The Time I can Never Get Back

We sold the crib, the travel cot, and the stroller today. It triggered something I thought I had addressed and accepted but clearly I still needed to grieve.

I have never been one to go goo-ey and coo-ey when a newborn is in the room.

There has only been one who, once I got over the fear that I might break her, I couldn’t get enough of holding, engaging with, smiling at, watching her during tummy time, or dozing away in her pack and play.  I cheered as I watched her hit her milestones and cried tears of joy the first time she waved to me. I still love to watch videos of her, whether it’s when she was so tiny she’s nothing more than a puffalump on her mother’s knee or when she’s singing her own version of a Christmas carol. This girl has made my heart light up since the very first time I laid eyes on her. Including those newborn days I was luckily enough to share with her.

This little girl is my beautiful, hilarious, spunky little niece. I love her to bits.

I did not get this with my daughter.

When the midwives caught my baby girl and handed her over, I was overcome with emotion and in awe of the miracle of life.  I loved her from the very beginning.

But I still felt nothing.

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“Make the most of every moment, cherish it, and enjoy it, as they’re only this age once and it will be done before you know it,” a stranger said as I was standing in the baby section of a department store, just barely holding myself together. I knew nothing about how to be a mom. I was convinced that I would kill my baby by shear incompetence if not from some subconscious action in an attempt to stop the dark thoughts from flooding through my head. I was hating motherhood, sure I had made a drastic mistake, and absolutely overwhelmed by the fact that I had no other greater responsibility than to make sure I didn’t fuck this baby up, and worried that I might have already done so.

I blinked back tears and focused on the various maternity tights I found myself in front of as the woman continued talking.

“The first two years are the most important….” I switched off.  It was all I could do not to just hand her my baby girl and walk away.  Surely she knew better than I did.  Based on the streams of “You’re so lucky”, “You must be in heaven”,  “Life must seem so wonderful with her around”, “You must be enjoying your time together” I’d been hearing, everyone seemed to know how to do this better than me.  I couldn’t understand if everyone else enjoyed it, why couldn’t I?  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t adjust to the new role like everyone around me had?

So I waited for it to get better. I played the “fake it till you make it” role to the extreme, parenting by the book, hoping that one day I’d get up and I’d do something just because it felt right.  I didn’t feel one iota of mother’s instinct.  If I hadn’t had the Baby Whisperer, I would have been in ruins.

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Those two years have been and gone.  I learned that I had an illness and it wasn’t down to bad mothering. I got help. I took medication. I attended appointments. I wrote. I got better. I continue to heal.  I enjoy my daughter’s company sometimes. (Do normal moms enjoy their kids’ company all the time?)

But the fact remains that my daughter isn’t a baby and never will be again.  I will never ever get that time back.  I hate that I will never hold my little baby girl in my arms and not want to put her down. I won’t know what it feels like to stare at her face for hours and enjoy every minute of it.  My chest never filled with pride the first time she rolled over or sat on her own. The only hope I have is that someday I will look at the millions of pictures we have of her baby days and I will cry the tears of joy I should have when those moments happened. 

I missed my baby. 

That will forever break my heart.

These things I've learned...

I turned another year older this week so couldn't help but sit back and think about how the last year went. Of course, the difference is, this time last year I was just barely beginning to come out of the deep dark fog of postnatal depression. I struggle to remember what I did last year for my birthday much less how I felt at the time.  The answer, most likely, is numb. That’s the odd part about all the days I have now where I’m sad and weepy or impatient and completely pissed off at the situation – that’s actually progress.  That numbness? That was the ppdemons winning. Emotions?  That’s me.  A sappy romantic whether I want to admit it or not. Lately I’ve had a few glimpses of my feisty old self and it’s nice to know she’s still in there and that she’s fighting her way back out again.  I’ve even had some good belly laughs with my little girl recently.  Ahhh, my humour. Now that is something I’ve missed.

My point is my daughter and I, well, we’ve come a long way baby.  In light of the old me coming out to join the new me and in celebration of the beginning of my new year, I’ve decided to compile a list of the things I’ve learned since my daughter was born. It’s by no means complete, but it’s a start. (Note: She’s 20 months, not a year, but bear with me, it’s all a bit of a blur)

I’ve learned that…

…. if you let a newborn sleep as long as they’d like in the day, their empty tummies and brand new lungs will make you pay for it at night.

…. meconium is one of the stickiest, hard to clean substances known to man. 

