Motherhood Uncensored

Keep calm and carry on

"It IS juice!" I yelled, my two-year-old screaming at me for juice as I filled her cup with water and an Emergen-C packet. 

It's my feeble attempt at combatting the constant barrage of germs that keep infesting our household.

She tossed the cup to the ground, still screaming for "juice." I grabbed her and the cup, passing her off to my husband as I slammed the basement door out of frustration.

It felt good, so I did it a few times. Then the door to our garage.

"I can't fucking take it anymore!" I screamed. I'd felt it coming since the night before. A shaken bottle of carbonated loneliness, depression, and anxiety ready to explode on the unsuspecting person who decided to turn the cap. 

"I'm feeling depressed and anx..." I didn't get to finish. 

"What did she do?" he asked, cutting me off mid-sentence. 

I sighed, grabbing her back and hugging her tightly.

"Nothing. She did nothing." 

*****

My name is Kristen. And I am a fairly high functioning anxious depressed person.

It's exacerbated by post-partum hormones four times over and loneliness that comes with parenting alone.

I spin out every now and then, like a fast moving car hitting a patch of black ice. I don't really know when it's coming and most of the time I'm able to pump the brakes, turn into the curve, and recover.

Scared, breathing hard, but grateful to be alive.

I hide in the closet to catch my breath, leaning up against the door just in case my husband tries to come in.

He never does. But I secretly wish he would.

A few minutes later, I emerge from my cocoon, face red, eyes puffy. I dive into work. The laundry. My kids.

I pick my head up. Wipe my face off.

And carry on. 

Lucky

I'm not pro-breastfeeding. I'm pro-mom.

There's nothing like a sweet little breastfeeding baby nestled in a sling to evoke a myriad emotions. Even guilt.

For many women, the inability to breastfeed, for whatever reason, makes them feel guilty, that they're somehow less than a woman, a wimp even, who is depriving their child of nutrients, vitamins, the IQ they'll need to get them into Harvard.

Or something like that.

I was a breastfeeding martyr with my first daughter. Scabbed bleeding nipples. A Total Elimination Diet for a year.

It was nuts. I was nuts.

I finally sort of maybe convinced myself that we'd all be okay if I couldn't breastfeed my son for as long. Or even at all.

It turned out that my martyrdom was a result of poor support and education. And lack of knowledge about challenging and sometimes downright horrible parts of breastfeeding.

And it was also from this idea that I had to be the sacrifical mother in order to be a good mother.

I've heard people say that if we shared all the hard parts of labor, of breastfeeding, of mothering that no one would want to do it.

I say that if we share all of this, then we'd all be happier moms.

With Margot, I noticed a feeling of emptiness and depression every single time I nursed. At first, I thought I was going nuts. But then, after reading and asking around, I realized that I wasn't just making it up. And it wasn't until I had Bridget and experienced the same feelings that I learned it had a name - Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex. 

For me personally, it was decreased just by awareness as well as an increase in physical activity and weight loss. Many other women don't have as easy a resolution. Others stop breastfeeding.

And for that I don't judge them. In fact, in many ways, I admire them.

The challenge I face as a mother is allowing myself to be an important part of the parent - child equation. When I'm healthy and happy, my kids are better off. I can be a smarter, stronger parent and a good example for them.

When I'm suffering, I'm miserable. And it's not worth it.

That all sounds good. I preach it. But I struggle every single day with making that a reality.

Regardless of what the studies say about immunities and health benefits and intelligence, if you're not able to functionally care for your children, it doesn't matter.

Because, most importantly, you need to be present for them. In both senses of the word.

This doesn't mean I think moms shouldn't try to breastfeed. Nor that they should give up when it gets a little tricky or challenging. I'm the first to tell moms that breastfeeding gets so much easier at six months. And even easier again after 12 months.

I've breastfed for a total of 56 months and counting.

But I will say that it's important to value your own health and well-being. And to know your limits.

