Discovering Antenatal Depression

I want to sit down and write about Ante-natal (sometimes called prenatal) Depression. Post-Partum Depression is in the news a fair amount, and most people know what it is. Ante-natal is only just starting to get the attention is deserves now, but I really needed this information eight years ago. I know my blog isn't particularly popular (ha!) so writing this is basically for my own catharsis, not to get the news out, but if someone finds this blog and reads it and is helped, that would be wonderful.

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      When my husband and I first decided we wanted to start our family back in 2008, it wasn't actually a major decision. Being a mom had been my dream since I was a little girl, and I had worked in daycare all four of my college years. I was very familiar with babies and very comfortable with what would be required as a mom. I had completed my degree but had quit my job for unrelated reasons. It seemed like a good time to start a family, especially because it had taken my mother six years to conceive me and I wanted to give myself plenty of time. When I didn't get pregnant immediately in the first month, I just assumed I was headed along the same path, and that was what I had expected. It wasn't until the pregnancy test came back positive after the second month of trying that I panicked.

      I knew something was wrong immediately. I looked at that positive pregnancy test and instead of feeling elated, my heart sank. I called my parents and they asked me what was wrong, so I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. My beloved Hubby was over the moon, so I had to fake it, but things didn't get any better.

     I was extremely sick in the first trimester. I couldn't eat anything except raw vegetables, and I felt nauseous constantly. Every single food smell sent me to the bathroom all day long. I lost a fair bit of weight. When the second trimester began and my "morning sickness" did not dissipate at all, I began having anxiety attacks, waking up at night in a cold sweat. I didn't want to leave the house or do anything besides lie on the couch watching TV.  My husband was very worried about me, but accepted that I was feeling very sick and tried to cater to whatever I wanted to do or could eat. My OB also believed my sadness was related to my sickness, and sort of brushed it off. I hadn't lost enough weight, I guess, because she never offered me any sort of medicinal help with my nausea.

     At about 20 weeks, my nausea finally began to wane, but my feelings that something was dreadfully wrong did not. That was when we went in to learn the gender of the baby. It was a boy. I had never really decided I wanted a girl, but I was absolutely crushed. I felt like my life was over. I didn't know anything about boys (not true, by the way - all my favorite kids in daycare had been boys. This was just the depression taking over my mind). I wouldn't be able to go out to dinner any more, my mother reminded me. My dogs would no longer be the center of my world, my husband joked. Everything was changing, and I felt that getting pregnant was probably the worst decision I had ever made. Somewhere, somehow, I had made a terrible mistake. I wasn't meant to be a mother; not now, in any case.

     I tried to explain my nerves to my husband, but he was a bit frightened. This was what I had wanted! I tried to tell my mother and she was horrified. She said it was too late to go back now. When my OB asked how I was feeling, I tried to tell her. I mentioned that I was worried (I didn't know the term "anxiety attack" yet), that it was hard to feel happy, that I was completely exhausted all the time. She totally brushed it off, telling me it was first-time mom jitters. It was clear to me that what I was feeling was wrong, and that no one could understand it but me. No one else felt this way. Pregnancy was supposed to make you glow with happiness, and I was the problem. When people gave me congratulations, I had to force a smile and a thanks. I hid myself away so I would confront as few people as possible. My husband and I began to fight a lot. We had some of the worst fights of our lives, screaming and sobbing fights that left me feeling even more despondent. I know now that my husband felt helpless and responded to my strange behavior with anger out of frustration and fear. He had tried catering to me and that didn't help, so he tried to snap me out of it. That didn't work either. It was a very scary time for him.

      The birth of my first-born did not go very well, but that is a story for another posting. However, I do want to say that he was absolutely perfect. I remember my first night in the hospital, lying on the hospital bed with him in my arms, just staring. There had surely never been as beautiful a person in all of history, and somehow, despite everything the last nine months had put me through, I had created him. I was in a cloud of euphoria for the first 24 hours, and in that time I fell in love with my son with a love unlike anything I had ever felt before. He instantly became the center of my entire life.

