÿคฌ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿ˜ซ๐Ÿคฏ

I know none of this is any excuse. But I just can’t seem to get it together some days…


Where am I going with this?

๐Ÿคฑ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘งI see a lot of Moms in my life and on social media that seem inseparable from their children. They talk about how they cannot be without their babies even for a day, how they’re incomplete without them, and how they’re their whole entire reason for existing, etc, etc…

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#cantrelate

๐Ÿ˜๐ŸฅฐDon’t get me wrong, it’s sweet to see how loving they are with each other and how they enrich each others’ lives. I have absolutely no judgement towards these Moms. I legitimately admire them and their relationships with their babies. ๐Ÿ’ฏ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ’–

I just personally don’t feel the same way. ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™€๏ธ Not to say that I don’t absolutely love my sons, they are still very much my world and my focus, I just have about a few days tops of being around my oldest son round the clock before I feel like I might need to be committed. ๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ˜ต

Furthermore, I wouldn’t say that my son is my sole purpose for living. And obviously I know this is a figure of speech. But even so, I still don’t feel completely fulfilled just being a Mom and honestly get a little depressed when I go a few days in a row doing #justmomthings.

And because of that, I wonder what must be wrong with me.

๐Ÿ˜ค๐Ÿ˜ค๐Ÿ˜คWhy do I lose my cool so easily? Why do I want, no, “need” to escape if it’s just been me and my son for a couple of days? Why do I feel so easily “trapped?”

๐Ÿคณ๐Ÿ˜˜#๏ธโƒฃI know I shouldn’t let Insta Moms and my FB Mom friends make me feel “less.” I know a lot of times (most of the time, approx. 99 percent), people embellish their lives for social media. We’re all guilty of it. And I also know that comparison is the thief of joy. But it’s so hard sometimes not to compare myself to other moms when I feel like I’m doing something wrong every day. ๐Ÿ˜ฅ


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#selfcare

โ˜•๐Ÿง˜โ€โ™€๏ธAside from needing my “MOM-ents” for self care (and we all need them), I also feel most “myself” when I have time to “work” on my freelance writing and blogging.

But when there’s a shifty toddler running around trying to get into everything, and who can’t be contained in a “baby corral” for more than about half an hour, it’s hard to focus, let alone conduct interviews or do proper research or whatever needs my attention to get an assignment or post done. ๐Ÿ˜ฌ๐Ÿ˜ต

Furthermore, if it’s just been us for a while, I start to lose my mind a little. Like I mentioned, my threshold for being at home (even after going out each day) alone with my son is about 3-4 days before I need an “escape (at the point in the story above, I think we were going on day 4. ๐Ÿ˜จ)”

And you know what? I’m starting to realize that that’s OKAY. ๐Ÿ’ฏ

๐Ÿ™I’m very lucky in that I have parents and in-laws who are generally able to take my son off my hands once a week. And I’ve found when I get a break, I can recharge, and it helps fill my Mom cup so that I can pour the best of me into my son for another 3-4 days.

Because when it gets past that threshold…I become a Mommy monster. ๐Ÿ‘น๐Ÿ‘บ๐Ÿฒ๐ŸงŸโ€โ™€๏ธ

I feel guilty asking for help. I hate admitting that I need help. I hate the thought of putting people out. I hate the thought of depending on anyone for anything…

But I’ve been told multiple times to get over it.

I am blessed to have people in my life who love my son and want to spend some time with him. I need to know that it’s okay to let him get a change of scenery and get socialized, while I do what I need to do to be my best self, for him.

It’s true when they say that it takes a village to raise a child. And I have a very, very good village. ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’ฏ


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Any Moms “Ridin Solo (jay-SON De-RU-Looo),” You Got this! #ilovethisstupidgame #bestworkouts

I realize that not every Mom has the luxury I do, but I do feel that it’s a necessity (more so for some than others, maybe) to get time to yourself to be the best parent you can be to your child(ren). Whether that’s going to work, the gym, or just getting errands done alone, we all need a little space once in a while.

