I Forget My Baby, But I’m OK with That
The time we have with our babies at their tiniest are precious and quick. The time seems to fly faster with each one. Like last week when my six month old daughter grabbed, squeezed, and pulled my chin… well… under my chin, that little sensitive, skin part, just above the neck. My gobble if you will. *30-year-old-mom eye roll*
She tugged so hard that I let out a yelp! Accidentally, but dang! Ouch! I told my husband that this was new. Our son never did that to me when he nursed. My husband reminded me that he remembered, and he was sure he pinched me just like that, and I screeched just like that.
Or this weekend when my daughter shrieked when she didn’t get to bite the twinkle lights that came out of our pumpkin or chew the phone charger cord that she spotted across the room. I don’t remember my son ever getting that upset over not getting his way at this young age.
And tonight, my husband swore that I timed my run upstairs to fix a sticky contact just right, insinuating that I was trying to get him to sing her to sleep and get off of baby-sleep duty. I promised no…and only partially lied. He sang her five rounds of Twinkle Twinkle, and my daughter was sleepy,
chunky, baby putty in his arms. He reminded me that he was the sleep keeper when our son was this small, singing songs and pacing late into the night so I could get a few hours of uninterrupted, breastfeeding-free sleep. I denied it and was sure that I always had the milk and sleep duties on lock down. Plus, I’ve always had a way better memory than him. He assured me that it was he who helped get baby to sleep and back to sleep at six months old, her same age now.
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6 Months Old: I Don’t Like My Baby
Six months into parenting was such a turning point for us three years ago. That was the peak (or valley if you will) of the Dark Days — the darkest part of my postpartum depression.
The days and nights were endless rounds of nursing, vomiting, both of us crying, cleaning us up, changing, laundry, diapers, repeat. My nipples hurt so badly that I couldn’t even see straight. Sometimes my husband gave me the gift of sleep….but I couldn’t sleep even when I tried. That made me cry…
again … even more.
Six months was when I secretly asked a friend “for a friend” about postpartum depression. I finally made the call to my OB. It couldn’t get any worse than it was. Even if I took mood stabilizing medication while I was nursing, which I was unwilling to do up until then, nothing was worse than my life. It couldn’t get any worse. I didn’t like being a mom, and if I was really honest I didn’t even really like my baby. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was sure that I wasn’t the best mom for him. I wasn’t sure that it mattered if I stuck around. It couldn’t get any worse, so I took the meds.
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At the end of six months, a week after taking the prescribed medication recommended by a counselor, and hating myself for it each morning and night, there it was. I’d like to call it a glimmer, but in my self-deprecating state it was more like a mirage, because I didn’t believe it would stick around.
I remember saying something at work that I knew sounded like my old self, sounded like something situationally appropriate (go me!) and also somewhere deep inside really believing what I said. It was a tiny, hidden twinge, but it was there.
I got the order to increase the meds a week later, and I heard it again. I heard myself saying something that sounded like me AND I actually believed it in my head. At the end of six months I thought maybe being a mom wasn’t going to kill me. Maybe I’d survive this. It wasn’t until months later, spring time, that I finally felt like myself and could say to my husband, “I really like this age. I hope he doesn’t grow up.”
I liked my kid! Whew! About damn time!
Mentally Preparing for Math Homework
Of course, even in my depression, I was filling in the baby book, keeping track of milestones, taking photos to document these fleeting moments in time that honestly felt like they lasted forever as I was living them. Unfortunately, I saw most of those 262,800 minutes that made up the first six months of my son’s life. I saw the slow sunrises and mourned the sun sets. I was intimately familiar with those six dark, dark months, but surprisingly I’ve forgotten much of it now that my daughter is mirroring those milestones. It doesn’t feel like I forgot anything, but I guess that’s what depression does to the memory. A depressed memory just isn’t very strong, but I don’t know any differently, so I didn’t realize so much of it was forgotten.
