Buying a pregnancy test is always a fraught experience. You’re either praying to Fisher-Price that it says yes or pleading to Durex it says no. I don’t know any woman that says, “Eh, I’m not feeling a movie tonight. Let’s go get a pregnancy test – just for funzies!” Remember that Walgreens cashiers the next time you see a wild-haired, wild-eyed, pajama-clad lady with a clown car full of screaming children clutching a pee-on-a-stick. I know it’s your job but asking if I’d like to take advantage of the BOGO (buy one, get one half off) offer this week will only make me cry harder. (Also, Walgreens? Good call on putting the pregnancy tests on the same shelf with the condoms. There was a teenage boy standing there checking them out and I’m pretty sure I just convinced him that abstinence really is best. Or maybe a vasectomy. You’re welcome, teenaged boy’s mom!)
By now you have deduced that this weekend found me shopping in the aisle I hoped to never need again and according to the three tests I have now taken I can conclude that mercifully I am not pregnant. (Just thought I’d get that out of the way at the beginning of the post so you wouldn’t be freaking out. You know, like I was.) Logistics aside – yes, we know how pregnancy happens and yes, we know how to prevent it (I have an IUD!) – this was a particularly poignant realization. See, our decision to finish our family with Jelly Bean comes not from a lack of resources (we’re not rolling in the money but we could make it work if we needed to) nor from pregnancy complications (I’m a textbook pregnant lady and a champion birther) but rather because, well, I’m crazy.
Usually when people invoke the “You don’t know what you’ve got, ’till it’s gone” axiom, it’s because they’re lamenting the loss of something they took for granted. Either that or they’re singing some drunk-karaoke Cinderella. (Have you listened to that song recently? I forgot how ridic Crazy Hair Man’s raspy voice sounds on top of that tinkly piano and it just made me laugh so hard I woke my husband up.) But for me, it’s a reminder that I never realize how mentally ill I am while I’m in the midst of it.
Babysitting Turbo Jennie’s infant (she’s 4 months old now!) the other day, I marveled at how much fun it was to sit and hold her and make goofy faces while my kids put on a breakdancing show and she rewarded them with grins and coos. But it wasn’t until I put her down for her nap in my room, closed the door and went to work in another room that I realized the significance of shutting that door.
I don’t have those carefree memories of my babies. It kills me to write that.
It wasn’t because I didn’t try to enjoy them but you can’t “try” your way out of anxiety and depression. Meds, therapy and daily (yes, seriously) talks with my sister who has suffered far more than I have from post-partum depression and anxiety and is my hero for the way she has dealt with it, all help but the real healer for me is time. Whether it’s hormone-based – my best guess – or a stage-of-life issue, it takes me about two years to finally crawl out of that dark rabbit hole I fall into every time I see a plus sign on the pregnancy test.
It isn’t that I didn’t love them. It’s that I love them so much my heart seizes at the thought that someday I might lose them in any of the myriad ways that a mother can lose a child. This thought is omnipresent in every waking moment from the time I find out I’m pregnant until they’re about 18 months old – Jelly Bean’s age. There were no shut doors for me.
When my first son was born, my husband and I kept him in our room for the first six months of his life. With the lights on. With each of us taking turns waking every 20 minutes to sit bolt upright, rush to the bassinet and make sure he was still alive. We had convinced ourselves that with this insane ritual we could ward off the specter of SIDS or RSV or whatever strange shadow carries away babies’ souls in the night. No one around us questioned our behavior because there was another before him, another one who did die, so of course we were nervous. It was normal. It was also hell. By convincing myself that I could save him from death, keeping him alive – nay, his every breath – became my direct responsibility. It kills me to remember that.
Exhausting. Unrelenting. Manic. Fear.
When my second son was born, it got worse. I remember being strangely comforted by his 9+ hours of colic a day because as long as he was crying at least I knew he was breathing. By the time my third son was born, I was spending every evening clutching him to my chest and pacing the floor for hours with the other two trailing behind me like bewildered ducklings. The only way I could put him down was to pray, sobbing, that God would watch him while I slept. Every night I went to sleep with the thought that this tiny puff of breath would be the last I would ever hear. I knew it wasn’t normal but it was the only normal I knew. It kills me to remember that.
Knowing my issues, when we decided to have Jelly Bean we took every precaution to deal with my mental illness. It helped. But not enough. Instead of first smiles, I celebrated turning 6 months old and getting officially out of the SIDS danger range. Instead of relishing first tastes of foods, I panicked about choking hazards. Instead of delighting over first steps, I obsessed over them walking out of the house in the middle of the night and freezing to death. To protect myself from the fear of losing them, I pushed them away. I can understand why some parents in bygone eras refused to name a baby until his or her first birthday. It kills me to write that.