…. baby poo is actually relatively inoffensive until you start them on solids

…. one does actually get used to being vomited on regularly.  There were times I not only continued to wear a shirt that had been spit up on but that I put it on again the following day. (It was only milk after all…)

…. a baby really does have different cries for tiredness, hunger, fear, frustration, and wind.

…. you can never have too many muslins/burp cloths.

…. cloth diapers come in handy as towels, change mat covers, and burp cloths too.

…. stain remover for cloth diapers is an excellent way to get out stains, especially that crazy yellow newborn poo.

.

I've learned that...

…. it is actually possible to take thousands of photos in just a few short months.

.... a baby can start teething long before one actually manages to cut through. 

…. having a spotless house isn’t always a first priority. In fact, it’s actually lowest on the list right now and the house is still generally tidy and organized.

…. there are few things better than having a baby that can soothe herself to sleep. 

…. a lot of good can come from baby books. I’m not sure how I would have managed without consulting “The Baby Whisperer” on a regular basis.

…. it’s handy to have a stroller and a baby carrier or sling of some sort.  They both have their advantages and disadvantages.

…. it is a lovely feeling to have a little one snuggled in close and dozing on me while I walk around town.

I've learned...

…. that despite my deepest love for my baby girl, it was still possible to feel nothing for her.

…. that no matter what I do, I cannot get back those days I lost when I was suffering from a most evil and heartless illness.

…. that I must learn to forgive myself for those darkest of days. That it wasn’t my fault.

…. That it is possible to smile, to laugh, to interact even when I am feeling nothing.

…. that my little girl is funny and happy despite that fact that her mother has been battling for all 20 months of her tiny little life.

I've learned that...

…. my little girl is so decidedly textbook that those “what to expect from your baby this week” blurbs are almost always right on.

….”Dada” will almost always be said before “mama.”

…. babies’ first rickety, jittery, teeter, tottery steps are at once hilarious and exciting.

I've learned that...

.... even when you know you need it, asking for help is one of the hardest things to do in the world.

…. even once you get the help you need, there is no quick fix, and certainly no easy options, when it comes to battling postnatal depression.

…. try as I might to be strong, this illness has had a profound effect on my husband, my family, and my close friends.

and

I've learned that...

.... my husband, my family, and my close friends are some of the most amazing and supportive people anyone could hope for.  I love you all. You have been my saviours. xx

My Year as a Milk Machine

Before becoming a mom, I was relatively indifferent when it came to breastfeeding.  I was a formula fed baby but I had no big ideals that swayed me one way or the other.  I figured I’d give it a go but if it didn’t work out, we’d switch to formula. At the end of the day, it was about finding the best way to give my baby the sustenance it needed.

My little girl was just minutes old the first time I breastfed her.  It wasn’t magical and no sparks flew. However, I was amazed that by mere instinct, two novices were able to get things lined up right so I was actually feeding her with something from my body. 

It absolutely blew my mind.

It turned out things weren’t quite so perfect that first feed and I ended up sore for days because of it.  While I was in the hospital, I asked a midwife for help every time my daughter needed to eat.  Usually a modest person, I stripped from the waste up and let them show me what to do.  It was still awkward, but by the time I left I was relatively confident I could continue with breast feeding when I got home.

Then came DAY FOUR.  The day my milk came in.  I was exhausted and an emotional disaster and at some point my daughter forgot how to latch on.  

I sent a text message to my sister and she called with some life (sanity) saving ideas. 

Within five minutes, baby was eating like a champ.  I will be forever thankful for that phone call.  I am also grateful it worked out that easily for me.  Feeding problem solved.

(Day four was one of the worst days of my life. Someday, when I am ready, it will likely form its own post)

But it was tiring. While I had figured out the basics of breastfeeding, each session still took several attempts before she was actually eating.  According to my birthing class, feeding time was best for forming the bond with my new child so I spent each meal watching my daughter, trying to memorize her face, feeling her tiny little fingers, stroking her cheek to wake her when she dozed off.  My body did seem to instinctually respond to this.  The more I engaged my daughter, the more milk I seemed to produce. Her meals often began with milk spurting uncontrollably out of me like someone had stuck a pin in an over filled water balloon.  She’d stop, sputtering and coughing, turning her head away. It was frustrating and humiliating to have to sit there, with a cloth clamped to my nipple until it calmed down enough for my daughter to continue her meal.

