Crazed Soccer Mom

 

I have spent the past several years caring for my mother in home as her dementia slowly progresses. A few short years ago my mom was a ball of energy. She spent her days cooking amazing meals and chasing her grandson around the house. Today she has trouble walking and doesn’t always know how to hold a fork. Being a caregiver has changed my entire outlook on life. For better or worse? Well, that depends on the day. Some days I can easily find the joy in life regardless of my situation. Other days I want to crawl under a rock and sleep for weeks. I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking of my mother’s illness, my caregiver role, and the affect it has on the family and close friends in my life. There will come a time in most of our lives where we will either become caregivers or need a caregiver of our very own. I’m no expert on caregiving. I’m a student. I learn something new every day and it’s not always pretty. There are many misconceptions and notions about being a caregiver and I wanted to share my feelings in this blog because it can be very very difficult to share them in conversation. Again, this is MY experience. Yours may be completely different. These are the five things no one tells you about being a caregiver: 

1. The isolation. I spend my days working from home in order to care for my mother. Once my husband and son leave for work and school, it’s just my mother and myself all day long. Let me be clear: I am blessed and lucky to have a job that allows me to work from home for extended periods of time. I know this. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. No one is beating down my door to hang out with Dementia Lady and her sidekick. When my phone vibrates with a text or incoming call, you bet your ass I’m diving for it. That’s my lifeline to the outside world. I’m sure as hell scrolling through my Facebook feed as well. Who wants to read about the ham sandwich you ate for lunch? Me. I do. It’s a distraction. You can even tell me about the Dijon mustard you put in there. I’m all in. I’m a social person at heart and social media rocks. Facebook and Instagram drama exist, but my daily drama is worse. So please, check in to that car dealership and tell me you’re about to get an oil change. Hope you get a free car wash, too. 
2. The level of exhaustion. Ok, yes, I imagine you realize that I’m tired. Maybe that’s not a newsflash. Remember the story of Rip Van Winkle? I’m jealous of that dude. I’m jealous of a fictional character. He slept for twenty years!!! Twenty!! Can I get three hours of sleep? Three hours of uninterrupted sleep would be a dream come true. 
3. I am questioned more than an FBI suspect. No lie. “Omg, why isn’t your mom in a nursing home?” “How can you do this to your family?” First of all, my mom is a member of my family. There may come a time when I sit down with my husband and son and we discuss placing my mother in a nursing home. I cannot predict the future. Placing a loved one in a home is a difficult and arduous decision. I’m not ready to do it yet. Is it stressful changing and feeding and walking my mom every day? You bet it is. Is it tough on my family? Oh, yes. But my husband and son support me every step of the way. I don’t expect people to fully understand, but the judgement is unnecessary and uncalled for. I’m simply doing what is right for me at this particular time. 
4. My body aches. I don’t need pity. I don’t want pity as I have made the choice to take on this caregiver role. The toll dementia has had on my mother is far greater than the toll it will take on me. However, that being said, my muscles and bones pop and crack like I’m a 92-year-old woman. Some days my mother walks perfectly fine. Other days I have to lift and carry her to her wheelchair. I never know what I’m getting. If you see me walk past you in the grocery store and wonder why I’m limping, don’t. That’s just the way I walk now. You should see me run. Pull up a chair and pop some popcorn. It’s a good show. 
5. I feel like I have four different lives. One life revolves around caring for my mother and being available to meet her needs. One life is the role I take on in my family, being a wife and mother. Life number three is the way I present myself to my friends. I adore the friendships that I have but sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by my daily life that I can’t connect with others the way I used to. I struggle at times to be happy, fun Katie because it’s too exhausting. Finally, life number four is just me. That’s the hardest life to live. I feel inadequate as a daughter, mother, wife, and friend. Forgiving myself for the mistakes I make daily is damn near impossible but I have to learn to do it. I’m stuck with me for the rest of my life. Better make the most of it.

For better or worse, this is my life. This is my experience. If you’re a fellow caregiver reading this, take my words with a grain of salt. My deep dark secret is that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Im just living this life one day at a time. 