Even as recently as two months ago when I discovered one evening on my nightly rounds through the house that we had not a single working smoke alarm (how does this even happen!?), I kept a vigil all night convinced that the deadly spark was just waiting for me to nod off. Waiting for me to relax my grasp. Waiting to consume my children.
Willing them to grow ever faster to reach the next level of safety, there is no relaxed enjoyment of their babyhood. But day by day it does get slowly better until by the time the child is two, I feel like my old self again – which is to say crazy, but not disastrously so. I’ve been able to enjoy them as toddlers and preschoolers and even as grade schoolers who put their dirty underwear right back on after they take a shower. But I never realize how bad it is until the veil over my mind is lifted. Until I hold another’s baby and realize, too late, what I’ve missed. It kills me.
If a baby embodies new life, why then all this talk of killing? I guess that song is about regret for me, after all.
Your posts are always so beautiful and honest, thank you for that.
I don’t have children of my own, so I can’t say I understand; but I can say that I’m listening, I care and I think you are wonderful!
Thanks for taking the time to read this – that means a lot to me Carly! And while not everyone is a parent, I do think a lot of us can relate the fog of mental illness in some capacity.
Charlotte this post is SO deep, big, powerful, intense…wow. Thank you for being honest with yourself, with your readers, for having the courage to write things that others dont, and that are from your heart.
You are an amazing mother. And ALL mothers worry, period, about their babies. The older they get, the more you say….whew. Milestone achieved.
And as a side bonus, we get more sleep as they get a little older. 🙂
It does get better for sure as they get older and as I get older! Yay for more sleep!!
I’ve been feeling so alone lately because in my heart of hearts i keep hearing “i never want another newborn.” having one was so amazing, so perfect, and so terrifyingly scary all at once. i couldn’t sleep for fear of SIDS. i couldn’t shower if baby wasn’t in the room with me. i couldn’t leave the house for fear he’d die in my absence. i know it’s all irrational but a mother can’t help it and while it was obviously SO worth it, i just can’t face going back there yet. haunting and celestial all at once, those newborns are. AMAZING post, Char. thank you
Oh Meredith! I totally know that feeling. But – and I can’t emphasize this enough – it was so worth it to me to have all the kids that I did. I’m glad that I didn’t let the fear hold me back from having them. That said, it is a relief knowing that we’re done. It’s such a personal decision but know you are not alone in your feelings!
I didn’t go into it much in the post but if you want more info on the meds and therapies and other things that I’ve found helpful, e-mail me – I’d love to chat with you about it!
Such an overwhelming time for you. I just wish I was there to give you {{hugs}}
Thanks Terri!
your blog is still not coming up properly for me… is it me? is it explorer?
I’m sorry Amy! Can you not see the pics and stuff or is it loading really slow?
it’s only loading the bare outline of the blog- no formatting or anything? it’s been doing it for over a week now 🙁 every other internet page i load seems to load ok, so i’m really confused?) perhaps it is just me!
Hi
I love you blog and read it every day but I have never commented before.
I don’t have children but the thought of having a baby terrifies me as i know I would be so worried about what could happen.
You are doing a great job of being a mum and you are not the only one feeling like this but the only one of a few brave enough to write about it
Thank you Jen! Having my children has been totally worth it but I do try and be honest about my struggles – I hope it’s helped other women realize their feelings are normal:)
Im in awe at how willing you are to share and help others
I know it may be a catharsis for you too (is it?) but the good you do and the normalizing and the HELPING OTHERS with your words is immeasurable.
I hope it was helpful… and not just depressing:)
I have never had kids, but man alive Charlotte you’re a woman who had such a grace about her. I do think that God works in ways that we never truthfully understand, but I do believe that you’ve been gifted to put to words the pain/agony/fear/anxiety of so many parents. The scary stuff that they don’t want to talk about, admit to, share. It’s strength, ironically, that gives you the ability to write what you did and I desperately hope that you find that in your heart. That even though you may not have been the most present, in your mind, for the first 18 months of their lives that you have the rest of their lives to be as present as you can. You’re an amazing woman, an amazing mother and we are lucky to have you share your heart with us. Thank you.
Thank you so much for this Michelle! I truly hope that this: ” to put to words the pain/agony/fear/anxiety of so many parents.” will help other parents realize their feelings are not weird. Mental illness is a struggle that I wish more moms would talk about…
It’s honestly stories/people like you who give the wings to people who feel cages and flight-less. When I was dealing with my binge eating (totally different from what you wrote about here) it was the stories of people who had admitted at one point where they were, where they are and how they got there. It was only then, through them opening their hearts, that I could find my own.
