Crazed Soccer Mom

Please follow Scary Mommy to read my first published piece “5 Lessons My Mother’s Dementia Has Taught My Son.” Such an honor to be featured amongst all these talented writers. I’m a huge fan of this website and am still in shock that they published something I have written.

I have a six-year-old son. I also have a 71 year-old daughter who happens to be my mother. I refer to her as my daughter because it’s an accurate description. My mother was diagnosed with dementia a little over two years ago. I bathe her, clothe her, feed her and care for her the same way one would care for a child. We all live together in the same house along with my husband and a very energetic dog. I live in constant fear: I fear the day my mom loses her mind completely. I fear my husband will wake up one day and join the circus, finally realizing that a circus would bring less drama than our day-to-day life. The one fear that exceeds all others, however, is the fear that my son will become emotionally scarred by the experience of watching me take care of his grandmother (who was once an energetic lady that played catch with him tirelessly) like she’s a child younger than himself. I worry about my son constantly because I would like for his life to be all unicorns and rainbows for as long as possible. I’m sad that he has front row seats to the horrors of dementia day after day. However, I’m becoming more and more conscious of the daily lessons he is learning from my mother. He’s learning things at the age of six that many adults have never learned, and quite possibly should have. There are five lessons in particular I feel my mother teaches my son every day:
1. Patience. Have you ever met a six-year-old? Not the most patient of creatures, are they? My son is no exception. He is an only child so he really never had to wait for anything. My husband and I were free to lavish attention on him constantly since we never had to divide our time between children. Now that the dementia has taken over my mother’s brain, my son’s needs sometimes have to be pushed aside. My mother gets first dibs on the bathroom so she doesn’t have an accident. My mother gets served meals first so she has plenty of time to eat. I sometimes have to tend to my mother first, making sure she’s comfortable and not anxious before I can begin playing with my child. Does my son like waiting his turn? No, not always, but patience is one of life’s necessities, and I’m glad he’s learning that lesson at a young age.
2. Kindness. My mother has mood swings and behavioral changes every time her medication is altered. On school days, I wake my mother a full hour before I wake my son so I can focus on each of them individually. After a recent medication dose increase, one morning my mother was extremely lethargic, unsteady on her feet, and much more confused than usual. As I walked her to and from the bathroom, terrified she would fall, my son decided to follow behind us pushing a chair so that if my mother fell backwards, she would fall into the chair. I did not tell my child to do this, it was completely his idea. My heart broke for the fact that my son even had to think of such an action. Yet I was also proud that my tiny little boy, the same kid that sometimes NEEDS his snack RIGHT NOW, was putting his grandmother first in such a kind-hearted way.
3. Respecting one’s elders. One day, each and every one of us will be old. I don’t know about you, but I sure hope when my time comes the younger generation will treat me with dignity and respect. My son learns this lesson daily as he clears plates for my mother, opens doors for her, and holds her hand to keep her steady. Our elders are a treasure and should be treated as such.
4. Acceptance. My mother is ill. She is not the same woman she was a couple of years ago. But she is still my mother. She is still my son’s grandmother. Accepting my mother’s illness and this new version of the woman I’ve known forever was an extremely difficult lesson for me to learn,much less my child. I’m hopeful that my son will continue to accept my mother as this disease progresses.
5. Strength. Dementia is not only an individual disease. Dementia affects an entire family. Dementia is evil. I look at my child and want to shield him and protect him from this evil. Yet I look at my child and see his strength. He can witness my mother’s anxiety and still build an entire city out of Legos. He can see my mother’s confusion and kick a soccer ball directly into a goal. My boy is strong, and I gain my own strength from his.
I cannot cure my mother of this horrid illness. I cannot cover my son’s eyes or keep him hidden in his room. So I comfort myself knowing that every day is a learning experience designed to build his already exceptional character. I could not be more proud.