For a brief moment while talking with my husband tonight, I was sad that I didn’t remember my son grabbing at every forbidden, life threatening magnet, and battery, and object in sight, screeching at not getting his way and the timeline of his milestones around this age. Did he scoot first or sit up? Did we give him food before he was crawling or was he just rolling over? But then I remembered that dark, lonely, hellish cave I was in, and maybe I don’t want to remember every single detail. I’m not ashamed of my depression, but if vivid memories of that time brings with it memories of that sadness and desperation, then I’m ok to forget. I’m myself again. I’m better than before – I’m their mom now. I’m important and worthy and BUSY. Man, I had no idea what busy meant. I’m needed. Wanted. I’m snotted on and held, and even pinched in place that weren’t pinchable before.
Thanks to smart phones and Facebook, Instagram and tech-savvy grandparents, and to the fact that my son was my first born and I thought that documenting his milestones made me a good mom, I have many wonderful photos to look back on. I don’t want to change the past and reshape it with only happy memories, but then again, I don’t want relive that horribly dark time, either. Since I can’t have both, then I’m happy to forget some of it. I don’t think that makes me a bad mom, it just makes me a mom — a mom who’s survived the most difficult time in her life.
I won’t remember all of the moments with my kids. I can hardly remember to leave the house with a bra on most days, even when I’m not depressed. However, I need to make room for new stuff, like baby proofing again, teaching empathy, compassion, good touch/bad touch, and shit – 4th grade math will be here before I know it! If I can’t remember everything because I need to still have room for all of the new stuff that’s in my parenting future that I don’t even know about yet, then I’m fine with that.
I want to be on my parental A-game when it comes to the really tough stuff: respect, boundaries, and staying on the same team with my husband. I’ve learned that parents don’t have time to reminisce about all of the baby memories…while we’re doing that the littlest is eating a magnets and the big brother is looking for Lightening McQueen inside the tissue box (don’t ask — lesson learned).
So I’m trying to put the mom guilt aside when I remember how much I’ve forgotten. Being a parent isn’t about being perfect. Besides, I’ve got magnets and tissues to pick up.
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Are you not enjoying this mom gig like you think you should? Let’s connect! Comment below where you’re at in this journey. I hope my story can help you be brave about getting help.
18 Responses
If you’ve experienced postpartum depression, whether it was diagnosed or not, what helped you? What totally didn’t help?
Thanks for sharing with me! I wasn’t brave enough to share with others during my depression, but I hope to help others by showing that they’re not alone
This really helped me I just went and seen my doctor my son is 4 now but I feel like I have felt depressed for a while and just now getting the help I need. Makes me feel good I’m not alone!
I’m so glad, Colby. Please don’t feel alone, because you definitely are not. I hope you’re feeling better and better!
I’m proud of you for sharing something so personal and for getting yourself the help you needed.
It makes me sad we live in a world where shame surrounds the idea of getting help. You’re helping lessen that shame and that’s good work.
This was so helpful, to me, for reasons I didn’t even know, until now. Thank you.❤️ Since first reading this, I’ve actually decided to be proactive, and do something about the way I’ve been feeling. The appointment has been made, with my OB. To be continued…Thank you, again.
Thank you so much for sharing, April! And since your post….. I hope you went to that appointment! I didn’t even have to show up, I just called her and talked to her nurse a couple of times. I definitely would’ve skipped an appointment, so I know how that goes. I hope you have a plan to feeling better!
I’m glad you got help. Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. I asked for help with this too when LO was 6 weeks and now I am so, so, thankful I did (now 3 months old), and listened to my spouse and bff’s suggesting that I get more help. I’m grateful that my OB is awesome. Finding help that works for you takes courage and vulnerability–thank you for showing these traits and helping me and others feel not so alone by sharing your story! You got this, brave lady! 🙂
Thank You, Brave Lady 🙂 Great job listening to your loved ones and getting the help that you needed and deserved. Motherhood is definitely not an easy ride. Way to go! Thank you so much for sharing
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