Sunshine & Shadows: A Memoir

I hug her every day on the sidewalk before she confidently pulls on her Wonder Woman backpack and walks into her school, ready to take the day, the year, the world by storm. I hug her, and I tell her that she’s the sun. I stole that line from Grey’s Anatomy, but she doesn’t know that. The truth is, she is. 

My daughter is the greatest human being I have ever known and she’s only five years old. 

She has been my partner since day one.

Since before day one.

In October, 2016, I found out that I was pregnant and from that day on, I acknowledged that I wasn’t ever really “alone." I might be in a room by myself, but I wasn’t alone. Not in the ways that matter. I had my baby, and as she grew and time went on, I talked to her (even not knowing she was a girl) every hour of the day.

“This is where mommy parks our car.”

“This is the building mommy works in.”

“This is what mommy is teaching today.”

I talked and talked. 

My little one was due in June so as the weather got nicer here in Michigan, we spent more time outside. I talked to her about flowers and gardening, how much I love the sun, and we read books in between preparing for her arrival.

It was an ordinary Thursday. My baby was three days late, but I had heard every tale in the book about how the first one’s “always” late. I didn’t feel comfortable driving to my appointments alone at that point so my parents came to pick me up for what I thought was a “regular” ultrasound and checkup. I expected to wait until my water broke, and I was in labor.

Looking at me from the back, you almost couldn’t tell that I was pregnant. I didn’t necessarily get wide but I grew out. I looked like I’d swallowed a set of basketballs, not one basketball, but two. I waddled in, because walking wasn’t an option. My feet were swollen twice their normal size, and I could only comfortably wear flip flops. My doctor was concerned. I was carrying a lot of fluid and already three days late.

She told me to head to the hospital and said, “You won’t be going home again without a baby.” 

Okay, then…

I didn’t have time necessarily to get nervous, just maybe a little jumpy. I was ready, but I wasn’t ready at the same time. I couldn't remember the last time I'd held a baby. I think I held a friend’s while she sat next to me. Once. In 32 years. My hospital bag was at home. My cute jammies to wear after delivery were in it. My baby’s “I’m new here” onesie was in it. 

But I wasn’t going home again without a baby.

She was born later that night via c-section. Her lungs provided the most powerful sound I had ever heard. I’d never been so happy to be screamed at in my entire life.  I waited until the birth to find out my child’s gender and when my doctor said “You have a little girl," I cried. Once she was given to me, I never wanted to let her go.

In the hospital, I didn’t immediately feel scared. I felt tired- the kind of tired that locks into your bones and hangs on for a ride. I also felt elated. I couldn’t hold my baby enough. 

I had a little girl. I was holding the sun.

My nervousness began to kick in as my nerve blocker wore off (explain to me the irony of that), and when the lactation consultant told me to try the “football hold.” I had never held a stupid football, and I was a little pissed that she called my baby a “football.” Of course, that’s not what she was saying, but that’s what I heard. 

We came home on the July 4th holiday weekend. 

I knew I was anxious, but I thought it was just to get home and be with my tiny person. When we walked in the door, my husband made some asinine comment that turned me inside out. In the most disgusted tone he could muster, “There’s fungus in the sink.” He looked at me accusingly.

What?! No, there wasn’t. No mushrooms were popping up. 

Remember, that prior Thursday? I thought I would be coming home and waiting for the baby to arrive. Before we left for my appointment, my parents and I had eaten doughnuts. The “fungus” in the sink was nothing other than a little bit of custard filling on a plate.

I put my ray of sunshine daughter in the Pack and Play in front of a window, and I burst into tears. I sat on my couch and cried until my eyes hurt. I shook uncontrollably, like I was stunned. My house wasn’t dirty. I didn’t bring my child home to a cesspool of fungus and other assorted brands of disgusting. I was obsessed with keeping my house clean. I never wanted my home to stink. 

I got up from the couch as my mom and dad walked in, moments into my crying spell. They immediately asked what was wrong and I didn’t have an answer. All I could do was cry and shake. As the days went on, I continued to have crying episodes and random shaking sessions. I felt overwhelmed, like something was going to happen but I didn’t know what to expect or how to prepare. It felt foreboding. My hands shook, and I sat. I cried for "no good reason."

I’d never carried my phone around before that. I hated it when people used their phone as another appendage. But I had mine in my pocket all the time in case I had to call my mom or dad. It felt like a security blanket. I could phone a friend if I needed.

As I adjusted to my new role as mom, my parents came daily for two weeks and stayed all day. I was fine when they were with me. As long as my people were around, I was okay.  When they left, I’d begin crying uncontrollably.