I woke up at 4 a.m this morning absolutely DREADING the thought of starting my day. The thought of waking up and getting my mother, son, and myself ready to face life seemed so daunting. I hid under my blankets for a bit and wished that I could be someone else for a day. Who would I rather be? The President? No, too much work. My dog? Not a bad idea since her life seems pretty awesome, but nah. Then it slowly dawned on me. If you can’t be yourself, there’s only one other person you should be. If you can’t be you, always be Mariah Carey.
Stop rolling your eyes and hear me out. I get it, I know you think I’m crazy. I was never much of a Mariah fan growing up, although I appreciated her beautiful voice. In interviews she always seemed a bit quiet and reserved so I never paid much attention to her. Then, slowly, year after year passed..and Mariah lost her mind. She became an over-the-top caricature of herself. So now I’m all in. I LOVE crazy Mariah. Watching her prance around like a unicorn on crack half naked at the age of 46..come on. I want to have that attitude. Just for a day, I want to be Mariah “I don’t give a shit, look at me I’m a unicorn” Carey. There are so many reasons we should ALL want to be Mariah for a day, but here are just a few:
1. Her diamond microphone. The woman owns a diamond encrusted mic. Do you have any idea what I would do with a diamond microphone? I would take it with me to Pick and Save and interview shoppers in the produce area. I would wave it around in the air to interrupt conversations with people I don’t like. I would be a one woman parade, walking up and down my neighborhood twirling it like a baton. It’s a diamond fucking microphone!! Who wouldn’t want one? Mariah doesn’t have to own a diamond mic, she GETS to! I want to be the one who walks around with it just for one day.
2. The attractive group of men she surrounds herself with onstage. I would like an attractive group of men to follow me around all day long, and not for the reasons you’re thinking. I need one man to babysit my mom, another man to drive my son to school, another man to do dishes, and yet another man for laundry. I would ask for a fifth man to help me at work, but that’s just too much. Four men will do just fine. Where does Mariah find these men? Does she pay them? Do they work for free? No one knows. I only know that I’m jealous.
3. I once read that Mariah considers time irrelevant and never wears a watch. God bless her. I’ve been trying to invent KBT (Katie Bohn Time) for years! Sadly, the earth does not seem interested in revolving around me. I’ll keep trying.
4. She reportedly has demanded 20 white kittens and 100 doves in her concert rider. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t care if it’s true. I want 20 white kittens and 100 doves to trail behind me daily like I’m in a fucking Disney movie. Sign. Me. Up. Throw in some penguins while you’re at it.
5. She calls her fans “lambs”. I once called my son a lamb and he looked at me like I was insane. I would like to, just once, in the middle of a work interview with someone of importance, call them my lamb. Who needs a job anyway?
6. Last but not least, her money. We all want some of that Mariah money. I wouldn’t spend it on kittens and doves, though. I make smart choices with money. I’d buy an island and a unicorn. And a magical dragon for my son.
You’re free to judge me as much as you’d like, but I also know that you’re starting to agree. Being Mariah Carey doesn’t sound so bad, now, does it? It’s her attitude I find most attractive. The only problem is that this carefree, “I can do whatever I please” attitude only works for celebrities with lots and lots of money. We average folks can’t get away with this. Or maybe I just really want a unicorn. Is someone selling a unicorn on Craigslist?