It has recently come to my attention that my son’s school is hosting an event that every parent should beware of. It’s an elementary school event brought to you by the letter H, as in hell. I am of course referring to the ever-popular elementary school “family fun” dance. If your idea of family fun is equivalent to a root canal or Pap smear, then yes. You will have so much fun at this dance. As for the rest of you..well.. here are ten things you will witness at your child’s school dance:
1. Candy for sale. Let’s talk this over, shall we? Who in the hell decided this was a good idea? I would like to have been a fly on the wall at the PTA meeting where a parent stood up and said, “Hey! I have a great idea! Let’s turn off all the lights, blast music as loud as possible, and sell candy out in the hallway so our kids can get a sugar high and run around in the dark! Won’t that be fun?!” No, Brenda. No, honey. That will not be “fun”. That sounds like a nightmare. Get your shit together and sell carrots instead.
2. Loud music. As in LOUD music. Do NOT leave your earplugs at home. Add to that the sound of hundreds of screaming children and you, my friend, have landed in New Orleans at the children’s version of Mardi Gras. Does that sound terrible? That’s because it fucking is.
3. Inappropriate song choices. It’s inevitable. It’s going to happen. The deejay will try to sneak a popular song into the playlist, and it will be a popular song that is NOT age appropriate. Do you want to see young kids dance to the soundtrack of Fifty Shades of Grey? Me neither. Stay home.
4. The awkward dad dancing. Pull up a chair and watch him grind in the middle of the dance floor. There’s one in every crowd. Trust me.
5. The screaming and crying child. Or, I should say, children. There won’t be just one. Someone will have stolen someone else’s Gummy bear, Tootsie Roll, or Blow POP and I guarantee a shit storm will ensue. If you thought the general “yay, we’re at a dance, we’re so happy!” screaming was bad, wait until you see the angry cry. Please say a prayer for the poor parent who will have to haul this demon home and attempt to put him/her to bed. Please.
6. Glow sticks. Oh, I’m sorry, did you think the last time you’d see a glow stick was at the rave you attended in high school? Buckle up, buttercup. You’re about to see tons of K4-5th graders lose their collective shit over a glow-in-the-dark stick. Enjoy.
7. Alcohol. Hahahah! Just kidding. But you’re going to wish this school had an open bar. My advice? Drink at home before going. You will need a little something something to take the edge off.
8. Brenda, the PTA President, getting her groove on right next to awkward dad. This is the same woman who tried to guilt you into baking those 100 cupcakes for the school bake sale. You better pull your phone out and film this. You’ll need that shit for bribing her later.
9. Your child’s teacher. Please say hello and make eye contact with this poor person. Please remember him or her at Christmas and during teacher appreciation week. They didn’t ask for this shit. They’re not getting paid to chaperone in hell. They’re there because they want to be. Why? Who knows but please thank them.
10. Heat. I don’t care if it’s -20 outside with a wind chill. It’ll be hotter than hell in that gym. Dress accordingly and please drink plenty of liquids before arriving. Water, beer, whiskey, Just drink.
So. Those are the ten things you will see at this dance, but I also know something you won’t see: your kid. It’ll be so dark in that gym that you’ll lose track of your kid immediately and start panicking. Don’t you worry. Junior is having a blast. Seriously, though, when you find your child, can you help me look for mine?

