Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (5 page)

My husband carried our baby outside to sit on the porch swing and rocked her so I could eat. But I continued to sob. I couldn’t stop, hot tears slid down my cheeks. Zeb called my mother and told her we needed reinforcements and to come quick. He didn’t know what to do with me. Hell, I didn’t even know what to with me.

I was overwhelmed by feelings of sadness, loneliness, grief and guilt. The darkness was so tangible and real. It seems difficult now to even describe how hopeless I felt. Looking at Aubrey only increased my feelings of helplessness.
What was I thinking
when I decided to bring a life into this world? Her entire life was now my responsibility and I felt the entire weight of it crushing down on my chest so heavily I wasn’t sure I could take another breath.

I would sit and look at her for hours and cry thinking about how dependent she was on me — without me she couldn’t survive. If I didn’t feed her she would die. My slightest misstep or mistake could ruin her life. Her entire existence was in my hands and it was all I could think about.

I cried as my phone rang and rang. I had Caller ID and only answered the phone if it was my mother or my sister. Interaction from the world outside my cocoon was too much to deal with, even listening to my friends and co-workers leave messages on my answering machine was overwhelming.

Beep.
“Hi Robin, it’s Melissa.” My manager from work. “Just calling to see how things are going and to let you know I’m here if you need anything.” That was one of the most asinine statements I heard post-partum. If I
needed
anything? I needed
everything
. I needed someone to tell me to shower, someone to cook for me, do my laundry, hold my hand while I breastfed my child, go to the store for me. I didn’t need vague offers of help. I needed someone to show up and
do
something. I needed someone to shake me until I snapped out of this funk.

Beep.
“Hey Robin, it’s Lizzie…I um, was just going to see if you were home. I made dinner for you guys and wanted to bring it by to you. I guess I’ll just bring it over and see if your door is open? Okay, talk to you later.” At least Lizzie was
doing
something, and although I was grateful for a meal I didn’t have to prepare myself, part of me wanted to lock the door and hide from her. If I had a conversation with someone else, they would know. They would see how pathetic I was. They would see that I was a bad mother, upset, crying and not fit to take care of my own child.

I watched the rise and fall of Aubrey’s chest for hours after she and my husband went to sleep at night, and prayed that another breath would come. I obsessed about too many covers in her bed, and the first night she spent in her own room I didn’t sleep at all. I spent the entire night walking back and forth between our bedrooms making sure she was still alive.

I didn’t want to hurt her or myself, but I couldn’t get out of my mind all of the horrible things that could happen to her. Being a nurse didn’t help at all, in fact it probably only made things worse because I
knew
the statistics. Working in the hospital I had seen things that most people never see. I had seen children who had been abused, in disfiguring accidents and victims of pure circumstance. I was consumed with the thought that something similar could happen to my child.

I felt horrible about feeling horrible. How
dare
I be so sad when I had the most perfect life in the whole world? I had a wonderfully loving and supportive husband, a healthy child, and a job I loved waiting for me after my maternity leave. I had everything I had ever dreamed of in my entire life and I was emotionally devastated. I was ashamed of myself for being so self-involved and sad.

Why?
Why was I so sad? I loved my baby. I loved her more than words could express. I loved her so much it that it made me physically ache. I cried for weeks. I avoided phone calls and visits from friends. What did I have to say to anybody? “Hey, I got what I always wanted and now I can’t quit sobbing long enough to brush my teeth or eat dinner. Thanks for dropping by.”

I was a registered nurse. I knew this was post-partum depression, I knew it needed to be dealt with; I
knew
my doctor wouldn’t dream of telling anyone about my private medical issues, but I was still so ashamed to admit it. I couldn’t even bring myself to discuss it with my own mother, talking about it with
anyone
seemed too overwhelming and difficult to even contemplate. (This was way before Tom Cruise made a complete jackass of himself for yelling at Matt Lauer about Brooke Shields’ post-partum depression. So even though I’d like to, I can’t blame it on that jerk.)

I was ashamed because I thought it made me a failure as a mother somehow. A good mother would be happy when her child was born. A good mother would leap right back into life. A good mother would
want
to leave the house so other people could see her child and coo over the newborn babe. I loved my baby, but I was perfectly content to stay in my house, in my bed or on my sofa with her for the next year, or years, just watching her breathe and making sure she was safe.

I waited an entire six weeks before I worked up the courage to tell my doctor. I wish someone had slapped me silly and said, “GIRL, get you some drugs for a few months and you’ll be fine.” But no one did, because no one knew. My doctor prescribed low-dose antidepressants, which I took for almost a year then tapered off of under his direction. It felt so good, to finally feel like myself again. I swore I would
never
allow myself to be sucked in and seduced by depression again.

Once I felt better I could see how ridiculous my shame and guilt were and I promised myself I would never fall that far again. I was fine after my second child, Emma, was born, other than the typical sleep deprivation there were no overwhelming emotions other than happiness.

After Sadie was born I was fine for a few weeks until I felt that familiar sadness creeping over me again. I was cleaning the kitchen after dinner one evening with tears streaming down my face.

My husband walked up behind me at the kitchen sink, hugged me tightly against him and said, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“NOTHING! I’m fine! I’m happy, I’m okay.” My shoulders shook and I could barely catch my breath, I was weeping so hard.

I called my doctor the very next day to begin taking medication.