I generally do not have the best of luck with New Year’s resolutions. Every year on January 1st bright and early at 6 a.m I vow to eat healthy and be more organized both at work and in my personal life. I vow to keep my anxiety in check and take the new year in stride. By 10 a.m I’ve ripped open a bag of Cheetos, lost most of the important paperwork I’ve left laying around, and called it a year. So what’s the point of resolving to do things differently when I clearly have no self control? With the new year looming right around the corner, I have yet again decided to change some things about my life. However, instead of focusing on the things I WILL do in 2017, I’m focusing on what I will NOT do. Yes, I realize this is the same thing but allow me to be delusional, won’t you? This is my blog after all. Here are the five things I will not be doing next year:
1. I will NOT compare myself to other moms. I am not the mom who stays up until two in the morning baking cupcakes for my son’s entire class. I am the mom who drops an f bomb and runs to the store at the last minute because I forgot it was my turn to bring treats. I am not the mom with the big ass purse filled with sanitary wipes, Band Aids, first aid kit, etc. I swear, I have seen moms with more utensils in their purse than doctors. I won’t be performing surgery on any playground. I do not have a pen for you to borrow. If you need some scraps of paper and stale gum, however, I’ve got you covered. So basically, I’m not the mom who has it all together at all times. But I am the mom who loves my son very much. I am the mom who will drop everything to play with him at any time. I am the mom who tries to be as involved with his life as possible. I will try to focus on those things instead of worrying about all the ways I don’t measure up to others. Maybe I’ll even throw a scalpel in my purse in case of emergencies.
2. I will NOT obsess about my weight. Over the last year, I’ve become more conscious of the poor eating habits I have developed over the past my-whole-life. I do not aspire to be supermodel skinny. I do not aspire to fit into a pair of skinny jeans. I do not plan on eating only kale for the rest of my life. I do, however, want to be as healthy as possible. I want to be able to play with my son and have enough energy to keep up with a six-year-old who thinks he’s a cross between David Beckham and Aaron Rodgers. That is no easy feat, people. So healthy is the way to go. Ripping open a bag of Cheetos at 10 in the morning is not right. Those are best saved for after dinner.
3. I will NOT stress about things that are beyond my control. I have a job, a husband, a child, and a mother with dementia. There is only so much control I have over certain situations. I cannot change the fact that my mother will laugh with me over a funny joke one minute and forget where the bathroom is the next minute. I cannot change the fact that I have to divide my time between my mother and my son like I have two kids instead of one. All I can do is my best. I don’t always feel like that’s good enough, but it has to be.
4. I will NOT go out of my way to please everyone. I’ve been saying this since 2007, but this year I really mean it, I swear. I am an only child and a people pleaser. This is what I do. This is who I am. I’ve come to the conclusion that it fucking sucks. You CAN’T please everyone. There’s no way. It’s important to please my family by being there for them in every way possible. It’s important to please my boss because I need a job. It’s important to please my friends because they’re good people who know how crazy I am and still choose to stick around. It is NOT important to please every single person I come into contact with. Quite honestly, I’m exhausted. If you like me, great. If you don’t, you’re smarter than you know. Congratulations.
5. I will NOT swear so much in 2017. Just kidding. If you think I can do all of this without swearing next year, you’re out of your damn mind.
By now you’ve realized that I’ve only promised to do four things instead of five and you’re wondering if this entire post is a lie. Short answer: I hope not. I am posting this for the world to see (by “world” I mean all four of you reading this) because I truly am serious about attempting to do all of this. Here’s hoping I make it past January 1, 2017 10 a.m. I’m shooting for at least 6 p.m

