Something happens to me after a baby is born. If you’re a mother, it’s probably happened to you too. I suddenly feel like the world around me is breakable, myself, my family made of shatter-resistant glass that’s fully capable of shattering if given the right opportunity. Like Corelle on a tile floor, we look sturdy but at any moment, SMASH! We could all fall to pieces.

With Laylee, it was a happy fragility, sort of a dreamy bubble where I smiled, clutched her fiercely and dressed her up like a doll, loving her and yet somewhat unable to believe that I had created something so wonderful. I was having the time of my life playing mommy and wondered if at any minute someone was going to wake me up from my reverie.

As I’ve documented here and elsewhere, the dish hit the tile when Magoo was born and then I spent 2 years seeking out every last shard of broken glass and painstakingly gluing them back together. There are so many happy memories from his babyhood but in between enjoying the kids, I spent much of my time searching for shards, painfully aware of just how breakable I was.

And now I’m on round three. I feel like I’ve got things together… a bit. Most of the time. There are sublime moments like last week when Laylee and Magoo cleaned the entire main floor of our playdate-trashed house as a surprise for me while I was feeding Wanda. Then there are moments like today when I found the big kids sitting with their arms crossed on the trampoline, facing each other and screaming until their brains were gone about who had won whatever game they were playing. In the end, Laylee tried to reconcile by saying, “I’ll teach you a new game then where there are no winners and no losers. It’s called Butt-Punch.” Magoo declined the game. I rolled my eyes and walked back into the house. Dan says that in a game called Butt-Punch, he’s pretty sure everyone is a loser.

Through the highs and the lows, I find myself managing but holding on to that glued-together plate just a little too tightly. Am I depressed? Tired? Afraid of descending into the pit I discovered Postpartum II? I’m kind of afraid to ask myself. It scares me a little that I have to try so hard.

My pendulum swings precariously. One day my house is a mess and I can’t force myself to deal with it. The next I’m cleaning and scrubbing like mad. Many days I feel like a hermit, not wanting to be bothered to answer my door or phone and the next I’m sad because people have stopped calling. I’m not doing the best in my church work or my role in the PTA. I’m letting things slip.

I tell myself that this is to be expected. The baby’s only a month old, two months old, five months old. Why shouldn’t I want to spend all day holding her and squishing her, playing cards with Laylee and Magoo and reading books at home? I should like my home, my little hermitty cave. Why would I want to go anywhere else?

I’m just holding on too tightly. There is a slightly strained sensation to the sweetness of this time. I’m cherishing the time with my kids because realizing that Wanda is our last has also made me realize that Laylee and Magoo are growing up too quickly and I don’t have a freeze ray. Heck, I don’t even have a time machine. I have photos and videos and the ability to make more. Dan just bought about a terabyte of storage space for our computers because I am on a memory-capturing rampage.

How can I make the most of every minute with my kids without squeezing the life out of those moments? How can I allow myself to just be the mother I am without questioning myself into a spiral of self-doubt? If I could just live in the moment, just be here and love it, love myself as much as I love these stinking wonderful Butt-Punch-playing, breast-sucking kids. If I could be as forgiving and gentle to their mother. If. I think I’d find that I could relax my grip and the fear in my throat and there’s a good possibility that nothing would break but my stifling itch for perfection.

The delivery was awesome. Many of you followed on Twitter as I took my geekishness to new heights by tweeting one of my family’s most personal and dramatic moments. It was such a great way to keep our family updated all at the same time. I’m glad we did it but I’ll be deleting the tweets and moving them here so as not to leave a permanent record of Baby Wanda’s birth date up on the interwebs. (yes I know it will still be up there somewhere but I’d rather not have it on my active Twitter page.)