My sister had her first baby only a month after I had my third. Being the fab-a-lous big sister that I am, I sent her an email and explained my past struggles with post-partum depression. I wrote, “I just don’t want you to think there is something wrong with you if you are feeling this way. It is completely normal and most people respond to treatment quickly and don’t have to be on medication for very long. If you do feel this way, you’re not alone you can always talk to me. If you don’t feel this way… well… I guess that means that I really am all alone…

“I'm KIDDING!” (See I can be funny even when I’m depressed — it’s a gift.)

You would think after all the monthly drama we go through, the carrying of the babies, the giving birth of the babies, the breastfeeding of the babies, that eventually God would feel sorry for us and give us a break! But no, hormones are all a part of what makes us women and able to do the wonderful things our bodies can do. While they are quite helpful in the “person-making” department they can make us crazy in every other area of our lives. I would have given anything when I was dealing with post-partum depression to have known that I was normal. I wasn’t losing my mind and I
was
going to make it. Even though I felt alone when I was walking through it, I most certainly wasn't and neither are you.

I
have a fascination and fixation with boobs, not just my own, I am enthralled by your boobs just as much as I am my very own. I wasn’t aware of my obsession until a recent trip to Disney World. I found myself recognizing the people I passed in lines, as we wrapped back and forth between chains and handrails, not by their faces or their clothes, but by their boobs. I found myself passing the time by trying to guess what size bra the women were actually wearing and what size they
should
be wearing. I mentally fitted a few men for bras of their very own. I fantasized about recording clips of these people and sending them in to the TV show “What Not to Wear,” which I would never really do because I keep asking all my friends to follow me around with a camera and send
my
pictures in and I don’t need any competition.

I realized during all my scientific research that Oprah’s Bra Intervention a few years back had been a complete and
udder
failure. She said something like 100% of women wear the wrong size bra and she was on a mission to make every granny and housewife in the country get measured to buy a bra that lifts and separates.

There were braless boobs of every race and gender, for that matter. There were boobs representing every nationality, it was like a United Nations meeting for the boobs of the world. I kept waiting for Angelina Jolie to make an appearance to “show support.”

I also realized while we were in Disney World that I was unwittingly passing on my obsession to my four-year-old. After a long day of swimming and playing at the hotel pool half of the family was fast asleep. I was cuddled up in my mother’s bed with her and Aubrey talking about what we were going to do the next day. I was wearing my nightgown and Aubrey glanced at my chest and said “You got big, BIG boobies. Huh, Mommy?”

“I guess I do. What about you? Do you have big boobies?”

“No, I have little tiny ones.” She said and my mother snickered.

“How about Shuggie, does she have big ones or tiny ones?”

Aubrey twisted her mouth sideways and stuck her finger in the air, “She has big boobies... AND really old ones.”

So I was worried the next morning when we continued to see an older woman twisting through a particularly long line. The woman was probably in her seventies and was very well dressed. She was wearing a pair of khaki Capri pants and a white sweater set with royal blue anchors stitched all over it. Her jewelry, her watch and her hair all looked expensive. But this woman had either never outgrown her Hippie-Chick phase, or she was experiencing the first signs of dementia because she was
not
wearing a bra.

Her sweater was knit cotton and clingy and I could see her nipples
clearly.
Right above the waist band of her pants. If I could see them I knew Aubrey could see them, and while I have the self-control and the wisdom to keep my mouth shut (most of the time) my four-year-old does not. Each boob looked like a sad deflated balloon under that sweater. I caught Aubrey eyeing the woman’s breasts as we passed her every three to five minutes and wasn’t the least bit surprised when Aubrey whispered in my ear, “Momma, her forgot her booby bra and her boobies are so sad!” I was, however, quite thankful Aubrey had addressed me and not the woman in question.

Why would you go to the trouble to get dressed, put on make-up and go somewhere if you can’t be bothered to wear a bra? I can only assume because these people could afford to be in Disney World that they could also afford undergarments. Or are we to take from this that Granny was pulling a Britney under her Capri pants? (Ew.) Therefore, I further deduced that because half the women in the Magic Kingdom were not wearing bras, it was by their own choice.

This perplexed me a great deal. I, for one, am not opposed to or offended by the human body. I have breastfed all three of my children (I said I hated it. That doesn't mean I didn't do it.) Even though I was always extremely uncomfortable whipping out the Big Berthas anywhere but my own home, I’m an advocate for women’s rights to breastfeeding in public. (Discreetly, people!)

As a former ER nurse I’ve seen more naked people than a “working girl” on the Vegas strip. I just couldn’t understand wearing clothes without undergarments. I mean,
what
was the point of even putting a shirt on if I can see everything anyway? If you are going to go all National Geographic, I say take it all the way and just show up at Disney World wearing a thong made out of rope.

After spending every second standing in line at Disney World scrutinizing the Boobs of the World, I decided that something drastic must have happened to these women. Something life changing… something that would cause them to lose all faith that Victoria could no longer be trusted with their secrets. Considering my last trip to Victoria’s Secret, I had a pretty good idea what had happened to these women. They had met Skinny Big Boobs. The Victoria’s Secret associate who didn’t
quite
make the catalog.

After meeting Skinny myself, I guess I can see how some women have just decided that enough is
freakin’
enough and have decided to revolt against bras altogether. God knows I thought about it as I ran out of the dressing room that fateful day.