Womb to Bloom - Maternity & Beyond

Postpartum depression is a sneaky little bugger. One day, you're snuggling with your newborn baby, counting each perfect finger, touching each little ear, kissing that cute little nose. Life is good. The next day, you're standing in the kitchen in tears, surrounded by pots and pans and a dinner that is only half-prepared, with a screaming baby in your arms. I'm not depressed, you try to convince yourself, I'm just weepy.

My husband came home one evening to find me in tears. He always seems to know exactly what I need, when I need it. He hugged me close and told me again what a great job I was doing. Then, he shooed me out of the kitchen so he could finish cooking dinner. The baby and I sat down to nurse while we watched Wheel of Fortune. I managed to pull myself together, feeling better every minute. Until my husband brought dinner out to me. He gently took the baby so I could eat, and he paced the living room, trying to get a stubborn gas bubble out of our colicky baby.

Once the bubble passed, my husband settled a now quiet and sleepy baby into the pack n play. My eyes immediately welled up with tears. I suddenly felt like such a failure! How was it that my husband could come home from work, cook us up a fantastic meal, and manage to settle the baby down for a nap? Why hadn't I been able to do those things? That was my job, and I had failed miserably.

My husband sat beside me on the couch, oblivious to the torment within me. He snuggled me under his arm and encouraged me to eat while my food was still hot. I couldn't stop the torrent of tears and the sobs that followed. He just looked at me in bewilderment. As far as he could tell, he had come home and “fixed” everything for me. He thought that I would be happy. Instead, he was faced with weeping wreck.

“What did I do wrong?” He asked, concerned.

“Nothing! You did everything right!” I sobbed. “I did everything wrong!”

Sometimes, my husband knows exactly what to say, and other times, he knows that exactly what I need is not something he can say. This was one of those times. He's not a doctor, or a shrink or even a counselor. He just knows me. Somehow he knew that I needed to cry. A good, hard, cleansing cry.

He handed me a bunch of tissues, keeping me tucked close to his side. He waited until I settled down again before making me look him in the eye. All I could think about was how hideous I probably looked with my puffy red eyes and the tears streaks down my cheeks, but he leaned in and kissed me – one of those kisses that gave me butterflies in my stomach and made my toes tingle. The kind of kiss that reminded of one of the reasons I had married this man.

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he insisted. “You've been with the baby all day. If he's been crying like that all day, it's no wonder you couldn't get dinner done.”

“Yeah, but...” I interrupt, “I've been holding him for the past two hours! I couldn't get him to settle down. You came home and voila! He's asleep!”

“Nah! Another two minutes and you would have had him asleep yourself.”

I sniffled, wiping a stray tear off my cheek. “Do you think I'm depressed?”

He laughed, hugging me close again. “No way. You're not depressed. You're just weepy.”