I had my eyes closed tightly against the bright sun when my neighbor shouted over the fence, “It’s beautiful out eh?”
I clenched my jaw in irritation at such an obvious observance and the fact that in the last 9 years since we’ve lived here, the weather has always been the “go to” conversation starter between two people who really couldn’t give a shit about the other.
I wasn’t in the mood for engaging in small talk.
And for some reason this reminded me a lot of those early days when I had unwillingly jumped with both feet into hell.
*****
I remember Chunky, probably a few weeks old, had been screaming insesently for hours. Thoses shrills, those wails, those brief hopeful moments of silence when it seemed as though there was no energy left in his infant body to force out another screech,  had my patience worn right down to my bones. I paced the hallways of our home thinking of all of my family, friends, and my husband that were all just a phone call away, but my pride told me not to bother them.
“You’re supposed to be able to handle this Kimberly. You’re a Mom now. Look at all the other Moms who can handle a tiny infant’s cries. If you call anyone, they’ll think that you are not a good Mom. They’ll think you’re weak. They’ll eat you alive.”
I called our Health Unit’s Intake Nurse instead.
Her name was Courtney I think. It’s a shame that her name eludes me since I had called her every day since I had stopped breastfeeding. That dear sweet nurse played such an integeral role during my long exashperated days while I waited for Shawn to come home from work and for my OB’s eventual ”care” hand off to a psychiatrist.
I waited for the transfer….
“What’s up Kim?” she said.
Her voice was an instant comfort for me.
“Kim, he is changed. He is fed. Go put him in the crib and step outside for a minute. It’s beautiful out there. Go feel that sun and breathe in deeply for a few minutes. Then when you’re calm come back into the house and call me ok?”
And that’s what I did.
I could hear his screams clawing at my spine from the nursery as I eased my way down on the stairs of the patio. I remember the quick pain of the hard concrete against my tender postpartum bottom.
I leaned my elbows deeply into my thighs and took my index fingers and dug them deep into both ears to drown out all the noise. Then I closed my eyes and dreamed.
I pictured myself hopping into my car and driving on the 401 past London, Toronto. I didn’t have a destination, I just wondered how far I could drive away before someone had noticed I was gone.
The wind would whip wildly through my hair and music would play loudly. And I wouldn’t have to worry about waking a sleeping child with those blaring decibles, I’d only have to worry about waking the dead.
I would find somewhere to stay. Perhaps I’d camp. Perhaps I’d just sleep at the rest stops along the highway. Or perhaps I’d meet a bunch of drifters and I’d take part in their adventures.
I really didn’t care where I was going.
I just knew that as long as I wasn’t here in this fucking house with its bright cheerful facade that we were creating for everyone around us, I was no longer a ”Mom”.
And that I would find myself again.
I’d be normal.
These dreams on hellish days like these brought me tremendous relief.
I must have been smiling when I felt a set of eyes staring at me in the yard. I looked up and saw the neighbor on the other side of the fence. When she had my attention she shouted, “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”
“What is?” I snapped.
She looked at me bewildered.
“Oh the weather. Yea, yea, it’s beautiful out.”
“No hon, I meant motherhood. Motherhood is beautiful right?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Truth is I hated it. It was far from beautiful.
All I did was force a smile and nodded.
“You’re going to really love it,” she said as she walked away.
And I wanted to jump the fence and slap her.
******
That old memory flashed and quickly snapped my mind back to my spot in the yard. I shuddered and lifted my head from the back of the chair. I noticed she was still standing there waiting for my response so I  shot her a quick smile and nodded my head “yes”.
“Well enjoy it!” she said as she walked away from the fence.
And I wanted to yell after her that I am enjoying it.
I am enjoying Motherhood.
I am enjoying and loving my son more than anyone on this earth could ever know.
Am I struggling at times?
Yes.
Absolutely.
But this time, 4 years after Chunky’s arrival, I want to stay.
I want to stay right where I am and fight this head on.
This life as a Mom, as a wife, as a friend, as a daughter, as a sister and as me…
Kimberly…
Is actually quite beautiful.
But sometimes I have to dig to find it.
And when I do, I will beautifully replant myself right here on our cozy street in Canada. Right where our story began and will continue to grow.
