Remember this post?
Well, I had a conversation with a good mommy friend of mine last month about it. Finally. Indirectly, but finally. Kinda. Ok, this is getting confusing. Let's go back.
It all started...
harp music swirls, colors come together and suddenly we are waaay back in September 2012.
That Saturday night was one of the worst nights of my mommying. I had been feeling kind of blue all day, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. We went to bed, I don't even remember what time. Timothy woke up and it may have been 30 minutes or 3 hours later - I honestly don't know. What I do remember is the insane irritation, the irrational anger that I had for my baby boy. All he wanted to do was eat, but at the time I couldn't get past the thought that, once again, my sleep had been interrupted. Once again, I was having to sacrifice something I wanted to do for him. Once again, my husband was just snoring away.
It just wasn't fair.
But I got up anyway. No other choice.
I took the boy to the living room to nurse and sat there, stewing in my resentment. Timothy kept moving his arm back and forth, stroking my chest. It's his form of kneading (you know, like kittens do?), I guess and normally, I'm ok with it. It's not my most favorite thing; I'm not, after all, a touchy-feely type, but I usually can ignore it. It's harder for me at night. I really hate it at night. But again, I usually can get past it. Not that night. I kept trying to stop him, trying to hold his arm away or down. Anything to get him to stop. And all it did was just upset him! He started fussing and crying and waking up. So, I tried rocking him, tried patting his bottom, tried humming a lullaby and that just made it worse. All he wanted to do was move his arm around while he was nursing and I wouldn't let him.
What should have been a typical 20 minute nurse-and-back-to-bed session turned into an hour. At that point, I was done. I was so angry that I could feel the steam coming out of my ears. Why wouldn't he just settle down and go back to sleep!? I stood up and stomped down the hallway. I switched on the bathroom light with as much force as I could muster and stormed into my bedroom. Paul sat up with a start, just in time to catch the baby that I'd just thrust at him. I then ran back to the living room where I proceeded to use a pillow beat the stuffing out of the recliner. And then I screamed into said pillow. And then I just sobbed.
And the whole storm lasted all of about 3 minutes. That's it. And then came the guilt and shame. I hardly need describe it. I just kept thinking....how could a mother treat her child in such a manner?
Paul, who was finally awake and trying to figure out what had happened, brought a crying Timothy out to the living room. He was so kind and caring through it all. I nursed Timothy back to sleep (it only took about 20 minutes) and Paul sat right with me for the whole thing. I cried for a while after that and we tried to talk about it, but finally we just went to bed and he held me til we fell asleep. I love that man.
The next day, I was back in control of myself. I still felt horribly guilty about the whole thing. I still wasn't able to adequately explain why I had reacted the way I had. But, I snuggled my sweet boy and made a promise to myself that I would never do that again. EVER.
Back to the beginning of this post: I talked to a very good friend about the incident and she told me it was probably hormones and that next time I should take a Midol. I was confused and intrigued. She explained that as long as I'm breastfeeding I'll be producing hormones, and when those collide with the monthly conference of hormones that occurs, I become a homicidal maniac. "It'll probably happen as long as you breastfeed", she said. Great. I tried to ignore the implications of THAT (given that this is my first child and he definitely won't be an "only") and focus on the possibility of a solution. There was light at the end of my dark and very disturbing tunnel.
So, on to yesterday. I could feel it coming on; the irritation at the slightest thing, the petulance about never getting to do anything I want to do, the "I just need some alone time, please stop touching me and why won't you go to sleep already!?" All day it just kept brewing. I was in the middle of crying on my bed in the dark while the baby cried (he was fussing, not tantrumming. give me that, at least!) in his crib in the other room by the time I remembered her sage advice. I then resolved to go to CVS just as soon as...
...who was the genius who decided it would be a good idea to wash all her bras at the same time?
argh.
So, we waited. I didn't explode. I soothed myself with the mantra "soon. help soon.", and managed to make it to 6 pm (at which point my bras were dry and it was time to head to church). I loaded up the boy and me and pulled out of the drive only to discover a flat tire. I'll admit it. I wanted to cry. Really, really wanted to cry. But I didn't. I just busted out the stroller, walked us to CVS where I purchased the CVS version of Pamprin and a Milky Way. I took the pills, scarfed down the Milky Way and we took a leisurely walk back home.
By the time we got home, I was feeling marginally better. More in control, at least. Was the pills? The walk? The chocolate? Maybe the combination thereof. Maybe it was simply the knowledge that I was doing something to change the situation (or the fact that Paul spent the whole evening playing with Timothy and talking to me and giving me a break), but by bedtime the irritability was gone. I was very tired, but sane. And relieved. Maybe my self-diagnoses of PPD was wrong. Or maybe not. Either way, it seems that I can deal with whatever this is in it's current form.
Praise God!
