Who Was the LIAR That Said Motherhood is Fun?

The way I see it, post-partum depression is grossly misrepresented.  My youngest is 18 & I’m just now starting to see an improvement with mine.

As a first time mother back in 1985, I was quite unprepared for the reality of an infant invasion.  When my best friend from childhood gave birth to her first child 6 months earlier, she called me up to tell me she was certain she saw three 6’s on the back of little Joey’s head.

At the time, I didn’t understand.   Although, a mere 6 months later, I would begin to understand.  Intimately.

My son was born at 7:15 pm after a gruesome 7 ½ hour ‘natural’ childbirth ordeal. I didn’t want natural childbirth…….but I was forced into it since the anesthesiologist was otherwise occupied with an emergency open-heart surgery patient.  As if I cared about someone else’s predicament when I was writhing in such a painful predicament myself, trying to force a watermelon out of the head of a pin?

As it turned out, childbirth was the easy part.

The very moment my son arrived home, he started screaming bloody murder & didn’t stop for a full 9 months.  One day, I remember limping into the pediatrician’s office for the bazillionth time, wearing bedroom slippers, hair standing straight up on end, and issuing him an ultimatum: drugs for the baby or drugs for me.

If you don’t know about colic, God bless you, you’re one of the lucky ones.  Colic is the catch-phrase for the baby who screams 24/7, refuses to eat, has enough gas to power a Sherman tank, and doesn’t spit-up, but projectile vomits.

For these infants, there are no cute little Baby Books designed to be read by a contented mom while her baby sleeps peacefully, blowing sweet little bubbles out of his pink, rose-bud mouth.  I know this for a fact, you see, because I had every baby book ever written, from Dr. Spock to Dr. Kevorkian, recommending everything from ‘tough love’ to whiskey soaked cotton balls to rub on baby-dearest’s gums.  (Mommy takes three sips of the whiskey, baby gets one) Every one of my how-to books was dog eared & stained with one of the 14 formulas I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get my son to hold down.

“Little Jon is just hyper-active,” the elderly pediatrician informed me, on one of the many well-child visits every mother is familiar with.  “JUST hyperactive?” I would repeat, in a dead tone of voice, after being sleep-deprived for months on end.

So I’d go home & construct mobiles for little Jon’s amusement.  I had everything from kitchen forks to rubber duckies hanging from strings on coat hangers; and still, little Jon screamed on.  The only thing that calmed him down was if I jogged with him in my arms, pointing out all the items in the house as I wore a hole in the carpet from going back & forth, back & forth, back & forth all day long.  “Photograph, clock, stove, table, book, chandelier, plant, spoon, refrigerator, bed, chair……….I would repeat the words in a hollow tone while Jon pointed his tiny finger upward & grunted.  The moment I’d stop, he’d start screaming. 

And so it went for 9 long, miserable, mind-numbing months until I’d reached the point of physical & mental exhaustion.  One would think I’d be thin as a rail in those days, what with all the jogging I did.  But no, that wasn’t the case at all. I was stress eating……….Haagen Dasz to be exact, and lots of stress called for lots of Haagen Dasz…………rum raisin or vanilla swiss almond to be exact.

I’d look longingly and jealously at other mother’s with their sweet little baby’s riding peacefully in a stroller while my son was writhing, twisting, screaming & spitting up left & right.  What was I doing wrong? Why me?

I joined a Mommy & Me play group for about 20 minutes. Once the other moms got a dose of little Jon going berserk, they looked at me pityingly…….tsk tsk, poor, poor woman I wonder what she is doing wrong??

So I went back into the house & stayed in my nightgown for the next 6 months until I reached my breaking point.  By that time, I’d tried everything to get him to hold down food; I steamed the wallpaper off of the kitchen walls, I’d boiled just THAT many bottles.  I tried disposable plastic inserts, 47 different nipple shapes & sizes, there wasn’t ONE single stone I’d left unturned in my efforts. But nothing worked. Little Jon was SO opposed to sucking, he’d even refused a pacifier!  Holy cow, I needed help right away!

