Eternal Questions of a Mother’s Mind

a stream of uncertainty

Am I pregnant? I think I’m pregnant. 

In the middle of my third cup of coffee this morning and in the wake of last night’s four glasses of wine, I come upon a sonogram image on my Instagram feed: a pregnancy announcement. Tap, tap. I watch the heart icon turn red. It’s only then I realize I’m late. 

Unexpectant, I slink into the bathroom. I grab a test, tear off the wrapper, and stream onto the stick. Coffee pee. Gross. Three minutes pass mindlessly as I clog my attention, consumed with scrolling. The blare of my alarm jolts me back to reality. I check the test: two lines instead of one. 

Reality begins to melt away again. This time, it’s my own life flashing before my eyes instead of those of the people I follow.

Am I ready for this? I thought I was ready for this.

It’s only been twelve weeks, yet I’m already over being pregnant. I want to drink wine again. Chug coffee again. Read books that have nothing to do with “preparing my body and my baby for labor.” I want to sleep on my belly, to make a long-term plan without a caveat, to lay in bed with my laptop on my lap, to buy clothes I genuinely like, to buy clothes I’ll wear for longer than three months of my entire life, to not have to buy an entire new selection of bras, to order my steak cooked medium-rare, to make small talk with strangers about literally anything other than babies, to move in a way that doesn’t require extra intention or precaution, to slam a dozen Murder Point Oysters alongside a glass of pet nat, to use my core strength to get more power on my backhand, to go at least one hour without feeling like I’m starving, to make it through an entire hour-long television program before passing out on the couch, to not worry so much about affording my self-funded maternity leave, to eat a $1 Costco hot dog without worrying I’ll contract listeria. I want to not constantly think about every single decision I make and how it may potentially negatively affect the baby growing inside of me. I want to go back to living a life that isn’t riddled with so much guilt, anxiety, and fear.

By all standards and measures, I was ready for this. I had – still have – a successful business, a happy marriage, a house, a car, a dog. (I also had – still have – piss-poor health insurance that doesn’t include maternity care, but hey, you can’t have it all!) Wesley and I had tried to get pregnant. We want to have children. 

But as it’s turned out, my natural response to this nine-month-long epic hasn’t been what I thought it would be. I’m annoyed, frustrated, impatient. It isn’t the experience I was forever told I would have, and I’m neither behaving nor feeling the way I’d always imagined. Based on the Hollywood version of motherhood I’d long digested, I thought I should feel happy, grateful, excited. 

Are you so excited? they always ask. Of course. But what I feel most of all is shame.

I’m ashamed of my selfishness, ashamed of my cold heart, ashamed of the grief I feel, even as I embark on this exciting new chapter – a chapter I’ve forever wanted to read. I’m ashamed of my pessimistic reaction; afraid of what it says about my future as a mother. I want to feel the same pure and ethereal joy every other woman seems to exude at this particular juncture. I want my head and my heart to catch up with my uterus. 

Is this really happening? Holy shit, I think this is really happening.

Thirty minutes after arriving home from the wedding, five minutes after getting out of the bath, two hours after my first real contraction, I feel it coming. But this one is different. 

“FUUUUUAAAAAAAAAHHHHGGGGGGG! HOOOONEEEYYYY!”

The sensation is so severe, the volume of my voice reaches a heretofore unexplored decibel. The windows tremble in their frames. 

Wesley sprints back into the room. “Are you okay? I heard you screaming out in the garage!”

Tears spill from my eyes onto the comforter, fear fills my eyes like water in a vase. “I THINK SHE’S COMING OUT!” I bellow. ”I NEED YOU TO CHECK!”

He springs into action.

Nine minutes after ripping off my diaper, eight minutes after calling our doula, seven minutes after dialing 911, six minutes after helping me flop onto my back, five minutes after witnessing the amniotic sac swell out of my vagina like a water balloon filling at the spigot, four minutes after being instructed not to pop it, three minutes after enduring yet another supersonic scream just inches from his [unfortunately rather sensitive] ears, two minutes after frantically bolting to the front door to usher in a team of firefighters, and one minute after delivering the news that my parents had just dutifully arrived to pick up the dog (as we had instructed just twenty minutes prior), the EMTs flood our bedroom; my husband is relieved of his post at the foot of my body. 

Only four minutes after that, my baby is in my arms: hair red, eyes blue, skin pink, cries loud. 

Wesley bows his head to mine. In the eight years we’ve been together, this is only the second time I’ve ever seen him cry. It’s probably the first time my eyes have ever run dry.

Do I have postpartum depression? I think I have postpartum depression.

I feel like a stranger in my own body. My world is out of whack; slow and lethargic. I feel out of control, upside down, anxious.

To try and right myself, I create a schedule: shower every morning. That’s it. The whole schedule. 

I want this shower to be like a daily wake-up call-to-action. A summons to begin anew, to start fresh like I did in the days of old. Instead, it’s an invitation to grieve. To ache in my listlessness. To drown in this deep well of unexplainable sadness. Yesterday, I spent twenty minutes weeping before I even shampooed my hair. Standing there, my body convulsing with my face in my palms, I heard Wesley walk in. And silently walk back out. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he later told me. “It looked like you were really having a moment.”

