Having a Baby Changes Everything

I planned for every bump in the road, but the one thing I didn’t plan for was postpartum depression.

“Having a Baby Changes Everything” said the commercial, as the happy baby cooed in the bathtub, covered with soap.

From the time I was twenty years old, I couldn’t wait to become a mom. Finally, I met the man of my dreams, and after just four months of being married, we succeeded.

I began enthusiastically reading all the books and talked to all my friends. I couldn’t wait to breastfeed…I saw all the pictures of happy babies, bonding with their mothers, and I couldn’t wait to have that. I also bought cloth diapers, pretty ones with pretty patterns of flowers, ladybugs, and various plants and animals, that were super cute.

My mother warned me that having a newborn wasn’t that easy, and indeed the best-laid plans can sometimes fall apart, but I was sure that I was well-prepared.

I was ecstatic that finally, FINALLY after all these years, this December my own bouncing bundle of joy would enter the world.

The birth was smooth, for the most part. I tried to go natural, I figured I had a high pain tolerance, but the cramps became too much for me to handle, and they brought in the anesthesiologist. Once the epidural was working, the scariest thing in the world happened…my baby's heart rate dropped.

Suddenly, the room was filled with eight doctors. I didn’t know what was going on, all I kept asking/crying/yelling was “Is my baby okay? Do we need to do a C-section? Please just make sure she’s okay!” Crying constantly. Meanwhile, my husband was in the waiting room, unable to be there by my side. 

Then, by the grace of God, her heart rate began to climb back up. 

After the doctors left, and my husband was let back in I told him “I’m sure the epidural caused this. I’m sure of it.” And I felt devastated. How could I have let this happen? I’m her mom. I thought. I began to cry.  My husband said things are fine now, and not to worry about it. 

Finally, it was time to push, and on December 10th, 2022, our darling daughter was born. She was immediately placed on my chest. I lay there in awe, looking at my child. What was once inside of me, was now outside. Is this real? I thought.

She was carted away from me and examined and she was indeed healthy. My daughter may have forgotten the heartbeat incident, but it stuck there in the back of my mind. I tried to shake it off. But it seems like one of the many things that I would, once again, have to shake off. 

We were wheeled away to the room, where she was placed next to me in her bassinet, and the two of us fell asleep. My husband had to go home to take care of the animals. 

“Time for feeding!” and I began to place her on my breast. And…she wouldn’t latch. Dumbfounded, I couldn’t understand why. Every three hours I woke up, and every three hours she would put her mouth over my nipple, but refuse to latch. We then used nipple shields, and once again, she hated them. 

Finally, one night, my daughter was screaming her head off. “Just latch!” I said. She was crying, and I couldn’t help but cry with her. 

That’s when my husband asked for formula. She latched onto the bottle instantly, ate, and then immediately fell asleep in his arms. “You need to sleep,” he said, but how could I? 

I had failed. Again. I couldn’t stop crying. How am I going to bond with my baby? I thought. All I could do was hold her close to me.

Then the next day a miracle happened…my milk came in! And the lactation consultant managed to get her to latch twice. But just as quickly as she came and went, my baby once again stopped latching. That’s when I was introduced to the pump, and I was so happy to see her take the milk so readily.

We were discharged from the hospital but now, my sweet baby girl had Jaundice, and once again the thoughts kept coming, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was my fault. 

Did I give up too soon? Should I have fought harder to get her to breastfeed? I should have researched the epidural more. Did the epidural cause the Jaundice? Am I feeding her enough food? What if she gets RSV from being down here at the hospital?

But these “mistakes”...the epidural, the lack of latching, the jaundice, settled into the back of my mind like a wet blanket. 

And as the weeks went by that wet blanket became heavier and heavier. Every now and again though, I would feel overwhelmed with joy, documenting every adventure for my followers to see, but those feelings began to come less and less often.

I started skipping meals and skipping pumping sessions. My milk began to dry up, and we began supplementing with formula.

I wasn’t hungry, so why should I eat?

And those pretty cloth diapers, in all those pretty patterns? Never thought to use them. Why bother to dress her up? That’s something more for me to do. 

I watched my husband enjoy the baby…feeding her, goofing off with her, and I thought Wow. Why can’t I be that happy? I was insanely jealous of my husband…I was sure he was the better parent, and I was sure he felt that way too. 

Could this be Postpartum Depression? No, No! This is just the baby blues! 

But yet, a tiny whisper stated But it’s been three weeks though…and that social worker told me after one week that it was…

It couldn’t be Postpartum Depression. I had already failed at everything else. I couldn’t protect her heart rate from dropping, I couldn’t feed her, and now I fail the basic requirement of being happy to have her.

Thousands upon Thousands of Americans struggle with infertility each year, and I have been blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby girl and I couldn’t even be happy.

I don’t deserve her. She deserves to be around people who are happy to be around her. I thought. 

I shook my head. So then, I will get happy! I will pull myself up by the boots' straps and snap out of it! Happiness is a state of mind! Besides, I’m sure with enough sleep, prayer, and food I’ll be good! I tried, but after a week, nothing helped.

As I read more and more about postpartum depression…the mood swings, the guilt, the sadness, the highest of highs followed by the lowest of lows, the self-loathing and anger, the more that sounded like me. What’s more, I read about the children of moms with untreated Postpartum depression…and I realized that this was a lot more serious than I previously thought. 

If I wouldn’t go to the doctor for myself, then I had to go for my daughter.

Finally, I stopped beating myself up, and at the urging of my friends, I went to the doctor. He prescribed me an antidepressant that is safe to use during breastfeeding. 

And, like magic, all of a sudden I began to enjoy my baby. I became motivated to begin to read my Bible again. To write. I don’t skip pumping sessions anymore, although I still don’t make enough to feed her exclusively.

And that’s okay.

I’ve come to realize that being a mom is the hardest job I will ever have, and in my quest to be the best mom ever, I forgot that I’m a human being. 

A human being who enjoys singing, talking, and holding her pretty daughter, while she dresses her up in pretty patterned diapers.