It has been a rough few weeks. February began with the infamous car theft and ended with the funeral of a friend from college. March finds me reflecting on my mortality because as I attended yet another funeral recently (my fourth this year), I realize this is what folks my age do.
We mourn the passing of life. Not just the physical transitions of friends and loved ones, but also of dreams and aspirations. We reflect on what could have been, what was, and what was not.
The first funeral of the year was my bff's mother, Mrs. J. I had known her half of my life, which is now a lifetime. I was and still am trying to reconcile my emotions to how that must feel--to lose one's mother, even as I come to terms with the realities of my own mother's decline. I am also mourning because Mrs. J was very much like a mother to me as well, celebrating my accomplishments and various milestones as she did for her own children.
The second funeral was for someone else's mother whom I did not know, but I attended the service anyway because it was held at my church and my father was one of the speakers. That is something I do quite often now--provide support to my family in place of my mother. Not that she would have taken off in the middle of the day to attend a funeral, but somehow it seems appropriate as one of my many duties as the unexpected matriarch.
The third funeral was for a friend from college whose death was unexpected and yet not entirely because he had been ill for some time. Roughly two-thirds of the people I know at this point in my life I met in high school, college or law school and I have been out of school for nearly 20 years. So it is unbelievable when I tally the years and reflect on the fact that my parents also began to lose friends when they were my age. It still feels surreal to say that.
This last funeral was for the child of a high school classmate. We had not really been in touch since high school although Facebook allowed me to catch up on how much had occurred in her life since then. I had never met her child, yet I was so moved by her loss that I went to the services. I never cried more for someone I had never known and now that I am a mother, her loss is unimaginable.
Just this morning my timeline filled with RIP notices for Phife Dawg of A Tribe Called Quest, one of the greatest hip hop groups of all time. I am saddened not just because his life is over, but because of the era in my life that he represents. We were young and idealistic, cavalier about our health, unaware of how friendships could change, and living like tomorrow was so far in the distance. Back in the day was a phrase we got from ATCQ lyrics (look it up) and it referenced childhood memories...now we use it to access our young adult selves, or who we were before we got married, had children or began losing our parents, peers and musical contemporaries.
Of course none of these deaths are about me, but mortality is a scary thing. We are each allotted a very specific amount of time, a unique set of circumstances, and a select group of folks to journey with us at various points along the way. We get to make an impact. We get to celebrate, reminisce, reunite, travel, create, interact, participate, thrive, suffer, complain, change, grow, nourish and perhaps in all of that, leave some sliver of a legacy. All of that in a lifetime.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
The Mayo on the Sandwich
I took my mother to church on Palm Sunday. And this is not an exaggeration, but I must have told at least 50 people that the Babe was at church with her father, which was met with looks that ranged from disappointment to disbelief. The one notable exception came from a woman who declared with a sigh of understanding, you are the sandwich--between baby and mama. I smiled and led my mother to a seat.
But I am not the sandwich. I am the mayo (or mustard if you are counting calories).
I have read all about the struggles endured by women in my generation, those caught in the middle of being caregivers for older parents while raising children. My own mother faced this same situation some 30+ years ago when my paternal grandparents got ill as I was entering middle school. It was a lot to manage, but we were old enough to help out, which is exactly what I did through my junior year of high school. The Babe is almost a toddler.
For all the cute jokes about how the Babe began walking to make way for the next little one (ha), methinks she realized that she needed to become independent sooner in order to keep me from going insane. She seems to instinctively know that Mommy is all over the place (spread thin like mayo or mustard), despite how helpful as her father tries to be...
I get all kinds of advice from well-meaning folks who suggest that my load would magically lighten if I simply: told others what to do; hired folks to take on certain tasks; adjusted my expectations; etc. All of that sounds great in theory. It would be nice if I could issue edicts that went unquestioned and were fulfilled according to my standards. But that would be akin to assuming that appointments could be made with just a simple phone call or that plastic could get clean without any greasy residue--impossible unless I do it.
This too shall pass and before I know it, the Kid will be old enough to read and appreciate this. Hopefully, she will remember that I did my best...and that the spread does more than just keep the sandwich from being too dry.