Does she have acid reflux? I think she has acid reflux. 

Despite the fact that I’ve eliminated dairy from my diet to no avail; despite the two-dozen burp-cloths, six outfits, and four swaddle blankets we launder every single day; despite her father’s chronic history with reflux; and despite her constant regurgitation being a direct correlation to my own increased despondence, her pediatrician, Dr. M, insists she doesn’t.

“I’d like you to eliminate eggs, too” she says, staring at her laptop instead of me. “If that doesn’t make an impact, I’ll have you try chicken as well.”  

Weeks go by. Nothing changes. Especially my conviction that the dairy ain’t it. 

She’s lying on her play mat, arching her back and crying in pain. Her face is the color of a radish. Tears pool beneath her. I can’t take it. I burst into hysterics when the receptionist at Dr. B’s office picks up the phone. Dr. M uses a robotic machine. Finally connecting with a human is just too much. 

Two days later, in clinic, Dr. B asks: “Your husband has acid reflux?” Her eyes bug out of her head. “That’s family history! Let’s get her on some medication.”

Relief washes over me. I’m proud of myself for listening to my instincts, proud for switching doctors.

“The omeprazole should make her more comfortable physically,” says Dr B. “but it won’t necessarily reduce her excessive spit up.”

Can I do this again? I’m not sure I can do this again. 

We’re on the way to the hospital. My contractions are coming in erratic spats, not at all like the 3:1:1 I’ve been told to expect. But after my last rodeo, I’m pretty hellbent on delivering my son with the assistance of a board-certified OBGYN. Wesley, too.

WHAM! Like a freight train that’s suddenly crashed into my uterus, I feel the shrapnel spewing across my nether region. I don’t want to do this again, I think. I’m getting the epidural. When the blaze finally subsides, I voice my thoughts aloud.

“No shame in that game,” responds my husband. He squeezes my shoulder.

“You’re ten and two!” the nurse tells me when we arrive in Labor and Delivery. “There’s no time for an epidural, but you’ve done this before mama — you can do it again!”

Six minutes later, at 5:50 AM, he’s in my arms. He cries. Dad cries. I weep. Tears of relief and exhaustion and utter joy. Out the window, the sky celebrates: streaks of sherbet orange blend with cotton candy pink. My eyes glow at the beauty.

“Happy Labor Day, baby boy.” I love a pun.

Do I have postpartum ADHD? I think I have postpartum ADHD.

Although the fog of my second pregnancy has cleared, it hasn’t burned off completely. Contrary to the rose-tinted beliefs I held near the end of my third trimester, I now remember: ample brain capacity is required to care for an infant. Concurrently, I realize: caring for a toddler on top of that requires even greater brain space. 

Perhaps I’m running out of real estate. 

More likely, I’m running out of grey matter. Because if giving up your breasts, your vagina, and your midsection isn’t enough, recent studies have concluded that women are literally losing their minds during pregnancy and postpartum. I repeat: we’re losing parts of our brain. 

So, is my recent brain fog a consequence of my pregnancy (pregnancies?) a whopping eleven months (thirty four months) after the fact? Or is this fog I’ve noticed more of a brain…smog? A pervasive mental pollution that’s taken over my skull? A thick, dense cloud that’ll require concerted global effort to minimally reduce and hopefully fully eliminate? I’m not sure I have that much patience; that much time to spare. 

“Oh Maddie,” my mom used to always say, shaking her head with her palms over her face. “You know - my memory has gotten so bad.” 

I want it to be postpartum ADHD. Because, if I have postpartum ADHD, maybe I can take a prescription to fix my brain; to fix myself. To return back to a semblance of my former self. I’m so exhausted and so frustrated. An easy fix would sure be nice.

Am I ready for this? I thought I was ready for this.

My daughter is nearly three and my son just turned one, but already I can sense the heartbreak looming. These days, I often wish I could press fast-forward. And yet, I just as often wish I could press pause; rewind; play. I feel the time slipping away; feel anxious over its precipitousness. 

Sure, I’m ready for them to become more independent, less clingy. I’m looking forward to having real, actual conversations; to telling them to brush their own teeth or wipe their own butts; to screaming at the top of my lungs when they compete in a swim meet or a soccer game or a tennis match; to hosting dance parties and sleepovers with their friends from school; to reading their essays for English class; to having an introductory dinner or brunch with their future girlfriends or boyfriends.

But I’m not sure I’m ready for what’s on the other side of all that.

Am I ready? To raise children? To let them trip and make mistakes? To watch them lose the match or get their hearts broken? To stand by as they inevitably become the incredible, interesting and independent people they will one day be? To watch them grow all the way up and then just…let them go?

No amount of cardio or calisthenics could properly prepare my heart to withstand the impossibility of creating these two glorious and miraculous lives and then letting them walk right out my door.

Am I ready for this? For the eternal emotional rollercoaster that lies ahead? For the sweet agony of parenthood?

There’s no turning back now.

One, two, three…

Woof!
Mom Dog