So, from some “mystery” date a while back, here are my birth tweets:

- 11:12 PM: No baby yet but my mom’s here to play. Get to start calling and begging the hospital for induction tomorrow. This should be fun.
- 6:20 AM: No room at the inn yet. Call back in an hour.
- 7:14 AM: AAAAHHHH!!!!! Headed to the hospital.
- 8:33 AM Just signed the forms that say “I may die here but I don’t mind.”
- 8:36 AM: Wearing the bracelet my friends made me with beads and good wishes given at my shower.
- 9:57 AM: Came in dilated to a 2 and 75% effaced. Waiting for petocin. Suddenly busy here so we’re napping till it’s our turn.
- 10:22 AM: Petocin started. It’s go time.
- 11:19 AM: Listening to old CarTalk podcasts and watching Wanda’s roundhouse kicks. No major contractions yet.
- 12:22 PM: Moved on to This American Life. Contractions picking up.
- 12:24 PM: Nurse must read same parenting books as us. I asked if I could have pudding. “Sure,” she said, “As soon as you have the baby.”
- 1:23 PM: Nurse just came in to check ma vitals. Said “Oh dear” at one point for apparently no reason. Back to CarTalk. Aye! Contraction!
- 2:25 PM: Oww. Mom. Very slow progress for the ouchiness. At least the nurses are cool.
- 2:49 PM: West Wing Season 1 is like a warm blanket to my heart. The epidural coming in 45 mins will be like a warm blanket to my uteris.
- 4:12 PM: I should have gotten that epidural two months ago.
- 4:25 PM: Water hath been broken which is normally painful but it’s okay because it feels like my lower body has taken a bath in Anbesol.
- 5:20 PM: Gonna push soon! Will update when baby is here!
- 7:04 PM: Thick dark hair, 8lbs 10oz, 20″, 15 mins pushing, so gorgeous!
- 8:27 AM: Here she is un-blue. So sweet. Slept all night (unlike the rest of us) and is eating well. Still no real name

The delivery went really smoothly. After the epidural and the water breaking, I went from a 4 to complete in less than an hour and it only took 15 minutes of pushing before she was born. She came out fist first, our little Ninja, causing us to briefly add “Norris” to our list of names in honor of his venerable Chuckness.

The doctor said, “I’ve delivered an arm,” and I said, “Oh good. Her head is out?” And he said, “No, just her arm.” But her head came out next and then the rest of her and that sweet squawky little cry and she went from being a bulge in my abdomen to a living breathing person whom I get to love, take care of and repress most cruelly for her own good for many years to come.

We did pick a name before we headed home from the hospital, put it on the birth certificate and everything. Here’s a list of the names we were mulling over on our giant spreadsheet in the hospital. You were all so good to share your ideas with me. This list includes all the names we seriously considered at some point during the pregnancy. One of them is the name we chose. So if you’re looking for baby girl names, have at it.

Anne, Jane, Ivy, Josephine (Finn), Eve, Lucy, Adele, Violet, Eden, Ruth, Gail, Estelle (Stella), Lynn, Daisy, Jean, Nina, Kathryn, Robin, Susan, Ruby, Amelia, Nora, Sally, Jill, Leah.

She is gorgeous and sweet and we love her, an amazing sleeper and a champion nurser.

There have been a few little things to work out, as there are with any baby. First, I’m working to find my emotional happy place, working with my people to get me to where I need to be mentally. It’s not the most fun but not nearly as hard as it was with Magoo when I didn’t know what was going on.

The emotional transition to third-time motherhood was complicated by the fact that 2 days after birth she developed some moderately bad jaundice and we were set up with a light box in our house that we needed to keep her strapped into whenever she wasn’t eating. A nurse has been out here every day since to take her blood and check her vitals.

It’s amazing how something seemingly small like that can send everything out of whack. Just watching her lay there on the florescent lights and not being allowed to pick her up or comfort her when she cried unless it was time for a feeding was much harder on me than I would have guessed. I guess I got the smallest taste of what it’s like for mothers whose babies end up in the NICU and they don’t get to bond with them in the typical way.

Holding and cuddling Magoo was one of the only ways I could soothe and calm my anxieties during his early life and sitting next to her light box, smoothing her hair while she screamed had just the opposite effect.