As my son navigates his first year at a brand new school, I’ve found myself engaged in new learning experiences as well. I’ve learned which route is the fastest from my house to school. I’ve learned the best places to park near the school and which areas to avoid. I’ve learned the names of all my son’s new buddies. I have so much more to learn and process, but there is something that happens daily at my son’s school I plan on avoiding for the foreseeable future. I watch this event unfold much the same way one would watch a train wreck. I’m talking, of course, about school drop-off. More specifically, I’m referring to the parents who use the school’s parking lot drop-off system. Don’t get me wrong: The drop-off system is a beautiful thing when done correctly. You pull over, your child exits the car in a designated area, responsible adults are waiting to escort your child in the school building, and boom, you’re done. However, I’m more concerned with the parents who have no idea what the fuck they’re doing. These are the five parents you should try to avoid at all costs during drop-off:
1. “The rules don’t apply to me” parent. Um, yes. Yes they fucking do. You are not entitled to tailgate the car in front of you because you have to get to work. We all have to get to work. You are not entitled to cut someone off because you woke up late. Wake up earlier tomorrow. Repeat after me, Psycho Mom. “The rules apply to me as well.” Say it like you mean it. Please ,for the love of God, don’t raise your child to be as entitled as you are. Wait your turn and dial down the crazy.
2. The “tires squealing skid mark” parent. Hey! Did you hear that noise as you were pulling away? That was your child being dragged up the sidewalk by his scarf because you didn’t come to a complete stop. Come to a complete stop before letting your kid out of the car. Common sense, 101.
3. The “snail” parent. This is not a Starbucks social. Put your latte in the cup holder and move along. There is a line of cars behind you with parents waiting to drop their own kids off. I know you want to say hi to your friend Carol and catch up on all the amazing shit she’s been doing, like finding all the deals on Target’s Cartwheel app, but the drop-off line is not the place to talk. Send Carol a text and be on your way.
4. The “blocking traffic” parent. Honey. Pull OVER. What the hell are you doing? You cannot parallel park in the middle of an effing parking lot! Have you lost your damn mind? Do you remember taking drivers ed? Actually, forget drivers ed: You should be required to pass an aptitude test in order to participate in the school drop-off system. Stupid should not be allowed in school parking lots.
5. The “confused” parent. You know this one all too well. This mom or dad has been using the drop-off line since September and still. Doesn’t. Have. A. Clue. Sir or ma’am, I would like to direct your attention to the other parents who know the rules and have been paying attention. The Confused Parent is a combination of the above-mentioned parents with a little extra stupid thrown in. You’re allowed to be a bit confused the first week of school. You’re not allowed to be confused several months into the school year.
I will be completely honest: I’m slightly jealous of all these parents, no matter how dumb they are. My son likes for me to walk him to the door so I’m not allowed to drop-off from the safety of my car. However, in about two years the child won’t want to be associated with me at all so I will walk him to the door carrying all his shit like I’m his butler. This is what moms do. As soon as I’m banished to the role of chauffeur, I’ll see you in the drop-off line.

Dear First Grade Math,
I want to begin this letter by telling you that I have been trying to understand you since September. Six months. I have given you six months of my life. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. I pull you out of my son’s backpack every evening, blink back tears, and work so hard to explain you to my child. My son and I both want to accept you. We both understand that we need you in our lives. You’re important, First Grade Math. We know that adding and subtracting is a valuable life skill and we have no choice but to allow you to enter our home. We want to like you. We really do. But you make it so. Fucking. Hard.
What? You want examples of the ways you make us miserable? Ok.
1. Word problems. Word problems in first grade. Are you kidding me? My kid just started reading for real last week. When I say “for real” I mean he finally started looking at the words and sounding them out instead of making shit up and guessing. So guess who has been reading your word problems, First Grade Math? That’s right. Me. I thought I was done with school. I graduated college. I went to a real, accredited university. I wrote papers and everything. I thought I was smart. Sitting next to my kid and trying to explain your word problems has shown me that those four years of college were a HUGE waste of money. I’m a total dumb ass. Remember your word problem about the frogs on the lily pad and how it almost made me cry? “If ten frogs are on a lily pad and two jump off, seven frogs jump back on, three drown and twelve more jump on the lily pad, how many frogs in total are on the lily pad?” Too many frogs. I had a long day at work and now I have to help my kid calculate frogs? Thanks, First Grade Math. You suck.
2. Does my kid really need to know that I’ve always been terrible at math? Does my kid really need to know that I still sometimes use my fingers to add the frogs and other shit you stick in your word problems? No. No he doesn’t. Thanks for exposing me for the dummy that I’ve always been.
3. Math has changed so much since I was in school. You weren’t supposed to change, First Grade Math. You weren’t supposed to become more complicated. When I was in school, 12+3=15. Boom. Done. Now you want us to show every single number combination that will equal 15. You throw in number lines, charts, graphs, etc. You want DNA samples and clothing fibers. Why are you making our relationship so much more complicated, First Grade Math? 12+3 still equals 15. Leave it alone.
4. You create more drama in my house than a paternity test on The Maury Povich Show. As soon as your presence has been announced, children cry, dogs hide and parents drink. Why do you insist on being such a nightmare? Why did you pick first grade to rear your ugly head? When I was in school, shit didn’t get real until at least the fourth grade! Thanks for making us doubt our parenting skills sooner rather than later. You rock.
Honestly? I wish we could break up. I wish we could quit you. But I know that we can’t. We have to stick with this relationship. I have to make sure my son graduates from college and finds himself a career that doesn’t involve asking people if they would like fries with that. In order to help my son, I need you,at least through June of this year. After June, you’ll be replaced with Second Grade Math. Then Third Grade Math. I will suffer through each of these relationships until I die a slow and horrible mathematical death. I will suffer for the benefit of my child. You may have the upper hand now, First Grade Math, but mark my words. I will learn all your ways by the end of this school year. You’re going down. As soon as I stop crying over these damn frogs on their lily pad.
Sincerely,
Katie