There are resources available for Moms who have to go it alone for one reason or the other. This website lists aid for single Moms by state, including resources for childcare grants and scholarships for Mamas to be able to work and get things done.

Contacting local churches, YMCA’s, and other nonprofit organizations could also be great way to find free or low-cost childcare.

For example, if your form of self-care is an hour to sweat it out on the treadmill, a lot of YMCA’s offer in-house childcare while you workout with a membership, and they can often help with fees if you are struggling financially.

These are just a couple of examples, and I’m sure there’s other resources out there, but where there’s a will, there’s a way! Don’t lose hope if you’re flying Han Solo in the journey of motherhood.

๐Ÿ—ฃIf you’re just feeling lonely or like you need an ear, try joining some online Moms Groups for solidarity and further tips. I’m a member of at least 5 of them on Facebook.

Remember–You. Are. Not. Alone. ๐Ÿ’ฏ๐Ÿค—


So, at the risk of this post being too long, (I’ll most likely have a follow up to this coming soon, though, about my SAHM Guilt), I’ll end it right here, knowing that me taking care of myself is just one of my ways of taking care of my baby.

And it’s okay that we’re not attached at the hip. We’re attached at the heart. ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ’ž๐Ÿฅฐ

I’ve also started a “Home Nursery School” for him which has been helping with my previous feelings of monotony, and it’s brought us a little bit closer. Seeing him excited to learn and grow really helps me see how much of a blessing it is that I get to devote this time to him. But I’ll have a post on that in the near future!

๐Ÿ’ฌHow many of you feel like you need a break? How many of you can’t be separated from your little loves? Either way, you’re all excellent Mamas doing your best. ๐Ÿ’ช๐Ÿ’ช๐Ÿ’ช

Thanks for reading, my Gals! ๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜˜

๐Ÿ‘€If you’re new here, and this content or any of my upcoming content interests you, make sure you add your email and follow so you don’t miss any updates! ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜ And if you’re already following, thank you and bless your heart and soul! ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿฅฐ๐Ÿค—

๐Ÿ“‹Upcoming Content: My (Stay-At-Home) Mom Guilt, My Son’s “Home-Nursery-School Curriculum,” and My Bedside Nursery Corner (Second Baby)

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The “Boy-Or-Girl Blues,” How I Got Over My Gender Disappointment

When we first talked about having another baby so soon after our first, somehow I had gotten it into my head that the next one would be a little girl. ๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿ‘—๐Ÿ’…๐ŸŽ€๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ‘‘

So convinced was I of this that I had even purchased (from consignment, of course) some girl clothes I had come across and couldn’t resist and had begun saving girly items for a possible sprinkle I’d have for her. I’d even had her name picked out (She was going to be named after someone very, very special๐Ÿ’–). I had even made a Pinterest Board with her name containing the matching outfits we’d wear and hairstyles I could attempt on her. ๐Ÿ‘—๐Ÿ’„๐Ÿ‘ ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ’‡๐Ÿ’…๐Ÿฅฐ

Almost all of my pregnancy symptoms were even “indicative” of a girl–wicked morning sickness, ๐Ÿคข๐Ÿคฎ carrying high,ย ๐Ÿคฐmassive breakouts, ๐ŸŒ‹๐Ÿ˜ฌ etc. I even found myself instinctively calling the baby “she” and “her” in the early weeks. Friends and family were even convinced of it. I was so happy.

But then at my 19 week scan, the ultrasound tech said those three words…

๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ”ต”It’s a boy.” She stated, almost too matter-of-fact-ly.

My heart sunk. ๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’” I must have asked the technician, much to her annoyance, three times if she was sure, and to each question she would reply with a cold “Yes.” I can remember watching her type “Boy” over the anatomy in slow, deliberate keystrokes.

I still hate to admit it, but I cried. I hadn’t cried much this pregnancy, but I did that day, on the examination table. I was devastated. ๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’”

I know that sounds terrible. After all, he was perfect! Healthy, measuring on time, no concerns ๐Ÿ™Œ๐Ÿ™ …but I couldn’t bring myself to be happy.