But I am not the sandwich. I am the mayo (or mustard if you are counting calories).
I have read all about the struggles endured by women in my generation, those caught in the middle of being caregivers for older parents while raising children. My own mother faced this same situation some 30+ years ago when my paternal grandparents got ill as I was entering middle school. It was a lot to manage, but we were old enough to help out, which is exactly what I did through my junior year of high school. The Babe is almost a toddler.
For all the cute jokes about how the Babe began walking to make way for the next little one (ha), methinks she realized that she needed to become independent sooner in order to keep me from going insane. She seems to instinctively know that Mommy is all over the place (spread thin like mayo or mustard), despite how helpful as her father tries to be...
I get all kinds of advice from well-meaning folks who suggest that my load would magically lighten if I simply: told others what to do; hired folks to take on certain tasks; adjusted my expectations; etc. All of that sounds great in theory. It would be nice if I could issue edicts that went unquestioned and were fulfilled according to my standards. But that would be akin to assuming that appointments could be made with just a simple phone call or that plastic could get clean without any greasy residue--impossible unless I do it.
This too shall pass and before I know it, the Kid will be old enough to read and appreciate this. Hopefully, she will remember that I did my best...and that the spread does more than just keep the sandwich from being too dry.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Bag Lady
My car was broken into earlier today and the thieves took a purse and a tote bag from the back seat. Even though I should not, I feel like an idiot because I should have done so many things differently, but in the end, my stuff is gone.
The purse was a gift from my mother. It sucks that it is gone because I had just recently begun to carry it again so that I could stop toting all the shit I keep kept in the tote bag. It also sucks because it was among the last gifts she gave me before the dementia. And it sucks because I only got sentimental about the purse today after it was taken.
The tote bag was a recent acquisition, purchased to carry all my stuff. Icarry carried a LOT of stuff. And in hindsight, half of that stuff was makeup. So the thieves got a tote bag full of makeup. And a rain hat that I just wore the other day. And a wallet that held a bunch of business cards, my expired library card, and two (cancelled) credit/debit cards. And my journal that I had not written much in lately, but still. And some snacks including the Babe's Cheerios.
Sometimes you get premonitions that shit is going to be bad; yet, I decided to proceed with my plans for the day in spite of ample warning in the manner of giant flashing fluorescent neon light signs telling me not to go there. It started when the Babe was too restless to sleep and thus, I was caught between consciousness and delirium this morning when I should have been in the shower. It continued when I realized that I was running way too behind and left the house way too late to travel across town to get my mother ready for church but went anyway. Then she was uncooperative and I considered my options--continue ahead with my plans to take her to our church an hour after service began, or go somewhere else. I chose to go to our church and ran into massive traffic in the tunnel, delays driving through the city, and then had to circle the neighborhood for a parking space, which I found and considered myself lucky as I escorted her from the car and set the alarm (which after malfunctioning, earlier, miraculously worked as usual).
I told myself as each obstacle presented itself that while my morning might be going poorly, this morning was not about me but about God. And as we walked to the church, and as Mom seemed quite animated during service, and even as we approached the car and I noticed that my drivers' side door had been opened...I still believe. I do. I just lost a lot of stuff.
I have lost a makeup bag before and though it sucks, ALL of that stuff can be replaced. The rain hat can be replaced, and I have a similar purse that my Mom bought me. The iPod was old and so was the phone charger. The Cheerios will soon go stale and I have another snack bag. Locks can and will be changed. And that Macy's gift card that I was saving, well buy yourself something nice.
And God Bless You. Seriously.
The purse was a gift from my mother. It sucks that it is gone because I had just recently begun to carry it again so that I could stop toting all the shit I keep kept in the tote bag. It also sucks because it was among the last gifts she gave me before the dementia. And it sucks because I only got sentimental about the purse today after it was taken.