My husband has very similar concerns, though not to quite the same extent as you. He is always so scared of losing our two girls, of anything that could possibly happen. As they have gotten older, he has become more comfortable, but I don’t think that fear will ever completely go away for him. Luckily for him, it seemed to get better with our second daughter. Thank you for sharing your experience, it not only normalizes my husbands fear for me, but it also gives me a bit of insight into what he is experiencing.
Thank you for sharing your husband’s experience with me! I think that has been true for my husband too -his anxiety has gotten less with each child. I’m so glad that you found this helpful!
Your background, considering your first daughter, is a probably a big part of the reason for all of this. It seems logical, given all the circumstances that you had. It’s extremely obvious that you adore your children–all of the undertones of your posts exude your love for them. None of us, especially us with troubled pasts, are textbook “normal.” You are a delightful and, more importantly, a gracious big-hearted person–far beyond your crazy exercise stories. Maybe your hard times made you that way. Perhaps you should dwell on that.
🙂 Marion
Charlotte, I am holding back tears for you that you reading this. I am also touched by your honesty in sharing something that many people would keep hidden way, way deep down in the pysche.
I also see you getting to enjoy some baby time later, karma will grant you many, many beautiful grandchildren (when the kids are married and ready to have children, of course) that you can snuggle, spoil and enjoy.
I’m glad you wrote this. It’s a part of pregnancy that a lot of people have to deal with and people jsut brish over it. Tell new mums to suck it up and get over it, when some people really have a tough time with post partum issues. I’ve not had any little beans yet, but II bet I would fall into the paranoid portion of the population (I’ve been know to check my cats to see if they’re breathing…). It’s good you write about this -so people know what might be there for them and maybe be a little more prepared…or at least know it ends after a time. 🙂
Charlotte, I don’t have children of my own but I know this is one of the many reasons Hunni and I will adopt. I already had anxiety and Bipolar disorder so I would have to stop medications to get pregnant, be pregnant and then try to get back on the right combination while dealing with PPD that is prevalent in my family.
Thank you so much for being honest about the feelings that rage through you as you learn to love a child while being afraid to lose him or her.
I don’t have children, but I do have a fear of having them. As the child of a woman who I am certain has a mental illness and who has issues herself it scares me how it would affect them and myself.
I think you’re a really strong person for realizing this connection and for allowing yourself to feel. It can be a scary thing to put down what you’re thinking (such as relief in your case of the negative test and the reasons behind it)
It took me about 5 years to come out of the dark. I only have one child (he’s now 13), and I will always regret not enjoying his baby years more. I was so depressed and alone, with an abusive husband and no one who really understood. I also had 2 miscarriages after my son’s birth. It’s comforting to know, even after such a long time, that other women experience similar feelings.
Thank you for your honesty and courage.
I think it is pretty normal to have many fears after a child is born. They seem so fragile, yet they are surprisingly tough, as are their mothers 🙂
The night before last I dreamed I had left my kids (now nearly 10 and 7 1/2) in the car while I shopped at a mall for hours. (I NEVER leave them alone in the car, I’m too paranoid.) When I got back to the parking lot, I couldn’t find the car. There were rows and rows of red minivans, but not OUR red minivan. I spent what felt like hours running through the parking lot, looking for the car. When I woke up, I jumped out of bed to check on my kids, who were safe and sound in their beds, sleeping peacefully.
After my son (our first) was born, I was convinced that he and my husband would be better off if I died. That way my hubby could marry someone who’d be a GOOD mom. And I didn’t recognize, until 18 months later, that it was post-partum depression.
When my son or daughter had a cold as babies or toddlers, I’d sit vigil, praying they wouldn’t aspirate. Even when they were perfectly healthy, I’d check them obsessively to make sure they were breathing.
You are not alone. So many of us twist ourselves into knots over our children! I’m sending you more hugs!!!!!!!!
Losing a child is always in the back of my mind, but not at the forefront like it seems to be yours. The way you described the different emotions and extremely real details of your life takes some real guts and I applaud you for it. No seriously, I’m clapping while I type.
I have a sister-in-law (and possibly significant other) that could really benefit from your words here. Thanks for sharing.
HUGS & you are amazing for sharing such raw details of you & your life!