I’d wake up in the morning, my breasts so engorged they didn’t look or feel normal anymore. I’d have to hand express a bit before my lady could start her morning feed.  I felt completely out of control of my own body. My entire existence seemed to be to make and to deliver milk. 

I began expressing milk when my daughter was six weeks old. If anything, this reinforced my feeling that I was nothing more than a milk machine because now, when I wasn’t feeding my daughter, I was pumping. Sterilizing bottles, labelling freezer bags, defrosting the next night’s feed, and rotating the ‘stock’ was added to my daily routine.

It was monotonous and exhausting.

As the months rolled by and the routine began to feel ‘normal,’ switching to formula seemed like it would just add more work. I was battling insomnia and exhaustion so sacrificing precious moments of rest to prepare a morning bottle sounded like hell.  I decided I’d rather sit in my zombie state for the twenty boring minutes while she ate.  Plus, it was saving us money. It was months after my “must return to work” date, and I was still job hunting. It seemed silly to add an extra expense as long as my body was instinctually producing what my baby needed. 

I also felt I had an obligation to my daughter to feed her for the first year.  It was no longer about me finding a connection with my baby but just trying to do one thing right for her. If for some reason, I wouldn’t be around for a feed, I made sure to express, worried that my milk would dry up if I skipped just one time.  I would express at night for an hour or more, just to collect (my skewed definition of) a reasonable amount of milk.  There were days when I had little or no appetite and my milk production would suffer. I’d beat myself up for it, crying at the measly amount I’d managed to collect.  Clogged ducts were disgusting and painful but I expressed my way through several of them, determined to have everything in working order for my baby girl.

This sense of obligation was bordering on obsession and part of me knew it but couldn’t stop.  If a friend of mine had told me she thought her child would wither and die if she were to have formula instead of breast milk, I would have laughed and shook my head at such nonsense. Yet I was certain this is exactly what would happen if I my girl were to miss out on the nutritious gold top (as my health visitor chose to describe it) my mammary glands produced. I was so consumed with guilt over not connecting with her that I felt the least I could do was continue to breastfeed.

I can honestly say I didn’t enjoy breastfeeding, even if I did give her breastmilk for a year. Expressing was a lot of work but in a lot of ways it was easier for me than feeding her. I was happy to give the bottle to anyone who wanted to feed her and I was relieved that she couldn’t care less who held it as long as she got her milk.

I felt tremendously guilty for this and tried to make up for it when actually breastfeeding.  For a long time I clung to the fact that we were connecting on a primal level even if I couldn’t feel it consciously. I needed that.  Providing nutrition for her was my way of saying I was sorry for not being the mom she deserved. Health visitors and counsellors kept telling me it showed strength that I was still breast feeding. I didn’t believe it but I wanted it to be true. Stopping wasn’t an option. 

I started weaning little miss at about ten months.  By a year we were down to just the morning feed.  A few weeks later, I stopped breastfeeding all together.  The bottle was gone a week after that.  It’s been cow’s milk in cups since.  All in all, it was a painless transition. I was so happy for that chapter to be over.  It was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

I don’t feel like this now. I’m glad I managed to feed her for a year, but I wonder why I felt the need to put that pressure on myself when I was dealing with so much.  I have not once felt guilty about weaning her when I did and I can’t help but wonder what took me so long.  I wish I could have recognized that the world (or my daughter) wouldn’t crumble if I’d stopped. 

There is more to motherhood than milk. 

Tossing my Security Blanket

A few weeks ago, I packed a small carry-on for the three of us and we went on a short, unplanned trip to visit relatives. Since then, life has been a whirlwind of emotions, busy schedules, big changes, usual life stresses, and a few ‘not so usual’ stresses thrown in there too.  Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, my husband and I have just stepped around that carry-on, leaving it where it had dropped the day we got home. It didn’t get fully unpacked until last night. Other than cluttering up a relatively compact living space, it was relatively inconsequential. 

There is, however, one very significant item that stayed unused in that bag.

The baby monitor.

Otherwise known as my security blanket.

 When I brought my baby home I was sure she was going to die if I didn’t stay up all night watching her breathe.  I was thankful for her little floppy windpipe, rattling with each little breath.  It saved me from having to lean over her in the middle of the night to make sure she was okay.