The tote bag was a recent acquisition, purchased to carry all my stuff. I
Sometimes you get premonitions that shit is going to be bad; yet, I decided to proceed with my plans for the day in spite of ample warning in the manner of giant flashing fluorescent neon light signs telling me not to go there. It started when the Babe was too restless to sleep and thus, I was caught between consciousness and delirium this morning when I should have been in the shower. It continued when I realized that I was running way too behind and left the house way too late to travel across town to get my mother ready for church but went anyway. Then she was uncooperative and I considered my options--continue ahead with my plans to take her to our church an hour after service began, or go somewhere else. I chose to go to our church and ran into massive traffic in the tunnel, delays driving through the city, and then had to circle the neighborhood for a parking space, which I found and considered myself lucky as I escorted her from the car and set the alarm (which after malfunctioning, earlier, miraculously worked as usual).
I told myself as each obstacle presented itself that while my morning might be going poorly, this morning was not about me but about God. And as we walked to the church, and as Mom seemed quite animated during service, and even as we approached the car and I noticed that my drivers' side door had been opened...I still believe. I do. I just lost a lot of stuff.
I have lost a makeup bag before and though it sucks, ALL of that stuff can be replaced. The rain hat can be replaced, and I have a similar purse that my Mom bought me. The iPod was old and so was the phone charger. The Cheerios will soon go stale and I have another snack bag. Locks can and will be changed. And that Macy's gift card that I was saving, well buy yourself something nice.
And God Bless You. Seriously.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Join the Club
I was having a rough day: the Babe was busy and all over the place; the house seemed to look worse than usual; I had not eaten anything since breakfast; nor had I showered or changed clothes. I was feeling lonely and isolated and desperately needed an outlet, so I began searching the internet for playgroups or spaces where I could take the Babe, but also where I might meet and mingle with other women who could relate to my plight.
And I found something promising! But after a few clicks, I learned that there was an undisclosed cost for access, which might not have been a problem except that it seems ridiculous to pay for a class that meets early in the morning across town. So I kept on searching until I found a 'local' playgroup and was excited when someone emailed to acknowledge my interest, and got even more excited when I saw a follow up email this morning...
"Thank you for your interest, but we only serve this side of town. Try somewhere else, loser." (OK not an exact quote, but close enough. At least someone took the time to reject me.)
I might be overreacting, but this happens to me all the damn time. I look for services or activities for myself, my mother and now my daughter, and I encounter the same obstacles. Either I am not poor enough, or I live in the wrong neighborhood.
I told the hub, whose response was merely a shrug and an off-handed comment about not wanting to expose the Babe to such snobbishness, but as usual he missed the point. He has no idea how frustrating it is to feel so alone. All of my friends work. Only a few have children. My mother has dementia. The Babe is almost a year old and her most consistent playmate is me. And on most days, the only person I talk to is her.
Am I mad that the playgroup is restricted or am I jealous of those women on the other side of town? YES and yes. While I am always willing to take the Babe anywhere to leave the house, something tells me that I did NOT need the anxiety of membership amongst the Housewives on the Other Side of Town. There have to be resources and activities in my own neighborhood. Or I will just have to start my own group.
So stay tuned!
And I found something promising! But after a few clicks, I learned that there was an undisclosed cost for access, which might not have been a problem except that it seems ridiculous to pay for a class that meets early in the morning across town. So I kept on searching until I found a 'local' playgroup and was excited when someone emailed to acknowledge my interest, and got even more excited when I saw a follow up email this morning...
"Thank you for your interest, but we only serve this side of town. Try somewhere else, loser." (OK not an exact quote, but close enough. At least someone took the time to reject me.)
I might be overreacting, but this happens to me all the damn time. I look for services or activities for myself, my mother and now my daughter, and I encounter the same obstacles. Either I am not poor enough, or I live in the wrong neighborhood.
I told the hub, whose response was merely a shrug and an off-handed comment about not wanting to expose the Babe to such snobbishness, but as usual he missed the point. He has no idea how frustrating it is to feel so alone. All of my friends work. Only a few have children. My mother has dementia. The Babe is almost a year old and her most consistent playmate is me. And on most days, the only person I talk to is her.
