Sunday, May 5, 2019

I'm Not The Mom I Was Ten Weeks Ago

“I feel like I could throw up.”

That’s the title I found as I scrolled through the notes on my phone. Curious, I tapped on it and read. 

       “We’re at 9 weeks. And about 4 days into a sleep regression and 2 days into sleepless nights. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.”

According to the American Psychological Association, one in seven women experience postpartum depression. And now, you’re reading the blog of that "one".  And it felt like one.

“I can’t be alone. I can’t even put my kid to bed without waking her up. When she cries, my stomach lurches. I can’t do this.”

My postpartum depression made me feel like I was the only one struggling. The only mom who felt this way. The only one.

“I ask, and I ask, and I ask God to help. To help her sleep. To help me sleep. And it doesn’t come.”

It didn’t matter if Will was by my side. It didn’t matter if I knew my mom was almost to my house. It didn’t matter if I read that God was always faithful. I had never felt so alone. 

        “I’m alone. I feel so alone. I’m just so goddamn tired.”

I don’t cuss in my blog, I barely swear out loud, but I didn’t want to edit anything out. Because this was real. This was the mom I was just ten weeks ago. I was sitting on the bathroom floor listening to Zara cry through a closed door wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again. I had happy moments, but moments are moments. And moments don’t last. My depression and anxiety were eating me from the inside out, a parasite I couldn’t shake. Just when I would think I was doing better something new would set me back. 

And then I got help. I was already receiving counseling, but it wasn’t enough. I needed medication and that was hard to stomach. But now, two months later, I feel like me again, and a new me because now I’m a mom. I was a mom before, but just the shell of one. Now I don’t cry on the bathroom floor (or the kitchen, or living room floor). Instead, I fall asleep on the landing and laugh about it later. 

I’m not the mom I was ten weeks ago. I’m not the Molly I was ten weeks ago. She was smothered in sadness and uncertainty. Now I’m smothered in baby drool and breast-milk and I wouldn’t have it any other way.




Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Zara means, "princess; to blossom"

How did you pick the name Zara?” That’s a hard question, because I’m not sure if I really did. It was like Jesus whispered it into my ear. When we found out that we were having a girl that I could have sworn was a boy, the name Zara came to mind. I had never met a Zara, had never shopped at Zara, or really heard it very much, but I was fixated on it. 

We found out baby was a girl in July and I was very confident in her name which wouldn’t need to be decided until the end of December. But how could I be so sure about such a big decision? Then a list started and grew to 17 names over the months. 17 went to 7 and then 3 and then 2. We were driving to the hospital with 2 names in mind, not sure which one would win out. Then, I was sitting in the hospital bed ready to push and still not sure what to name our baby. And last, I was laying on the surgery table not knowing what to call this little girl. 

I was told that when I saw her, I would know, and I would always raise my eyebrows and nod. I had heard of others that were in similar situations and named their baby right before being discharged. I assumed that we would be in the same boat.

But, when they held my daughter over the curtain, my first thought was, “that’s a Zara”. I knew, I knew Zara was her name. It had been Zara all along. And we joked that only a princess would demand a c section. 

Zara is wild. She is funny, and sweet, and sassy. She is expressive and observant. Zara like to be cuddled when she wants to be cuddled. She likes to be noisy and enjoys when we’re noisy along with her. Zara likes to meet new people, flashing her gummy smile, bringing her chubby cheeks closer to her hazel eyes. She coos like a morning dove and shrieks like a pterodactyl. She is Zara. And she has been Zara all along.