Motherhood is damn hard. As soon as your little nugget is born, your life becomes an endless list of “things I wasn’t prepared for.” We all expect to lose sleep, lose our minds, and learn to love this little person more than we ever thought possible. Some aspects of motherhood, however, hit us upside the head like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. I’m writing this as a warning to mothers all across America. You will NOT be prepared to watch so many shitty children’s shows.
Go ahead, lie to yourself. “My precious will NEVER watch anything that isn’t educational!” Whatever you say. “My precious will ONLY watch children’s shows that I can enjoy as well!” Hope you enjoy furry creatures who can barely speak English, because that shit is headed in your direction. If you’re wondering which shows to avoid, you are in luck. These are the five kids shows that every mom hates:
1. Caillou . We need to fucking talk about Caillou. You may be asking yourself what a Caillou is. Caillou is not a thing. Rather, Caillou is a fictional character that the Canadians have invented to torture the world. The Canadians also brought us Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling, so I can almost forgive them for Caillou. Almost. Caillou is a four-year-old boy and the whiniest, most annoying fictional character you will ever meet. Caillou’s voice is nails-on-chalkboard, fork-scraping-against-teeth annoying. This is before he starts whining. And he will whine about something in every. Single. Episode. Caillou always feels he’s been wronged in some way. Newsflash, kid: You’re four. Life hasn’t even begun to fuck you over yet. He lives with his parents who regularly ship him over to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, presumably because Mom and Dad have to drink themselves into a coma to forget all the whining. I’m assuming, anyway. The drinking is done off camera. He also has a younger sister named Rosie who he is extremely jealous of. I’m waiting to see the “very special” episode of Caillou where the entire family stuffs him in a box and sells him on eBay. Do yourself a favor. Don’t let your kids watch this shit. Ever.
2. Dora the Explorer. Here’s the premise: A little girl named Dora goes off on an adventure in every episode with a talking backpack and a monkey named Boots. She’s always getting lost and asking for assistance from the viewing audience (which is your child unless you turn this horrible show off.) Her parents are pretty much M.I.A most likely because they’re drinking with Caillou’s parents. My son watched this show several times when he was about three-years-old. I will never forget the moment Dora was looking for a particular tree, asking the viewers at home for help. My son screamed at the t.v “It’s right in front of you!!!!” Then he shut the television off and brought me a book to read instead. My kid was so annoyed that he chose a BOOK over t.v time. So, ok, maybe Dora is good for something.
3. Teletubbies. What are the Teletubbies? No fucking clue. There are four of them named Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Laa Laa and Po. They have televisions in their stomachs and a magical event takes place during every episode. They don’t talk, they just babble incoherently. The entire show is like a bad LSD trip, if people were still tripping on LSD. If you see this shit on your tv screen, turn it off and say no to drugs.
4. The Wiggles. A musical (I use that term loosely) band from Australia. If your child ever happens to catch an episode of this show, do yourself a favor and just throw your tv out of the house. Do it. After hearing four grown ass men annoy the hell out of you with their song and dance routine, you’ll never be the same again. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
5. Elmo. One word. I know Sesame Street is a wonderful, educational show that’s been around for years. I also know that Sesame Street is not technically Elmo’s show as it features many other characters. Elmo, however, needs to be handed his walking papers. It’s time. The worst mistake I ever made as a parent was buying a Tickle-Me Elmo doll for my son. Elmo dolls should be used as a torture device by the CIA when interrogating criminals. Anyone left alone with that crazy doll in a cold, dark room will give up all kinds of government secrets. The end.
These shows should be avoided at all cost. Do not say you weren’t warned about this. Wrestle that remote out of your kid’s hand and turn that tv off. Read. Go for a walk. Your sanity is at stake.

This blog post is dedicated to my new BFF, Miss Shirley (not her real name). Miss Shirley happens to be one of the residents of the rehabilitation facility my mother is staying at while she recovers and receives therapy for the shoulder she dislocated after suffering a seizure. Miss Shirley also happens to be all kinds of amazing for so many different reasons.
First, I have to explain to you how difficult it is for me to entrust my mom’s safety to others. I’ve been taking care of her the last two years. I understand her when she speaks Serbian. I also understand that sometimes hearing her say the words,”I need a spoon” really means that she has to use the bathroom. It’s bizarre and difficult to explain to others, but I get it because I’ve lived with it for so long. 98% of the nurses and aides at this facility look at my mom as if she’s a train derailing. While that may be an accurate description on certain days, she’s still a person. She may be feisty and difficult to understand, but she still deserves to be cared for properly, just like anyone else. My mother was never good at sitting still, even when she was healthy. She always needed to be up and moving about. Unfortunately, her constant need to be on the move isn’t safe at the moment. She’s unsteady on her feet and needs to be monitored at all times. Less than 24 hours into her stay at this facility, she fell as she was trying to stand up. This happened in the dining room at dinner time. I explained to the staff (rather loudly) that she needs to be supervised at meals. Period. It’s not up for discussion as she WILL try to stand up. There was lots of hemming and hawing about finding a staff member to sit with her, but finally they at least moved her to a table closer to the front of the room where she’d be more visible. As my mother was getting situated at her new table, I was getting to know her new table mate:Miss Shirley.

