All my baby books discuss the various forms of hormonal insanity that beset new moms. There are baby blues, which begin within a few days after delivery and are supposed to be mild. There is postpartum depression, which is more serious and requires treatment. And finally, there is postpartum psychosis, which is just plain scary and requires treatment and possibly the temporary removal of baby from your care (this is the one where you seriously consider tossing your baby out a window or doing yourself in).
Until recently, I thought I had skipped all of these. I was just fine, thank you, the same old me as ever only without the belly and with a new child. I mean, sure, the hormones coursing through my veins were making me bond with Simon and get all maternal, but they had no effect, I say, NO EFFECT, on me otherwise. I’m EXACTLY THE SAME AS EVER thank you very much. Any hysteria you detect is all in your mind.
Unless… As you know, Simon and I had a rough patch for a day or so last week. One day I can vividly recall looking down at him as he cried and wriggled on the bed. I was at my wits end to know how to soothe him and was frankly exhausted to a breaking point. I went from feeling bad for Simon to mainly feeling bad for myself, and then actually became peeved at Simon for being so difficult. This baby was making me nuts! Bad baby!
Hours later I grabbed the newspaper and during my reading skimmed the obituaries. And there is was: a memoriam placed for a baby who would have been a year old that day had he not died at six months. Six months and gone. Well that did it. I broke down into sobs and could only think of how happy those poor parents would be to have a fussy, crabby baby. The very same fussy crabby baby that I clearly did not deserve and was not being a good mother to. So I did what anyone in my hormonally charged state would do. I woke up my finally sleeping baby to apologize to him profusely and kiss him about a hundred times and promise to be more patient and understanding in the future.
The very next day, when things were going fine, I read another article about the parents of stillborns wanting birth certificates for their lost babies. I can’t tell you how the article ended because I never got that far. More crying, more hugging and kissing Simon, more slight insanity on my end. I tried to tell Matt about these articles but couldn’t get the full story out without choking up all over again.
I suppose I should not be surprised that the same hormones that helped me build, bond with, and provide milk for my baby might have a teeny, tiny effect on my emotions, otherwise. Still, I find myself a bit shocked to be in a state I can only call postpartum-ish.