Baby Blue

Becoming a mother - whether for the first time or the fifth - is miraculous and beautiful. There is nothing like the feeling of holding my new son close and breathing in that sweet baby smell. For the first few of days after the birth, I am surrounded by well-wishers, family, and a nursing staff who bring your baby to me to nurse and help manage your pain. The day arrives to be discharged, and I can't wait to bring baby home. But somewhere between the driveway and the nursery, it dawns on me that it is all up to me from here on out.

I have done this before. Nine years ago it was my daughter.

When I arrived home after her birth, I was overwhelmed by pain. No one could have prepared me for the aftermath of a C-section. Hopped up on painkillers, I felt zoned-out and absent for at least a week. Sitting up took Herculean strength, much less picking up the baby. Fortunately, I had my mother to help, and I recovered from my surgery in a few weeks. Around the same time, I learned that my husband was being deployed to Iraq. Understandably, I became deeply depressed; this news, combined with the cocktail of postpartum hormones swirling around in my system, resulted in classic postpartum depression. So I saw my doctor, and he prescribed Zoloft to help me function. The overwhelming misery gave way to normal sadness, and I was able to care for my baby. It was difficult to bond with her for a while, but by her fourth month I was as attached to her as any mother ever was to her baby.

This time around, I knew exactly what to expect. Maybe that's why it was so difficult for me to get excited about the birth. With my first, I was too clueless to be afraid. And this time around, I wouldn't have a mother to help me, for she had finally smoked herself into an early retirement home. Even still, I had more going for me; my husband was home and out of the military, my daughter was old enough to be self-sufficient, and even to help.

He is here now, and he is beautiful. I love him with all my heart, and I fell for him instantly. So why can't I stop crying? It may have something to do with being sequestered from the world in my living room day after day( I can't drive for two more weeks, doctor's orders). And maybe it's because a person can only watch so much Shahs of Sunset and Real Housewives marathons on television without taking time out to fixate on real-life worries, like: How will we live while I'm on unpaid leave and I just paid $1,000 to the hospital and pediatrician thanks to my shitty insurance?

Those are logical worries, but there's more at the root of my despair than that. There is a dread that lurks in the corners of my consciousness; it eats the food in my refrigerator, it ducks into doorways on my way down the hall. It lulls me into calm and certitude, and it waits until I am distracted. And then it reaches out and grabs hold of my heart and lungs and it squeezes as hard as it can with its cold fingers until I cannot breathe. The room goes crooked, my fingers go numb, and I brace myself for the deluge of horrific thoughts that are coming, sure as anything.

It's the awful thoughts that really do it, that send me, sobbing, into the next room. Away from the baby. Because what if? What if I lose it and hurt him? WHAT IF I LOSE IT?

Of course, I don't lose it. I have not yet lost it, and I understand that there is about a 0% chance that I will enact any of the fiendish deeds that my imagination conjures. You'd think that would help somehow. And yet logic and hysteria perform this tango every single day, and I have to talk myself through it, breathe through it, excuse myself and just get through it. 

I suffer from postpartum OCD. In fact, something like 5% of women suffer from it. (I wonder what the real percentage is, though, and how many women just keep it to themselves because, honestly, how many people are comfortable admitting that they have terrifying visions of harming their own children?) I didn't know that my crazy had a name until very recently, and it was thanks to my Google search prowess that I found some answers. I also had going for me a longtime familiarity with OCD and anxiety, old friends who like to pop in and out of my life periodically like that cousin who hits you up for a loan every holiday. So I am familiar with the treatment options: medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, a combination of both. I have taken the meds, I have done the exercises, and I know that there is help for me.

As for the moment, I have decided to avoid taking the medication yet; I am going to white-knuckle it for a few weeks because I want my son to have uncorrupted breast milk, if only for a little while. We'll see if I last that long. I can't get out to a therapist yet, but I am making plans to do so in the coming weeks, as well. Until then, I will look forward to feeling better soon.

Whooo, Doggy!

Upon my recent visits to the dog park, I have observed that some aggressive/dominant dogs zero in on the less extroverted ones and try to annoy them. Sometimes they try to mount, but often it's just a dog's equivalent of poking someone in the shoulder and saying, "Hey you." I am impressed by the dogs who, rather than choosing to run or to fall to the ground, simply turn their backs on the offending hound. Invariably, the aggressor finds himself diminished in the eyes of his peers, and he goes on his way.

I tried this with a person the other day. I didn't like what he was saying, so I turned around and stood with my back to him until he went away.