Am I mad that the playgroup is restricted or am I jealous of those women on the other side of town? YES and yes. While I am always willing to take the Babe anywhere to leave the house, something tells me that I did NOT need the anxiety of membership amongst the Housewives on the Other Side of Town. There have to be resources and activities in my own neighborhood. Or I will just have to start my own group.
So stay tuned!
Friday, January 1, 2016
The Great Undone List
I love Christmas. I hate Christmas. Thank goodness it is over!
This year, I was excited because this would be the Babe's First Christmas. And I was until I realized that there would be several major things left undone such as the tree that never went up, the cards that were not sent, the newsletter still unwritten, the Santa Claus picture that we never got to take, and the house still a general disaster...
I could keep on going, but I had a revelation while driving to NYC of all the stuff I did just that day (Christmas Eve): wrapped presents, finished some last minute shopping, cooked two pounds of collard greens, mixed a batch of coquito, packed all of the Babe's stuff for the trip, showered and dressed for the family dinner, packed the car, and drove for 4 1/2 hours to NYC (including a 45 minute food stop and another 10 minute pit stop to change the Babe's poopie diaper).
I did not, however, put on any makeup. Nor was the Babe wearing the complete cute Christmas Eve outfit because of the unseasonably warm weather. And we really did not come bearing that many gifts. And I forgot to defrost the duck in the refrigerator for our return. So even when I manage to accomplish so much, I find a way to be disappointed when things are not absolutely perfect.
Thus, one of my resolutions is to give myself a damn break. I will eventually write and mail those thank you notes and I will order the baby announcements before her first birthday. And instead of a family Christmas picture taken in front of our perfectly coiffed tree in an immaculate house with matching cutesy pajamas with our names monogrammed on them...we will make do with whatever picture I have on hand so that the cards can get in the mail before Valentine's Day.
Along with being too self-critical, I need to work on my hyper-sensitivity to veiled criticisms and side digs. Why I give a figgy pudding is beyond me, especially since no one offers to help me prepare for the holiday and only this year did anything begin to matter to a certain person (as if the kid will remember). From now on, I will not lament any forgotten or abandoned Christmas traditions since I can create new ones, such as over-buying gift bags and tape on clearance at the Target.
There is a meme making the rounds on Facebook that urges folks to clap for themselves, and I have decided that not only will I applaud but I might take out a newspaper ad or rent a plane to fly a banner announcing when I've done an outstanding job...or I might just write about it here. The point is that I need give myself credit for being a boss, even when I fall short because when I hit, I am HOT. I am that chick--the Closer, Olivia Pope, Wonder Woman, Claire Huxtable, Queen B, Big Mama or whatever you call the woman who gets it done when it is on the line.
New day, new year, new me. Thank goodness the holidays are over.
This year, I was excited because this would be the Babe's First Christmas. And I was until I realized that there would be several major things left undone such as the tree that never went up, the cards that were not sent, the newsletter still unwritten, the Santa Claus picture that we never got to take, and the house still a general disaster...
I could keep on going, but I had a revelation while driving to NYC of all the stuff I did just that day (Christmas Eve): wrapped presents, finished some last minute shopping, cooked two pounds of collard greens, mixed a batch of coquito, packed all of the Babe's stuff for the trip, showered and dressed for the family dinner, packed the car, and drove for 4 1/2 hours to NYC (including a 45 minute food stop and another 10 minute pit stop to change the Babe's poopie diaper).
I did not, however, put on any makeup. Nor was the Babe wearing the complete cute Christmas Eve outfit because of the unseasonably warm weather. And we really did not come bearing that many gifts. And I forgot to defrost the duck in the refrigerator for our return. So even when I manage to accomplish so much, I find a way to be disappointed when things are not absolutely perfect.
Thus, one of my resolutions is to give myself a damn break. I will eventually write and mail those thank you notes and I will order the baby announcements before her first birthday. And instead of a family Christmas picture taken in front of our perfectly coiffed tree in an immaculate house with matching cutesy pajamas with our names monogrammed on them...we will make do with whatever picture I have on hand so that the cards can get in the mail before Valentine's Day.