They also asked me to wake and feed her every two to three hours, take her temperature each time and record how many minutes I fed on each breast, what her diaper looked like and how many minutes I had her off the lights. They also wanted me to pump after each feeding and then give her a supplementary bottle for dessert, which meant I then had to wash and sterilize all the pump and bottle parts before going to bed before the next feeding, so sleep was rough.

My mom and Dan are here and doing everything they can to help but I want them to be at least somewhat fresh to make things seem normal for Laylee and Magoo during the day as I lay around and heal, nurse, and question my every thought, feeling and emotion to determine whether or not I’m “O.K.”

But today Wanda’s blood had improved a ton and the nurse called this afternoon to tell us we could take her off the lights and hold her as much as we wanted. This was good news, sort of tears-of-joy ecstatic news. This gives me hope for more restful nights and emotional calm in the coming days. I still plan on waking her up every three hours to feed just to make sure she’s pumped full of enough to get all the bilirubin out of her system.

So that’s where we stand. Newness, weirdness, sweetness and family. Everything feels very fragile and every minute very important. Her squirks and squeaks fascinate me and her gassy smiles melt my heart the same as if they were real smiles. I can’t get over how soft she is or how much her siblings adore her. I can’t get over how vulnerable she seems or how scared I am that I’ll never be able to keep this little person safe through adulthood. Suddenly the other two seem so fragile as well. There’s nothing like bringing a new baby into the world to make you wish your world was just a tiny, well-padded, time-proof bubble.

Rain is pouring down on our new roof but we’re safe and dry. The big kids are asleep. The baby is passed out on my mom’s chest and Dan is puttering on the computer. Ours is a good little bubble. Here’s to hoping you’re all staying dry and warm in yours.

My friends with big families love to help prepare me for this next little munchkin by telling me horror stories about the adjustment going from 2 to 3 children. They’re trying to be helpful but I’m afraid they don’t quite understand the concept of “help.” “Good luck,” doesn’t really count as a well wish if it’s followed by the implied, “You’re sure gonna need it,” and it’s even worse when they come right out and say, “Your life will soon be a raging inferno of chaos and despair.”

Then they give a knowing smile. It’s all quite lovely, really. Word on the street is that although the adjustment from one to two is rough, adding another kid is mind-blowing. I’ve been listening to this for years with half an ear, thinking that it can’t really be as bad as everyone says. Now that I’m in the runaway train car of pregnancy with no turning back, I’ve started to remember some of the horror stories I’ve been told. It’s not hard really because the minute my bump started to grow, so did the cheerful warnings and words of happy consolation. They’re always smiling when they tell me these things, as though happy that I’m finally gonna “get mine.”

The thing is, I am happy that I’m finally gonna get mine. We’ve wanted this baby for a long time and possibly another one to follow shortly thereafter. We both knew our family wasn’t complete and although the age gap between two and three is wider than the gap between one and two, it’s not for lack of desire. My brain and body just weren’t ready yet. I wonder now if they ever will be or if I’ve already used up the prime baby making juice that was in me. My body is not handling things as well as it has in the past. My hips and pelvis have already started separating, thanks to the gigantic Magoo and his 10.5 pounds of girth. I’m having pain very similar to what I experienced after he was born but at a fraction of the intensity. It gets worse every day though and the bones in my pelvis and hips just feel bruised all the time. I hobble way more than a 5 and a half month pregnant woman should.

Then there’s the brain stuff. I’m hanging in there. I’m functioning but I’m definitely not at my peak. I can feel that things are a bit “off” but not enough to warrant major medical intervention or prescription changes. If this goes the same as it did with Magoo, it will be more than two years before I can wean completely off brain meds and feel normal again and what then? Start this whole thing over again?

It scares me.

We’ve always thought we’d have 4 kids but I question that number every day of this pregnancy. I’m still throwing up, though far less frequently. I’m emotional and in pain and it’s hard to think clearly about this decision when I feel this way. Dan keeps reminding me that we have plenty of time before we have to decide but I like my life planned out in neat little rows five to ten to eighty years at a time. I like at least the illusion of being in control.

