I probably should have seen this coming

I toyed with writing this post.  I wasn't sure if I could do it.  If I was strong enough or brave enough to put it out there.

I have postpartum depression.

It sounds ridiculious to say it -- my pediatrician warned me that I was at risk for it at my daughter's 10 day old doctor visit.  You see, I had it with my son.  And all of the warning signs were there when my daughter was born -- previous diagnosis.  Winter baby.  Several kids.  High stress factors.  Weak support system (although it's not that people won't help me if I ask.  It's that I'm too stubborn and prideful to ask for help -- when I open my mouth to ask "Can you help me," I say, "I'm doing just fine!  I've totally got this under control." instead).

At my daughter's 8 week visit, the pediatrician seemed horrified that I had gone back to work all ready.  And that I work from home.  With 4 children.  At Christmastime.  And I was planning my son's birthday party -- at our house.  And the sale of our old house had just fallen through -- again.  And that two pipes burst at our new house -- within two weeks ago.

So when the nurse asked if I was under stress, I burst into tears. 

My pediatrician called my OB and made an appointment for me that day.  Off to the OB I went, with 3 kids under the age of 4 in tow.

My OB ran some blood tests and called and made an appointment with a therapist at St. Joseph's for me.  I was ordered to go -- with my children so they could see how I interact with them -- the next day.

I went home and told my husband about it, but I also told him that I was fine.  That I felt foolish.  After all, I wasn't sobbing hysterically under the covers every day.  I was fine.

My husband gently pointed out what I didn't want to see -- that I was over whelmed, over worked, and under rested.  That I may not be sobbing hysterically every day, but that I was stressed and had mood swings.  And that maybe keeping the appointment wasn't the worst thing for me.

So I went.  And I told the therapist what was going on.  I thought for sure that the therapist was going to laugh and send me home, to tell me that I was fine and everyone was overreacting.  I had even put on make up so that I would look pulled together -- my hair was clean and styled, and I was wearing clothes with no spit up on them.  My children were dressed in matching outfits and looked cute as buttons.  We could have been a freakin' TV commercial.  

The therapist wasn't fooled.

She asked when I last ate.  And how much sleep I had gotten the night before.  And when I last took 5 minutes to myself.

She didn't say anything after I responded.  The room was quiet -- even my daughters weren't making any noise.

And that silence freaked me out.

I began talking, too quickly.  I knew the answers I had given weren't the right ones.  I knew that I had somehow failed, but I didn't know how to make it right.  As excuses poured out of my mouth,  I realized I was crying.

She handed me a tissue and told me that PPD isn't always failing to bond with your child or crying all the time.  Sometimes it can almost be as if you bonded too fiercely with your child -- so much so that you become overly anxious and can't relax.  That you are terrified about not being perfect, about your child being hurt, about being less.

And I realized she was right.

I have been so anxious lately, my back has given out from the tension I have been carrying.  I can't sleep.  I'm eating too much crap.  I can't relax -- I'm always doing about 10 different things.  I'm never quiet.

And it makes me feel less.  Less of a mother.  Less of a wife.  Less of a person.

Understand that I am not sharing this in the hopes of friends and family feeling guilty or to start asking what they can do.  That type of support makes me feel guilty and uncomfortable.  I'm supposed to be the person giving the help -- I don't know why that is, but that is what makes me the most comfortable.  I'm not comfortable asking for help.  I'm not comfortable admitting I need it.  I'm supposed to be the strong one.  So I'm in a prison of my own making.

This isn't something that can be made better with a good night's sleep -- to say, "Oh, you just need to sleep" is insulting.  Yes, that is part of it.  But every time I lie down, 50,000 different thoughts begin rattling around my head and I don't know how to turn them off.

Nor is this something that can be made better with drugs -- although those may be necessary at some point.  I'm not there yet.  I don't know if I will ever need them -- I hope not.  But I hope I'm strong enough that if talk therapy doesn't work, I will be able to take them.

To be better requires a lot of different things --  a willingness to get better (which I have).  A partner who will help me (which I have).  An ability to let things go (which I am working on).  The realization that I don't have to be perfect (which I am working on).  Rest (which I don't have at all).  A good diet (which I am working on).  Friends who understand (which I have).  And a family who loves me regardless of my faults (which I have).

