Not surprising, what with my history of having SAD (seasonal affective disorder) that I have the baby blues. It came to a head this past Saturday, when I couldn’t stop Daniel from crying. So I put him in his crib, went on autopilot, and started making formula for his night-time feedings in the kitchen, all the while Daniel was screaming his head off.
The Hubby came back from the store, immediately went to the nursery, and calmed the baby. I wandered into the nursery, looked at Daniel, sat down on the futon, curled up into a little ball, and started sobbing.
I was so good all of this past week, taking care of the baby 24/7, running errands, pumping for milk, going for Daniel’s follow-up with his pediatrician. I was upbeat and everything. I guess I crashed.
I guess I needed to crash.
Self-doubt in my maternal abilities and keen loneliness during the day came to a head this past Saturday.
I know I’m not unique in this. After all, it’s policy for the postpartum nurses at the hospital to talk about postpartum depression with new mothers before they’re discharged, and I had that talk, including looking at the brochure that the nurse gave me. Intellectually, I know this is normal and common — part of the adventures in mommyhood.
But while in it — feeling the throes of sadness that crashed upon me in waves that I couldn’t stop crying — I felt for all the world like a person stranded and alone, thinking that I was a bad mommy, that I didn’t deserve such a sweet little boy in my life.
“You’re not alone,” the Hubby said. He gave me chocolate and cocoa. He held me and patted my head. He gave me tissue to blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
I pulled myself together.
It’s all good.