I wasn’t going to write this post.  I didn’t want to write this post.  In fact, I’ve been not writing this post in my head for 7 months.

Call it “Baby Blues”, postpartum depression, or “PPD” as it’s commonly known on the Internet.  Call it what you want, but it’s real.  I knew I had a big red “X” on my back.  Marked for PPD.  I have a history of mental illness after all.  I had been on Prozac for years.  Not because of depression but because of the OCD I struggled with during my eating disorder as a teen.  I’ve told ya’ll before, I was diagnosed with Anorexia at age 15, but I beat it with inpatient and outpatient treatment.  I don’t talk about it much because I don’t have to.  It’s not really a part of me anymore.

Before we ditched the birth control and decided to start “trying” I successfully weaned off Prozac.  I had read there was a .0001 chance of some rare lung disorder my baby could get if I was taking Prozac in the 1st trimester when the moon is full if stood on one foot.  I didn’t want to take that chance even though the OB/GYN warned me about PPD.  There was my mistake.

When I got pregnant, suddenly I was afraid of heights.  Me, the woman who went skydiving with her husband on our first anniversary.  Me, the teen who leaned forward and pressed my head against the glass at the top of the Eiffel Tower a-la Ferris Bueller.  Before we went to the beach last summer I had these terrible visions of my little step-nephew or niece falling over the edge of the second story deck at our beach house.  I even had thoughts of Ginger suddenly slipping from my hands, her soulful, innocent eyes desperately falling away from me.

But no food issues.  I wasn’t OCD with my food, I wasn’t anxious about weight gain.  I did great.  I thought, “Perfect, I won’t need drugs after the baby.  I’m cured of all mental illness!  It’s a miracle!  No anti-depressants in my breast milk!”

I thought PPD was something that built up over time.  I thought it was a product of extreme fatigue and breastfeeding woes that came about after a few weeks of living with a newborn.  I had no idea I would have the problems I had in the recovery room the night my sweet baby was born.

The nurse asked me if I wanted to keep Charlotte with us in the room or take her to the nursery.  Everything we had heard was “Let the baby go to the nursery so you can sleep.”  I was very hesitant because I wanted her near me, but I said okay because I was worried she would stop breathing and we would be asleep and no nurses would be around.  I figured in the nursery, the nurses would constantly monitor her.

When they rolled her away and I tried to sleep it began.  I had visions of Charlotte falling out of my hands over the top deck of our beach house.  I would startle, toss and turn.  Then she was falling over the edge of the loft in our house onto the hardwood below.  Then I stepped on her.  Then she was suffocating.  Then she was bleeding.  One horrific thought after another.  I confessed to Mom and Greyson in the hospital I was feeling anxious, but I left it at that.

I did okay leaving the hospital and welcoming guests that first week she was home.  What no one knows is when I would go into our room and close the door to nurse Charlotte, I was desperately flipping through my pregnancy and baby books, looking up postpartum depression symptoms.  I was perfectly fine on the surface to everyone else.  I was happily caring for my baby the best way I knew how.  I was doting.  I took a million pictures.  I was even sleeping pretty well.  Everyone kept telling me how well I was doing as a new mom.

Leaving the hospital.

I was doing well.  I loved being a new mom.  Except for the terrible, scary, invasive thoughts that out of no where would batter my brain.  I knew in my rational mind I would never hurt my baby.  I knew the odds of anyone else hurting her were slim.  But my mind wasn’t rational.  I couldn’t hold a knife in the kitchen, use the microwave, or back out the car without thinking of how those everyday things would harm her.

The worst part about it, and it makes me feel sick to even type this….was sometimes, it was me who was hurting her.  You know how in Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix, Harry had the dream of the snake trying to kill Mr. Weasley?  Except Harry was the snake.  Harry was horrified by this thought.  He would  never hurt Mr. Weasley because he loved him, but he was possessed by Lord Voldemort.  That’s how I was.

In those first few weeks when I was home by myself I would hold Charlotte and cry.  I would rock her and promise her over and over I would never hurt her and that I loved her.  I was so scared someone was going to take her away from me, that I was some terrible Susan Smith-type that didn’t deserve such a perfectly beautiful baby.

I was mad.  So mad.  Mad that this was happening to me.  I’ve been-there-done-that with mental illness.  I thought maybe I’d be okay since I had an easy pregnancy and easy labor and delivery.  Charlotte was a really good baby and I had a supportive spouse.  This sucks!