But it is also going to take time.  After all, "Depression is never anyone's fault, and it can't be fixed with a stiff upper lip or a positive attitude."

So I apologize if I am not my normal happy go lucky self who is quick to lend a hand.  I want her back.  And to find her again, I have to focus on me.


http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004481/


http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/postpartum-depression/DS00546

I'm not sure what is worse - the boredom or the guilt...

~

Yesterday's doctor's appointments went well - Baby K was moving and grooving, she has gained a whole pound, my blood sugars are above 90, my diet is on track, and my AFI was 7. My doctor was pleased that I had "passed" being on bedrest at home for 5 days but reminded me that we had to remember what got us to this pass, so bedrest continued. Although he did modify it a bit so that I didn't have to lie in bed all the time, but I can't really go out of my house.

I gave him my litany of complaints - my hands and feet keep going numb, I keep seeing spots in my peripheral vision, my blood sugar numbers are high, and my back and sides keep hurting.

My doctor's response? Good. He said that all my complaints told him that I was following his regime of bedrest (hands and feet going numb = blood flow to the placenta, spots in my vision = vertigo from lying down, back and side pain = growing baby, and high blood sugar numbers = a working placenta). So I got no help from that corner.

Bed rest will continue for another week. After that, I'm over 37 weeks, so I'm hoping we can ease up on the rules a bit. It's more than my being bored - I feel horribly guilty.

I feel guilty that throughout May and the beginning of June I promised my kids, "We'll do that when Mommy is done with work." And now we can't.

I feel guilty that their routine has been thrown to hell and they don't get to see their friends often.

I hate and feel guilty that my husband is doing 90% of the childcare and house cleaning when I can't help and that he's not getting the breaks he needs.

I hate and feel guilty that my sister is coming over and cleaning my house and helping my husband set up for the baby instead of doing it myself.

I hate and feel guilty that my friends are feeding my husband and kids when I'm home.

I lie in bed and feel guilty and worried.

I worry about my baby girl, even as I feel her rocking and rolling inside me.

And I'm worried about me - I struggled with postpartum depression after the birth of my son, and I'm afraid that it's going to rear it's ugly head again after Baby K's birth because I'm so bored and guilty and frustrated and worried now.

Added to that, the support system that I had put into play for after the baby is born has been used while I'm on bedrest, and my husband has to go back to work in the middle of August.

Financially speaking, I have to return to work August 1st. Since I work from home, it shouldn't be a problem, but the longer I have to stay on bedrest, the shorter the time seems.

I'm worried I'm going to be on my own after the baby is born, which makes PPD worse, especially since Boyo and Girlie don't start preschool until the middle of September.

I've always been a get up and go, I can take care of everything personality. And now I can't do anything... I hate this.

Mommy/Teacher

I had to start a blog when I was getting my credential... it was for my technology class. I had to show that I was capable of turning on the computer before I could teach the very people who are the most technology capable on the planet - teenagers.

Be that as it may, I never actually posted anything (it wasn't part of the assignment). So my blog floated around in Internet space, blank and forgotten. I never knew what to say... besides, who would bother to read what I wrote? Who cared? It all seemed very narcissistic to me.

Then I had children.

I'm embarrassed to admit that my daughter is two and my son is turning one on Thursday, but I am just now starting my blog. Why, you may ask?

Well, because I'm a narcissist.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of being a stay at home mom (or a SAHM for those of you not up with cool mommy lingo). And I decided to post my confusion out in Internet space in case anyone did care and could offer me some insight.

Ever since my beautiful, intelligent daughter was born, I was chomping at the bit to go back to work. She was planned perfectly - I'm a teacher, I got pregnant in September, she was born in June. I only missed two weeks of school. And come September, armed with a picture of my infant daughter for my desk, I went back to school. I'm not saying it wasn't hard - it was. The first day I left her with the nanny, I sat in the car and cried for 15 minutes. It took all of my will power (and my husband driving away) to not charge back into the house and scoop her up where I knew she would be safe.