Magoo and this baby will be four and a half years apart. I kind of want this baby to have a sibling closer in age. I would love for Magoo to get a brother. He’s already crying about the possibility that when the baby’s a little older, he’ll have to move into a room all by himself.

Yesterday I was talking with a friend who often has Laylee and Magoo over to play with his son. We were discussing the fact that the kids generally get along well when they’re playing in twos but when there’s an odd number of children, someone always gets left out or mistreated. Yesterday it was the two boys ganging up on poor Laylee. Just as often Laylee and Rowan gang up on Magoo because he’s the youngest. Am I doomed to live the life of a bouncer or referee if we stop at three kids?

I want the best possible family.

The problem is, I don’t know if it’s best to give my kids one more sibling or to be a more consistently sane and healthy mom for them. We’ll pray about it. We’ll weigh our options. We’ll see if I go as crazy after the birth of this child as I did with Magoo.

Today I’m just going to breathe and appreciate the family I have, Dan, Laylee, Magoo and little Wanda jumping on my pelvis while she swims around in her own urine. It’s not a bad little band of five.

Thank you so much for all of your kindness as I’ve been going through this rough time. It’s not hard to be open about my struggles when I get such a gracious and loving response.

It’s amazing how fast the hard times come and how quickly they begin to recede with faith, prayers, friends, good medical care and prescriptions, and a weekend spent sitting on an island watching the sunset with your main schmoop and zero small people.

Dan and I had planned a getaway for this past weekend months before my brain glitch last month happened. It’s the first time we’ve gone away for a weekend without the kids in the nearly six years since Laylee was born and I feel sure that all the planning and timing were no accident. Someone knew I’d need some extra relaxation to help get over the worst of my panic and anxiety.

Now we’re getting back into our routine and it seems strange that just days ago I was swallowed up in so much fear and panic. I’ve been sleeping in, grateful to be sleeping well again and we were a bit tardy getting Laylee to kindergarten this morning. I apologized and she sensed the stress in my voice.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m late for school Mom. It just matters that I’m alive. Come on, man!”

Yeah, yeah. Peace, love and all that jazz. I’d still like to avoid excessive and habitual late slips. But I enjoyed the sentiment. There is wisdom in our young ones. Upon arriving back home, Laylee’s favorite song “I Know Karate” (see embed below) was playing on the cd player and Magoo begged me not to go inside until it had finished.

So we stayed in the car as I unleashed the artistic fury of my funky greatness. Rolling fists, flashing jazz hands and bobbing my head like a skanking Rastafarian. Hey. My car dancing moves are limited because my mobility is restricted but I can still bust a move in a manner pleasing to children under the age of six. Magoo parroted my every motion and when the song finished he exclaimed, “I did it. I could do all of it!”

And his moves were passable. I hope they serve him well in his life. Maybe he’ll report back to me about how they’re working for him. Perhaps in junior high sometime. Maybe his peers will report back even more emphatically.

It’s been flooding around my town. Roads are closed. School has been canceled and we’ve all been anxiously watching the flood reports waiting for the water to crest and recede so we can get back to the normal flow of our lives.

For the past few weeks and ongoing I’ve been bleeding, before which time I was sure I was pregnant, not Psychosomatic Pregnancy Disorder sure but actually really sure. I had all the symptoms. I was even knitting for heck sake. But my body and repeated tests are telling me I’m not, at least not anymore. And I’d love to be.

I’m not that sad about a possible lost pregnancy I was never sure was real. Dan and I have waited years for me to recover mentally and physically from Magoo’s birth and have come to a point where I’m finally ready again but patient.

The problem came about 5 days after my cycle started and my anxiety and panic went through the roof. I’ve been off my post partum meds for months with smooth sailing and suddenly I found myself in that dark place, the place where I shake and throw up, cry and let my mind terrorize me, the place where I visit every doctor I know and end up back on my meds.

