Just Relax

J sleeps well, but otherwise she is what you might call “challenging.” Almost all of her awake time is spent crying or in the about-to-cry state.  Her brow is so constantly furrowed that she will need Botox by the time she’s 10.  She seems to have some digestive issues, maybe reflux or gas or colic, whatever that is.  She spits up all the time.  She often nurses for just two minutes before pulling away and screaming.  Often I am unable to soothe her.  I have learned that after awhile, the best thing for me to do is to swaddle her up, lay her down, and walk away.  It is unnatural.  I feel frustrated, ineffective, guilty, and just so very, very tired.  There is very little of the sweetness that you think of when you imagine being with a newborn.  There is very little reward. 

I do not think I am depressed.  Depression is abnormal, a disorder, but my state seems like an appropriate response to this situation.  Still, sometimes when the sleep deprivation gets too bad and she’s been screaming for a while and T has been gone all day, I have some pretty dark thoughts.  The rational (“My baby is uncomfortable.”) drifts into the irrational (“My baby doesn’t like me.”). That’s when I know I have to do some cognitive work to set myself straight.  I look to all the people I know whose babies turned out happy after a few months of post-partum screaming and I forcefully remind myself that this is temporary.  And then sometimes she’ll just suddenly stop crying and look contented for several minutes, happily kicking her legs around, and I’ll lie down next to her and just stare at her, trying to soak in every ounce of this state, as if I could store it up so that it would sustain me through the hours to come.  Sometimes it does. 

Some days are better than what I’m describing here, but after a hard day like today, I can’t seem to remember that.  I have this weird loss of perspective.  On those better days, I become convinced that everything is going to be perfect from now on, only to find that the next day, I’m convinced that my whole life is going to be spent failing to soothe or feed a crying, puking baby.

At her six-week check up, I tried to talk to the pediatrician about my concerns.  It probably didn’t help that J was utterly angelic during the appointment, making me look like I might just be overreacting.  Her weight gain has been adequate, so the doctor told me to relax.  Having survived infertility, I might have thought I was now safe from the dismissive “relax,” but apparently not.  The doctor, a mother herself even, told me to relax and have fun.  “It’s supposed to be fun,” she said.  “If it’s not fun, you’re doing something wrong.”  As if the screaming weren’t already making me worry that I’m doing something wrong, now I’m supposed to worry about the fact that I don’t enjoy it.  I usually just take whichever pediatrician in the practice is available, but from now on it’ll be anyone except Dr. M.

I was going to end this post on a happy note, maybe with some vivid description of the cheerful and cute Miss B coming over to J and smiling at her as she signs “baby,” but now it’s time for bed.  More on that later.