I cried and cried all that weekend. I was inconsolable. I couldn’t get out of bed. My melancholy continued into that next week, as all I could think of was that I wasn’t getting the little girl I had dreamed of this whole year.

I had begun to suspect that I’d been having issues with prenatal depression leading up to this, too, so I know that’s also a big part of what was making this such a big deal. I stopped eating right when my birthday and anniversary came and went that month, and really let myself go when I found out the gender. I’m paying for that now. ๐Ÿ˜“๐Ÿ˜“

๐Ÿ’ปโŒจ๐Ÿ’ฌI ended up reading and posting on a lot of forums regarding Gender Disappointment and learned that what I was going through wasn’t completely abnormal. It turns out what I had done was created this person in my head and my heart, and had made her “real.” I hadn’t prepared myself for the very real possibility that this baby would be a “he.” I had gone into this pregnancy believing that I was coming out of it with “my” girl, but this wasn’t going to happen. ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ˜ž

๐Ÿ’ฏGod had other plans๐Ÿ’ฏ

It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with all of this. Truthfully, more than three months later, I still struggle a tiny bit. I still see pictures of my niece and my friends’ little girls and I feel a twinge of sadness and jealousy. And sometimes I lay awake worrying that it will never happen for me…

๐Ÿ’”How I Got Over It๐Ÿ’™

One thing I’ve learned from all of this is that I can plan for something all I want, but God’s plan is better, and it will always prevail. ๐Ÿ’ฏ And if you don’t believe that, then maybe look at it this way: everything in life, good and bad, happens for a reason. If you’re going through a hard time right now, it’s going to make you stronger, ๐Ÿ’ชย and it’s going to lead you to where you need to be.

That’s what this is for me.

Finding out my baby was a boy was what led me to Perinatal counseling. ๐Ÿ“’๐Ÿง ๐Ÿ˜Œ I had been debating going before, but didn’t want to take the time and have to have another thing that I’d need babysitting for. But when I went through my gender disappointment, I finally made an appointment, and I’ve been working through some other things that are actually really helping in other aspects of my life. ๐Ÿ™Œ๐Ÿ˜

It was really hard for me to look on the bright side at first, as everyone was trying to help me with. But I knew that I had to get through it, so I made a physical list of all the good. In doing so I’ve been able toย  see that while it might still be a little devastating for me, there’s really so much to be happy about. โ™ฅโ™ฅโ™ฅ

  • First, I have a healthy baby, that’s plenty to be thankful for.ย ๐Ÿ‘ถ๐Ÿ‘ฃ๐Ÿ™
  • Second, Vinny will still have a little sibling close in age, which comes with all of the benefits I listed in a previous post. ๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ‘ถ
  • Next, it’s another boy, so my husband gets more chances to have his family name passed down in a traditional sense (almost all of his cousins are female, or have a different last name, and he his only sibling is my sister-in-law, so the family name depends on my husband and two of his significantly younger boy cousins), which I know is important to him. ๐Ÿ˜Œ๐Ÿ’—
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๐Ÿ’šOur Second Baby๐Ÿ’š
  • Furthermore, as Vinny is named after my husband’s father and grandfather, Michael (Mikey) is named after my father and shares my grandfather’s name. Plus, Vinny was even born in the same month as my FIL and Mikey is due the same month as my Dad’s birthday! Talk about serendipity ๐Ÿ’•๐Ÿ’ž
  • Finally, he’s my baby. ๐Ÿคฐ๐Ÿคฑ๐Ÿ‘ถ๐Ÿฅฐ He’s part of me and the love of my life. If that’s not a reason to be happy, I don’t know what else is.