Please follow Scary Mommy to read my first published piece “5 Lessons My Mother’s Dementia Has Taught My Son.” Such an honor to be featured amongst all these talented writers. I’m a huge fan of this website and am still in shock that they published something I have written.

I have a six-year-old son. I also have a 71 year-old daughter who happens to be my mother. I refer to her as my daughter because it’s an accurate description. My mother was diagnosed with dementia a little over two years ago. I bathe her, clothe her, feed her and care for her the same way one would care for a child. We all live together in the same house along with my husband and a very energetic dog. I live in constant fear: I fear the day my mom loses her mind completely. I fear my husband will wake up one day and join the circus, finally realizing that a circus would bring less drama than our day-to-day life. The one fear that exceeds all others, however, is the fear that my son will become emotionally scarred by the experience of watching me take care of his grandmother (who was once an energetic lady that played catch with him tirelessly) like she’s a child younger than himself. I worry about my son constantly because I would like for his life to be all unicorns and rainbows for as long as possible. I’m sad that he has front row seats to the horrors of dementia day after day. However, I’m becoming more and more conscious of the daily lessons he is learning from my mother. He’s learning things at the age of six that many adults have never learned, and quite possibly should have. There are five lessons in particular I feel my mother teaches my son every day:
1. Patience. Have you ever met a six-year-old? Not the most patient of creatures, are they? My son is no exception. He is an only child so he really never had to wait for anything. My husband and I were free to lavish attention on him constantly since we never had to divide our time between children. Now that the dementia has taken over my mother’s brain, my son’s needs sometimes have to be pushed aside. My mother gets first dibs on the bathroom so she doesn’t have an accident. My mother gets served meals first so she has plenty of time to eat. I sometimes have to tend to my mother first, making sure she’s comfortable and not anxious before I can begin playing with my child. Does my son like waiting his turn? No, not always, but patience is one of life’s necessities, and I’m glad he’s learning that lesson at a young age.
2. Kindness. My mother has mood swings and behavioral changes every time her medication is altered. On school days, I wake my mother a full hour before I wake my son so I can focus on each of them individually. After a recent medication dose increase, one morning my mother was extremely lethargic, unsteady on her feet, and much more confused than usual. As I walked her to and from the bathroom, terrified she would fall, my son decided to follow behind us pushing a chair so that if my mother fell backwards, she would fall into the chair. I did not tell my child to do this, it was completely his idea. My heart broke for the fact that my son even had to think of such an action. Yet I was also proud that my tiny little boy, the same kid that sometimes NEEDS his snack RIGHT NOW, was putting his grandmother first in such a kind-hearted way.
3. Respecting one’s elders. One day, each and every one of us will be old. I don’t know about you, but I sure hope when my time comes the younger generation will treat me with dignity and respect. My son learns this lesson daily as he clears plates for my mother, opens doors for her, and holds her hand to keep her steady. Our elders are a treasure and should be treated as such.
4. Acceptance. My mother is ill. She is not the same woman she was a couple of years ago. But she is still my mother. She is still my son’s grandmother. Accepting my mother’s illness and this new version of the woman I’ve known forever was an extremely difficult lesson for me to learn,much less my child. I’m hopeful that my son will continue to accept my mother as this disease progresses.
5. Strength. Dementia is not only an individual disease. Dementia affects an entire family. Dementia is evil. I look at my child and want to shield him and protect him from this evil. Yet I look at my child and see his strength. He can witness my mother’s anxiety and still build an entire city out of Legos. He can see my mother’s confusion and kick a soccer ball directly into a goal. My boy is strong, and I gain my own strength from his.
I cannot cure my mother of this horrid illness. I cannot cover my son’s eyes or keep him hidden in his room. So I comfort myself knowing that every day is a learning experience designed to build his already exceptional character. I could not be more proud.