And you’ll see me barefoot in the grass drinking a big fucking glass of wine with a smile on my face.
Nothing I can say, could do justice to this wonderful post.
Amazingly written Kimberly, for a moment I forgot where I was.
xoxo
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This was amazingly written. Loved every word.
Even on the days when I can see the beauty in motherhood, it hits a sore spot when other people say things like “it’s the best, isn’t it?” bc then I feel guilty for sometimes thinking that although I live my girls to pieces, a weekend alone with the hubs in Vegas would actually be the best. Nursing at 11, 2, 4, and 6:30? Not my favorite reason to be up all night.
I look forward to when the girls are 3 and 6, everybody’s sleeping through the night, and we all sit around the dinner table sharing stories about our day. That will be the best. This? Is hella hard.
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Wow, this is really powerful and beautifully written. I also think it shows how off-handed comments can really be hurtful when we’re making sweeping generalities.
Describing motherhood as beautiful doesn’t really do it justice. Because it is, but not the way a perfect sunset is beautiful. But I guess those are things you don’t talk about over the fence to your neighbor (at least I don’t because weather talk is a stretch here!)
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Kim, it’s been a while, but I find that whenever I catch up with your blog, you are writing my exact feelings. I had a very similar experience with my second child while breastfeeding in the hospital a few days after he was born. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t force myself to breastfeed past a week if I felt my PPD symptoms coming on again. I barely made it through six weeks with my daughter before I finally gave myself permission to stop. The lactation nurse came in to check on me and she watched me in the rocking chair, quietly breastfeeding my newborn. He latched great, my milk had come in, and we must have looked very peaceful. I was exhausted, anxious, but still thought I’d give it a go. The nurse came over to me and whispered, “It’s amazing, isn’t? The best feeling in the world, don’t you think?” And I almost cried. I wanted to shout, “No, it’s not. I’m terrified. My daughter was a “lazy” feeder. I spent six weeks without sleep, showers, or food because when she didn’t breastfeed, I was pumping and making supplemental bottles just to keep her from surely starving to death. I can’t bond with my baby like this because I’m scared. Scared I’ll get a breast infection, scared I’ll spend another six months awake every hour, waiting to shove my boob in his mouth to stop him from crying and then get reprimanded by my doctor for letting the baby use me as a pacifier. I’m petrified that not breastfeeding will earn me a scarlet letter from the “Perfect Mother” club, of which I am clearly not a part. So no, it’s not the best feeling in the world. But I have to nod and smile and pretend my tears are of joy so you won’t think I’m a monster.” Kim, you are so not alone!
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There are so many reasons why I love this post. The one that does jump out at me? Is the positivity it ended on.
And those cute hot pink nails.
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You, my new friend, are a CHAMPION! Next time, maybe you could look up & smile at that neighbor, and issue this invitation, “Sure IS nice weather. Why not come on over & join me? We can play a nice-weather game! It’s called ‘Let’s see what happens when the pesky neighbor interrupts the looking-for-someone-to-throttle-mommy!’” And don’t forget to give her your BEST evil smile! BWAHAHAHAHA! You need to be a professional writer, Kim. Trust me – I edit for a living, and 99% of the manuscripts I receive are not ANYWHERE NEAR as well-written as what you write!
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Wow. I can’t imagine how tough it must have been for you and how confusing it would have been to feel that way.
So glad you’ve come so far. And those toes in the grass! Too cute.
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Kim, you are such a talented writer and your always amazes me how much you can say and how well you say it. I always look forward to your posts xoxo
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Kim, This should go to a mental health magazine. Dedicated to all those who have taken their lives, and never had anyone to help pull them through, to give them hope: to tell them YOU WILL GET BETTER.
I can’t believe it myself now.
I never thought I’d get better.
I remember thinking that very same thing: I WILL NEVER GET BETTER.
But I knew my baby needed a mother. So I pushed through, through tears and self hatred and thoughts of destruction of my dreadful life: I just lived minute by minute.
I cry for all those that wrote themselves out of the book in Chapter One, never finding out how beautiful it was by Chapter Six.
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You describe it perfectly; the feeling of wanting to escape.
