Parenting

While I appreciate knowing the correct fork for any situation, my mother’s relationship advice can basically be summed up as this: “There are girls who marry and girls who date. You’re a girl who marries.” (In Mom’s defense, I was a late bloomer. Since no one wanted to date me, this advice was also a form of encouragement.) Dad’s advice was a bit more literal and involved an imaginary quarter that should be held between your knees at all times. Seriously, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. So, I’ve compiled a supplemental list of tips for my daughters, more in line with the confident, sex-positive women I want them to be. I intend to shove these inside my hand-me-down copy of Pretty Me because, after all, knowing proper cutlery never hurt anyone.

My fingers are currently grazing the keyboard as my arms reach around my four week old, who happens to be strapped to my chest in our BabyBjorn – which has been my saving grace these days. She’s sleeping soundly, but just moments ago she was wailing (I’m speculating that I have a colicky baby on my hands) and this is the only way that I can get my work done. No shower yet today (it’s 1 pm, gross), pretty much all I’ve eaten is a quick bowl of oatmeal (and of course coffee) and have been up for the day since 5am (plus countless feeding during the night). But I’m chugging forward. Yup, being a mom of a newborn makes me feel superhuman.

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.