So maybe I didn’t get my way this time. And who knows what we’ll get in the future? But God willing, someday soon I’ll be able to throw that “Girl Power Superhero Sprinkle” I had already planned in my head, and my little girl will have two super brothers to look out for her and show her how to be her own hero. ๐Ÿฆธโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿฆธโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿฆธโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ’–


I had also bought Mikey his own coming home outfit to help make me feel better. I try not to make retail therapy a habit as I have in the past, but it did help a little looking through Etsy at all of the creative, personalized newborn outfits and coming across this little gem. ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜

Now Mikey has something of his own aside from his brother’s hand-me-downs. ๐Ÿ˜Š๐Ÿ˜Š 90 percent of his wardrobe is going to be passed down from Vinny. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ‘•๐Ÿ‘–๐Ÿคทโ€โ™€๏ธ

And honestly, I can’t wait to see him in it. And I can’t wait to welcome him into our family. ๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿฅฐ


Have you or someone you know experienced gender disappointment? How did you overcome it? Any other tips for readers? Post them in the comments!

Thanks for reading, my gals! ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿฅฐ๐Ÿ˜˜ Stay tuned and I’ll tell you about how spending less time with my son makes me a better Mom. ๐Ÿ˜…๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ’“

The Power of the Dark Side: How I almost let Antenatal and Postpartum Depression Force-Choke me to Death.

((I’m sorry to say that this post isn’t going to have any witty memes or pictures, and it will contain some dark descriptions of some dark stuff…))

6 months, 100mg Sertraline, and several ongoing visits with my therapist later, I wonder if this is still lingering postpartum, or if this is just a permanent state of being.

Don’t get me wrong, I have far many more good days than bad days nowadays. It’s just that when they’re bad days…well, I get through.

Like many people, I have lived with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember. So it didn’t come as much surprise that I would experience postpartum depression. In fact, I expected as much. I knew that at some point I would need a little help after birth, and I just kind of accepted it as par for the course, and I’d just cross that bridge when I came to it.

But nobodyย warned me about antenatal depression…

Antenatal depression, or prenatal depression, is a clinical depression experienced during pregnancy. Normal clinical depression is caused by changes in brain chemistry, which causes the feelings of sadness, anxiousness, hopelessness, etc. Hormone changes during pregnancy also affect brain chemistry, and can exacerbate existing issues.

According to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG), around 14-23% of women struggle with some symptoms of depression during pregnancy. Often times, this depression is neither diagnosed nor treated properly as most people believe that these feelings are just a part of pregnancy-related emotional turbulence.

That, and the still-existing stigma of postpartum depression make a lot of moms want to keep quiet about their feelings, afraid of being judged or that if they seek help it means that they are inadequate mothers. This can create very dangerous, and very tragic circumstances.

My Story

As I mentioned before, I’ve been dealing with depression and anxiety for a while, the worst of which being from late high school through the middle of college. I had severe suicidal ideation, and would write suicide notes and plans daily, detailing howย ugly and useless I was and how Iย didn’t deserve to live and howย I might kill myself if I’d had the guts, mainly through running away and throwing myself off of the tallest building I could come across. I thank God that He gave me my friends and my husband, because if not for them, I don’t know where (or if) I’d be…

I was in a bit of a rough place to begin with when we were “trying” to conceive. I was enduring regular panic attacks and thoughts of self harm, but was working through them with a therapist, and my coping mechanisms had come a long way.

When I got pregnant sooner than expected, I was initially ecstatic, immediately turning to Pinterest for early pregnancy tips and reveal ideas. But, this excitement seemed to fade as soon as it came.

Towards my third trimester, these symptoms worsened. I was irritable and despondent during the day, and suffered severe insomnia at night (insomnia is a common occurrence in the third trimester, granted).

I would lay sobbing silently into my pillow to not wake my husband. I had become highly skilled in crying in secret over the years, and the thought of burdening my already overwhelmed husband made me hate myself.

During these restless nights, I found my thoughts darkening more and more. I remember one night visualizing myself walking to the bathroom, turning on my shower, and just standing in the water. I fantasizedย taking my shaving razor and slitting up and down my arms, shoulders, and back, letting myself bleed out into the running water until I could finally pass out and get a little bit of relief from my running thoughts.ย Thoughts that would temptย me to jump out a window and save my unborn son the misery of being born into a dying world,ย worst of all enduring it withย a useless shell of a human being of a mother.

