Big Trash Day

It is big trash day today. We are getting rid of the futon mattress that the cat peed on. I am kind of sad, though. Matt had this futon when we first started going out. It has history, man, but alas, no longer. To the dump. To the dump it goes.
Today is Gabriel's 6 month birthday! I have been revelling in this for a week or so now. There have been many times in the last half year, I did not think we would make it this far. Silly, right? I mean, what were the alternatives? But, I remember back soon after he was born (I find myself referring to those ancient times as, "Back when he was a baby...," as opposed to now, when he's all grown up, of course), thinking that we had made a terrible, terrible mistake. I couldn't admit it at the time, naturally. But after the elation of birth passed and the fatigue and madness of the primordial hormonal soup set in, I was pretty certain I had ruined my life. And I was terrified of this child and having to spend time alone with him. I have wondered if I were tapped by the post-partum depression fairy; the days were bleak and I dreaded the nights. I felt alien to myself, having this baby who screamed the moment he was put down. I carried him constantly to avoid that sound that was like an ice pick in my soul. Things that I had always done to comfort myself, the rituals of living: a cup of tea in the morning, reading the paper, reading anything, walking, swimming, eating anything that required more than 1 hand to fix or consume, were suddenly vanished. And in their place was a responsibility the weight of which I had never imagined. I understand, I think, how babies come to be shaken, because he would not stop crying, he would not sleep, he did not love me. I know I swaddled him too vigorously at least once, thinking, "just keep those evil little hands down and SLEEP." And that is the scariest, worst place I have ever been. Teetering on a cliff, wanting to make the child do something and it won't, can't and feeling so desperate you don't care how, you just want it to stop crying because you are SO TIRED. A very wise friend said something to me in the midst of my muddle, though, to the effect: you cannot control him, you can only control your reaction to him. I found so much comfort in that. I truly felt that my child was screaming incessently because I was the worst mother ever*, even though I knew that I had done everything possible to comfort him. Somehow her saying this, even though she was miles away and for all she knew I WAS the worst mother in the world, gave me enough space to acknowledge that Gabriel is his own little person and while I am vital to his life, I do not control his being. If he must scream, then he must. And I must be able to endure it.
If it was post-partum depression and not just the "baby blues," (whatever that means) I was experiencing, I think it was fairly mild, because I was able to slog through, the baby made it unharmed, and the feelings of doom have lifted for the most part with time.
This is all to say that I am THRILLED that Gabriel turns 6 months today. He has blossomed into so much more than a little screamer. He's smiley and sunny everyday for stretches that go on and on. He does exciting things with sweet potatoes on the tray of his high chair. He still struggles to roll over, but he spins in his crib like the second hand dial of a clock. He smells like fresh laundry hung out in the sun. He blows spit bubbles and sticks out his tongue and it makes both of us LAUGH. I am so glad he's here. I did not ruin my life. I changed in inalterably, but it is better, different, stinkier, richer, tireder, cuddlier, and my own.

*A different friend, also very wise, pointed out: no matter how bad it gets, you are always a better mother than Britney Spears. And you know what, she's right. My baby ALWAYS gets strapped into his carseat. Where he screams his head off. But I always do it. I am a better mother than Britney Spears. It's become my new mantra.