Since Barney had his boots reduced to part time wear (YES, it did really happen for him!!), I guess I've had more time to look back and reflect on what has happened to him, to us all really, since he arrived in the world, and even before. A whirlwind of hospital appointments, adjustments, routines, pain, dressings, upset, joy, wonderment and life. Getting up every morning and facing the day with a smile, a cup of tea and a plan of action (who am I kidding...a half asleep smile, a lukewarm cup of tea half drunk and a vague idea of what playgroup is on that day); each and every day having a new challenge.
For me, it all started at our 20 week scan when we were told that Baby Bump had Talipes. It was a shock, of course it was, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn't the worst thing we could've been told. I don't know if that was what triggered it but, shortly after the scan, I was told I had antenatal depression. Me? No. I'm bubbly, lively, always on the go, smiley. There must be something else wrong with me. I refused to believe it and I couldn't get my head around why I was feeling so low. I've never, ever felt like that before. I woke up every morning, groaning that another day had started. I didn't want to leave the house, preferring the security of the sofa and the constant, groundhog day routine of the Cbeebies programmes. I couldn't understand why I wasn't happier with the beautiful life growing inside of me, each kick being a little reminder that soon I would be responsible for two.
I loved my bump with all my being, honestly I did, but the feeling that I wasn't good enough for him never left me. And that, coupled with the relentless guilt that I wasn't doing enough for Poppy, my 2 year old, meant I was slowly becoming a bit of a wreck. But did I let anyone see? Nope. Did I reach out for help? Nope. Did I accept that I was suffering? Nope. Maybe it was pride, or stubbornness, I couldn't tell you. But I suffered in relevant silence, laughing off the diagnosis, making jokes to friends about it. Jason, my partner, knew but how do you help someone that doesn't accept they need help? He listened to me when I felt ok to talk and held me when I sobbed my heart out at 4am and that was all he really could do. I was in a black hole and desperately craved a way to get out. I just didn't know how.
Now, I'm not saying all this for sympathy. Because even now, I can sometimes feel I'm heading back to that place. But would I say I'm depressed? Not at all. Do I think I was depressed? Probably not. I've seen depression, seen the heartache and the shell of the person it leaves in it's wake. Did I worry the health professionals? Yes. Did I worry those who loved me? Yes. In all honestly, I just think it was simply a case of me not coping. I struggled before and I most definitely struggled after the birth of Barney, if I'm being honest, I still struggle. But isn't that just motherhood??
I have days when I feel I am not enough for my children, when Poppy has watched TV all day just so I can catch up with the mountain of washing up and clothes washing. I have days when I only remember to brush my hair and my teeth at around 3pm. I feel guilt in the pit of my stomach every evening as I think of all the missed moments that day, conversations I didn't have with Poppy, playtimes I failed to engage with. Sometimes we survive off crisps and smoothies (it's fruit right?!) and taking the bins out is classed as getting fresh air. And I feel like a shit mum all over again and I feel like I'm heading towards that black hole once more. But I'm not a depressed mum, I'm just a struggling mum.
I often look at other mums at playgroup and think 'wow, they've really got their shit together'; mum's with make up, brushed hair, kids in immaculate designer clothes, talks of holidays and day out adventures. Whereas, I'm here talking about the time Poppy decided to have a wee behind the sofa at Las Iguanas, whilst breastfeeding a baby who likes to reveal me like I'm in a Playboy mag and stains on my clothes where I honestly couldn't tell you their origins. And you know what? Those other mum's are not like that everyday. They're having a good day, like I will have maybe tomorrow when everything just 'works'. Tomorrow, they might not feel like leaving the house, their washing up pile might render them to a blubbering mess and the make up bag is left untouched. Because we all struggle, we all have days when we just can't do it. We can't play one more pretend game of 'Paw Patrol' or be asked for the 100th time for an ice lolly before 9am and the idea of getting 3 people dressed in appropriate clothes for leaving the house is an absolute no go.
Maybe all new mums are depressed, maybe all mums are depressed. Maybe the distant memory of a life we once had before children plays a cruel game with us and taunts us of 'another time'. And then a little hand grabs mine, perfect lips are placed on my cheek, eyes far too big for the little head that contains them lock with mine and I realise that this daily struggle is all for them. We can have days on the sofa, just like we can have days covered in glitter and mud and laughter. No matter what I am dealing with in my own head, be it guilt, boredom or tiredness, I'm the best it's going to get for them.
Sam x