Although doctors like to say that bleeding for 3 weeks can be normal and that nausea in the mornings, elevated anxiety, ravenous hunger, exhaustion, catastrophic breakouts, a slippery pulse, and the 27 other things I was feeling before my cycle started don’t necessarily indicate pregnancy, I feel pretty sure that my dark place is a result of a microscopic baby who just wasn’t ready to come live with us but instead tripped my wacky hormone breaker on his way out the door.

When I’m in that place it feels as though I will never return to normalcy, that darkness, fear and panic are valid because the world is just a scary awful place. What helps me cope is Dan, Dan who is so sure that the flood will crest and I’ll return to myself again, Dan who remembers who I really am and loves me. And it’s not just Dan. I have a huge support group of family and friends. People have been coming out of the woodwork to make meals, bring flowers, give hugs while I sob and remind me that they know me and that this is NOT normal. I’ve even gotten several emails from people who I know and some who read this blog and could tell that something was not right. Thank you so much. I’ve been too overwhelmed to respond to everyone.

When my mind is in this place, it’s hard to believe that the world is a place worth living in. It’s hard to believe that I am good enough or worthy enough because if I were better or had more faith then I’d feel peace from my Heavenly Father.

Which brings me to my lesson on Sunday. On Saturday night when it became apparent I was in full scale meltdown mode I called and asked a friend to sub teaching my 14 and 15 year old girls’ class at church. Then I took a look at the lesson. It was about individual worth, how the worth of souls is great in the sight of God. It was about how we all may feel broken or unlovable at times but that God loves us all the time and that we each have a spark within us, a mission that only we can complete.

I knew that the timing of the lesson was no accident. It was filled with truth that I desperately needed to hear and I knew I had to teach it. So I went to church, tissues in hand, and taught the girls in complete tearful breakdown mode. I told them that I was teaching them even though I was having a rough time because I wanted to show them that their leaders are not always prefect. We tend to sit up there and teach about God’s love and the peace you feel when you’re doing what’s right and the joyous news of the gospel and the examples we show and the standards we set are high. I wanted them to know that each one of them was of great worth and that even when they were in the lowest depths of the dark places of their lives, they were still loved, they were still good people and it is those times that they need to rely on their faith and on their past experiences of joy and peace to get them through until the floods of darkness crest and recede.

I read them the story of Snowman, the old grey beaten-down horse who turned out to be a champion show jumper, and I promised them that they could do great things with their lives and that I knew in my heart that I could do great things too, even if I couldn’t feel it right then. My hope for them and for all of you is that you never feel that your struggles or heartaches are an indication of your worth. You are not your trials. Sometimes I think we all act so perfect on the surface that when we struggle, we doubt our divine nature and the huge gift we are and can be to so many people in this world.

I hope they got the message, rather than thinking, “Wow. Kathryn’s really lost it.” I think they did.

But whether or not I’ve lost it, I know I’ll find it again and I have a lot going for me. I do have a great work to do. Even if the only thing I ever do is make these two people, my life will be a raging success.

***And the winners are Shaye and CBS! Congrats.***

I often feel that my brain is going to mush. I’ve tried reading Tolstoy, playing Sudoku, taking extended adult naps, brushing my teeth with my non-dominant hand and many other remedies for getting my brain in shape and improving my memory.

None of these were as much fun as playing Brainiversity, a new brain fitness game from Brighter Minds Media. Full of fun little brain stimulating activities, it gets you thinking on your feet and then tracks your progress as you complete daily quizzes.

I was excited about my progress as I continued to improve my scores from day to day. The excitement wore off JUST a titch when Laylee got on my computer to play by clicking on things randomly since she can’t read or do math and earned basically the same score as I had worked my way up to.

I’ll just chalk it up to the fact that she’s likely a child of unparalleled and even freakish genius, not that I am a moron who’s brain is in a state of rapid decay. Hopefully even if the latter is true, I’ll be able to reverse the effects by keeping up my daily brain-ercises.

