Postpartum Blues

I had my postpartum checkup yesterday -- my doctor came in, inspected me, asked me three times what I was using for birth control, to which I answered, "Still imagining the pain of my episiotomy will pretty much handle it I think, thank you." And then we made banal chit-chat about how awful it is to imagine your parents having sex during my pap smear...because I still have no idea what you're supposed to talk about when someone is inspecting your vagina.

As part of my appointment, I had to fill out a "Depression survey." It comprised of ten questions, each one allotted a point value. I answered it honestly and was feeling pretty sure that my survey would show how well I've been handling the challenge of two kids -- one who seems to have a new health malady each week.

I said I was still laughing as often as I was before the baby. I said that I still looked forward to activities. I wrote that I cry "at least once a day" and that I haven't had thoughts of injuring myself. I was feeling so confident that my survey wasn't worrisome that I even totaled up the points for the doctor and put a little smiley face down beside the number. 

When my doctor picked up the survey, she scanned my answers and said, "Wow. Okay. So, you've been feeling pretty down, huh?"

I answered that I think I am down...but in a normal way...nothing to worry about.

She responded with, "Well, you're at an 11 on here...we hope that at six weeks postpartum women are at a one or a two." And that comment made me think that my smiley face was a little inappropriate.

After a brief discussion of whether or not I wanted anti-depressants, I left feeling like maybe I should have taken a different survey...or maybe they should do a pre-assessment survey and a post-assessment survey -- just like I do with my teenagers. The survey asked me how often I worry, if I find myself consistently anxious about things beyond my control, if I am hard on myself when things don't go according to plan. The answers? All the time; All the time; Most of the time.

All my high numbers came from one source: Worry.

I'm not feeling anything out of the ordinary. I think I'm a pretty normal type of worrier.

And it's not like the worrying part of me just popped up when I had Elliott. I've always had a slight bent toward anxiousness. When you're in the hospital having a baby and the nurses do a shift change, they stand in front of your bed and do a rundown of your medical chart. Each and every time, both in labor and delivery and in postpartum, the nurses would stand there and say, "And Shelbi was treated for depression and anxiety disorders in college -- she was on medication, but hasn't been taking for for several years. And she's been doing well?" And then they'd look at me for confirmation and I would just nod my head slowly and think, "Wow...it's really embarrassing to have your emotional history recounted for you at eight hour intervals."

But I do think that when women become moms there is a small switch that turns up the crazy just a tad. Because here's the deal -- you're forced to stop thinking about yourself and focus more on your kids. If I thought I was anxious before, well, I had another thing coming...because I was just being a selfish worrier. Now? I'm worrying about two little humans that are mine to protect! Scary!! You should see the things I Google...

Now, people who are close to me might not label my parenting style overprotective and neurotic. I hope that's true. Because if I've learned anything from this world it's that it isn't fair to burden my kids with my own neurosis. I might inwardly panic when I watch Elliott share a toy with some child in Sunday School whose nose is running like a faucet. Or want to run around the yard screaming like a crazy woman, on the phone with poison control, when Elliott tells me, proudly, "I ate the purple flower!" But I put the crazy on hold, breathe, and employ my calm, cool, and collected version of myself -- even if it contradicts my natural instincts. Why? Because my child is going to look to me to know how to react and, frankly, I don't want to raise another me. (Well, naturally I want him to have all the good parts of me.)

While watching "Finding Nemo" the other day, I had forgotten how horrific that opening scene was -- and I immediately started bawling when Elliott turned to me and asked, "Where'd the mama go?" I forced myself to wipe away the tears and explain to him in a calm voice that the mama and her babies were eaten by a larger fish.

"Oh," Elliott says. "Big fish ate mama. [Imitating Cookie Monster] nom-nom-nom-nom-nom." Then he pretended to cry (mocking me, I think). Then he giggled.

We'll strike a balance someday. In the meantime, I think we're doing just fine.

(You'd answer "I cry at least once every day" on a survey too if you keep finding things like THIS on the Internet.)