My Postpartum Depression Story – Emerging on the Other Side

Jan 28, 2015 by

It’s been almost four years since that June morning and I am no longer depressed.  I have a second son now and didn’t have postpartum depression with him.  I have since bonded with and love both of my boys more than anything in my life.  My bond is strong and secure with my sons. 

 

I am happy.

 

My sons are happy.

 

So when did my PPD go away?  I’m not exactly sure.  I suppose it gradually got better with time and antidepressants.  By my son’s first birthday I guess I felt “better” or at least better adjusted.  By this, I mean I looked forward to spending time with him, I felt a connection with him, and that “mother/son” bond had been formed.  I was able to sleep again, and I wasn’t constantly obsessed with thoughts and worries.  I (somewhat) came to terms with the fact that I will never again feel the kind of “normal” I did pre-children and this was my new normal.

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Motherhood: the Good, the Gross, and Everything in Between

Jan 6, 2015 by

Last night I was in full-blown Super Mom mode, multi-tasking like a pro.  Seriously, you should have seen me: feeding the baby, playing with my three-year old, changing diapers, preparing clothes and food for the next day, all while cooking a New Year’s resolution-inspired healthy dinner for Hub and me.  Then in a second it all changed.

 The baby started crying, I picked him up and…

 Explosive diarrhea.  Projectile vomit.  EVERYWHERE.

I stood there in shock for a moment, dripping from head to toe in puke (not even an exaggeration; I have never seen so much bodily fluid come out of someone so tiny).  I looked down at him and he looked up at me.  He looked so scared, so I just held him to my chest as he grasped my soaked shirt.  I held him tight, kissed his wet hair and sticky cheek and promised him he was alright.  Mommy’s here, everything is ok baby.  In that brief, vomit-drenched moment, making him feel safe was all that mattered.  Shhh my baby boy, I got you….shhh.

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Nine Months

Nov 18, 2014 by

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Oh my sweet baby boy, you are nine months old now. You have officially been in this world longer than you have been in my belly. I have so many mixed emotions. I love seeing you grow and watch your personality develop. I love the proud look you get on your face when you discover a new trick, like pulling yourself up to a standing position or picking up a Puff all by yourself. On the other hand, my days of cradling a tiny newborn are over and I find myself longing for a time so recent, yet already so far away. Granted, we didn’t get off to a great start. When I first found out about you, I was surprised to say the least. You made me feel really sick for the first few weeks of our relationship. Then I started to feel you move inside of me. I felt little elbows, knees and fists. You moved all the time. Then the day came – your birthday – and we met face to face.

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The Fear of Having Post-Partum Depression…AGAIN.

Sep 24, 2014 by

With my first son, I had post-partum depression. But that’s not what this post is about. To be honest, I’m not quite ready to write about that. This is about what happened the second time around.

 

First of all, I did not want to have another baby. Sure, I liked the idea of my son having a sibling (being one of four, I knew the significance of that experience). My husband wanted another child. But I did not. Why would I ever take the chance of going through that horrible nightmare again? Nothing is worth feeling like that. No, not even a child.  

 

Well, the conversation inevitably came up and I gave my husband the same reply every time “I’m just not ready yet.” I used that excuse for about a year. Then in a weak moment (or maybe subconsciously I thought I was ready, I don’t know) I said “Ok, let’s do it”. So I went off the pill and started timing things. About two days later I freaked out: There is NO way I’m doing this again! 

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The Value of Time

Sep 16, 2014 by

I met a woman at a dinner party this summer and the topic of our children inevitably came up. She has two sons in college. I have two sons not yet in pre-school. As the wine flowed more freely, our trivial small talk took on a more somber tone. She admitted to me she just experienced one of the saddest moments of her life: dropping her son off at college.   That drive home – alone – symbolized the end of a phase in her life.   She wasn’t ready. Eighteen years wasn’t long enough. I am in a very different phase of Motherhood: The Beginning.  However, even the thought of my son getting on a school bus in a couple years brings an overpowering feeling of sadness and emptiness. Because even that symbolizes the end of a chapter.

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