I think it’s fair to say I underestimated how much of an adjustment going from one to two kids would be. Or maybe it helped to believe that the pregnancy—full of annoying symptoms I didn’t have the first time, like prolonged morning sickness, pelvic girdle pain, and restless leg syndrome—was the hard part. After all, I’d long ago figured out breastfeeding and changing tiny diapers, so what else did I need to worry about?
As it turned out, I was wrong: The pregnancy was the easy part. Labor was more physically and mentally draining than my first and lasted a full 24 hours. On top of that, the baby seemed pretty ticked off about the whole being born situation. He expressed this by screaming, mostly between 2 and 5 in the morning, for weeks.
I dreaded the walk to the nursery for yet another middle-of-the-night feeding, often feeling like the walls of our house were closing in on me.
At six months old, he still had the sleep habits of a newborn, with erratic naps and not even a whisper of sleeping through the night. I was exhausted and overwhelmed by the daily tasks of caring for my children, my house, and myself. I dreaded the walk to the nursery for yet another middle-of-the-night feeding, often feeling like the walls of our house were closing in on me.
Days weren’t much better, with intrusive thoughts barreling into my brain without invitation. I’d be reaching for a onesie, then be struck with the thought that something terrible was going to happen to my baby that day. This sent me into a tailspin. Should I listen to this voice? Did it mean I wanted something bad to happen? Why was I thinking this way? But the thought would float away as soon as I was distracted by something else: the baby crying, the washing machine beeping, my phone vibrating. As upsetting as the intrusive thoughts were, I could easily shove them aside, compartmentalizing them.
But I never did anything about it, because who has time to tackle an anger management problem when they can barely find time to unload the dishwasher?
The bigger problem, I thought, was how angry I felt all the time. I’d always been an emotional person, but this was different. I was angry that my baby wasn’t “easy,” angry that I felt socially isolated, angry when my older son was disobedient, angry that my husband had to travel for work…. the list went on. I started Googling anger management classes. “Gotta get this under control,” I’d think, scrolling through my phone with one hand while I cradled my nursing baby in the other. But I never did anything about it, because who has time to tackle an anger management problem when they can barely find time to unload the dishwasher?
I kept pushing everything aside, until everything boiled over in the ugliest way possible, directly at my four-year-old son. I’d spent the day picking up the house, including the slew of toys he’d strewn across his room. The cleaners were coming, and while this indulgence sometimes felt like it was the one thing holding my life together, it also meant the floors had to be clear of clutter. This didn’t register as a concern to my son; as soon as he got home from school, he upended the box of Legos. I heard the clatter of a million plastic bricks hitting the floor at once and started fuming, yelling at him to pick up the Legos.
When he didn’t move, everything around me turned red, and I started screaming. My son started sobbing, and I looked up and saw his crumpled face. I started crying, too. I pulled him into my arms and apologized, over and over, until it was his bedtime. There was no reason for me to react the way I did, and I’d never screamed at him like that before. With every apology, I thought, “I need to talk to someone.” Whether it was an anger management problem or something else, it was clear I needed help.
My anger, it turned out, was not because motherhood brought out the worst in me, but because I was suffering from a postnatal mood disorder.
I spent the evening researching therapists, eventually scheduling an appointment with a woman I saw bimonthly for the next year and a half. With her guidance, I prioritized self-care. This often meant climbing into bed as early as possible at night, where I’d read like a hungry animal, eager for someone else’s words to take up space in my brain. Some of them hit close to home, especially when I reached for a memoir. In Body Full of Stars, Molly Caro May wrote candidly about the extreme rage she felt after the birth of her first child. I remembered how I’d screamed about the Legos and felt ashamed, but also relieved.
My anger, it turned out, was not because motherhood brought out the worst in me, but because I was suffering from a postnatal mood disorder. Rage, like sadness, irritability, and intrusive thoughts, can be a symptom of a postpartum mood disorder. I hadn’t made the connection sooner, because I had my own ideas of what a postpartum mood disorder looked like. I thought I would be unable to get out of bed or have persistent thoughts about hurting myself or my children. I thought it meant I wouldn’t be able to take care of my kids in any capacity. That’s not what my life looked like—I always made it to preschool pickup on time, and my kids were clean and dressed. I made dinner and read bedtime stories. I often felt physically and mentally terrible while doing it, but I thought that didn’t matter.
I wish I had listened to my gut and sought help sooner. Stuffing away the intrusive thoughts and extreme rage I felt didn’t help anyone—not me, and not my children. Therapy was the first step in learning about self-compassion, acknowledging how my childhood trauma was playing out in my role as a mother, and, most importantly, figuring out how my out-of-whack nervous system was sabotaging my attempts at being the mother I wanted to be. While having two children had a steeper learning curve than I imagined it would, properly taking care of my postpartum anxiety made all the difference.
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