This was just one of many examples of terrible thoughts I’d had during these dark times. I would only reluctantly open up to my husband about these feelings, but only after being “badgered” by him, but I would continue to lay awake almost every night, crying angry, self-loathing tears as my son kicked and jabbed in protest.

Loss

My grandmother had passed away late into my second trimester. On Good Friday, of all days.

I could write an entire separate blog post on how incredible of a human being my grandmother was. I don’t think there’s even a way to condense into a paragraph just how inspiring, selfless, determined, strong, loving, accepting, firm, fun, and overall wonderful this woman was…and how much of a gaping, vacuous hole her passing has left in my family…

I hadn’t seen her in over a year at that point, as sheย had movedย thousands of miles away several months before I conceived. She had finally been able to retire after nearly 50 years in the workforce, and she was going to finally enjoy theย happy, worry-free life she had always deserved…

So when I got that call in January that she had lung cancer, and that call in April that it had taken her life…I just couldn’t accept either.

I was in denial for so long, and I’d be lying if I still wasn’t, to some extent. I would cry to myself on a daily and nightly basis, wondering why God had not taken me instead of my beloved grandmother, who had finally just started to be able to live her best life.

I’d look around at the world without my grandmother and began to notice then more than ever how terminally ill the world seemed. Climate change, corruption in politics, evil, hatred…the world as I’d known it had ended, and it seemed the world at large soon would be, too. How could I be so selfish, bringing an innocent life into this wretched, dying world?

Postpartum

While the prospect of dying in childbirth hadย initially petrified me, I began secretly hoping, wishing for it. If my son must be born, then at least he could be brought up by his loving father, family, and surrogate aunties and uncles. I would leave him in their capable hands to help him navigate this poisoned planet, and to bring him up to make as much of a difference as possible for good in the world.

Well, sure enough, his birth went perfectly. Peaceful, yet empowering.ย He came into the world like a lamb and would grow like a mighty lion.

I had a fleeting moment of optimism as I recovered in the hospital as I was bombarded by questionnaire after questionnaire regarding my mental health. I was more or less honest, but promised that I would be okay.

Maybe, just maybe, I could do this on my own.

Home Again

Things started off okay, more or less, until nearly a week back at home. I began feeling miserable again, even worse than before.

I would look at my postpartum body through tears of rage, furious that I had “let myself” “get like this.” I was livid with myself for not getting sick “enough” during pregnancy, and began hating myself thinking back on all of the times I had indulged.

I saw my raw, still very much healing post-birth form as that ofย a grotesque monster, my emotions as signals of an incompetent and incapable parent,ย ย and decided that I needed to be punished.

I had little to no appetite as it was, but when I did feel like eating I would only allow myself limited portions, in hopes that nursing my son would cause me to shed excess weight faster. I knew that producing breastmilk requiredย extra calories, but I figured as long as Iย allowed myselfย the 500 “extra” that it would go to making the milk and I would wither away and look “decent” again, while still being able to give my husband’s son that precious, precious breastmilk he so needed and deserved.

Needless to say, my supply dwindled, and I had to supplement my son at barely 2 weeks.

This fueled my self-loathing.

There were days when I didn’t even feel like my son was mine. I would look at him, in the arms of my friends and family, and just see him as some alien being. Some type of benign parasite that was once sapping energy from within me, that needed to be painfully ejected from the most delicate part of my anatomy, and that now demanded nutrients from another painful, delicate part of my anatomy. I would go through the motions involuntarily wondering when his true parents would come from whateverย planet they were fromย to take him away.

Looking back, maybe my hatred for myself made it hard for me to attach myself to something that was half of me…

Spiral

I began to start planning my suicide. I began looking into life insurance policies, to see if my son and the rest of my family could further benefit from my death, how many ibuprofen it would take to kill a 190 pound woman, and crafting the will for whatever it was of value that I had to give away, and how it would allย be dispersed.