I woke up at 4 a.m this morning absolutely DREADING the thought of starting my day. The thought of waking up and getting my mother, son, and myself ready to face life seemed so daunting. I hid under my blankets for a bit and wished that I could be someone else for a day. Who would I rather be? The President? No, too much work. My dog? Not a bad idea since her life seems pretty awesome, but nah. Then it slowly dawned on me. If you can’t be yourself, there’s only one other person you should be. If you can’t be you, always be Mariah Carey.
Stop rolling your eyes and hear me out. I get it, I know you think I’m crazy. I was never much of a Mariah fan growing up, although I appreciated her beautiful voice. In interviews she always seemed a bit quiet and reserved so I never paid much attention to her. Then, slowly, year after year passed..and Mariah lost her mind. She became an over-the-top caricature of herself. So now I’m all in. I LOVE crazy Mariah. Watching her prance around like a unicorn on crack half naked at the age of 46..come on. I want to have that attitude. Just for a day, I want to be Mariah “I don’t give a shit, look at me I’m a unicorn” Carey. There are so many reasons we should ALL want to be Mariah for a day, but here are just a few:
1. Her diamond microphone. The woman owns a diamond encrusted mic. Do you have any idea what I would do with a diamond microphone? I would take it with me to Pick and Save and interview shoppers in the produce area. I would wave it around in the air to interrupt conversations with people I don’t like. I would be a one woman parade, walking up and down my neighborhood twirling it like a baton. It’s a diamond fucking microphone!! Who wouldn’t want one? Mariah doesn’t have to own a diamond mic, she GETS to! I want to be the one who walks around with it just for one day.
2. The attractive group of men she surrounds herself with onstage. I would like an attractive group of men to follow me around all day long, and not for the reasons you’re thinking. I need one man to babysit my mom, another man to drive my son to school, another man to do dishes, and yet another man for laundry. I would ask for a fifth man to help me at work, but that’s just too much. Four men will do just fine. Where does Mariah find these men? Does she pay them? Do they work for free? No one knows. I only know that I’m jealous.
3. I once read that Mariah considers time irrelevant and never wears a watch. God bless her. I’ve been trying to invent KBT (Katie Bohn Time) for years! Sadly, the earth does not seem interested in revolving around me. I’ll keep trying.
4. She reportedly has demanded 20 white kittens and 100 doves in her concert rider. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t care if it’s true. I want 20 white kittens and 100 doves to trail behind me daily like I’m in a fucking Disney movie. Sign. Me. Up. Throw in some penguins while you’re at it.
5. She calls her fans “lambs”. I once called my son a lamb and he looked at me like I was insane. I would like to, just once, in the middle of a work interview with someone of importance, call them my lamb. Who needs a job anyway?
6. Last but not least, her money. We all want some of that Mariah money. I wouldn’t spend it on kittens and doves, though. I make smart choices with money. I’d buy an island and a unicorn. And a magical dragon for my son.
You’re free to judge me as much as you’d like, but I also know that you’re starting to agree. Being Mariah Carey doesn’t sound so bad, now, does it? It’s her attitude I find most attractive. The only problem is that this carefree, “I can do whatever I please” attitude only works for celebrities with lots and lots of money. We average folks can’t get away with this. Or maybe I just really want a unicorn. Is someone selling a unicorn on Craigslist?