Up until one week ago.. ONE WEEK AGO.. I would drive home from work with the music up as loud as it would go because it drowned out my thoughts.
I wanted my ears to ring so that I couldn’t think.
Anyone speaking to me when I was lost in though grated on my nerves. I didn’t want to engage in conversation with strangers and small talk made me stabby.
All I wanted was a quiet room in a hotel somewhere where I could sleep.
I thought I was going to be a good mother but I was a disappointment.
And then?
The sun broke through the clouds.
There was hope.
After two years.
I have my feet planted right along with yours.
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I love that you can reflect back now and know (without others telling you) that you are NOT in that place anymore. You’ve moved away from the worst and you know that you have a beautiful life worth living.
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You’re doing amazing. You’re so strong! You’re kind of my hero.
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I was totally jealous of all of the other mothers who made it look so easy as well. Truth was my babies were very difficult to settle, I was exhausted, and I didn’t want to admit I was struggling with motherhood … thought I was the only one who didn’t find it “wonderful”.
That was 20 years ago before social media and the rise of online support groups of women where people aren’t afraid to tell it like it is! Lean on us when you’re feeling overwhelmed … we’re there to help!
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Its amazing how much has changed for you, isn’t it? This was a beautiful post. I hope I will be able to write an opposite post about Jellybean like this someday.
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I’m trying to get through chapter one. Every time I make progress all the new pages get ripped out and burned in the depression inferno. Sorry, can’t see through my tears to type any more.
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To Charity (above:) – I know about the feelings you posted -I went through them – everything changes – this will, too -
Kimberly, I had a person in my life like your Intake Nurse, and I will never stop honoring and being grateful to her – ever. She was there for me every single day of the worst days of my illness.
I’m glad you are doing better and can see the contrast, and the improvement.
xoxox
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This is an awesome post. Your honesty is beautiful. I felt as if I was reading a chapter of your book.
. It makes me wish I was there on the other side of the fence to give you a hug. To tell you that sometimes these days really fucking suck but there will be days that are beyond fucking describable good. But you know that now and you got there. You did it. Thank you for posting this and sharing your honesty. Thanks for your support of me as well. And I love that picture at the end!
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You’re just wayyy cool, Kim. I used to feel like shit when my son would stop crying instantly when my Mom or husband carried him, but keep right on when I carried him….those loud tear-less wails. I thought I was a lousy Mom. Then I realized kids can simply drive their Moms nuts just for fun.
And guess what
we’d never give up any of it, eh? I loved the photo of your feet together. I want to kiss the top of Chunky’s feet! Yeah, I am like that!
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I love how your positivity shines through at the end of this. I am so proud of you.
Motherhood is beautiful, but it’s also so very hard. The generalities people make in their comments can really be hurtful.
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Love, love, love this post! I could not have said it better myself.
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I’m quite sure you touch a lot of young Moms when you write. Especially when you write like this. I think you mirror so many thoughts in so many other women. I remember thought like those way back when. You never forget them; you just finally understand them. In fact, when my grandson (who’s now 10) was brand new, my son called me. He was at home alone with my grandson and was having a lot of stress because of his crying. I talked him down, much the same as your nurse did you. He is an amazing Dad. He still mentions that day sometimes and thanks me. I say, “No need to thank me. I’ve been there too”.
Hugs, my friend. I’m so very proud of you!
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I loved your post, really beautiful, but I also loved the comments, and it is encouraging me to go right to the beginning and read every single word. That for sure, i will.
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I LOVE this post; the honesty, the vulnerability, and the strength. Also? How adorable is that sweet picture! Go drink that wine and celebrate the amazing-ness that is you.
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Love it. Love you!
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you make me wanna cry. we all have these moments. moments when we’re happy just where we are, moments when we want to run for the border. but we know deep down these little lives we’ve created depend on us, need us and can bring us more joy than anything else in the world. motherhood is not easy girl, but we do our best and our kids appreciate us for it. i know, remember, besides the toddlers, i have teens, and my youngest teen who is 14 now has asked me if it was this hard raising her and her sister, and since i did it mostly alone i have to tell her it was a bit harder and she has told me many times over this past year how much she appreciates what i went through for them, the sacrifices i make. all i did was try my best. that’s all we can do.