As it turns out, life insurance won’t cover suicide, it’s more difficult to overdose from ibuprofen than I’d thought, and I didn’t have muchย to offer, aside from my wedding and engagement ring that I had willed to my son.
My husband eventually found out what I was doing, and talked me off of the ledge, so to speak. Eventually, I had to come clean to my doctors and let them know what I was feeling, and my worst fear had come true–I was prescribed sertraline for post partum depression, and had to see a Psychiatrist for further evaluation.
“But I’m breastfeeding…” I explained to my OB in my zombified state. Or rather, I was struggling to.

He explained to me that zoloft is one of the safest medications for nursing, and I later found that you can even donate breastmilk if you’re taking zoloft.
It was a bumpy few weeks between increasing doses and working through feelings with my therapist and the psychiatrist, and finally reaching out to my friends and opening up to my husband, but eventually I got through the worst of it.

Life Goes On

Today wasn’t the greatest day. I had some scary thoughts. But I’m not a slave to them, and I won’t be force-choked out by them anymore.

I will fight back. The Force is strong with this one.

I can see the road to happiness from where I am, and the woods don’t seem as deep.
Postpartum Depression is a real and scary thing, as is prenatal depression. Although not as heavy as in the past, the stigma is still very much there.

We feel like bad mothers for being depressed. We feel a pressure to forget about ourselves and pour our whole depleted energy into a small being we may not even feel that same overwhelming love that we see televised and written about everywhere, and wonder what is wrong with us. Self care is a thing of the past, we think, so we suffer in silence.
“You can’t pour from an empty cup.” I have seen this quote everywhere. I would sometimes rephrase it to myself, “You can’t nurse from an empty breast.”

I realized after I had gotten help that by not taking care of myself, I was affecting my ability to really care for my son. My suffering caused me to drastically lose supply, and make it difficult to feel attached to the thing that attached himself to my sore, bleeding, cracked nipples, desperately trying to pull nutrients from the drooping speedbags that hung from my chest.

I eventually had to exclusively formula feed because my PPD had warped me so much that I sabotaged my vision of exclusively breastfeedingย until my son was a year old.

Once I was beginning to come to, I went from Post-Partum Depression to involuntary weaning depression. He is still thriving, and I will always believeย that fed is best, but I had failed my son in my eyes. But more on that later…
What I want to say through all of this is, is that if you are suffering, you are not alone. It is nothing to be ashamed of. I know that you want to take care of your baby, but your baby needs you to take care of yourself. Your baby needs their mama, above all else. Please reach out to your loved ones, and your doctors. It’s hard at first, but it gets better. You can do this.

If you need help, but aren’t sure how to go about getting it, thisย website may be of help.
Thanks for reading! Tune in next time for a more light-hearted post on ways to repurpose formula cans and scoops!

Until then, thank you so much for reading, my Gals! Talk soon!

Dys. Morphia or: How Iโ€™m learning to stop worrying and love the (Mom) Bod.

(Disclaimer: yet another post from my phone under the wire of my son’s naps so it’s a little raw and unfiltered I’m so sorry!)

I’m pretty sure anyone reading this blog is too young to get what this is parodying. Because I’m too young to get this is parodying, as it’s a film from even before my parents’ time. I only know about it because I’ve seen this title in a trivia game and the name resonated with me. If you care to know where it comes from, you can look at the IMDb. It’s a classic, I should see it sometime.

Anyway, getting to the point, I know this blog has been a lot about personal issues more so than actual Mom stuff, but we Moms need to look out for ourselves and each other. We owe it to our babies to be our best selves, whatever that takes.


I took this picture before I got married. I was mad at the way I looked. I was livid with myself for not losing enough weight before my wedding and felt I didn’t deserve to get married…my self image has always been a little warped ๐Ÿ˜…


So, if you haven’t already guessed, this post is all about body image issues. Particularly after a baby. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that our bodies go through the ringer while we’re incubating our progeny, some more so than others. And while it’s a simple biological fact that the majority of us won’t be the same after our miraculous, awe-inspiring forms bring forth miraculous, awe-inspiring, albeit terrifying, life, somehow it feels like the pressure is on for us to fit back into those skinny jeans from college as soon as we “recover” from the ordeal our bodies have gone through.

