The Baby In My Arms/The Monster In My Head

About 18 hours old

 As if the journey of pregnancy and delivery did not bring enough physical change in its wake, then came the cascade of emotional changes. I was blessed at the finish line of this crazy path to motherhood with a pink squirming crying beautiful baby boy. And then it dawned on me over the ensuing days. I have to keep this delicate new person alive until I can hand him over to his own care when he's 18. Don't let him get maimed, keep all ten little fingers and toes attached. No brain damage.

It started with the small step outside my front door. It went from the small concrete slab porch of our condo to our parking spots. There was a small step with a 3 or 4 inch rise half way to our cars. I couldn't carry my baby over it without the haunting idea that I was going to drop him and crack his delicate little head open on it like an egg. It didn't stop me from bringing him out of the house and into the world, but I would inch up to that step like it bordered the Grand Canyon as I readied him in his car seat to adventure into the world. Everything became the instrument that would strip my baby from me.

The blender. The microwave . The dryer. Some faceless villain was going to stuff my newborn in. And turn it on. Meanwhile I was held down and forced to watch. 

 

In that hypnogogic plane between awake and asleep the torture would come. The images. The mini horror movies. No amount of logic could squelch the emotions. It was worse when I was away from him, on the occasions I had time to run errands on my own. Horrible things would pop into my head when I was driving, often taking my breath away. The first time I went to Target after he was born, I had a panic attack. I had a full cart and only a few items left on my list, but I was convinced that if I didn't run out of that store and speed home I would never see him again. Even though he was in the perfectly capable care of my Heart Mother, the woman that raised me as her own since third grade and held my right leg through all three hours of me pushing my baby into this world. I white-knuckled the cart and breathed through it. Sent a text to Duncan to assure myself all was well, and finished my shopping trip.

It reached a peak when I was returning to work when he was four months old. Many mothers don't get that much maternity leave. I started crying days before my first day back. My heart literally ached. My second day back to work I had some kind of follow up appointment with my OB, and was such an emotional mess she wanted to file for me to have more time off. I had taken out a loan to cover my unpaid maternity leave. I had to go back. I needed the money. I was made to promise I would go see my therapist (and I did). My heart was shattered.

I cried every day for weeks on the way to work. Once there, I was able to focus on my work and be a nurse. Being busy was a good thing. Duncan texted me pictures of our boy every hour or so to get me through. We are fortunate that we do 99% of our own child care and the hour here or there we need a sitter it is done in our home, by awesome people.

I'm not a political person, I don't understand how politics work, and I think politics are pretty much all a lie. But this I know: I think it is unnatural for a woman to be forced to go back to work so soon after birth. So much of it is unpaid (as was mine), and you're lucky to wrangle healthcare for self and offspring for that twelve weeks that your job is held for you. I don't think a child should go into childcare until they are old enough to speak words and tell you if something is wrong. And the thing that surprises me most of all? That these are my feelings. Never dreamed I would want to be a stay at home mom.

My birth mother never bonded with me. Never wanted me. I'm just glad I got to take a turn on this ride we call life. I have been abundantly lucky to have the love of many mothers the Universe has supplied along the way. Most notably my Heart Mother Mumma Gail. I was never sure what kind of mother I would be. From the time I knew I was pregnant I did everything right. Took all the supplements, didn't drink, etc. But I also did not feel “in love” with my baby bump. I didn't talk to my tummy unless I was telling him to get off my bladder or out of my lungs. I was afraid This baby would be placed in my arms in the delivery room and I would feel, well, nothing. That thought terrified me. Turns out when he (finally) popped out and was placed on my belly, I looked into his eyes and heard my soul say “OH.” That's what the love a mother has for her son feels like. After three hours of pushing he came out wild eyed and, according to Duncan, grey. They had to clamp and cut quick to give him respiratory support. When he looked into my soul I heard his eyes say “What. The. Actual. Fuck.” That was the moment I knew I would die for my child. And every moment since. 

 

After consulting with three or four different professionals, turns out I have a slice of postpartum depression known as postpartum anxiety. It has taken time to get comfortable leaving him with his own father, but I have an awesome baby daddy, and our baby gets an amount of daddy time most sons will never know. Our baby loves both of us, and we adore him back.

Bad news is the new norm. Some part of me chases it, and I'm not sure why. FaceBook. Yahoo news. Scroll through at at any time and it is full of nauseatingly true stories of child abuse often ending in death. It's so hard to turn away, who can turn away from the lost ones? Doesn't that leave them forgotten? I say a prayer every day for the lost babies. The lost children. My heart murmurs an constant rosary lullaby to them. I strive to not turn my back or forget, but to love my son a little harder and hug him more. Because that is what I can do. To love back in the face of sadness. 

 

If you are struggling, please don't do it alone. For you and for your baby. Postpartum Support International is not there 24/7, but if you call off-hours they will get back to you. The number is 1-800-944-4773. If you are in crisis the number for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. Program these numbers into your phone so you have them if you need them.

My anxiety gets better as my son gets bigger and is a little less helpless every day, but it's still hills and valleys. I keep a sharp stick ready to poke it in the eye when it focuses on me.