cranky pixels

I just read something suggesting that breastfeeding isn’t as important as we think. It’s interesting, especially given how popular breastfeeding is right now. I use the word popular deliberately; as with so many other things, societal support of breastfeeding seems to wax and wane depending on the trends. Trendy right now? Lactation and all the earth-mother goodness it represents.

I’ve always been a trendy girl, but breastfeeding – dude, it sucks. Breastfeeding should be easy, right? Nothing as natural as baby on breast? Well, sometimes it doesn’t work that way. I didn’t even have that hard a time and it was still, well, hard.

I couldn’t get the baby to latch right at first and spent days weeping hysterically because he wasn’t getting enough of the magic colostrum. Once the baby did figure out how to latch, my nipples felt like they were being pierced with tiny needles every time he fed. I’d grit my teeth and do all that Lamaze breathing that was so useless during labor just to get past the first 30 seconds, after which it settled into a bearable sort of ache. My nipples were cracked and sore, and occasionally bloody. Fun fun.

Finally, after weeks of this, it stopped hurting – but then there was the engorgement issue (ow) and some exciting experiences with plugged ducts (ow OW). Aside from all that is just the everyday awareness of my breasts. Are they leaking? Will they fit into this shirt? Do my nursing pads show? My breasts used to be fun accessories. Now they’re uncomfortable and utilitarian.

I’ve gotten a lot more used to nursing, though. At first I really disliked the fact that my body was still required for the baby’s sustenance. I’d had such a wretched pregnancy; I wanted my self back, at least for a little while. But now it’s kind of nice that I don’t have to worry about bottles or formula or anything like that. I like that the kid enjoys nursing so much, and it’s sort of satisfying to watch him grow knowing that I’ve been able to provide everything he needs to do it. Breastfeeding is convenient, no doubt about that.

I wonder how willing I would have been to put up with breastfeeding if I hadn’t been so sure it was the best thing for the baby. I’m not knocking breastfeeding. Just because it might not be as beneficial as we all thought doesn’t mean it isn’t good for the baby. I mean, obviously it’s good for the baby. It’s just not the only thing that’s good for the baby. My kid is healthy, and that’s great – but I bet he’d be just as healthy if he was formula-fed.

What is it they say about not being able to go home again?

Santa Cruz is just like I remembered it. As usual, I spent the first hour making mental note of all the things that have changed since we moved two years ago – that restaurant wasn’t there! Those apartments are finally finished! That gas station is gone! My sister’s house has undergone the biggest change; they’ve spent the last couple of years renovating, and the place looks amazing. New carpet, granite counter tops, a whole new master bath. They’ve even re-done the yard. How do I feel about my baby sister owning a home when I’m still barely able to scrape together rent every month? I’ll get back to you on that one.

We walked in and for a second I thought I’d come to the wrong house – a girl I didn’t recognize came out and said hello. “I’m Marie,” she said. “I’ll be giving you a massage today.” And the heavens, they rejoiced. Is there anything better than a surprise massage? So sweet of my sister to set it up. She’s one of those people who finds networking as easy as breathing – she trades an hour at the gym (she’s a personal trainer) for a massage and everyone’s happy. Especially me.

Saturday was the Big Party. I was too scatterbrained to have party anxiety, which was probably a good thing. Normally I spend the days before a party fretting about whether we have enough food and worrying that people will be bored or that I’ll say something stupid. This is because I am unbalanced. But not last weekend! Last weekend I was so busy worrying about the flight (which went swimmingly, as it turned out) that I completely forgot to stress about the party! Clever me.

And the party went fine, despite the fact that no one devoted excessive emotional attention to it beforehand. Small children ran amok, yet nothing was broken. Old friends and not-so-old friends intermingled, and good times were had. Even my mother managed to keep the crazy to a low simmer (although she did make a point of saying “Don’t you think he has my ears?” to everyone she saw. Kate gave the best response: “No, I think you have your ears.”). The baby was passed around to everyone except my old friend Tom, whose immaculate blue shirt was simply begging for spit-up.