If you’d like to keep your brain agile enough to help your kids with their homework, leave a comment on this post and I’ll enter you to win one of two copies of the PC-compatible version of the game. I’ll draw a winner on Wednesday at 10pm PST.

Click to Read My Product Review Policy

The sky is blue outside my window but I have trouble believing it. It’s been so gray and dark all day, all week, all YEAR. We have little bursts of sun and then back to weeks and weeks of oppressive grey like the sky is pressing down closer and closer, tighter and tighter until it chokes the very life and laughter out of every person, plant and rock in my little world.

Can I just tell you that today was not a good day for my mentals? They are not happy. I’m working up to being drug-free and proud in anticipation of a possible attempt at a third child and the strange fluctuations in my “special vitamins” we’re using to get there are leaving me in a bit of a rough way, complicated by the ratchin’-fratchin’ gloom of abysmal death and the fact that I’m not getting a ton of sleep.

Magoo has decided that sleeping through the night is for babies. Big boys prefer to get up and watch movies with their parents from hiding places in the hall, pass out on the floor or on the stairs. They also like to climb in bed with their parents at 2am, claiming to be afraid of T-Rex’s even though T-Rex’s are their best friends, and spend the rest of the night trying to make their elbow fit in their mommy’s nostril. Big boys are the super best.

This weekend our city had its summer festival, despite the cold and damp. Laylee begged us to let her ride her bike in the kiddy parade, claiming imperviousness to cold, bravery and fortitude beyond her years. After 45 minutes of waiting in the bone-chilling cold and rain for the parade to start with parents who had the nerve to put all the gloves and ski pants away because they mistakenly thought it was June, her fortitude waned, providing us with one of the best pictures ever taken by the camera of man.

Magoo, who insisted that his dad dress him in the non-waterproof jacket that a neighbor’s baby had left over at our house, was unfazed by the weather and left all who passed him humming “Fat Man in a Little Coat” by Chris Farley.

And then we went to a parade in the rain, full of dogs and tractors and large raccoon credit union mascots with matted fur who Laylee surmised must have escaped from Disneyland “because that’s where they have most of the people that look like that.”

Tune in tomorrow to find out about how I almost SLAUGHTERED an old lady with a cane in the 5K-race-through-the-mud portion of the festivities.

Even the sweetest kid can be a Snarkity McSnarkle Pants sometimes. It’s just expected. We may roll our eyes and move on or try to correct the attitude. Sometimes we just lock ourselves in the bathroom with some lemon bars and a good book while they snark themselves into exhaustion.

For the past several months Laylee has been experiencing a lot of angst. To an extent I think it’s normal. Like Magoo’s recent too cute PMSing over every little thing, I think it’s mostly just a stage. But then there’s this little part of me that wonders if I’m raising a cranky little pessimist. I’ve tried all kinds of “techniques” to help get over the problem and honestly there’s been a lot of improvement.

I’ve tried being more attentive to her before she gets bent out of shape and we’ve helped her overcome most of her perfectionist tendencies. Beneath her sweetness, there’s still this smoldering frustration and worry that she carries around to an extent that I don’t think is healthy for a 4-year-old. She should be happy and fairly care free and not so quick to anger.

So on Sunday I was fasting, as members of my church are wont to do on the first Sunday of the month. We go without food and pay special attention to our prayers and devotion to exhibit our faithfulness to God and our willingness to put physical things aside and let the spiritual take center stage. Honestly I frequently have a super hard time putting the physical completely aside when my stomach is yelling in my face, but I understand the reasoning behind the practice and I’ve had a few wonderful experiences.

Anyway, I decided to dedicate my fast to asking my Heavenly Father for help with Laylee and her sadness/frustration/angst/snappishness. As I was kneeling down to pray, the words were not fully out of my mouth when my prayer was interrupted by the clear thought, “You need to be more positive.”