      My challenges were not over, however. My anxiety continued. I was worried about my dogs being home alone. Every time my son cried, I felt a bit sick. I had suffered third-degree tearing during the birth, and moving around was extremely difficult and very painful. My son and I struggled with breast-feeding from the very beginning. I wanted desperately to go home, and I remember crying uncontrollably when the pediatrician decided to keep us in the hospital another night due to my son's jaundice. When we did get home, however, things just got worse.

       My beautiful baby had his days and nights confused, and was up all night screaming. I had had a difficult birth and hadn't slept in several days. This put me over the edge. I had had the fear of all sorts of different things put into me over the course of my pregnancy: no pacifiers for several weeks, no co-sleeping, no formula! I felt like I had no tools to cope with my screaming child. I developed a fearful reaction to his cries. When he cried, my heart would race and I would break out in a sweat and shut down, emotionally. I couldn't shower because the running water sounded like crying. My son nursed constantly and when he couldn't nurse he would cry, and my breasts were so painful and bleeding from overuse. I still couldn't walk well because of the tearing. I just sat in a chair nursing and watching TV until my brain felt rotten. I cried a lot. I didn't want to eat and I was terrified of being alone with my child. When my husband went back to work, I had a total breakdown, and so he called my mother to come down and stay with us for a week. She didn't know what was wrong with me. Neither did my friends on Facebook, who scolded me for my posts complaining about dealing with baby crying, but I couldn't fake it anymore. I had been faking it for nine months, and was just too worn out to continue.

       I had had plenty of talks with doctors and hospital staff about Postpartum depression, but everything I felt was so similar to what I had felt before the birth that I didn't notice anything particularly wrong. Instead, it just felt like a continuation of who I was now. I wasn't cut out to be a mother - I had known that for months. This had been a mistake from the beginning, only now I had the guilt because this beautiful baby boy deserved better than I could give him. I didn't want to hold him anymore, I didn't want to be with him, but I couldn't leave him alone when he cried, either. I began passing him to my husband, who is an amazing father, but he had had enough. He made me an appointment with my family doctor, since my OB had been so unsupportive, and insisted I go in and tell them how I was feeling. I did. I wasn't able to verbalize it well, but I began sobbing in the middle of the appointment, and that seemed to get the point across in a way that words had not. I was prescribed Prozac, although I was warned that it could take up to six weeks to kick in. In the meantime, I was given permission by my doctor to begin supplementing with formula and give my child a pacifier.

     I can tell you to almost the day when that Prozac kicked in. I woke up one day, and everything had just started to fall away: my anxiety was better, I had more energy, and I just felt happier than I had in a long, long time. Happier than I had been not in the eight weeks since my son had been born; a YEAR of sadness started to fall away that morning. I quit breastfeeding and began just pumping, as contrary to all the advice I'd gotten from nursing consultants, I knew the breastfeeding interfered with my bonding with my baby. I was right; I saw immediate improvement in my mood. My cousin sent me a Baby Bjorn, and wearing my child freed up my hands and my life, which also took helped. It took a few more weeks for my mood to reach pre-pregnancy levels of normalcy, but I got there. And feeling better motivated me to try harder to make things better. I made an effort to get out of house with my sweetie, even if it was just to the front yard. Things continued to improve.

      By this point, I knew for certain that I had not only had PPD, something had definitely been wrong during the pregnancy, too. I began doing online research and found a fairly new article (at the time) about antenatal depression, or depression during pregnancy. The article stated that the pregnancy hormones that are often attributed to that pregnancy glow of happiness can cause depression and anxiety in a small subset of women, and that women who do suffer from antenatal depression are considerably more likely to suffer from postpartum depression as well. Suddenly, everything I had been through had a name, had an explanation! My amazing son was not a mistake, and I am an awesome mom, but hormones and ignorance had kept me in a very dark place for almost a year.