I would hurt myself before I hurt my baby.  That’s not good either. I knew.  I knew I needed help.  One day when Charlotte was just 2 weeks old I ran across a description for Postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  “Uncomfortable or obtrusive thoughts, scary or invasive thoughts, particularly about harm to the baby.”  I nearly jumped off the couch.  “That’s it!”  I called the doctor.  We had a long discussion about Zoloft in breast milk.  He assured me any problems with Zoloft for nursing mothers/babies was minimal.  He said with my history, if I felt like I should get on the medicine, I should.  I called for an appointment with a therapist, but she couldn’t see me for almost a month!

Blair is the one who inspired me.  I called her for lunch under the disguise of her meeting Charlotte.   I admire her so much.  Her blog is amazing, her fight against PPD is amazing. I really just wanted to tell her everything.  I knew she would understand.  I wanted to unload everything to someone who had fought the hard fight with PPD.  But, I didn’t say much about it.  I was worried she was still struggling and I didn’t want to overwhelm her.

I thought about all the women in generations before me who couldn’t talk about it because, “You just didn’t talk about those things.”

I finally went and talked to the therapist.  It helped.  But what really helped was being honest.  I came to the decision in my own mind that I was no longer going to be a victim of mental illness, because that’s what PPD is.  It’s a mental illness, just like an eating disorder.  So I talked it out, took my medicine, and fought on.  Why?  Because I didn’t want to miss anything.  I had dreamed my whole life about becoming a mother, and I didn’t want to miss a moment.

Guess what?  I haven’t.  I haven’t missed anything because I took action early.  I have very few invasive thoughts.  If I do, I can cope.  I’m gonna be okay.

My baby is obsessed with anything that crinkles.  I know that sounds weird, but it’s true.  Charlotte has a true love affair with the wipes package because the plastic crinkles when she holds it.  If you take it away from her she acts like you just cut her finger off.

Everyday her school gives us little reports noting how much she ate, slept, pooped, and all those other baby imperatives.  They write these reports on paper.  Paper crinkles.  I had never given much thought to the fact that paper crinkles until this week.

We were leaving daycare and I was perusing her daily report.  Charlotte reached out and grabbed it.  When I tried to take it away to finish reading how many ounces of milk she had put away, she screamed.  I just let her hold it on the way home.  I didn’t take into account she is also teething and anxious to put anything, especially anything wonderfully crinkly into her mouth.

Take a guess what happened.  Yeah, mother-of-the-year, right here.

I called the nurse line at the pediatrician’s office and said in a panic, “My 7-month-old ate paper!”  After the nurse learned it was just the corner of the page, she assured me it was full of fiber and would come out the other end.  For her sake I hope it doesn’t come out crinkly.

Greyson is in China this week on business.  Thank God for my Mama!  She’s staying with me to help me get Charlotte to daycare since school doesn’t open at the absurd hours I work.  He can see the Birds Nest Olympic Stadium from his room in Beijing.  He toured the Forbidden City while keeping an eye out for funny little Chinese souvenirs for our baby.  (Emperor and Empress bobbleheads anyone?)

Thank God for Skype too, so we can have moments like this….

Excuse me while I start digging a hole to get to my man.

Both of our mothers have had skin cancer removed.  Greyson’s mom had Melanoma on her nose.  My mom had squaemous cells on her arm.  I have always worn sunscreen.  Granted in the 1980’s as a child I wore like SPF 4 or 8 or some other number we now know is worthless.  But I’m not freckled like my mom is from all her teenage baby oil sun worshipping.  I’ll admit, I did go through an intense tanning bed phase in college because OMG I like, HAD to be tan to get wasted at spring break.

Greyson is crazy pasty white.  He burns like a red head.  He has the freckled shoulders, stories of sun poisoning, the works.  So, I was very anxious to get sunscreen on Charlotte.  The pediatrician said to wait until she was 6 months because of some ingredient that could be harmful. 

I gotta get Greyson this shirt.

Ladies, you’ll all remember the ordeal that was little girl bathing suits.  I’m convinced girl bathing suits are just training for us to be uncomfortable in them for the rest of our lives.  As women we worry about bikini bottoms cutting into our fat or triangle tops flipping up in ocean waves.  As little girls, we worry about sand scratching along the line of our skinny little thighs and getting the straps right after using the bathroom at the pool.  I remember more than one panic stricken moment in the stall trying to stretch on a wet swimsuit with tangled straps as my friends yelled that I was about to miss the next round of “Sharks and Minnows.”  And people wonder why we pee in the pool.  What’s your excuse, guys?

Anyway, putting sunscreen, a swim diaper, bathing suit, and a sun hat on a wiggly seven-month-old was exhausting.  I was thinking, “She better love swimming.  So help me God!”

She did love it, and she looked adorable.  Seeing her splash and kick was worth all the sunscreen squiminess.  Happy Summer, everyone!