Before Shroomi was born, I read somewhere that the rate of postnatal depression is now estimated to be 1 in 4 women. I have no idea how true this statement is and, while I hope that it is an extreme exaggeration, I suspect it might not be that far from reality. Depression is rife in this country, so there is no reason our new mothers should be exempt from it.
Looking after a baby means you have a lot of time to consider things. One of the thoughts that occupies my mind is the question of why so many new mothers are falling into mental holes that they can’t climb out of. Babies are adorable, and their happy smiles and squealing laughter should be enough to keep all of us safe from mental harm. So why aren’t we riding the emotional high of love and new life?
In the last few weeks I have felt an intense emotional pressure. My thoughts have been gravitating towards death and hopelessness with a frequency that I find alarming. I am constantly asking myself if this is a sign of postnatal depression, if I am about to become the woman who holds up the statistics, and if I am already that woman and just haven’t admitted it to myself. I look at myself in the mirror at times and see an exhausted woman staring back at me, and I recognise myself in the posters for postnatal depression awareness.
When I step back from these thoughts and examine them, I find them decidedly odd. I’m not depressed, but I am exhibiting so many symptoms of depression that you could not pay me to go near a medical professional right now. On one hand I know I am perfectly fine, and on the other hand I resemble someone who is about to go off the deep end in a spectacular way. Either I’ve lost the plot, or something external is going on here.
During a quiet moment while the baby was sleeping, I decided to analyse my behaviour. Was there something that I am exposed to that triggers these dark thoughts? It took less than a second to come up with the answer: yes.
When a woman is standing somewhere with a new baby, so many people want to congratulate her. Friends, family and strangers all want to talk about the baby, want to share in those happy baby smiles and squeals, to ask for cuddles at any opportunity. The conversation is fairly predictable:
Other Person: Your baby is lovely! How old is she?
Mother: She’s three months old.
Other Person: Oh, that’s such a wonderful age. I remember when my children were that small. It goes so quickly, and it will be over before you know it. This is the best time in your life. Enjoy it while it lasts.
It doesn’t take a genius to continue that train of thought; enjoy it while it lasts, because it’s all downhill from here. Horror stories often come next about the time when your baby will be a toddler, systematically ransacking the house, before becoming a teenager and systematically ransacking the wine rack. It seems as if your child will go from a delightful little person who loves and needs you to someone who only calls on your birthday to ask for money.
Ouch.
Mothers take these stories of woe and horror, and then they go home to sit with their little person who loves them more than anyone in the world. We sit there, contemplating the day when our little person won’t need us anymore, and that quickly leads to thoughts of the day when maybe they won’t love us anymore. We feel the rejection before it happens, our baby picks up on our emotional shift, and the symbiotic relationship between mother and child means our baby is now in distress.
As we sit there, rocking our little person who has been crying for an hour, we notice that there is dry vomit in our hair. Our emotions are frayed from the warnings we have received, and we begin to think of all the things we have sacrificed for the baby. We think of abandoned careers, broken sleep, and suddenly all the incomplete projects that we are too lazy to do become the fault of this little person. Resentment builds, and all we can think of are the haunting reminders that this is supposed to be the best time in our lives. If this misery is as good as it’s going to get, we might as well give up now.
My midwife once made the passing remark that “if they can’t get you while you’re pregnant, they’ll get you once the baby is born.” Thinking of all the advice that I have been given since we welcomed our daughter into the world, I can see that she was right. Women are systematically taught to fear birth, and we are systematically taught to have postnatal depression.
This time while Shroomi is an infant might be the best time in our relationship, but it probably isn’t. She becomes funnier every day as her sense of humour develops. Our games are more entertaining as she learns new concepts. The conversations we have can become deeper when she goes from babbling to using real words. There will be so many incredible memories in our future, since every time she leaves behind a developmental stage it is because she has reached a new one.
My life does not need to reduce as my daughter’s expands. I will not become obsolete just because I grow old. No one will ever love her the way that I do, because no one else has given her life, and no matter what happens she will always need that certainty. Loving her doesn’t mean I am stuck in that armchair when she climbs off my lap to explore the world. Pursuing my own adventures will not invalidate this intense time as a mother.
I love my daughter, not because she is a baby but because she is herself. Being a baby is a time in her life, not a time in mine. This time in my life is while I am a mother, and that time will last until the day I die. So yes, I should enjoy it while it lasts, because it had better last for another 60 or 70 years.
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