The contrast between my old life and my new life is striking. In Santa Cruz I have a ready-made network. Instant social life: just add water. There’s always someone to hang out with, someone to hold the baby while I check my e-mail, someone to meet me at the coffee shop for a quick latte. Here in Portland I have this cloak of anonymity. I’ve met a few moms I like a lot, but no one’s nearby and I don’t know any of them well enough to feel comfortable suggesting a coffee date. Silly, but true, and the walls in my living room are slowly but inexorably sucking up all my air.

Happy Fun Baby did great with all the attention, but by the end of the weekend he had pretty much had it with all the traveling. He screamed when we put him in the car seat, screamed when we got on the plane, screamed when we got off the plane and put him in his Snugli for the bus ride home. Once we finally got back to our house, though, he was all smiles. I think he missed being home. I did, too.

Technical difficulties galore, both of the internet and of the brain.

Internet: server went down (boo!) so site was offline for several days. I feel certain this was noticed by someone other than me.

Brain: Zoloft has, thus far, failed to transform me into a cheerful, optimistic person. Shocking! I am, however, developing new and exciting levels of anxiety. Now, not only does worry keep me from falling asleep, it actually wakes me up! Yes, I wake up in the middle of the night simply to stress out about things. The muscles in my neck are like rocks right now.

We’re taking Happy Fun Baby on his first plane ride tomorrow morning, which I’m sure is contributing to the anxiety. Flying with baby! Will he cry? Will there be a hassle getting through security? Will I get in trouble for holding him on my lap (as opposed to buying him his own seat)? Will the airline lose our luggage? Then there is the secondary worry about seeing my old friends for the first time since giving birth. I’m at least 40 pounds heavier than I was when I last visited, and the thought that people will look at me and think Wow, she’s really let herself go won’t leave me alone. I’ve never had this kind of body issue before; it’s novel.

Since I’m devoid of actual, non-anxiety related content today, I will leave you with a link to an amazing cartoon from Minimum Security about South Dakota Senator Bill Napoli and his ideas about women and choice.

I thought I was feeling so much better. I patiently worked through the nausea, the dry mouth, the migraine, the oh-my-god-I-have-to-sleep. I accepted the six a.m. panicked sleeplessness and told myself it would pass.

And it did. I woke up a couple of days ago feeling really…good. Really good. Just-married sort of good. I thought It’s finally working! Yay!

Then today the baby just wouldn’t let me put him down without screaming, and I actually found myself wanting to shout at him. Shout! At a three month old! What kind of person wants to shout at an infant? (I didn’t shout at him. I picked him up again and rocked him until he went to sleep, because he was so obviously over-tired. But still.)

I’ve only been taking the Zoloft for about a week, so it’s possible I’m still not flying high on the seratonin express yet. Possibly I’m still somewhat depressed, just somewhat less so than normal. I wouldn’t know what it feels like to be not depressed; I’ve been like this as long as I can remember.

The thing I don’t want to think about: what if I’m just like this? What if I’m the sort of person who shouts at her kids? What if I’m just moody and angry and anxious and there’s nothing modern medicine can do to fix it?

Also? My arms itch again. No hives, but itching. Why? Why?

Most of our crib arrived on Thursday. You’d think a company which sells cribs and practically nothing else would pack said cribs in such a way as to ensure that all necessary pieces arrive at the same time. You’d be wrong.

Apparently at some point in its journey the box containing our crib encountered a polar bear or something similar. All the edges were mangled and torn; only the plastic strapping stuff held the box together. It was so bad the UPS guy wanted to send it back, but since we’d waited so long for the damn thing I elected to keep it.

When Not So got home and we unpacked what was left of the box, we found the actual crib bits to be in surprisingly good condition – only one minor ding on the inside bottom of one of the sides. Score! Putting the pieces together would be the only problem, of course. The instructions indicated that screws, bolts, casters and wrenches should be included for optimal crib assembly; these were, apparently, casualties of the polar bear attack.