So well said. I had my own manic issues thanks to losing a niece to SIDS. Then my daughter had a freak accident, and I experienced her death, although she is fine. Sent me into a deep fog, that I’m finally emerging from. Thank you for sharing your personal experience. Glad to know I’m not the only Crazy on this earth 🙂
Your words are so thoughtful, honest, and moving. I remember being overly nervous when my boys were younger. Even now I still have a hard time letting them out of my sight. Hello homeschooling mom. 😉 I did feel for a time it got easier from about ages 3-9ish but now I’m discovering new fear territories – boys that must go into public bathroom alone, stay overs at other people’s houses, riding bikes, boogie boarding in the ocean, my oldest is obsessed with learning how to scuba dive, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to let him drive. I honestly can’t say it is getting easier for me. I will say as I’m getting older my faith and trust in God is deepening and I suppose that is His grace easing what could be overwhelming fears. I did read The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis and it helped a lot. I wasn’t expecting it to evoke such a change my heart but it did. Have you read that book?
Oh, Charlotte…sending big hugs your way. I had wicked anxiety throughout my pregnancy with Little Brother. I was convinced it was becasue I was older and wiser and I knew all the things that could happen, versus the last time I had been pregnant 9 years ago, when I was young and stupid and had no idea what I had gotten myself into. Even though I KNEW it wouldn’t get better when he was born, I wanted him OUT where I could SEE him. And honestly…it hasn’t gotten better. My girls laugh when they tell me he’s sleeping in the back seat and I ask, “Is he breathing?” but I’m dead serious. If I wake up before him and can’t hear him moving around, I’ll cry for ten minutes, preparing myself to go in and find his lifeless body. I know it’s terrible. And I HATE feeling this way.
Oh, honey…
Just the fact that you were willing to write about this is a step towards healing.
And really, it’s understandable that you feel this way–you lost your first baby,
how could you know that your future little ones would be okay?
I can’t even fathom that terror–and I pray it will keep getting better for you.
You’re a good mama, Charlotte, whether or not those first few months were spent in fear.
As a momma who struggles every day to overcome the shadows of fear in the past,
…
…
…
I don’t know what to say. If I were there in person, I would nod solemnly. If you wanted to hear about making it, I would tell you some of my stories. If you needed commiseration, I’d be more than happy to chime in.
I doubt either of those is what you want now. It seems to me that you are healing through your analysis and construction of a post. It seems to me that your head and brain are obviously much healthier than they ever have been in your life. Because this happens in a progression over our lives, and not in explosions of sudden existence.
Perhaps as a survivor of postpartum psychosis that is what I can tell you. It is not a before, after and during. It’s one big spiral staircase of learning.
I hope writing this healed a bit more of that hole in your heart.
xo
Thank you for this: for your kindness, compassion, empathy. ” It’s one big spiral staircase of learning.” This is true for so much of life really:)
While not on the massive scale you experienced it, I can relate to the crippling fear of losing a newborn to some unknown danger in the night. When my first (and so far only) son was born a little over a year ago, I didn’t sleep for 3 days. I have no idea how I kept myself awake, but I was certain that the moment I fell asleep, he would die, even in the hospital. It wasn’t until his 4th day of life that my husband finally convinced me to take a nap while he kept vigil over our sleeping infant. After a few good zzzz’s I normalized slightly, able to leave him in the room and check in every few minutes.
I had never lost a child. Never miscarried. But when I was 12 weeks pregnant a friend lost her 9 month old son to SIDS. While I can in no way compare my pain to hers, or yours, I felt like I had already lost my baby, even though he was just barely growing inside me. I was convinced that my child, my husband, myself, would suffer that same fate. I can’t explain the crazy. That was just what I believed. I finally relaxed a little when my son turned 10 months, living one month longer that my friend’s baby. Even now at 13 months old every puddle, car, sharp object, large piece of food, is death. It’s a miracle I deal. Because everything that could kill my son, I worry about every minute of every day. And some how, I deal. I can take no credit for it. It has to be due to a higher power granting me sanity in the midst of my insane thoughts.
Sorry for the long comment. I guess it was just comforting (can I even say that about such a difficult post?) for me to read about your experience. I feel like a freak most of the time. It doesn’t seem as though other mothers struggle with the crippling fear the way I do. But at the same time, I can’t imagine that other mothers love their children any less than I love my son, so they must on some level.
Thank you Kirsten! It is so so nice to know I’m not alone in this! I’m so glad you found my post comforting because I found your comment immensely so! Thank you for this:)
I was walking my son in the park today and realized that I think I go crazy right when you are coming out of it. He’s 20 months old and fiercely independent outside now. I feel this pit in my stomach every time someone passes too close to us like I’m afraid they might take him. I’m also scared he’ll be run over by a car or fall through a hole in the playground since he just doesn’t fully understand danger yet. Those first months I savored having him close and being able to protect him, now I’m becoming more terrified that I might lose him in some tragic way.
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