The year I lost myself to postpartum depression
I didn’t admit I had postpartum depression until long after it was over.
After our daughter was born, I was consumed with guilt that I felt anything other than joyous. After all, I finally had the baby girl I’d always wanted — ruffles, headbands, lacy dresses, Mary Jane socks and all.
I also had an amazing toddler who made me laugh and planted sloppy kisses on his new baby sister. I had a husband who loved me and worked hard at two jobs. I wasn’t racing against the clock at the end of a maternity leave because I didn’t have one — I was lucky enough to work from home.
What did I have to be sad about, exactly? It all sounded great, in theory.
Except for the fact that my baby girl screamed for hours every single evening unless I held a soother firmly plugged into her cry-hole, draped her over my sweaty forearm and walked the floors wishing I could just go to sleep.
My toddler destroyed his room daily, required numerous ER visits for his daring antics, and don’t get me started on the stressful ear surgeries and speech therapy visits because, right, he didn’t speak … at all.
My husband was never home because of his two jobs and we only had one vehicle, which means he had a vehicle — always — and I was stuck at home — always. We fought too much. We didn’t understand what the other person was going through because we were worlds apart.
I was back to work (from home) before I was even allowed to drive after my C-section, and there were days when it felt like I couldn’t string two sentences together. Days when both of my babies screamed while I tried, desperately, to finish an assignment. We were broke and it felt like it was all my fault.
I was scared to tell people how I felt in case they’d throw me into a psych ward against my will. I thought about the mothers who dress their children in their church clothes, take them for ice cream, tuck one under each arm and jump off a bridge. Was I going to get to that point? I didn’t recognize myself or my thoughts.
I assumed that I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed if I took medication for depression or anxiety, and I wasn’t willing to give that up (see above: broke). I thought people would think less of me as a mother — that I was too selfish or weak to handle life with two kids. I wondered why none of my friends seemed to feel this way, and figured there was something very wrong with me.
I cried in the shower. I said nothing.
Back then, I didn’t know postpartum depression is incredibly common — affecting up to 1 in 5 women who give birth. I didn’t know you can safely take certain antidepressants and still breastfeed. I didn’t know it was OK to ask for help and admit I needed it.
I fought and scraped to get through the darkest year of my life, and the clouds parted eventually. Our circumstances slowly improved — we went from three jobs and one car to two jobs and two cars — and things felt easier.
If I could go back and talk to that blank-eyed girl, disheveled in cut-off yoga pants and a nursing tank, jiggling the baby that wouldn’t ever stop fussing while a toddler screams nearby in his booster seat, I would remind her that she’s not alone. That it’s OK to feel like everything’s falling apart. That it’s a hard season, but it’s not going to last forever.
Yes, I made it out of postpartum depression, but it didn’t have to be that hard. It didn’t have to be as hard as I made it.
I would tell her to speak up.
Refinishing a tabletop
Family friends gifted us with their old dining table, chairs and hutch when we moved into our home almost five years ago. My mom warned them I’d probably paint it white — she knows me well — and they said they didn’t care.
But I was actually too nervous to touch it. I’d heard again and again, “Never paint your grandparents’ furniture,” and this was the closest I was going to get to handed-down heirlooms. It was a beautifully solid set and I was afraid to wreck it.
Over the years, however, I felt more and more weighed down by the dark orange-y furniture that loomed in the dining area — these darn open-concept homes don’t really let you say “dining room,” do they? While the rest of the main level was light and bright — white cabinets, light hardwood, lots of airy blues and greys and greens — the dining area was heavy and brooding.
Earlier this month I decided enough was enough: I was finally ready to do something about it …
Continue reading in my weekly DIY column, My Handmade Home …
 |
| Read the full tutorial |
My top three tips for new freelancers
I do most of my work on a desktop dual-monitor set-up in my home office, but if I need to run upstairs to work at the dining room table, I can pop open my Chromebook and instantly be back in the same document. #lifesaver
I’m a digital girl so almost nothing is written down on actual paper. My colour-coded calendar is my life. When I get an assignment, I schedule the due date and then I actually block off time to do it — even if that time ends up getting shifted to another day, it’s still in there.
When I have a phone interview (sometimes five or six a day), I put it in my calendar and set notifications to go off 10-15 minutes before (in case I’m not in my office and need to hustle to get there) and two minutes before to make sure I’m at the desk, document open and headset on.
When I need to follow up with someone a day or a week down the road, it goes in the calendar. I absolutely would not stay organized without it.
If you’re a fellow freelance, hit me up in the comments and let me know your best tips!
xo
Pete the Cat #MagicSunglasses Blog Tour + Giveaway
The following is sponsored conversation with Put Me In The Story. All opinions and goofy grins, as always, are my own.