Along with being too self-critical, I need to work on my hyper-sensitivity to veiled criticisms and side digs. Why I give a figgy pudding is beyond me, especially since no one offers to help me prepare for the holiday and only this year did anything begin to matter to a certain person (as if the kid will remember). From now on, I will not lament any forgotten or abandoned Christmas traditions since I can create new ones, such as over-buying gift bags and tape on clearance at the Target.
There is a meme making the rounds on Facebook that urges folks to clap for themselves, and I have decided that not only will I applaud but I might take out a newspaper ad or rent a plane to fly a banner announcing when I've done an outstanding job...or I might just write about it here. The point is that I need give myself credit for being a boss, even when I fall short because when I hit, I am HOT. I am that chick--the Closer, Olivia Pope, Wonder Woman, Claire Huxtable, Queen B, Big Mama or whatever you call the woman who gets it done when it is on the line.
New day, new year, new me. Thank goodness the holidays are over.
Friday, December 11, 2015
My Life Now
A few weeks ago at a dinner party I was asked if I planned to start a Mommy blog. Of course I said no, and then as if on cue, the Hub chimed in about the smell of baby poop. So I re-stated with emphasis that NO, I would not do any mommy-blogging. And I mean it! But before you start to think that I have reneged on that sworn blood oath taken on a stack of bibles, this is not a mommy blog post per se...
But a few weeks before that dinner party, I had a moment while sitting in traffic. I was heading across town to get my niece from after-care (which would totally be a mommy-blog topic) and I got very resigned to the idea that the story of my life for the next few years might involve sitting in traffic to retrieve a kid or sitting in traffic with a kid trying to reach a rehearsal/practice/game/event/appointment/parent-teacher conference/store before it closes. I got drafted to get my niece because I had her booster seat which was beginning to look like it belonged in my back seat next to the rear-facing car seat now occupied by the (finally) napping Babe.
Ugh. I was really late, my brother was getting anxious about late fees, and there was no parking in the school lot which was inaccessible because of police activity. So I had to park in a handicap space three blocks away, unhook the Babe, and trudge uphill to the school to retrieve the niece before Child Protective Services were called. Problem solved!
Yes, this is my life now.
In the car, I felt a little melancholy because I was listening to NPR and while I cannot remember the topic, I am sure that it was about something that would have been very important to me last year. Not to suggest that world events, the upcoming election and domestic terrorism are not important issues to me anymore, but at times it is far more important to make sure that I have snacks in my over-sized purse to keep the Babe happy (and apparently, it is a matter of life or death to arrive at after-care by six).
Years ago I aspired to be like the women in church who seemed to be in control of everything. Those women were often in charge of church activities, always on time, dressed impeccably, and could quiet a row of rowdy kids with a simple look. Later I wanted to be the high-powered career version with an important sounding title, a corner-office with a view, and a staff to do my bidding. Despite whatever challenges they faced in the real world, they looked like they had it all together. So at times, it feels a bit lame to be glad that we got out of the house for a few hours.
In the car that day, I was feeling unimportant and marginalized, but then at some point it struck me that I had just entered a new phase of Busy Black Womanhood. I may never be on time and I do not have a staff of minions, but hell, I have an eight-month old, I can wear all of my pre-pregnancy clothes, and sometimes I make it to dance class, so there!
It is a big deal for me to post anything, so I will stay in my lane and leave the Mommy-blogging to everyone else. So I hereby declare that I have no parenting hacks, recipes, discount codes, or advice to share. I do have a few funny stories (like the time I hid the Babe under the table at a college fair), but I will try not to inundate you.
Stay Busy my friends...gotta go (running late :)
But a few weeks before that dinner party, I had a moment while sitting in traffic. I was heading across town to get my niece from after-care (which would totally be a mommy-blog topic) and I got very resigned to the idea that the story of my life for the next few years might involve sitting in traffic to retrieve a kid or sitting in traffic with a kid trying to reach a rehearsal/practice/game/event/appointment/parent-teacher conference/store before it closes. I got drafted to get my niece because I had her booster seat which was beginning to look like it belonged in my back seat next to the rear-facing car seat now occupied by the (finally) napping Babe.
