Stranger to a friend of mine: Awww how old is your baby?
Me: internally starts to panic because I can’t remember how old my baby is and I know the question is coming to me next. I start doing math in my head, at risk of internal combustion.
Friend: He’s [insert number of weeks old here]
Stranger: Awww! [turns to me] And how old is your little guy?
Me: Uhhhh… 3 1/2 months, oops, I mean 3 months, shit! 4 months. How many weeks does that work out to?
Later that day:
Me to hubby: How many weeks old is Little Man?
Hubby: I don’t know, why don’t you count?
Me: Yes! Okay!
Me a few minutes later using my fingers and calendar: Is the first week 1 or does it start at 0? Never mind! It doesn’t matter.
Stranger: Aww, how many weeks old is your baby?
As everyone continues to #prayforflo, the woman with postpartum depression that is missing, I’d just like to give you a little food for thought.
I’d like to start this by saying I have incredibly supportive people in my life, to whom I’m so grateful for.
That being said, I’m continually shocked at the negative comments I’ve received since having a baby. Here’s a sample of some conversations I’ve had recently:
Someone: How is he sleeping?
Me: Really great, right now he sleeps 12 hours straight at night and naps pretty well during the day.
Someone: Well don’t get used to that.
Someone: Is he a good baby?
Me: Really great, he’s such a happy baby.
Someone: Well I guess your next baby won’t be then. He’s a trick baby.
Seriously? This is just a sampling of conversations I have with people every damn day. I’m not an idiot. I understand my baby will change. BUT I’m living with the baby I have now, not fearing the one I may have next week or next month. I believe William feeds off how happy and positive I am. So I will continue to be happy and positive.
I don’t think people do this maliciously… but my gawd, think before you speak! And remember just how fragile new moms can be whether they have postpartum depression or not … and give them a break. Literally. Instead of criticizing them, come to their home and give them a break. Because they’re tired!!
Florence, the missing woman with postpartum depression has been on my mind a lot.
Depression is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean heartbreaking. It brings you down. Makes you feel useless and worthless. When you’re in it, you can’t imagine a world out of it.
Combine this with being a new mother. You’re not sleeping, you feel like you have no control, your hormones are going bonkers, you (and seemingly everyone around you) is questioning your ability as a mother. On top of all this, we live in a society where we don’t want help. We want to do it on our own and we live alone.
That’s a recipe for disaster. And the problem is, you never know who it’s going to hit.
Because if you have depression or postpartum depression, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. Despite friends saying “just be yourself” or “get up and make yourself feel better” – that’s not a thing.
So check on those you love. And if there’s something wrong, don’t try and “fix” them, just listen.
If you’re in it, it won’t be forever. It feels like it, but you won’t. Seek help and talk.
And for the other new moms, whether you had a vaginal delivery or a c section, if you’re breastfeeding or not, if you’re cosleeping or not, if you’re going back to work or not… regardless of however you may be different from the other moms, YOU ARE THE BEST MOTHER FOR YOUR BABY. And your baby deserves to have you around. Because you are great.
I truly don’t understand all the hoopla over the “natural” birth. I was in labour for several hours before I got an epidural… and it sucked. Once I got one, I could actually “enjoy” my labour. Also, screw you for all your “natural” labour bullshit talk. My baby “naturally” grew inside of me for 9 months and because I had to have an emergency c section suddenly my delivery isn’t natural? Personally, I just want a healthy baby. That’s what’s natural.
If you want to go “all natural” have at ‘er! That’s wonderful! If you want an epidural, great! Who cares! Let women make their own decisions about their own bodies. I’ve seen so many moms feel guilty before, during, after their baby’s birth about pregnancy, delivery, breastfeeding, parenting, etc…. let’s end the guilt and just raise our kiddos to be productive members of society! Stop wasting time on judgement.
On Friday I went to Latch On, an event talking about breastfeeding and normalizing breastfeeding.
At 11am along with women from all over, I latched my baby onto my boob. I wanted to take a beautiful brelfie (breastfeeding selfie) to post. But then I couldn’t get my camera pulled up on my phone. While trying to do that, Little Man pulled off my boob. I was nursing him on Leaky Lucy (left boob) so milk started squirting all over his face and all over me. It’s okay, I’m a strong, confident breastfeeding mother… I’ll switch him to the other side and get a photo there. Except my phone still won’t pull up my camera and Normal Norm (right boob) keeps thwacking my boy in the face so he’s getting frustrated.
Anyway, this is the only photo I got from the event, after I was done nursing.
So, if you see a woman breastfeeding without a cover, please think to yourself, “hey isn’t that wonderful! She’s feeding her baby!” Not “wow, she’s sure making a point.” Because whether I’m nursing him on Lucy or Norm it’s just so much more complicated to cover up (I couldn’t even take one flippin picture!).
Breastfeeding is not easy. You worry about latch, supply, plugged ducts, mastitis, engorgement… the list goes on and on. So if a woman is successfully breastfeeding out and about… give her a big smile and tell her she’s doing a great job.
Since our little man was born over 10 weeks ago, I have never covered up when breastfeeding. My view has been, my baby needs to eat and if you have a problem with that, you can leave. So I’ve been mentally preparing for a confrontation, knowing that one will happen eventually. Well it finally did yesterday.
While breastfeeding in my car, with the door open because I wanted to feel the breeze on a warm day… a fly, yes fly, started physically attacking me (and bit my leg!). I’ve been preparing for a verbal attack, but instead it was a physical attack I encountered. I responded with very little grace. I ripped Little Man off my boob, milk squirted everywhere and I ran around like a maniac, boob flapping in said breeze.