***
The first time we read Pete the Cat and His Magic Sunglasses, it was from a copy that was a few inches big. Seriously. It came in a Happy Meal.
Despite its small size, we read it over and over. I loved the message of looking at the world in a new way and changing your attitude.
So when Put Me In The Story asked if we wanted to review an actual full-sized (non Happy Meal-sized) copy that was going to be personalized for our own cool cat, I jumped.
We’re building up quite the collection of Put Me In The Story books, and I honestly can’t rave enough about them. They’re so easy to customize — it takes about two minutes to pop in their names and photos — and they make a very special keepsake.
They are just so flipping cute!
Any time you can see your own picture in a beautiful shiny book, it’s definitely a good day.
The kids love it, of course. It’s like the Happy Meal copy grew 10 sizes … and got personalized!
Now that you’re dying for your very own copy, how about a free one? Sound good? You, my lovely readers, can enter for the chance to win a #MagicSunglasses Gift Bag that includes:
- Personalized Pete the Cat Rock On Tote Bag
- Personalized copy of Pete the Cat and His Magic Sunglasses
- + two more personalized books of your choice from Put Me In The Story
Here’s how to enter …
- Share a selfie of you and your child wearing sunglasses with the hashtag #MagicSunglasses
- Share a Tweet
- Sign up for Put Me In The Story’s newsletter
a Rafflecopter giveaway https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js
Yes, you can actually win by posting a selfie! Here’s mine. (Don’t forget the #MagicSunglasses hashtag!)
Teaching little kids about LGBTQ+ issues
Long before the kids really understood what we were saying, we told them they could grow up and love anyone they wanted. Marry a girl, marry a boy, marry anybody they’d like! Two moms, two dads — it’s all good.
For a long time, our daughter insisted she wanted to marry my sister’s best friend and a family friend who is about 50-odd years older than her. I told her that was fine, as long as they were both OK with it.
Our son went back and forth between his best buddy and a special friend from preschool. Sometimes he said he didn’t want to get married, ever, and just wanted to live with me and Daddy forever. That’s totally cool, I reassured him.
After years of peacefully agreeing that “anybody can marry anybody,” I wasn’t pleased when my son came home from school announcing that “a boy can’t marry a boy.” Someone in his class had said so — and, yes, you could see the smoke rushing out of my ears.
Luckily not everything he picked up in Primary stuck, and he resumed believing that people are free to marry anyone they’d like. Now, at ages six and four, the kids are able to understand more about the LGBTQ+ community — the plus sign was added to include Questioning, Intersex, Pansexual, Two-Spirit, Asexaul and Allies, since “LGBTQQIP2SAA” is a mouthful.
When we were making our rainbow outfits for our town’s very first Pride parade earlier this month, I had to explain “Pride” to the kids — and it was harder than I thought. Why was there a rainbow flag at Town Hall? What did rainbows have to do with it?
“You know how anyone can marry anyone?” I started. “Well, there’s more to it. Anyone can be anyone, too. Sometimes people are born in the wrong bodies. If a girl feels like a boy, she can be a boy. If a boy feels like a girl, he can be a girl. Some people don’t feel like a boy or a girl and that’s fine, too.”
“Oh. But I want to be a boy,” my son said immediately as he played with the rainbow-printed fabric we’d picked out.
“Sure. This parade is all about celebrating that people should do what makes them happy. Aren’t rainbows a nice way to celebrate that?”
“Yeah!”
I hesitated before going on. Did I really want to tell them that not everyone feels this way?
“The parade is kind of a big deal for our town, actually,” I continued slowly. “For a long time, people said ‘Boys can only marry girls’ and ‘If you’re born a girl, you have to stay a girl no matter what,’ and it made a lot of people sad.”
He perked up in surprise. “Are those people gonna be at the parade? Are they gonna be mad?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But it doesn’t matter because there are so, so, so many people who are going to be celebrating, and only a few people who might not think that way. We’re not going to let them stop us, are we?”
“NO!”
The next day, we were cleaning out our craft supply cabinets and sorting through bags and boxes of materials. I found a little wooden jewellery box I’d painted gold, years ago, and tossed it into a bin so the kids could repaint it if they wanted.
“Can I have that box?” my son asked immediately.
“Sure,” I told him. “I’ve had it for ages. What do you want to do with it?”
He examined the little gold latch and flipped it open to look at the inside. Then he look up, delighted, and announced “I’m going to give it to my wife someday. She can keep things in it!”
“Awesome.”
“Or my husband,” he continued. “I don’t know who I’m going to marry yet.”
“Absolutely,” I answered, sorting through a bag of foam craft pieces. “You can marry anyone you want, and you’ve got lots of time to decide.”
As featured on …
Heather's Handmade Life 