I called the manufacturer on Friday and a very bored customer service rep immediately said we would receive our replacement hardware in a week. “Don’t you need to know which pieces are missing?” I asked. But no; apparently this happens a lot. Good to know.

In the meantime, we have a lovely stack of crib parts leaning against the wall…

I finally bit the metaphorical bullet and called my doctor’s office. Shockingly they did not berate me for being a hypochondriac pussy, but rather said it sounds like I have PPD and set me up with a prescription and a referral for some therapy. I’m now taking Zoloft, which, entertainingly, was the antidepressant I so indignantly refused back in 1995. To be fair, at that time it was being pushed on me in lieu of therapy. By a nurse practitioner, no less, who had spoken to me for all of ten minutes. But I digress.

I took my first half pill yesterday morning and right away noticed that my mouth dried right up. Dry mouth, exhausted, nauseous, peeing all the time…it’s just like being pregnant. Whee!

Aside from that, the main thing I notice is that my depression is a lot worse. I assume this is normal, and temporary. Still, it sucks. I’m having just as many obsessive thoughts about something terrible happening to the baby, only I’m so tired and out of it that I can’t make my brain switch tracks. I’m still lethargic and unmotivated. I still feel useless (and the fact that I can’t think straight and am too tired to do any housework doesn’t help matters). And food doesn’t taste good anymore. That’s a party. I took a bite of chocolate last night and said mournfully to Not So, “I know why people lose weight on meds.”

Speaking of Not So, he’s being fabulous. It must be hard to deal with someone who’s all doom and gloom all the time, but he seems to like me an awful lot. Right now he’s snuggling with the baby, who’s just been changed into a fresh pair of jammies and looks particularly delicious. They both do. I’m a very lucky girl.

I totally didn’t call the advice line on Friday, but instead of viewing this as a failure, I’m choosing to think of it as buying myself time to do some research on antidepressants and breastfeeding. How optimistic is that? It’s almost like I don’t have PPD at all.

The fruit of my labors is almost as depressing as I am, though. Basically it comes down to this: I can either gain a bunch of weight, lose my sex drive, or stay depressed. There is no check box for “none of the above.” According to HealthyPlace.com:

Dissatisfaction with physical appearance is a common concern for new mothers, many of whom haven’t made it back into their pre-pregnancy clothes yet. If medication might slow down weight loss, or worse yet, cause weight gain, it may seem that the cure is worse than the disease.

Yes. And:

Unfortunately, the very medications that don’t cause weight gain may lead to sexual side effects in as many as half of women recovering from postnatal depression.

I don’t have any sex drive to spare, so surely there must be some sort of medication that won’t make me a complete sexual zombie – I suppose something that would stir up a little extra interest would be too much to ask. Hooray, they said, Wellbutrin doesn’t alter sex drive. So hellooo, Wellbutrin, right?

Wrong.

I don’t want to stop breastfeeding. I don’t want my emotional issues to have that kind of impact on my child’s development. (One could argue that my depression is already impacting my child in some way, to which I will respond “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”) On the other hand: more sexual issues = badness (and, let’s face it, given the state of my self-esteem a few extra pounds will be just as effective a libido suppressant as any seratonin enhancer). So, I don’t know. What’s a good compromise here? I could just wait it out, but all the accounts I’ve heard have suggested that I might be in for a long ride.

What I have to consider is maybe my current libido issues and self-esteem problems are largely due to my depression. Maybe if I felt better about myself I’d want to have sex. Maybe if I didn’t feel so worthless I wouldn’t look in the mirror and see a shapeless blob of mom-flesh.

I’m enjoying the baby so much now, despite the fact that most days I just want to lay on the couch and shovel chocolate into my mouth. How much more would I enjoy him if I felt good?