Stuff That Makes Me Look/Feel/Seem Less Elderly

So some of my friends talk about being flummoxed by the arriving at a "certain age" and selecting from the ocean of products available. This year, I found myself at looking in the mirror and seeing stuff on my face that didn't used to be there. Here's some stuff that I like that seems to be doing the trick:

Mom Spit No-Rinse Cleanser - Nothing makes you look dowdier than spit-shining your child in public.
Dickinson's Witch Hazel - A classic. Been using this since high school, and still gets my skin super-clean. Don't reinvent the wheel.
L'Oreal Skin Genesis Serum Concentrate - I like this A LOT. Has instant brightening/smoothing effects.
Smashbox Photo Finish Foundation Primer SPF 15 and Dermaxyl - So important for keeping foundation and powder out of sneaky creases.
Benefit Ooh La Lift - A surefire product I found in my twenties, when fabulous parties and the whimsy of youth kept me up too late. Now I rely on it as an eye-debagger after a night nursing growing pains and earaches.
The Balm Hot Mama - Slightly shimmery, very flattering, and it does double-duty as eyeshadow. Don't go anywhere without it.
LCD Soundsystem, "Sound of Silver" - Gets me going on tough mornings.

How Was My Day? Thanks for Asking.

I always get a little sad this time of year. It's the end of the summer, and soon I will have to start showering and brushing my hair in the morning. I have compiled a list of things I will miss about Summer 2010:

1. Not showering or brushing my hair in the morning.
2. Getting dressed at noon.
3. Pretending I am an heiress who is running from her stifling obligations as a socialite.
4. Celebrating stuffed animal birthdays with my child.
5. Grocery shopping when there are few people in the store.
6. Complaining about the weather with strangers: "It's not the heat, it's the huMIDity!!!"
7. California's Central Coast.
8. The fabulous summer lineup on USA network
9. Hanging out at coffee shops long enough to make people think I may be spying on them for national security reasons.
10. Allowing my daughter to use swimming as an excuse not to bathe.

God Gave Us Advil Cold & Sinus Because He Loves Us.

Sure, there's that business about "his only begotten Son," but he really showed he loved us by giving us almost instantaneous relief from severe sinus congestion. If you don't believe in God, you've never had a sinus infection relieved by the miracle of pseudoephedrine and whatever-the-hell-else is in that stuff.

Why can't people do things exactly the way I like?

Example:
Good: My mom took Madeline to sit for a portrait for holiday cards. Bad: she dressed her like a girl who might work for the telephone company or do lumberjacking, with hair brushed forward like Little Dutch Boy.

In Search of Things Past

No one I know particularly enjoys using public restrooms. Everything about it is distasteful: waiting for your turn, for example, broadcasts to the world that you have to use the toilet. Sometimes you're just waiting to spot-clean the coffee stain from your shirt, but it doesn't matter. People still look at you knowingly. Add to this unpleasantness the adjunct activity of exiting the restroom and meeting - or, in my case, avoiding - the gaze of the person next in line. This is why I tend to limit my visits to these facilities to two minutes or less. If the patron outside is already feeling self-conscious or annoyed, my taking forever will only increase her irritation and make the inevitable walk-by awkward. I like to think that I am a pretty considerate person in this respect. My feeling is that, if you have to attend to something that requires more than five minutes in a public lavatory, you're better off just going home, and I am diligent in applying this standard to myself. But today I was reminded that many people are quite unbothered by the bathroom visit, to the extent that they lounge around inside as if they were preparing a decadent Saturday night bubble bath. I waited so long today that I expected the woman to emerge in a negligee holding a pair of champagne flutes. When she finally did reappear, I couldn't help but notice that she was not wearing a negligee and didn't look refreshed; instead, she scurried past me and shinnied up against the wall, her eyes averted and her face a mask of terror and shame. I stepped into the restroom and discovered the reason for her furtive escape. The air was heavy with stench, and I think the temperature in the tiny room was ten degrees hotter than outside in the hallway. I tend to avoid inhalation in every public restroom, but the miasma was so pernicious that even the cessation of breathing couldn't mask it. My instinct was to flee, but I'd drunk too much coffee, and so resigned myself to a minute of torture. I became consumed with the desire to run out into the busy coffee shop to find that woman, put my finger in her face and, in my best Marat impression, shout, "J'accuse!" Really, I wanted to go right up and ask her what the matter was with her, who did she think she was, and explain the proper etiquette. Once I was out of the bathroom, I avoided scanning the room so that I could look pointedly in her direction, which was all I'd be able to muster. And anyway, I forgot about the whole thing pretty quickly. But still. I mean, come on.