Miss Shirley is a large, imposing African-American woman. Throughout our first meal spent with her, I noticed she was very very comfortable bossing the staff around. I noticed her watching me and I decided instantly that Miss Shirley would be my baba-sitter. The woman has had a couple of strokes but let’s keep it real: I wanted her to boss my mom around the way she was bossing the staff. Even though I was slightly intimidated by the way she glared at everyone, I decided to try talking to her. When I asked her if she was enjoying her meal, she glared at me and said, “No. It tastes like shit.” Ok sooo winning her over would be harder than I thought. My mom is on a purée diet at the facility which Miss Shirley noticed and asked, “What the hell is that shit they feeding your mama?” I told her that my son noticed on his last visit and asked why Baba was eating cat food. Miss Shirley’s face lit up and she told me I was raising a smart kid. Then she demanded that a staff member bring her a Big Mac. Of course, the answer was a resounding no. I silently vowed to bring her all the Big Macs in all the land if she could just baba-sit my mom during meals.

I decided to ask Miss Shirley to be my baba-sitter during our second meal with her. I wasn’t sure what she’d say, I just knew that I was desperate. I couldn’t be there for every meal with my mom because of work and my son. The staff already let her fall once so my only hope was this 80 something year old stroke victim. When a staff member wheeled Miss Shirley to our table, I didn’t even hesitate. I looked at her and said,”Hi Miss Shirley I’m so sorry to bother you but you seem like you’ve got it together and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my mom at meals you know just tell her to sit down if she stands she’ll listen to you I promise she won’t try to argue she’ll sit down please can you do that for me please?” When I finally stopped to take a breath, Miss Shirley smiled and said, “Of course I’ll watch your mama when you’re not here and I’ll give you a full report when I see you.” JACKPOT! I didn’t even ASK for a report, but let’s do this!! We shook hands to seal the deal and I have never felt better. Miss Shirley has saved the day. Yeah, I guess the staff has gotten better too. They’ve finally realized my mom needs to be monitored thoroughly. But who are we kidding? It’s all about Miss Shirley. I’m currently calculating how many Big Macs I’ll owe her by the time this is all over.

• So, friends, this is why we all need a Miss Shirley. But you can get your own damn Miss Shirley, because you can’t have mine.

 

 

I am the mother of a tiny six-year-old boy. I am also “mother” to a 71 year old woman who happens to be my mom. It’s been over a week since my mom was admitted to the hospital after having a seizure. For the past ten days, I have been attempting to walk a very thin tightrope between being at the hospital with my mother and being at home with my son. I also have a wonderful husband who has to be put aside for a bit while I try to figure this out. Oh, yeah, there’s a full time job too. So. This sucks. I’m not writing this because I want you to feel sorry for me. I’m not writing this because I feel like whining ( well, maybe a little.) I’m writing this because: It. Sucks. Yes, I realize my choice of words aren’t the most eloquent. If you’re looking for Shakespeare, you’ve got the wrong blog. If you’re looking for honesty, here it is. Five reasons the past ten days have SUCKED:

1) My son saw my mom’s seizure. People, there’s a reason we play Tooth Fairy/Santa Claus/Easter Bunny with our kids. We want them to remain kids as long as possible. Of course we know they will eventually have to grow up and be faced with horrific choices (Trump or Clinton? How about vodka? Vodka,2016. That’s a vote we can all agree on.) Bad experiences are a part of life. But why did my kid have to see this seizure at the age of six? I wish he could have gone another few years without a care in the world. It is what it is. But it sucks.

2) That hospital smell. You know it and I know it. My kid won’t even hug me anymore because I smell like Grey’s Anatomy (not, unfortunately, like Patrick Dempsey.) That smell is on my clothes, in my hair, even in my car. It’s become a part of me. And it sucks.

3) 98 percent of my mom’s nurses look like they’re nine years old. I see these children and I have to physically hold my mouth closed so I don’t ask the following questions: Do you know how to tie your shoes? Can you count to ten? Are you sure you know how to hook up an IV? Maybe you should call your mommy and have her do it. One of the young nurses commented on how tired I’ve been looking. She told me she knows the feeling because she feels the same way after going out drinking with her friends. She compared partying with her friends to my day spent feeding my mom, worrying about my mom, and worrying about my son. If these are the medical professionals we’ve got lined up, just hand me a scalpel if I ever need surgery. I’ll fix my own heart. For every young drunken nurse, however, there have been 10 wonderful, caring, compassionate nurses. I am so grateful to them.