Eventually, I was left at home alone for twelve to sixteen hours at a time. I was constantly afraid. I was scared that I was going to do something wrong and hurt my tiny baby, this little sunshine that I loved and wanted more than anything. I was terrified of her...of hurting her...of making a mistake.

She had bouts of screaming for hours into the night. I wasn’t sure what to do, how to do it, or what exactly was wrong. I spent hours holding her on my shoulder, pacing the house. I put her down and my hands shook. I cried because I didn’t know what was going on, or what I should be doing to help my precious girl.

When I finally had a follow up appointment with my doctor, I cried when greeted me and walked into the room. I told her I was scared all of the time, that my hands often shook, and I didn’t know what to do. I told her I was afraid of hurting my little girl although I had no thoughts of harming her or myself. I was worried I would accidentally do something wrong. I don’t remember if I told her about how long I was left alone, shaking and nervous. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I was embarrassed and knew I needed to “get it together,” but I didn’t know how.

She listened with empathy and professionalism and most of all-kindness. And, she diagnosed me withI postpartum anxiety. I began taking medication and little by little, I started to feel better. Not only did I begin to feel better, but I began to feel like a version of myself I hadn’t realized was missing. I’d been functioning with anxiety before I got pregnant. As a chronic people-pleaser, I learned to stifle myself to make others more comfortable. I let myself get lost in the interest of peace-keeping.

I went to counseling appointments at the free clinic at work.

I got better.

I learned that I had functional anxiety and that I had suffered with it for years. I believe I have a date for when that all began. When I began to modify my behavior to become an obsessive people-pleasing person. 

My therapy sessions helped.

My medication helped. 

Then, I began to reintroduce me to myself. 

Some people in my life were tremendously unprepared for meeting me. I’m confident. Pretty witty. I got tired of accepting behavior I don’t deserve from people who claimed to love me. I’m thoughtful but I was tired of being a pushover. In the immortal words of Fall Out Boy: I’m more than some people bargained for. I learned that I am a mama bear. 

Having my daughter forced me to be reminded that I was more than the shrunken version of myself I'd become. One beautiful afternoon, I was home alone again with my little girl. I was building baby toys without crying or shaking. I felt better. 

Luckily, the time between realizing I needed help and receiving that help wasn’t long. My doctor said the people closest to me would notice my improvement before I would notice it myself. My mom and dad were the first to notice. 

One perfect afternoon in late summer, I was singing along to the Allman Brothers Band when my little sunshine woke up. I took my baby girl in my arms and sat on the couch with her. Sunlight and fresh air filtered through the open windows. I looked down and locked into her denim blue eyes she'd inherited from me, and I said, “Hey baby, if you figure out the baby thing, I’ll figure out the mom thing, and we’ll be partners, okay?"

She reached up with her tiny baby hand and wrapped her fingers around mine. I wiggled mine and with our eyes locked on each other, and any remaining fears I had evaporated.

There’s a lot of stigma around anxiety. Even more for a mom. It doesn’t mean we don’t love our babies. It doesn’t mean we’re broken. It doesn’t mean we’re bad moms. It means our bodies need a little help adjusting to the new lives we’ve created. If we take the time to consider it, moms create new lives for themselves as much as their small people. That’s TWO new lives, and one brain is supposed to wrap itself around it all without assistance? 

I had postpartum anxiety and I got better. Today, I tell my tiny girl how much I love her and how much I wanted to be her mommy. My little girl blows me kisses and runs to me every day after school, eager to tell me about her day and all of the things that she learned and conquered during the day.

“Mommy, the lines on the sidewalk are lasers!” And we jump around from block to block on the sidewalk. 

“Mommy, the floor is lava!” And I pick her up and swing her from the floor to the safety of our raft.

“Mommy, look at me! Watch THIS!” And she head bangs to her favorite Foo Fighters song.

I am still speechless with awe when I look at her.

I am a lot of things and I will continue to be a lot of things and there are more hats in my future. But the most important thing I will ever be is my daughter’s lava-darting, laser-dashing, Foo-Fighting, playground-climbing, dance-loving, nail-doing, rock-painting, puddle-jumping, matching-outfits, adventure-seeking partners.

She is my sun.

 

Melissa St. Pierre is an assistant professor of English at Rochester University in Michigan. Her work has appeared in The Blue Nib, Ponder Savant, Panoply, Valiant Scribe, and Elizabeth River Press Literary Anthology and the Arzono Annual Review. St.Pierre has also performed her work in Listen to Your Mother, a literary nonfiction storytelling showcase. When she is not writing, she is busy misplacing things, making construction paper art, playing with her daughter, or all of the above.