But with time, it got easier. Our nanny was wonderful - I knew my daughter was safe. And work was understanding about the fact that I had a new baby - I could bring her to work occasionally, could leave easily when she was sick, and, as a teacher, I had time off at Christmas, spring, and of course, all summer.

And then I got pregnant with my son.

To say he was unplanned would be like saying that the Titanic sort of sank. I took five pregnancy tests. I was leaving to go by more when my husband came home and asked me why I was crying and drinking water (so I could pee more). Our daughter was only 9 months old when I got pregnant - so NOT planned, as my daughter was. But my husband was ecstatic and, after I calmed down, I was too.

My first pregnancy was easy. My second was not. Spotting, cramping, and insulin dependent, gestational diabetes had me in the doctor's office 5 days a week for the third trimester. But thankfully, my son was born perfectly healthy in December.

I settled in as a SAHM for 8 weeks of maternity leave, secretly counting the days until my son was old enough to go to daycare and I could go back to work.

I absolutely hated it.

I was miserable. My son was colicky, I had a severe case of postpartum depression, and I had an 18 month old at home. I would call my husband at work during his lunch break and curse at him because HE got a break. I contacted my work, to see if I could come back early, but daycare wouldn't take my son until he was 6 weeks old.

And then my son got sick.

I don't mean oh poor baby, he got the sniffles. He got SICK. RSV. Pneumonia. Respiratory distress. Ambulance. And, perhaps worst of all, ventilator.

My son was on a ventilator for 5 days. I cried for 4 of them; I only stopped when I found out he would be coming off of the ventilator. I felt so guilty... wanting to go back to work, and not wanting to be around my son. I felt like God was punishing me.

Thank God my son turned out to be fine. Asthmatic, but fine. We left the hospital after a week with a healthy boy and two exhausted parents while my daughter was furious at having been abandoned by her mother for a week. (She got over it with the help of a new Elmo doll.)

The doctors wanted my son to stay out of daycare until he was three months old. For the first time in my adult life, I began to consider being a SAHM. I had worked since I was 15. I had a degree from one of the top universities in California. I had two teaching credentials, and was in my MA program, set to graduate in May. But I was willing to walk away from all of it to stay home with my children.

I knew I was considering it for the wrong reason - guilt, not want. And I was secretly relieved when our accountant told my husband and I that it wouldn't be feasible. I felt I was too selfish a person to stay home with my kids - work was my break, my intellectual stimulation, my sense of SELF. I did not want to give that up to change diapers and deal with temper tantrums. So I headed back to work, convincing myself that sending my son to day care when he was 2 months instead of 3 months would not be the end of the world

But something had happened when I was out on maternity leave. Work was no longer the happy place I remembered - the sense of community that I had missed had been replaced with a sense of cold, hard business. The economy had collapsed, and as a private school, we were feeling the hit. I no longer felt appreciated at work, and the students seemed to get more and more arrogant.

Work started laying off teachers, and I began to feel as though I needed to stay, that I should be grateful to have a job. I was one of the teachers who was "safe," and I went into summer vacation knowing I would have a job in September.

September rolled around, and I thought I would be happy to send my now 2 year old daughter and 8 month old son back to daycare. I wasn't. I was resentful. We had an awesome summer... played, went to the beach, read together... my daughter was holding conversations now, and my son would smile and clap whenever he saw me, shouting "MOMMA!" I hated having to leave them to go to a job where I didn't fill fulfilled.

The final straw came last week when I gave two students detentions for being tardy to my class. My professional judgement was questioned -for the first time ever. I had it. I went home and burst into tears. After an hour of crying, my husband gave me the greatest gift he could give me:

"Honey, you can quit. We will find a way to make it work."

And I realized he was right. We WOULD find a way to make it work. I can tutor or teach college classes nights and weekends (if I can find a job in this economy). But the question now is: do I want to?

I want to be home with my kids. I want to see my son take his first steps, and watch my daughter and son continue to grow. I want to be the one to teach them to read and count and their colors. I want to get to play with them and have them with me. I don't want to miss their childhood.

But I also don't want to miss myself.

So.... Mommy? Or teacher?

Maybe I can work from home. Even be an online teacher. After all, I know how to create a blog.