Ugh. I was really late, my brother was getting anxious about late fees, and there was no parking in the school lot which was inaccessible because of police activity. So I had to park in a handicap space three blocks away, unhook the Babe, and trudge uphill to the school to retrieve the niece before Child Protective Services were called. Problem solved!
Yes, this is my life now.
In the car, I felt a little melancholy because I was listening to NPR and while I cannot remember the topic, I am sure that it was about something that would have been very important to me last year. Not to suggest that world events, the upcoming election and domestic terrorism are not important issues to me anymore, but at times it is far more important to make sure that I have snacks in my over-sized purse to keep the Babe happy (and apparently, it is a matter of life or death to arrive at after-care by six).
Years ago I aspired to be like the women in church who seemed to be in control of everything. Those women were often in charge of church activities, always on time, dressed impeccably, and could quiet a row of rowdy kids with a simple look. Later I wanted to be the high-powered career version with an important sounding title, a corner-office with a view, and a staff to do my bidding. Despite whatever challenges they faced in the real world, they looked like they had it all together. So at times, it feels a bit lame to be glad that we got out of the house for a few hours.
In the car that day, I was feeling unimportant and marginalized, but then at some point it struck me that I had just entered a new phase of Busy Black Womanhood. I may never be on time and I do not have a staff of minions, but hell, I have an eight-month old, I can wear all of my pre-pregnancy clothes, and sometimes I make it to dance class, so there!
It is a big deal for me to post anything, so I will stay in my lane and leave the Mommy-blogging to everyone else. So I hereby declare that I have no parenting hacks, recipes, discount codes, or advice to share. I do have a few funny stories (like the time I hid the Babe under the table at a college fair), but I will try not to inundate you.
Stay Busy my friends...gotta go (running late :)
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Even Busy Black Women Get the Blues (Then and Now and Again)
By now it's no secret that black women can get the blues--even a Busy Black Woman who just happened to have had a baby 15 weeks ago...
Side note 1 - I wrote that sentence this summer when I first started writing this piece, but please keep reading:
Depression is not a new topic for me or this blog, and while I would prefer to write something a lot more light-hearted, it has been on my heart formore than three weeks to address my postpartum struggles. When I first began this piece over the summer, it was meant to be a commemoration of this past year since I began this unexpected journey towards motherhood in July 2014. My intended testimonial coincided perfectly with the baby's three month birthday and latest growth spurt; however, instead of celebrating I found myself overwhelmed by irrational sadness.
Side note 2 - We are now at the six month mark, another growth spurt is underway, and...
I have suffered with varying degrees of depression for most of my life, so I knew this was a possibility and was prepared to deal weeks earlier. I felt some of the typical new mother stress and reported that to the doctor at my postpartum visit. Then something shifted, like being hit by an enormous Pacific Ocean wave and I have been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
From my zigzagging emotional state; to enduring the various ailments that have manifested (and recurred) since giving birth; to this feisty little person who refuses to nap longer than 45 minutes at a time; to the omnipotent parenting expertise of Tigger (otherwise known as the ultra-exuberant over-protective first-time father); to my mother and the quicksand of dementia that engulfs her and my father; to every other aspect of my old Busy Black Life...I am really fucking depressed.
Side note 3 - I was really f***ing depressed, and then I was not, and now I am coping. This next paragraph reflects my current reality:
I decided to finish writing this piece about my postpartum depression even though I thought I had conquered it when I stopped taking the Zoloft one of my many doctors prescribed six weeks ago. This week, it started to creep back in again...but it has been manageable and the remaining pills are still in the drawer just in case (although I never could tell if they were working to be totally honest).
Side note 4 - All of this stuff is new:
I also wanted to finish this piece because I have needed to vent. Seriously.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For me postpartum depression has been a combination of all of the stressors I listed earlier multiplied by isolation, disconnectedness and a never-ending list of things thatshould must be done before this kid starts to walk. When I went to a doctor to address the matter, I was given a prescription and told to expect follow-up that never occurred (thankfully, I was not waiting by the phone or sitting on a ledge).