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      I am now expecting my third child. My second pregnancy went off without a hitch - almost no morning sickness, one anxiety attack, and an easy delivery. My third pregnancy has closer resembled my first. There has been one distinctive difference, though. This time, I know what's wrong. I know why I feel that sinking in the pit of my stomach, I know why I am actually anxious, and even if the depression brings me to tears, I know it's not because this baby is a mistake or I regret this pregnancy. This baby is much-loved, and I am ready to be her mother. I just have a couple of hurdles to get through, first. The knowledge doesn't keep the depression away, but it does keep me from losing myself within it. Not only that, but I am preparing myself for the possibility of PPD after birth, so that I can keep myself engaged for my baby. Knowledge really is power, and since I was feeling particularly sad today, I had to write this to remind myself that I may not be in control of my hormones and thus my emotions, but I am strong and I know why this is happening. I can get through it, and motherhood is on the other side - and that is my favorite place to be.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/we-need-to-talk-about-depression-during-pregnancy_us_56be2c43e4b08ffac125180f

Five Ways Modern Men are Trained to Hate Women

An awesome blog takes on five reasons that there has been so much anti-woman venom in the media lately:

#5. We Were Told That Society Owed Us a Hot Girl 

#4. We're Trained from Birth to See You as Decoration 

#3. We Think You're Conspiring With Our Boners to Ruin Us 

#2. We Feel Like Manhood Was Stolen from Us at Some Point 

#1. We Feel Powerless

My Son Likes Pink

My son, age 3, enjoys a lot of things.  He loves Cars (the machines as well as the movie), he is obsessed with trains; basically anything with wheels makes his Fun List.  In addition, he is very interested in fish, pets, music, and books (mostly books about cars, trains, and dogs and cats).  His favorite color varies wildly with his mood, but more and more frequently, he is choosing pink.

I first noticed this trend when shopping with him about six months ago.  We went to the children's section to pick out some sunglasses, and I led him right over to the blue and black pairs, some of which had themes like Spiderman or Cars, others had flames painted on the sides, you know, the usual ploys used to lure young children into protecting their eyes willingly.  My son looked at these for a while, but when I asked him which one he wanted, he took a step to the right and chose a pair of bright pink princess-themed glasses.  "Aha," I thought.  "My first real challenge as a feminist mother."

I want my daughter to know that she can be an astronaut or a princess, and either choice is fine with me.  I like girls to be feminine, but I think we need to redefine femininity.  It is not feminine to be weak and simpering; woman can (and are) strong, opinionated, and ambitious as well as gentle and nurturing.  The traits are not mutually exclusive in any way.  I also want my son to consider his options.  Men have more choices in American society, but that doesn't mean they aren't limited.  A man who is a feminist doesn't just need to accept a woman's right to be confident in herself, he needs to be confident enough in himself to stand by her side, support her, and be supported by her.  In order to do this, a feminist man cannot see things that are womanly as being subordinate.

First and foremost, I want my children to make up their own minds.  I never want to demean something one of my children likes, because doing so demeans their choices, and by extension, themselves.  This is taken to another level when you consider society as a whole.  By teaching boys that they shouldn't like pink, we are teaching boys (and girls, too) that pink is a less-preferable color because it is "girly," which in turn teaches them that things we associate as "girly" are somehow inferior, and that translates to the idea that girls themselves are somehow inferior, as well.

Yes, I had all these thoughts running through my head as I stood in that store aisle studying my son, and more thoughts, too.  I remembered that we live in a conservative state in the Bible Belt, where homosexuality is still very much a scandal, where traces of "feminine" behavior is just not tolerated in boys.  I recalled an incident at the park this summer when my son was running around wearing one of his jinbei, and a couple of older boys decided to make fun of him for wearing his pajamas to the park.  These boys thought it was acceptable to make fun of a two-year-old for his clothing "choices," (as though a two-year-old chooses his own clothes).  Fortunately, my son did not understand that they were being malicious, laughed right along with them, and went back to playing.  I was the only one who had to endure the knowledge that their intentions were unkind.  As my baby ages, however, I know that my heart won't be the only one to be hurt over petty things like this.