This blog post is dedicated to my new BFF, Miss Shirley (not her real name). Miss Shirley happens to be one of the residents of the rehabilitation facility my mother is staying at while she recovers and receives therapy for the shoulder she dislocated after suffering a seizure. Miss Shirley also happens to be all kinds of amazing for so many different reasons.
First, I have to explain to you how difficult it is for me to entrust my mom’s safety to others. I’ve been taking care of her the last two years. I understand her when she speaks Serbian. I also understand that sometimes hearing her say the words,”I need a spoon” really means that she has to use the bathroom. It’s bizarre and difficult to explain to others, but I get it because I’ve lived with it for so long. 98% of the nurses and aides at this facility look at my mom as if she’s a train derailing. While that may be an accurate description on certain days, she’s still a person. She may be feisty and difficult to understand, but she still deserves to be cared for properly, just like anyone else. My mother was never good at sitting still, even when she was healthy. She always needed to be up and moving about. Unfortunately, her constant need to be on the move isn’t safe at the moment. She’s unsteady on her feet and needs to be monitored at all times. Less than 24 hours into her stay at this facility, she fell as she was trying to stand up. This happened in the dining room at dinner time. I explained to the staff (rather loudly) that she needs to be supervised at meals. Period. It’s not up for discussion as she WILL try to stand up. There was lots of hemming and hawing about finding a staff member to sit with her, but finally they at least moved her to a table closer to the front of the room where she’d be more visible. As my mother was getting situated at her new table, I was getting to know her new table mate:Miss Shirley.

Miss Shirley is a large, imposing African-American woman. Throughout our first meal spent with her, I noticed she was very very comfortable bossing the staff around. I noticed her watching me and I decided instantly that Miss Shirley would be my baba-sitter. The woman has had a couple of strokes but let’s keep it real: I wanted her to boss my mom around the way she was bossing the staff. Even though I was slightly intimidated by the way she glared at everyone, I decided to try talking to her. When I asked her if she was enjoying her meal, she glared at me and said, “No. It tastes like shit.” Ok sooo winning her over would be harder than I thought. My mom is on a purée diet at the facility which Miss Shirley noticed and asked, “What the hell is that shit they feeding your mama?” I told her that my son noticed on his last visit and asked why Baba was eating cat food. Miss Shirley’s face lit up and she told me I was raising a smart kid. Then she demanded that a staff member bring her a Big Mac. Of course, the answer was a resounding no. I silently vowed to bring her all the Big Macs in all the land if she could just baba-sit my mom during meals.

I decided to ask Miss Shirley to be my baba-sitter during our second meal with her. I wasn’t sure what she’d say, I just knew that I was desperate. I couldn’t be there for every meal with my mom because of work and my son. The staff already let her fall once so my only hope was this 80 something year old stroke victim. When a staff member wheeled Miss Shirley to our table, I didn’t even hesitate. I looked at her and said,”Hi Miss Shirley I’m so sorry to bother you but you seem like you’ve got it together and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my mom at meals you know just tell her to sit down if she stands she’ll listen to you I promise she won’t try to argue she’ll sit down please can you do that for me please?” When I finally stopped to take a breath, Miss Shirley smiled and said, “Of course I’ll watch your mama when you’re not here and I’ll give you a full report when I see you.” JACKPOT! I didn’t even ASK for a report, but let’s do this!! We shook hands to seal the deal and I have never felt better. Miss Shirley has saved the day. Yeah, I guess the staff has gotten better too. They’ve finally realized my mom needs to be monitored thoroughly. But who are we kidding? It’s all about Miss Shirley. I’m currently calculating how many Big Macs I’ll owe her by the time this is all over.

• So, friends, this is why we all need a Miss Shirley. But you can get your own damn Miss Shirley, because you can’t have mine.