So how did I overcome? Well, first by admitting that I have yet to do so. Second, by accepting the fact that my life and relationships have changed dramatically and third, by deciding to go with the flow. Thus, when I have a week like this, when only a few things gets crossed off my list (none of the big ticket items, mind you), then I just breathe...
After I allow myself to lose it. Sometimes that could be crying; other times it could be shopping for more crap to add to my cluttered life. Or eating a lot of gelato. Then I pack the kid in the car and try not to hate myself for being imperfect.
A friend just asked me to give advice to another new mother which is ironic as I struggle to finish this piece (and as I am setting aside clothes and stuff for that very same new mother)...because who thinks of themselves as an expert on postpartum depression? My best advice is to seek out support.
Not advice, support. Plenty of people offer advice disguised as opinions and judgments on parenting. Which was definitely a contributing factor to my earlier feelings of inadequacy--folks making suggestions or off-handed comments such as, "that baby should be wearing more clothes" (even though it was 85 degrees and the kid was sweating), I fretted that I might have exposed her to the risk of developing pneumonia...in June.
Finally, I also realized that there are times to let things go...like this piece. I am a perfectionist, and I could keep writing and revising and it would NEVER be published. So here is my imperfect conclusion:
Ciao.
Side note 1 - I wrote that sentence this summer when I first started writing this piece, but please keep reading:
Depression is not a new topic for me or this blog, and while I would prefer to write something a lot more light-hearted, it has been on my heart for
Side note 2 - We are now at the six month mark, another growth spurt is underway, and...
I have suffered with varying degrees of depression for most of my life, so I knew this was a possibility and was prepared to deal weeks earlier. I felt some of the typical new mother stress and reported that to the doctor at my postpartum visit. Then something shifted, like being hit by an enormous Pacific Ocean wave and I have been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
From my zigzagging emotional state; to enduring the various ailments that have manifested (and recurred) since giving birth; to this feisty little person who refuses to nap longer than 45 minutes at a time; to the omnipotent parenting expertise of Tigger (otherwise known as the ultra-exuberant over-protective first-time father); to my mother and the quicksand of dementia that engulfs her and my father; to every other aspect of my old Busy Black Life...I am really fucking depressed.
Side note 3 - I was really f***ing depressed, and then I was not, and now I am coping. This next paragraph reflects my current reality:
I decided to finish writing this piece about my postpartum depression even though I thought I had conquered it when I stopped taking the Zoloft one of my many doctors prescribed six weeks ago. This week, it started to creep back in again...but it has been manageable and the remaining pills are still in the drawer just in case (although I never could tell if they were working to be totally honest).
Side note 4 - All of this stuff is new:
I also wanted to finish this piece because I have needed to vent. Seriously.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For me postpartum depression has been a combination of all of the stressors I listed earlier multiplied by isolation, disconnectedness and a never-ending list of things that
So how did I overcome? Well, first by admitting that I have yet to do so. Second, by accepting the fact that my life and relationships have changed dramatically and third, by deciding to go with the flow. Thus, when I have a week like this, when only a few things gets crossed off my list (none of the big ticket items, mind you), then I just breathe...
After I allow myself to lose it. Sometimes that could be crying; other times it could be shopping for more crap to add to my cluttered life. Or eating a lot of gelato. Then I pack the kid in the car and try not to hate myself for being imperfect.
A friend just asked me to give advice to another new mother which is ironic as I struggle to finish this piece (and as I am setting aside clothes and stuff for that very same new mother)...because who thinks of themselves as an expert on postpartum depression? My best advice is to seek out support.
Not advice, support. Plenty of people offer advice disguised as opinions and judgments on parenting. Which was definitely a contributing factor to my earlier feelings of inadequacy--folks making suggestions or off-handed comments such as, "that baby should be wearing more clothes" (even though it was 85 degrees and the kid was sweating), I fretted that I might have exposed her to the risk of developing pneumonia...in June.
Finally, I also realized that there are times to let things go...like this piece. I am a perfectionist, and I could keep writing and revising and it would NEVER be published. So here is my imperfect conclusion:
Ciao.
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