It seems like those perfect inspo moms follow me everywhere I go. Pinterest, Instagram, YouTube, hecc, even family and friends and friends of friends seem to have it more together than I do…I know the most toxic thing you can do to yourself is compare yourself to others, but it’s easier said than done.


Working my Puff into Tuff ๐Ÿ’ช๐Ÿผ My failed attempt at inspomomming. I busted my knees for three weeks running full impact downhill shortly after my 6 week recovery period ๐Ÿ˜…


I have this addiction of sorts to hurting myself. I’ll get more into that in another blog post. But in a nutshell, lately my addiction is laying into myself about my body. I know I’m not alone in this.

I feel like there’s a negative message in the media about post baby bodies. In the movies, after women have babies, they just lose that prosthetic bump and just have a messy, but still attractive bun and running makeup that’s still somehow on point. But their bodies are for the most part, back to being taut, with perky boobs and although they wear mainly sweats and yoga pants because #relatable, you can tell that they could probably zip their pre-baby jeans. This could just be that they weren’t really pregnant to begin with, but I guess even after knowing real people that have gone through this before me, I guess I still had this idea that I’d breastfeed, workout, eat right and the weight would melt off. Yeah, #notsomuch.

Four months postpartum, I can now manage to button my jeans, but my loose belly skin and residual baby fat still hangs over uncomfortably. So to keep circulation going to my midsection, I need my pregnancy belly band. I know this is realistic for a lot of women, but I can’t help but be infuriated with myself for this…


Ow Ow! ๐Ÿ˜‚ Really putting myself out there…I took this picture while doing laundry at my Dad’s house today. No belly band, no push-up bra, trying to embrace my new form. My “deflated” Mom boobs, that I used to nourish my son for as long as I possibly could, my “sloppy” Mom belly, that protected my growing baby for 39 weeks and 4 days until he was ready for the real world, and my stretch marks, which I honestly kind of like. I know I’ll never be the girl in that spontaneous mirror pic again…and the more I look at myself and the more I really think about the power behind all of the flaws, I think I could be okay with it…someday.


I need to remind myself that I’m real. That I’m strong. I need to remind myself that what my body did is a beautiful thing, what God gave me via my womb is a beautiful thing. I should be grateful to my body, kind to my body, and take this love/hate relationship and make it more about love.

I know this will be an ongoing battle. I’ve been going through some mental and emotional turbulence lately, so my body image has me down. I’ll have a post on prenatal and postpartum depression at some point, because, honestly, it’s brutal.

It’s time to be kind and n o t rewind. I mean stop looking at those old pictures longingly, mourning the figure that you had before you had a baby. It’s absolutely fine to want to slim down, for health’s sake, even to fit into old clothes for the sake of not having to go out and get a new wardrobe, but we need to be okay with our new forms. Even if our stomachs never stretched out, our breasts stayed firm, and our feet never Hobbited out, the body we have in our 20’s and 30’s is not even our final form. Eventually, we will all be subject to gravity, and we will age. Physical beauty is relative, and how we take care of ourselves will reflect how we look later on, but ultimately, our figures will change in some way, our physical beauty, in the technical sense, will fade. So we may as well look at all we’ve been through and take all things into consideration, and focus on the things we like of it hurts too much to confront the things we’re still sensitive about. It will never go away, but eventually it will get easier.


Censorship. ๐Ÿ˜‚ This lil d00d’s too much! And soooo worth embracing this new form. I could learn to stop worrying and love the bod for his sake ๐Ÿ’ž๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆI need to set an example for my son, because boys get body issues, too. Is there any better incentive for self-improvement?


Bless you for making it so far!

Tune in next time for my first trimester story and life hax for those brutal three months!

Thanks for reading! Talk soon! ๐Ÿ˜˜