You and your child will be much better off with you feeding them from a bottle with a smile than breastfeeding through agony and tears. I wish that we could change the dialogue from "pro-breastfeeding" or "anti-formula" to "pro-mom."

That's not necessarily what many breastfeeding advocates may want to hear.

But I strongly believe it's a voice that needs to be amplified. Especially in my own damn head.

Silly Mom

I boarded the plane for San Francisco yesterday with Bridget in my arms and arrived at my seat - a window way in the back. 

You could see people smile and then sigh with relief as I passed by their row in the super crowded plane. 

"That's a mighty cute baby," a man said, looking up from his Kindle as I waited for people to put their bags in the bins and find their seats. 

"We'll see how cute she is in a few hours," I joked. 

He smiled. 

I arrived at my seat and sat down with the baby, stuffing my bag under the seat, and tugging at the broken window shade with my 2-year-old toddler manicure I forgot to fix.

I tucked my free Wifi card that I optimistically grabbed from the GoGo Flight guy at the gate into my seat pocket hoping I'd get a chance to do some work and finish up a column I'd been writing in my head for the past few days. 

The woman next to me in the middle seat pulled out her Elle Decor magazine and started tapping away at her iPhone with her beautifully manicured fingers, two of which were weighed down by large diamonds. 

"I'm in the back in the middle seat stuck next to a ..." she typed. I could see what she was writing. 

She spoke to the man on the aisle seat about her investments and her work and the Wall Street movie they both watched.

She flashed her fancy platinum American Express card that she pulled from her Tory Burch clutch wallet.

I nursed and slept and nursed and slept. Bouncing, holding, reading a hilarious post interrupted by bouncing and holding. 

"Oh, if you need to go to the bathroom or something, I can, you know, hold the baby," she said, reluctantly, as if she knew it was what she should say.

"Thanks," I smiled. I'd sooner give her to a polar bear, I wanted to say. 

Then she went back to reading and watching and chatting, all the time looking at Bridget every time she seemingly got too close - waiting for her to burst into tears so she could say "THIS is why I don't like babies! SEE!"

It never happened.

I waited until the man was awake and the lady was done eating her cheese plate that she ate with a knife and fork like it was a roast duck.

I returned to my seat after standing with the baby for awhile, and noticed the man had plugged in one of this headphones in the double jack. I was surprised that he got it to work and asked him about it. 

"Sure, it works. But only on one side!" They both laughed as I sat down. 

Silly mom. With her little baby. 

The two bid each other good-bye. No words to me as I waited for everyone to deplane before I got up.

We took the same elevator to baggage claim, and as she walked to get her bag she saw me as I met the driver holding a sign with my name. 

I pulled my sunglasses down from my head.

And waved.

Someday

"It's time for bed!" I yell down to Quinlan as she enjoys the later bedtime spoils of being the oldest kid.  

"Will you come tuck me in?" she asks.

Same as every night. Even when my husband is home. 

I drag myself away from the computer, engulfed in glorious uninterrupted work that happens between the time I put the other three to bed and she's downstairs with her Nick Jr. pals. 

"Will you snuggle with me tonight, Mom?" 

I sigh.

I think about the dishes piled high in the sink. The four loads of post vacation laundry strewn about on my bedroom floor. 

A to-do list that fills an entire page with nothing yet crossed off. 

The clock ticks loudly in my ear. Three hours to get things done while the kids sleep before I collapse in my own bed, midnight visitors almost a guarantee.

"Please!' she begs.

It awakens something within me. 

A door slammed. The lock turned. 

"GO AWAY!" she screams.

The back of her head bobbing up and down as she runs off to meet her friends, never looking back to see if I'm still there. 

An empty bed where she used to sleep, asking me to snuggle. 

"Of course," I tell her, as I put my head on her pillow, her head nestled under my chin as her hair tickles my nose. 

I close my eyes and take it in.