Here at ABMF, I try to pride myself on my honesty, because I believe that somewhere, out there, maybe some mother will read my words and say “Oh my gosh, I can so relate!”. But I have a bit of a confession to make to you. I often link to each new post on my Facebook page. And so often I find myself saying as I write “Could someone on my friends list possibly take anything I am saying the wrong way?”.
The answer, my friends, is simple. It is a big, huge, resounding yes. If someone asks me “How’s being a mom of three going for you?”, I bite my lip, ultra hard, and I say “It’s fantastic.” Here on ABMF, I have hinted at the depths of the misery I’ve tasted. And like an iceberg, I keep 9/10 of it hidden. Because what I really want to say is “Well, right now it really sucks balls, but I’m sure it’ll get better…*pleading face* It has to, right?”. Right? I digress. But if I begin to describe what is going on, someone, somewhere, from the depths of my page, will say “Excuse me, but you had no right to say that. I’m offended”. There are people on Facebook that I am friends with for the simple fact that I feel socially obligated to be friends with. No, not you, don’t worry.
My confession is that I am never completely honest here. I am always downplaying things. I’m done. If you get offended by things, then maybe you should think about why you’re offended. Nothing I say should ever be construed as offensive against you. Unless I say so. So no, so far I am not adjusting well at all. I would expect sleep deprivation has an effect on this. And here I get into something I am ashamed of. We all have heard of post-partum depression. We’ve all seen the episode of Scrubs where Jordan, attempting to comfort new mom Carla says “When Jack wouldn’t stop crying, I wanted to throw that bastard out the window”…if you haven’t seen it, check it out below.
Oh. Em. Gee. Jordan calls her baby a bastard and I bet a millions laughs were heard…but just as many moms sat there, myself included and thought, Oh my god, she called her baby a bastard and I can totally relate because that little jerk will not stop crying! Babies cry. We, as moms, know this. But it is one thing to know, and another to be in the throes of a crying jag, and suddenly become unsure who’s crying more…my baby, or me.
I had a friend recently get help for PPD. And I was envious. I told my doctor I had PPD. I know the signs, I’ve had it before. A combination of winter blues and sleeplessness added to the mix has made it impossible for me to manage it without meds this time. He looks at me, and says “It’s just baby blues, it’ll pass.” No the heck it won’t, you quack. So Monday begins me trying to find a doctor who takes my insurance, is accepting new patients, and will actually listen to me about what is going on. I told a couple of people, no names to protect the identities of the assinine, and the response I got was “Do you really think you need medication?”. Maybe. Maybe not. But right now I am so desperate to not be so cranky and crabby all the time that I will try anything. I know I am not myself, and it is frustrating to me, which adds to the irritation. I am not myself. I am not Merry, no, not at all.
When SchoolGirl was a baby caught up in the middle of colic, I was walking the first floor with her and I remember looking down at her and thinking, very detachedly, Hmm…I bet if I toss you out the window you’ll stop that f***ing crying. Needless to say, I didn’t toss her out the window. I laid her down in her crib and fled the room. Yesterday, when BabyBoy was in the middle of a crying fit and was inconsolable, I said to Mister, “Get this child away from me, right now.”, and to his credit, he did. I never would do anything to my baby, but I am full aware of the signs that I have had enough, and I know how to handle them. I know I am not the only mother who has looked at her crying baby and thought Shut up, you little jerk! Just stop crying, it’s not that hard! You’re fed, you’re changed, holy crap, I’m holding you and trying to comfort you, just hush up and be comforted, darnit!
And it is at those moments that we just let out a sigh, heavy with the weight of the sleepless world on our shoulders, lay the baby down, and walk away. A pair of headphones may or may not be involved. But only on one ear. And then we’re crucified for letting the baby scream. I love my son. I will always love him, and I am secure enough in my never-ending, unconditional love for my son to say that sometimes, when I have exhausted every trick in my comforting repertoire, when I am exhausted to the point that everything seems bleak and horrid, that I don’t like this whole baby thing much. And my son knows. He knows when Mommy’s run out of gumption to keep trying, because he will stop whatever he is doing, look right at me, flash me a smile, and reach for my face.
And then the little jerk will go right back to screaming his adorable little face off.