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This post–every word–really drew me in. Not only are you a fabulous story-teller, you’re also incredibly relatable. As you know, I don’t yet have children, but this feeling of trying so hard and of not feeling adequate enough is something I understand on an intimate level. I believe you to be a wonderful mother. Will you falter? Yes. Why? Because you are human. And beautiful at that. And perfect because of it.
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Much love to you, friend. Drink that glass of wine and toast yourself, your family and your always amazing strength.
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—-And you’ll see me barefoot in the grass drinking a big fucking glass of wine with a smile on my face.—-
I see you smiling, Kimberly.
And have I told you lately that I Love Love Love your words?
Xxx
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Maybe this is my favorite post of yours because I relate so much to it. The early days when people would smile and say “aren’t you just loving this?” Made me want to scream. I vowed to never say it to any new mother. It only made me feel guilty.
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This is EXACTLY how I felt when I had PPD/PPA!
To this day, I’ve never met anyone that felt exactly the same way.
Wow. Incredible.
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This is beautifully written! Seriously. I held my breath the entire time I read this. I plunged deeply with your words and now? Now, I feel something of what I felt then, or when I was struggling with PPD. I’m breathing now, so I see things better now. Thank you for this! Seriously.
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I’ve often thought of starting a blog called Deep Dark Thoughts No One Should Have.
Hang in there my friend.
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I raise my coffee cup to you, Kimberly. (I’d raise my wine glass, but it’s still morning.) My heart breaks for you and for all women who suffer or who have suffered from PPD — no one should have to go through that.
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I remember those early days like they were yesterday too. I had many of those times that you described. It’s hard to forget them, they have such an impact on us, right? But it’s my feeling that they make us stronger moms in the end. They make us appreciate the tiny little moments of loveliness in our kids, like when they come up to us and kiss us and say, “I love you, Mommy”. Those little seconds are the best. And they make it all worth it. Love your writing, Kim.
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I love when you write, I love when you dig deep deep down and share it with us because it’s beautiful in every aspect, in every word of it.
While I don’t know exactly how you felt, I did feel those EMOTIONAL days of first mothering and called my husband in tears because I was overwhelemed. I read you and I say to myself, “LOOK at Kim, she did it, she lived through it and nothing is ever as bad as it looks now because you can look at her strength now”
how does it feel to be a hero???
xoxoxo
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You are such a wonderful writer. You make me feel as though I was right there with you, sitting out on your patio. And you know what? I WAS right there. I went through it all too and your words just illustrate that it’s ok to have those doubts, those struggles, those desires to just flee, and those difficult memories with our babies. We are awesome mamas who are kicking butt despite all of our struggles. I just adore your writing – thanks for another great post.
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Oh, my friend, I love this. Love how honest and raw it is. And how you are so self-aware now. How you are making progress, even as you keep fighting. And I love Chunky. Even with his baby screams. He’s awesome.
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Oh, God… I remember those days. Sometimes you just have to put them in the crib and go where you can’t hear and go have a cup of tea. I can’t believe there’s anyone out there who can handle the incessant shrieking and *not* feel like they’re going insane. I didn’t have anyone to call except my public health nurse, and she was awesome. She’s the one who picked up on the PPD, and she came over to my house every week for at least three months, and I’m not sure I would have made it through without her. And I was lucky. My older one was still in daycare. I have no idea what moms with two or more at home do when they’re going through that.
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I felt and was lost in your every word!!! I had to pause before commenting… this post took me back — back there and I felt the shame, embarrassment and shoulding all over myself, but the fact that I can admit that publicly to another person is huge. I tend to keep stuff locked up inside, even after two years of therapy… wow… it sucks that I, we, others think that we have a mold to fit into and if I think that I must act, be, do, behave a certain way it is conceivable that others feel the same! I wonder if you spoke your truth to her if her ‘wonderful’ was in fact so wonderful???
I am incredibly grateful to have found you… your honesty inspires me!
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i love this, Kim.
(And can relate to so very much of it. Thank you for writing it.)
And *clink* to that wine, damn do we ever deserve it some days!
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This was so amazingly well written. I don’t have any other words for you but to tell you I’d just like to give you a big hug. As chesserific as that is. And a thank you.
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