So I decided to bring him to a local Children’s Hospital for evaluation one day. I figured it like this: either tell me what I’M doing wrong or tell me what’s wrong with HIM. One way or another, though, the madness HAD to end. The experts watched the family interact on camera for 2 hours, during which time little Jon yanked my beads clear off of my neck & round discs were flying everywhere.  There was a ‘feeding’ during that time as well, where he screamed & spit up & did everything BUT consume the contents of his bottle. Sheer bedlam ensued, as usual.

“First let us tell you that your son is perfectly normal,” the experts came in to tell me when the freak show was finally over.  “Your baby is known as a Mommy Killer in medical terms.”  Great Almighty God, was he now going to stab me with a knife while I was sleeping??  A mommy killer?

The doctors patiently explained to me that a mommy killer was an exceptionally difficult infant. Gee, really? WHO KNEW?

Hellloooooooooooooooooooo? I TOOK this baby in to SEE you precisely BECAUSE he is so exceptionally DIFFICULT….so, thank you but……..I KNOW THAT.

“Well, little Jon is over-stimulated,” they informed me.

“OVER FREAKING STIMULATED?” I shrieked.

All those rotten-ever-changing-mobiles were ‘too much’ for the poor infant to process.  All the pointing out of various household items & speaking the words out loud was OVER STIMULATING the devil-child!

OK folks, drugs for HIM or drugs for ME, which shall it be?

The experts advised me to do a few things differently; first of all, they told me, take all the ‘stimuli’ out of his room & feed him in the dark.  Then, go out and get a job.

A JOB? I barely have time to brush my teeth every morning before the scream-fest takes off, how can I WORK?

“Get away from him……get out of the house for at least 4 hours a day,” they told me.  “No human being should be suffering like this.”

Ah, blessed validation! Finally! It WASN’T “me”, it was “HIM”!!!!! HE was the child with the 666 mark on the back of his head. And he even had some fairly pointed ears if I recall….

Finally though, little Jon did calm down.  At two years old, he was only occasionally throwing temper fits on the floor of the local grocery store.  Holding his breath till he turned purple & pounding his chubby little fists on the floor in front of the candy section.  He wanted some can-ddddd-eeeeeeeeeeeee NOW.  I would just ignore him, much to the other mothers’ horror, while he had his little fit of pique.  I’d ask him to let me know when he was finished carrying on so I could pop out my super-hi-level-noise-muffling earplugs.  Oh, I learned how to deal with all the histrionics after a while, trust me.

I was born to be a one-time-only mom, apparently, since I decided to NEVER have another child again. One was more than enough……one was an enormous handful, in fact, and one was ALL I’d EVER have, period. With God as my witness,  NO. MORE. KIDS.

Sarah Joy was born in 1993 at 6 lbs 14 ounces and measuring 19.75 inches long.

Sigh.

I’m relieved to tell you that Sarah was a delightful infant in every way, the polar opposite, in fact, of my first-born.

Nowadays, of course, the tables have turned. Because, at 54, I obviously haven’t been through enough yet.

Sarah, the freshman college student, is my drama queen extraordinaire, and never gives me one moment of blessed peace or silence. She’s making UP for all those years of good behavior & cheerful, wide-eyed smiles by driving me absolutely crazy 24/7.

Little Jon, who’s now turned into Big Jon, is a college graduate with a straight A average, working as a high level businessman while preparing to apply to Medical School.  He is every mother’s dream come true. NOW I can say that, ironically enough…..

The way I see it, he’ll be taking me on an all-expense paid cruise around the world when he gets his M.D…….as a small token of his appreciation for all the sacrifices I’ve made for him as a mother, and for all the pain & anguish he’s put me through over the years. ((((((Batting eyes & mopping brow))))))))

I can honestly say it’s been a wild ride with both of my kids. But I wouldn’t trade ONE single moment of it for all the tea in China.

Well, maybe just a few……….