the sun has come out

Central Florida seemed to turn into the Amazon rainforest during the Olympics: Tropical Storm Fay hung around like a nosy, bad relative who doesn't know when their welcome is vastly overstayed, and it rained and rained and rained. My remembrance of these past couple of weeks will always be tied to water in that way - seeing the constant coverage of Michael Phelps in the pool, by the pool, talking about the pool and his 8 gold medals, and also seeing the sheets of rain outside, the flooded streets, the grey skies. For a week, the sun wasn't anywhere to be found.

It wasn't coincidental, either, that last week was one of the hardest weeks of my life, filled with the water of tears. I've documented it pretty well on this blog; it pains me to even go back and read those two entries following Aidan's birth. I knew postpartum depression hits a lot of women - and indeed, so many of you e-mailed me or commented with your own experiences - but somehow, maybe I thought I was immune. After all, my pregnancy was beautiful, easy, nowhere near as difficult as I had expected it to be. Why wouldn't I sail through this postpartum period as well? Plus, when you hear the word depression, you expect, well, depression: the flat affect, not caring, feeling as if you are in a constant fog. At least, that's been my experience with depression in the past. I didn't get that this time. Instead, I got the most horrendous case of anxiety I've ever come across. Head in a fog? I would have gladly welcomed that in exchange for the constant crying, the constant fear and paranoia that neither me nor my son would survive the day, the inability to sleep or eat. It was hell on earth. I had the most precious little boy in my arms, and all I could do was cry and be scared. People assured me things would get better, but instead, every day got worse and worse. Just waking up and getting out of bed became a daily exercise in terror, and I couldn't understand why.

Last Monday night, it all came to a head. Aidan is one of these unusually well-behaved infants, and even when he is very hungry, or gassy, or poopy, or whatever, he usually just whimpers instead of cries. Occasionally, though, he'll give his lungs a little workout, as if to make sure he can still summon all of heaven and earth to his rescue. Monday night, he started one of those full-blown cries during his diaper change - like most babies, he hates being cold or feeling something cold, and the touch of a cold wet wipe on his warm bottom was probably what made him wail that night, just before one of his feedings. From the other room, I heard his wailing. And I also started to cry. Hard. Harder than I had in all the days previous. I got scared again. But this time, it was too much for too long. I was tired of being scared, too, tired of feeling exhausted and all these knots in my stomach and the constant pain, and it made me cry all the harder. So while Aidan calmed down in about 30 seconds once a dry diaper was on his bottom, I was rapidly losing it, breathing harder and faster, unable to get control of myself, and Jason and my mom had to come take care of me while Aidan cooed and gurgled in his bassinet. And Jason held me close while I cried harder than I've ever cried in my life, and I told him he was certainly going to have to admit me to the hospital again, because I was really, really afraid I was going to hurt myself: I couldn't spend the next 21+ years like this, and if this was parenting, well, I certainly was not cut out for it in even the smallest way.

It was maybe a bit calculated on my part, telling him I was afraid I would hurt myself. Never in my life, not even in my frenzied state that night, have I ever had the true desire to end my life or actually do anything to harm myself, though I've asked God to take me home before, and I've wished I could go hide under a rock permanently as well. But I'd been reassured and encouraged a lot that week, and it wasn't working, and I needed the next level of care. It worked. He called my doctor, a prescription was called in, and I finished freaking out while Jason ran to Walgreen's. He came back, I took some pills, and within 20 minutes, I was calmer. And exhausted. And a little hungry for the first time in over a week, but mostly exhausted, so I went to sleep. My mom took care of Aidan all night, defrosting the breastmilk I'd stored up when I was pumping during his jaundice hospitalization. He never cried. I prayed for grace and mercy as I fell off to sleep.

I woke up at 11am the next morning, and the sun was shining.

And each day got better. As the tropical storm weather faded away and the sun slowly came out, so the sun did shine a little brighter inside my heart. Doing the most basic care tasks for my son - feeding, burping, cuddling, changing diapers - scared me less and less, and I started to feel less like a train wreck and more like a mother. I started to enjoy this little angel baby who hardly cries, loves to cuddle, makes the funniest faces, and makes me believe that God is nothing but full of second chances and grace.

I had to learn to roll with the punches, too. In my anxious state, cloth diapering seemed impossible to me, so we went with disposables. Aidan - or his delicate skin - didn't seem any worse for the wear, and I gave myself a break, promising to revisit the cloth diaper idea when he wasn't pooping and peeing multiple times with every diaper change (no joke - he is most prolific with the poo). So now I'm a Pampers girl. I happen to love them, along with my little Diaper Champ disposal thingie. And it's okay.

The biggest change, though, was giving up breastfeeding. The medication that helped me not be so scared and regain my sanity wasn't something I wanted to pass along in my breast milk to Aidan. It was a big decision, and one I had to make in under five minutes, because it came down to either taking this medicine and saving myself, or continuing to breastfeed (which was still difficult, even though I was committed to it) and also continuing to be the emotional wreck I'd been for the past week. I had to decide, through more tears, that Aidan deserved a mother who was happy and healthy and able to love on him the best, so along with the medication came a can of powdered formula. And even though, in those days that followed, I felt better and more whole again, the incredible guilt that piled on nearly set me back to where I'd been. I'd wanted to breastfeed as long as I'd wanted to be a mother - the two concepts were entwined together in my heart. I loved the idea of being able to provide my own perfect food for Aidan. I feared the financial cost of formula, as well as hearing every lactation consultant, doctor, and nurse talking in my head: "Now Anne, you KNOW breast milk is best." I was afraid of compromising his health, his intelligence, his stomach at the very least, certain I'd change my sweet angel baby into a screaming, colicky kid.

One week later, after that first bottle of formula that he guzzled down without hardly taking a breather, he's still my sweet angel baby. Sure, he had about 24-48 hours of some funny "straining" faces as his system adjusted to formula, but he's been wonderful all the while. He sleeps soundly, just as he always has. He still has his mellow, easygoing temperament, making me feel like the luckiest mom in the whole world. He still whimpers when he's trying to make his needs known rather than crying. (He still doesn't like cold, though.) He's growing and stretching and putting on weight like a champ, already getting close to 9 pounds and outgrowing the smallest of his onesies.

And I'm settling into my new life as a mother, and hardly remembering what life was like without my handsome little Milk Face. He makes me smile and laugh and even tear up - in a good way - every single day. Being his mommy is, perhaps, one of the toughest jobs I have ever known, and even in these short two and a half weeks that I've been "on the clock", I've had to step so far outside my comfort zone, rely completely on God for daily strength and grace, and find inside of myself a strength and courage that I can only describe as divine in origin. But never has anything - or anyone - been so worth it. In the end, that kind of sacrifice is the only kind worth making, and I'm happy to do it, every day.