When she was napping, I carried the monitor from room to room, petrified I might miss her crying and leave her on her own for a moment too long. I learned what the flicker of the monitor lights meant so if I had to, I could judge between idle chat and a cry of distress without hearing the slightest peep. I spent every waking moment watching her and connecting each movement, each reaction, with the sounds she made.  By the time she began to spend nights in her own room, I knew every normal shuffle and shift. I didn’t need to get up and check on her unless a new sound came out of the speaker.

So as a small part of her independence began, she had no idea that I never slept soundly, afraid I might miss something if I drifted off too deeply. The monitor was permanently turned up to eleven so I wouldn’t miss a sound.  It took me over a year before I could confidently take a shower as she napped without having to periodically open the shower door to watch the monitor’s lights flicker.

My little lady was over a year old when I somehow managed to drop my security blanket the monitor into the glass of water on my bedside table.  It was just the perfect dimensions – small enough to fit in but large enough so wrapping my fingers around it was nearly impossible. It bobbed up and down as I desperately tried to fish it out.  When I finally did rescue it, it wouldn’t turn on. I took it as a sign that perhaps I should let go and realize she’d be fine in another room without something amplifying and broadcasting her every sound to me.  I didn’t sleep at all that night, laying there and listening for a muffled cry that I might miss or a cough that hadn’t been detected.  I tried the monitor again the following night and it worked so on it went.

My daughter was almost 18 months when we travelled to Canada. I felt pathetic for having to ask if I could borrow one.  It seemed even more ridiculous that I might get an adapter and add yet another thing to our stuffed luggage just to quell this ongoing irrational anxiety. I was fed up with feeling like a slave to this stupid little speaker anyway.  My daughter is strong, has a set of lungs on her, and knows how to call for us from another room. I managed the week without it and vowed to unplug the monitor when we returned home.

I couldn’t do it.

 The thought of it made me physically sick.  Pathetic as I knew it was, I continued to turn the monitor on when she wasn’t in the room with me. (Yes, sometimes even when she was playing in her room on her own)

When I come up against any of my triggers (homesickness, money worries, and grief are my big three), more often than not it manifests itself as anxiety. This translates into a horrendous sense of foreboding and a feeling of almost certainty that tremendous harm or even death is lurking just around the corner for my little girl.  My desire to keep her in my clutches at all times contradicts my biggest desire of keeping her confident and independent so I do everything in my power to remind myself that it’s the depression talking and she will be okay.  

Sometimes the ppd demons win. When they do, I give my daughter extra cuddles, which she usually tries to squirm away from to get back to playing. That’s okay with me. It’s kind of the way I want it. 

I’ve had a tough few weeks and anxiety has reared its ugly head on more than one occasion.

In the midst of it all, the monitor stayed packed away, I’ve managed to sleep at night....and I’ve been there each and every time my little girl has cried out for me as well.

It’s all about the baby steps, and frankly this is practically a leap in my book.

Good night my baby.  I’ll hear you if you need me.

I Missed My Connection

Detached.  Apathetic.  Determined.

Not words you’d expect a mom to use when describing her emotions towards her new role.  I had a new job and I attacked it the way I knew how.  I read up on it, watched relevant programs, asked friends and family about their experiences, then formulated a plan.  I expected it to be hard.  I expected not to get much sleep.  I even expected the unexpected.  I figured love would get me through. That inexplicable bond between mother and child would carry me through the difficult patches.

I had not expected that part to be one of my biggest challenges.

I've Got a Little Daddy's Girl...and I thank my lucky stars

One of the drawbacks to running on auto-pilot is sometimes I forget to let the nice emotions out too.  So, since this is what I created this blog for, today’s post lets you in on the sappy side.

I can almost see my husband rolling his eyes now as he reads this – being gushed about or thanked on any sort of social network is certainly not high on his list

There has been one big bright shining spark throughout the last year and that has been my husband.  He has loved our little girl with his whole being, from the moment he met her. If you watch them together or listen to him talk about her, you can almost see the love resonating through him. I don’t know how to explain it because I don’t know how it is for the rest of you but loving my little girl did not came naturally. I loved her with my mind first (of course I loved her, she was my daughter) but loving her with my heart came later. I can tell just by watching Andrew that it is not the same for him. He definitely loves her with his heart and I’m pretty sure he does not need logic to know he wants to laugh and play with her as he does. 

She lights up when he walks in the room. “Daddy?” is often the first thing she asks about in the morning, pitter-pattering into the bedroom to make sure he’s up too. Their love is palpable and it has warmed my heart even on my darkest days to see the two of them together. She is a Daddy’s girl to the highest degree and it has been my saving grace.