“Okay,” said I, “Thank you for that. Now about Laylee. Please help me to figure– ”

The thought came again only stronger, “You need to be more positive and watch the kind of things you talk about in front of her. On the phone. To your friends and Dan. Your negativity and pessimism are getting to her. If you change this, she will be changed.”

I was sort of taken aback. My fast had just begun and I hadn’t even completed my prayer and I was already getting an answer to my question though not the answer I wanted to hear. I think of myself as a fairly positive person but when I really thought about it, I could remember way too many conversations where I was critical, overly dramatic in a negative way or “humorously” sarcastic. Kids don’t get sarcasm. They hear mommy being mean to someone and they just feel the negative vibe.

So I talked to Dan and “we’re” working on it although honestly he doesn’t have much to work on. It’s hard to stop because it’s such a habit when I’m chatting on the phone to just be flippant or gloom and doomy. I’m actually annoyed by myself.

The key for me really is to try to think positive thoughts and try to speak in a more positive way even when I don’t think the kids are listening. It’s not like I have a switch I can flip on and off. It’s something I need to work on consistently.

So yesterday was the third day of this new plan and it shows just how much work I have to do. I’d been pretty positive all day, trying to get the kids excited about the world around them, a regular Pollyanna run amok, but with more personality. As we were driving to the grocery store, we were exclaiming over the beauty of the clouds and the sky and OH MY! Isn’t that the neatest thing? I really started getting into the spirit, caught up in their enthusiasm for the beautiful sunset. I felt for a moment that no one could be as lucky as I, two beautiful children, a great marriage, a lusciously cloudy Seattle sunset and a trip to the grocery store. What could be better?

Fast forward an hour as the kids had lost their minds and I wasn’t far behind. We made it out of the store alive only to have all kinds of rioting break out upon entrance to the van. They’d been picking at each other all through our shopping, as if to say, “ARE YOU INSANE TO TACKLE GROCERY SHOPPING AT LOSING OUR MINDS O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING??!!”

When they got into the van, their quarelling became unmanageable and so I turned the stereo up to eleven to block out the noise and proceeded to drive home. When Laylee confronted me about hurting her ears and giving her a possible “ear affection,” I told her that next time she could plug them but that since I was driving I couldn’t plug mine to block out their fighting and loud music was the next best thing. I guess if she really doesn’t like the music then next time I can just yell repeatedly “SERENITY NOW!!” at the top of my lungs.

“Oh,” she said. “Hmph.”

Oh hmph indeed. We glared each other down and I vowed to be more positive today. And I was. We’ll see about tomorrow. Baby steps.

When we know better, we do better. I wish I’d known more about postpartum mood disorders before Magoo was born. I wish more people were more informed. It is this wish that’s caused me to write my 3-part series at Parenting about my experiences with postpartum anxiety and panic, the conclusion of which was posted today. Part 1 and Part 2 are still on the site as well.

It’s not fun to talk about. It’s an incredibly personal experience and there are so many feelings of guilt and inadequacy associated with it. I’m open about what happened to me because I want other people to know that the problem is real and that help is available.

Since I started this blog 2 years ago as part of my healing process, I’ve corresponded with several women who have gotten help because they finally realized that they were not alone. If you know anyone who’s not doing well after the birth of a child (I mean REALLY not doing well, more than the normal I-just-had-a-baby-OH-HELP not doing well.), any time during the first year, encourage them to find out more about postpartum mood disorders and help them find the support they need to heal.

I went to a support group at the hospital, to an OB, to a therapist and psychiatrist. I got the help I needed and my family is intact because of it.

Right now there’s a bipartisan bill in the Senate to do early screening for postpartum depression and offer more education and support to new moms.

It’s called the Mothers Act and I encourage you to call your Senator and urge her to support this bill. I rarely call my Senator about anything. We don’t exactly hang out and watch The Office together, but I called about this and I wish you would too.

I’m continuing to share the story of my post partum trauma over at The Parenting Post. One more week of this and I’ll get back to the usual silliness of my life.