Talk about IRONY

Image found Here, but obviously the work of Matt Groening, et al

Okay, I admit it, I Googled myself as my alter ego over here because I was trying to find someone who had found me, not because I'm an ego-maniac.

What I did find, by total accident, gave me Albert Einstein hair and left me giggling for an hour.

The What to Expect website has me and my Thought Monkeys listed in their Things to Avoid if You Have PostPartum Depression post. Their words as follows:

3.  Thought Monkeys

The fabulous blogger at Sophie in the Moonlight calls the negative thoughts that most of us with perinatal mood and anxiety disorders experience “thought monkeys”. (Editorial note: this is the link they provided to my site.) Many of us unwittingly lend a hand to our illness by accepting these negative thoughts, by telling ourselves we are bad people and defective mothers.  I love how Sophie has brought this to life:

“Thought Monkeys [are] my name for those incredibly destructive, deeply internalized, mischievous thoughts that jump and screech inside my mind, demanding attention, demanding action NOW. Look at us NOW … The Thought Monkeys even have names. In no particular order they alternately introduce themselves as follows: "I'm 'Not Enough of, at or for Anything'"; "I'm 'A Big Burden'"; "I'm 'Unlovable'"; "My name is, 'The World Would Be Better Off Without Me'"; and her close cousin, "I'm 'Not Worthy to Breathe In This Air Shared By My Friends and Family'"; and my least favorite says, "I'm 'To Blame for Every Abusive Thing that Has Ever Been Done to Me My Entire Life'". Aren't they sweet? Each one is uglier than the last and they each think they are the most important one. Hateful little creatures.”

Sophie challenges each one.  She fights back with her own mind, argues with herself that these thoughts are wrong.  We have to do the same.  We can’t contribute to and even further our suffering by accepting that these thoughts are reality.  They aren’t. They are part of the temporary disease. 

Why is this ironic? Because of my comment in my entry for 2009 Mother's Day Rally for Moms' Mental Health: The Other Letdown Reflex: Happy Mother's Day to All of Us Perfectly Imperfect Mommies.

"(blah blah blah) ....

I was deliriously tired & emotionally spent. I kept waiting for my milk to come in, waiting for the letdown reflex to REFLEX when my child cried. While I waited for this supposedly automatic mammalian function to do its thing, I tried every other trick in the book. I taped tiny tubes to my nipples & attached a wee syringe filled with glucose water to encourage Luigi to suck and thus stimulate my milk production. I took fenugreek, vitamins,& ate curry 2 out of every 3 meals. When I wasn’t nursing I pumped like a maniac. It was like doing CPR &; chest compresses on a loved one who has been dead for hours, yet I could not give up.

Breast is best. Breast is best. Breast is best.

My wake-up call came on Luigi’s fifth day in this world.

After an hour of early afternoon nursing, Luigi finally fell asleep and I jumped in the shower and sobbed my guts out. As I was getting dressed, I heard poor Luigi sobbing too, screaming until he started hiccupping. I rushed out to get him and found a friend of ours who specialized in pediatric care holding him. She looked up and passed him to me saying, 'He’s starving!' I used every ounce of willpower I had to not burst into tears. I explained we had just nursed for an hour & that my milk hadn’t yet arrived. I told her about the syringe and glucose water. She said the glucose would just raise his blood sugar, not nourish him, and gently suggested that we use a few ccs of formula until the milk arrived.

After she left, I collapsed in my husband’s arms crying hysterically. I was humiliated by my body’s unwillingness to cooperate with its most basic tasks: give birth; make milk. How freaking hard was that!

When I calmed down, I came to the only real solution in front of me. 'I’ve made an executive decision,' I told my husband, 'the ONLY thing that matters is that we feed our baby. I’m obviously not doing it, so I want you to go to the store and buy formula.' I tried to sound calm and self-assured, but I wanted to throw up. After he left, I did.

At the next feeding I nursed for 30 minutes, alternating sides, and then gave little Luigi 2 oz. of the formula. For the first time ever my son slept soundly after he I fed him. For the first time ever, he’d actually eaten.

In the middle of the night, I took the phone to a quiet room in the house and called the Breastfeeding Clinic to confess my sins. I whispered to the nurse that I knew I was a traitor, a second-rate mom who’d chickened out and took the path of least resistance. I knew I was supposed to stick with the breastfeeding plan longer and that it sometimes took up to a month to get the milk supply regulated, but that I couldn’t listen to my son scream anymore and my nipples were bleeding, and, I did, I fed him formula.

The counselor from the clinic listened to me with a sympathetic and supportive ear. She told me I had done the right thing. 'Sophie,' she said, 'No one should be spending over a full-third of every day nursing a newborn. He needs to eat and you were right to feed him.'

'But what about breast cancer prevention? What about his immune system? What about the lower IQ that he will have because of the formula? What about breast is best!!!'

I’d believed all the pregnancy books. I thought the What to Expect When You’re Expecting lady would personally track me down and sear me with an Unfit Mother brand on each cheek if I failed to provide breast milk."

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Huh, I guess I'm not such a bad mother after all. Also nice to know that I can stop worrying about someone lurking around the corners with a nice hot branding iron.

So, here's to being perfectly imperfect. I raise a glass to all of you for I know that you're in the same club for whatever variety of reasons you have. I'm pleased as the punch in my glass to be in your company.