4)I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m only writing this because laying down to sleep means being alone with my racing thoughts. That sucks.

5)Here’s what sucks most of all: When I’m with my mom at the hospital, I feel like a shitty mom to my son. When I’m with my son, I feel like a shitty daughter. I KNOW I’ve been a shitty wife. All I know is that I’m trying my best to please everyone. I suck at it.

Thanks for reading this garbage. I will read this blog entry in a few days and realize how awful it is. I’m not even thinking clearly right now. I am being honest, though. So that’s something.

 

 

• I research news stories and current events for a living. I spent the better part of today researching anxiety in children. As part of my research, I spoke to several pediatricians and children’s psychologists about the rising number of kids who experience severe anxiety. I also spoke to several people with the job title of “parenting expert.” I’ve heard this title used in the past and I find it quite interesting. I will be putting quotation marks around the term “parenting expert” for the duration of this post because I call bullshit. What the actual fuck is a “parenting expert?”
  I spoke to a woman with two kids ages 19 and 16. I asked her how she earned the title of “parenting expert” and she was extremely vague with her answer. Several years of school, kids blah blah yadda yadda. All I heard was that she has one kid in college and one who just received his driver’s license. Honey, you can’t call yourself an expert. You’re just getting started! You have to make sure your college kid stays away from beer bongs and your brand new driver kid stays off of sidewalks! Call me when they’ve both graduated, found jobs, and stayed out of prison. Then I will take your “parenting expert” title seriously.
  I am ending this post with a question because I really want to hear what other people think. Is “parenting expert” a real title?

Summer is winding down and the school year is about to begin. While spending the summer with my precious six-year-old son, I’ve thought long and hard about a certain group of people who play a major role in our children’s lives: teachers. Imagine spending HOURS in a room with not only your child, but over 20 or 30 other children as well. Imagine trying to corral these children into listening to you speak. Now imagine trying to teach them important skills and life lessons, wondering if one day all 25 of them will stage a coup and lose their shit simultaneously. There’s only one of you and 25 of them. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor, are they? Having trouble breathing? Yeah, me too. Which is why I have compiled this list of 5 things teachers need RIGHT NOW:
1) Respect. Not only from your child, but from you as well. You know that weekly classroom newsletter your kid brings home? Read it. The list of supplies your child’s teacher is requesting? Buy them. The homework your kid is bitching about? Make sure it’s done. Respect that this teacher is trying to ensure your child’s success in the classroom.
2) Trust. Trust the fact that your child’s teacher is an educated professional. I believe we are all guilty of “helicopter” parenting at some point in our lives. We hover because we all want what’s best for our child. If you feel strongly that your child is being wronged in some way, by all means speak up. However, if little Jessica or little Steven is being a pain in the ass and their teacher brings it to your attention (probably not as bluntly as I just did) trust that it’s true. Steven and Jessica both need a time out.
3) Money. This one is geared towards the powers that be who determine a teacher’s salary. I’ll make it really easy for you: Give. Them. All. The. Money. Twenty to thirty kids in a classroom, some with special needs, some with behavior problems, some who have never heard the word no in their lives, and some who love being in school because their home life is a horror show. Throw in some crazy as fuck parents and some government mandated guidelines about how children SHOULD be taught because God forbid a teacher get creative or even worse, FUN with their teaching material. I don’t care if you have to steal a pot of gold from a leprechaun at the bottom of a rainbow. Give them money. Here’s my paycheck to get you started. Just kidding, I need that back. Really, though, let’s pay teachers what they’re worth.
4) Understanding. Understand that teachers have more than just your child to worry about. I believe that all specific requests to teachers can and should be brought forward politely and patiently. Unless it’s a question of your child’s health or safety, wait your turn. Another child’s issue with bullies trumps little Jessica’s “issue” with disliking the fruit snacks handed out during snack time.
5) Appreciation. I’m talking more than just that week in May. If your child’s teacher goes above and beyond with anything regarding your child, a thank you goes a long way. Again, there are other children in that classroom. Like your mother taught you, mind your manners.
My son started school two years ago. In the past two years, I have been consistently amazed by what teachers do in a classroom full of children (under the age of six, no less!). I have been consistently amazed with the knowledge my son brings home from school every day. I have also been consistently amazed with the fact that his teachers can have a classroom full of children and still describe my son’s personality to a tee, proving that NO child is left behind. We all strive to work hard no matter what we do for a living. Teachers, however, are entrusted with our kids, our flesh and blood, a very precious commodity. People who are helping to mold and shape our future deserve these five things and much, much more.