Pink sunglasses.  Princess sunglasses.  To buy or not to buy?  Let him have his choice and risk ridicule from cruel strangers at the park, or "redirect," and thus deliver the first in a series of subliminal messages that pink is not an appropriate choice for him?

I wish I knew the right answer.  I don't.  In the end, I went with my most basic instinct, which is to protect my child.  I steered him over to some "boy" sunglasses, and managed to sell him on a pair.  The princess sunglasses were forgotten, he was completely happy, but I felt as though I had taken a test.  To this day, I don't know whether I passed, or if passing was even possible.

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I saw serious evidence of this anti-pink prejudice at work at the most recent Toddler Story Time (ages 2-3) at our local public library.  It is a wonderful forty-five minutes of age-appropriate stories, often a puppet show, singing, dancing, and at the very end, a simple craft for the children, and my son and I try to go together every week.  This past week, the theme was Valentine's Day, and the craft at the end was decorating a large foam heart-shaped necklace.  Some of the hearts were light pink, others were hot pink, and then there were green and blue hearts.

During the craft time, we sat at a table with two other boys and about six hearts to choose from.  My instinct was to grab one of the non-pink hearts for my son, so that he could have a "boy" color, but I fought it, and decided to let my son decide.  I held up multiple colors for his consideration, and he chose a light pink one.  Recalling the sunglasses incident, I decided there was little to risk and much to be gained by allowing pink in this instance.  I praised his choice, and together we decorated his pink necklace.  The other mothers at our table grabbed a green and a blue heart, respectively, and "assigned" the color to their sons.

At the end of craft time, I looked around, and was not totally surprised to see that out of at least 10 boys at the event, my son was the only one with a pink heart.  But he was proud and happy, and excitedly showed his necklace to his Daddy when he came home.  It now hangs in a place of honor in our kitchen.

The truth is, it makes sense for boys to like pink.  Children in general are attracted to bright colors, and pink stands out more than black or navy blue or hunter green (more "masculine" colors).  I am glad my son got to choose his own necklace color.  I am proud of him.  I hope he will continue to choose what he likes instead of what society finds acceptable, and I hope he will be confident in his choices.

My son likes pink.  And that's okay.

The Unnatural Feminist

I will share a secret.  I am not naturally a feminist.

When I say this, I do not mean that I am not a true feminist, or that I am in any way "faking it."  I deeply believe that women are equal to men, that my daughter should have the same opportunities in life as my son.  I have known many men and many women, both friends and not so much, and I can see no superiority of one sex over the other, nor are there that many consistencies within one sex.  In my own marriage, I am by far the more practical of the two of us, and I have the most common sense, but my husband is much better at abstract thinking, and works well under pressure.  We each have our advantages, and I believe they are owed more heavily to our individual personalities than any gendered predisposition. 

What I mean when I say I am an unnatural feminist is that my gut instinct is not feminist.  I was raised by my parents to dress, speak, and act like a lady, at least in public.  While I was encouraged in my pursuits, it was combined with the idea that women are natural nurturers, while men need to have drive and ambition.  Both of my parents were heavily involved with child-rearing, but otherwise, they split their roles cleanly along gendered stereotypes.  These roles fit their individual personalities, and I didn't think much of it when I was growing up.  Now, though, I am looking at the world with the eyes of a mother, not a daughter.  And what I see is a bit disturbing.