 

 

• I research news stories and current events for a living. I spent the better part of today researching anxiety in children. As part of my research, I spoke to several pediatricians and children’s psychologists about the rising number of kids who experience severe anxiety. I also spoke to several people with the job title of “parenting expert.” I’ve heard this title used in the past and I find it quite interesting. I will be putting quotation marks around the term “parenting expert” for the duration of this post because I call bullshit. What the actual fuck is a “parenting expert?”
  I spoke to a woman with two kids ages 19 and 16. I asked her how she earned the title of “parenting expert” and she was extremely vague with her answer. Several years of school, kids blah blah yadda yadda. All I heard was that she has one kid in college and one who just received his driver’s license. Honey, you can’t call yourself an expert. You’re just getting started! You have to make sure your college kid stays away from beer bongs and your brand new driver kid stays off of sidewalks! Call me when they’ve both graduated, found jobs, and stayed out of prison. Then I will take your “parenting expert” title seriously.
  I am ending this post with a question because I really want to hear what other people think. Is “parenting expert” a real title?

Postpartum depression is a real thing. I can’t believe I even feel the need to start with that sentence but I do. I hear people throw around cutesy little phrases like “baby blues” and I shudder. I remember looking down at my son for the first time and only having one thought continuously running through my brain: “How in the world am I going to keep this child alive?” As a child, every pet I ever had ran away from me in search of a better life. My bird flew the coop, the kitten I had made a break for it, and I killed every fish I ever owned because I forgot to feed it. Plants and flowers don’t stand a chance with me. Now I had this tiny, perfect little boy to take care of and I felt no joy whatsoever. All I felt was anxiety. Then I wondered what was wrong with me. On t.v., mothers instantly bond with their children. I read Facebook posts daily from my mom friends discussing their perfect lives with their perfect children in their perfect homes. Meanwhile, I was exhausted. The whole “don’t worry, just nap while your baby is napping” thing never worked for me. While my baby was napping, I had to stand over his crib obsessively and make sure he was breathing. I was told that breast feeding is the way to go if you want your child to be a smart, successful, PhD Rhodes Scholar. I wasn’t producing enough milk, though, and had to supplement with formula. I automatically felt like a complete failure for not being able to feed my baby the “proper” way. A nurse at the hospital glared at me and said, “You do realize you’re raising a bottle baby, right?” I didn’t really see the problem since it was a bottle of formula and not a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but what did I know? This woman is a nurse so she knows more than me. I know nothing. I’m a failure.
My first “outing” after having my son was a brief run to Pick and Save. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this story, not even my husband. I sat in my car and cried for 15 minutes, sobbing, one of those ugly cries that Oprah always talked about. I considered driving somewhere far, far away because who did I think I was raising a baby? I had no experience with kids. I couldn’t get my baby to stop crying. I couldn’t even produce milk to feed him. I was a total loser. I finally got out of the car and I must have looked like hell because a random guy with long hair and a Metallica T shirt asked if I needed a hug. As horrible as I felt, as worthless as I felt, as ashamed as I felt I did know this: I most definitely did NOT need a hug from a Metallica reject. So at least I wasn’t completely crazy.
I knew I needed help. At my next check-up, I told my doctor how I was feeling. She gave me a questionnaire to fill out and left me alone with my sadness. She came back, checked my score and told me I failed miserably. People, I was a straight A student in school. This is the first test I ever failed. I was referred to a different Doctor and officially given the post-partum depression diagnoses.
Yes, I was on medication. No, I am not on medication currently. No, I’m
not ashamed to admit that I was taking meds to feel better and here’s why: Depression is an illness. My feelings were not imaginary. My feelings could not be “fixed” with exercise and vitamins (sorry, Tom Cruise, depression expert.) Post partum has NOTHING to do with loving your child less than any other mother. In fact, in my warped mind, I felt that if I wasn’t around my son would be better off. I truly believed it with all my heart because I wanted what was best for him, and at the time, I didn’t think that was me.
Flash forward six years: My “bottle baby” is a healthy, active, naughty, sweet, smart, funny, serious, crazy little boy. He is completely AWESOME and I like to think that I had at least a little bit to do with that. If you’re depressed, get help. Ask for it. It sucks and it’s hard and it’s horrible but do it. Otherwise, you’ll be the bottle baby with a Jack Daniel’s in your hand and a Metallica dude trying to give you a hug. That, my friends, is rock bottom.