Postpartum depression is a real thing. I can’t believe I even feel the need to start with that sentence but I do. I hear people throw around cutesy little phrases like “baby blues” and I shudder. I remember looking down at my son for the first time and only having one thought continuously running through my brain: “How in the world am I going to keep this child alive?” As a child, every pet I ever had ran away from me in search of a better life. My bird flew the coop, the kitten I had made a break for it, and I killed every fish I ever owned because I forgot to feed it. Plants and flowers don’t stand a chance with me. Now I had this tiny, perfect little boy to take care of and I felt no joy whatsoever. All I felt was anxiety. Then I wondered what was wrong with me. On t.v., mothers instantly bond with their children. I read Facebook posts daily from my mom friends discussing their perfect lives with their perfect children in their perfect homes. Meanwhile, I was exhausted. The whole “don’t worry, just nap while your baby is napping” thing never worked for me. While my baby was napping, I had to stand over his crib obsessively and make sure he was breathing. I was told that breast feeding is the way to go if you want your child to be a smart, successful, PhD Rhodes Scholar. I wasn’t producing enough milk, though, and had to supplement with formula. I automatically felt like a complete failure for not being able to feed my baby the “proper” way. A nurse at the hospital glared at me and said, “You do realize you’re raising a bottle baby, right?” I didn’t really see the problem since it was a bottle of formula and not a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but what did I know? This woman is a nurse so she knows more than me. I know nothing. I’m a failure.
My first “outing” after having my son was a brief run to Pick and Save. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this story, not even my husband. I sat in my car and cried for 15 minutes, sobbing, one of those ugly cries that Oprah always talked about. I considered driving somewhere far, far away because who did I think I was raising a baby? I had no experience with kids. I couldn’t get my baby to stop crying. I couldn’t even produce milk to feed him. I was a total loser. I finally got out of the car and I must have looked like hell because a random guy with long hair and a Metallica T shirt asked if I needed a hug. As horrible as I felt, as worthless as I felt, as ashamed as I felt I did know this: I most definitely did NOT need a hug from a Metallica reject. So at least I wasn’t completely crazy.
I knew I needed help. At my next check-up, I told my doctor how I was feeling. She gave me a questionnaire to fill out and left me alone with my sadness. She came back, checked my score and told me I failed miserably. People, I was a straight A student in school. This is the first test I ever failed. I was referred to a different Doctor and officially given the post-partum depression diagnoses.
Yes, I was on medication. No, I am not on medication currently. No, I’m
not ashamed to admit that I was taking meds to feel better and here’s why: Depression is an illness. My feelings were not imaginary. My feelings could not be “fixed” with exercise and vitamins (sorry, Tom Cruise, depression expert.) Post partum has NOTHING to do with loving your child less than any other mother. In fact, in my warped mind, I felt that if I wasn’t around my son would be better off. I truly believed it with all my heart because I wanted what was best for him, and at the time, I didn’t think that was me.
Flash forward six years: My “bottle baby” is a healthy, active, naughty, sweet, smart, funny, serious, crazy little boy. He is completely AWESOME and I like to think that I had at least a little bit to do with that. If you’re depressed, get help. Ask for it. It sucks and it’s hard and it’s horrible but do it. Otherwise, you’ll be the bottle baby with a Jack Daniel’s in your hand and a Metallica dude trying to give you a hug. That, my friends, is rock bottom.