Besides my husband, those who know me well would most likely be surprised to learn that I am constantly having to combat my own prejudices about gender.  I am very opinionated, and I am an outspoken advocate of women's rights on my Facebook page.  Furthermore, my own sense of righteousness rebels against the harsh double standards for men and women in leadership positions.  I am deeply offended by the idea that I would be an unsuitable leader because I suffer from PMS.  The 2008 presidential campaigns highlighted for me in ways I had never before considered just how many behaviors we scorn in women that we tolerate or even encourage in men (and for the record, I was not a Hillary supporter; it didn't make the media's mistreatment of her any more tolerable).

Despite this, in my head, I like men to look and act like men and women to look and act like women.  When I meet a woman (or see one on TV) that I find abrasive and unlikable, I have to stop myself, to ask myself whether I would accept such behavior or language from a man, and if it is because she is a woman that it rubs me the wrong way.  Sometimes the answer is "No, that behavior is offensive no matter what."  But sometimes the answer is "Yes, I don't find her behavior to be ladylike."  Then I have to make myself pause, recognize my own double standard, and adjust my thinking.

I have a son and a daughter.  I may be an unnatural feminist, but that buck stops here.  I was lucky enough to marry a man who shares my values, who does not look down on women but sees me as his equal partner.  Together, I hope we can raise our children to be natural feminists.

Movie Review: Anastasia

Heroine as a Role-Model: A
Hero as a Role-Model: B
Female to Male Character Ratio: B
Scariness of the Bad Guy: F
Violence or Inappropriate Behavior Level: D
Rating: PG

Overall Appropriateness for Preschoolers or Younger:
C -

Anastasia, 1997

I really wanted this movie to be appropriate for my kids. Meg Ryan is the charming and spirited Anya, the former Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia who has lost her memory and is seeking her lost family. John Cusack is believably lovable and devious as a con artist determined to make his fortune by scamming the only surviving member of the Russian royal family.  He lies to Anya repeatedly (earning him his B rating) but, like all good heroes, comes around at the end. Kelsey Grammer, Christopher Lloyd, Angela Lansbury, Hank Azaria, and Bernadette Peters round out the delightful cast. Anya is a wonderful female character who (as usual) falls in the love with the hero, but unlike usual, she winds up saving him in the end, which is completely awesome.  Besides Anya, all of the main characters are male, but there are several important secondary female characters, and so I give the male-to-female ratio a B.  The romance is sweet and the good characters are very likable.

Unfortunately, however, this delightful movie is marred by the evil Rasputin, who sells his soul in order to cast a curse upon the royal family, and he is unable to die (although his body continues to rot) until the last member of the royal family is dead. This is a macabre premise, and the character adds a considerable ick effect, as well as some serious scariness. Multiple attempts are made on Anya's life in the movie itself, and the final battle scene, while not at all gory, has multiple frightening moments.  While the movie creators try to lighten the mood with a cute and not-entirely-evil sidekick, the attempt fails. In a way, it isn't that surprising, since the historical story of Anastasia is a pretty grisly one, with her entire family murdered by the Bolsheviks: women, children, and servants alike.  But perhaps this was not a story destined to become a children's movie.

Overall, I find that this movie is NOT appropriate for preschool aged children, and perhaps even only appropriate for older grade-schoolers. I wish they could have toned down the terror, but I found myself skipping through Rasputin's scenes, and if I don't really want to watch them, I certainly don't want my children watching them.

For Women's Eyes Only - UPDATE

It has come to my attention that the FuzziBunz cloth pads that I recommended in my segment For Women's Eyes Only are no longer available - anywhere.  I contacted FuzziBunz directly and received bad news: they are no longer making their wonderful cloth pads.  However, they did direct me to a new brand of cloth pad, Charlie Banana, who offers NEARLY identical pads, much superior to any other brands I have found.  The prices are reasonable, and shipping is free.  I have never used their diapers, but if they are the same quality as the pads, they are worth looking into!

I would love to hear from you if you have tried Charlie Banana cloth diapers.