Wobble

Two days ago I was the happiest I’ve been in a long time- ten years? Today, sat in the parent and baby screening of Colette (mesmerising), at the local cinema, I’m nursing the hangover of 3 hours sleep, the result, no, not of the baby waking- she’s a dream; but my own hormonal stew. Hot flushes; a progesterone fuelled comedown so severe it aches at my temples, tears at my womb, and pricks my skull- where even now, my follicles are shrinking, thinning my temporary post- pregnancy curls and my peachy post-partum glow already grows dim.

I foolhardily agreed to have the entrance to humanity blocked by a silicon gate packed with 5 years of hormones, and I’m not responding well. The anxiety that haunted my nights since my older children were small has returned with avenengence. I feel not myself – at least my zen, stable post- partum self. I broke down in tears in my writing class yesterday after a breastmilk disaster at 5.30 am. Timetabling time to think is proving impossible, for all my baby sleeps on schedule. Maintaining the schedule is leaving me frazzled and worn thin. I’m taking it out on Tom as usual, who is himself worn out, trying to make everyone happy despite additional duties that, on their own, could floor anyone else.

And yet I was so, so happy. With my baby, my blossoming social life as I stepped foot into a new circuit of new faces, and once more start to feel part of my local community. My writing. I was managing it all, until I missed a baby appointment and got shouted at- yes shouted- by an unpleasant nurse who once thought it proper to take a phone call while I was wrenched open mid-smear – for the crime of failing to make a 6-week weigh in.

That and the new hormones- introduced to prevent a crash, rather than strictly, another pregnancy – although it’s a sensible side effect- saw me start to unravel, and when one thing feels impossible the next begins soon after. Soon I couldn’t look my smiling baby in the eye, and when she didn’t meet mine, I thought it was because I’d lost her, just as sometimes I feel I’ve lost my other babies through tumbling tears too numerous to hide, that flood out in unpleasant sobs that they now know to just ignore.

But, stepping out of the cinema into dazzling January sun, I start to feel myself again despite the tired. My chuckling infant, as I smile and goon at her, no longer crying, smiles and goons back, a perfect mimic, forgiving me for the ugly face I made when I crumbled, crumpled in the bath.

But how many times can a baby forgive its mother when it’s the mother’s job to stay strong for the family whatever the doctors might say about PND. The only solution is to pick yourself up, and try again, and hope, one day, you can at least explain and be understood.