Families

I just listened to my four and six year-old children (one boy, one girl) have a lengthy bathtime conversation about babies, growing up, m

I know how it feels to not contribute financially to the household. I know how it feels to be completely dependent on someone else for my financial stability. I know how it feels to know that if something dreadful and unthinkable happened, I’d be completely destitute. And it’s terrifying.

I know motherhood is hard. Especially new motherhood — those early days are a fog of tears, confusion, and helplessness. But I also know that yearning for something you can’t have, particularly with regard to children, is a feeling far worse. I’ve lived through the pain of childbirth, of a 3rd-degree tear, two related surgeries and a year of recovery, of postpartum depression, of miscarriage and of infertility and my god; I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant a chance to… Well, to do it all over again.

I’m not one for overstatement; the research here is rock solid. And while “serve and return” is borrowed lingo from tennis (hopeful we have some fellow Del Potro fans in the house), the practice has nothing at all to do with sports.

When it comes to babies, “serve and return” refers to meaningful, face-to-face interaction with the little one. The sort of conversation where you’re not just talking at baby, but watching his reactions, and responding in kind.

You'll have to excuse me while I sit myself down for one stern-ass pep talk about the importance of trusting my gut, having the courage of my convictions, and marching bodly ahead in my resove to absorb every last minute I get with my growing girl, knowing that never again will these days be upon me.

I live with bipolar II disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, ADHD, and complex PTSD. I take Effexor, Klonopin, Depakote, and Adderall. I knew I needed to talk to my psychiatrist about what changes I’d need to make before we could try to have a baby. The chances that none of these medications would affect a growing fetus was impossible in my mind. But I never expected what Dr. G told me.

In early adulthood, the bipolar disorder that was my genetic destiny was pushed around — shuffled from doctor to doctor, city to city, misdiagnosis to misdiagnosis. Deeply distressed, consumed by sadness after the birth of my first child, they called it “postpartum depression.” If I had manic energy, they called it “drive” or “passion” or “dedication.” Snap decisions, irresponsible, risky, promiscuous behavior — it was just “life learning.” I never finished anything I started, something always got in the way.

When my son was a baby, I used my husband as a second set of hands. He was my co-parent, the other caretaker... I was no longer viewing him as my partner, but rather as an aide to attaining the next level of mothering. Even though my husband never called me out on my behavior, I slowly but surely hung up my need for perfection. Because if being a great mother means being a crappy wife, I don't want any part of it.