A new year brings a fresh start, a clean slate, and the inevitable New Year’s resolution to be better or do better…at something. Maybe you want to be more active, to floss more often, to eat healthier, or quit smoking; whatever it is, you’re making a promise to yourself to achieve the goal, the ideal, the perfect version of yourself.
So, here we are again. Christmas time. A time of generosity, warmth and love. And presents, and malls, and Santa pictures, and creepy Elves on Shelves and entitled children, and crowds, and over-priced wrapping paper, and Christmas baking, and mess, and … *sigh*
As is tradition with most parents, the house is gradually being tran
sformed into a half-assed version of the holiday home decor posts we see on Pinterest. We listen patiently to our kids’ long list of unreasonably priced toys they want,no…need to have. We brave the crowded malls, searching and snatching up every trinket we can find. We buy the baking supplies and Christmas cookie cutters for an afternoon of keeping our mucus-munchers from eating raw shortbread batter, or “baking”. And after a whole month of trying to “make memories” for our booger bandits, we’re exhausted, deflated, and quite frankly, hung over from Christmas with very little show for it. That’s not what the holiday season is supposed to be about.
It’s that time of year again. Time to pick out wee outfits and wee shoes and frilly blouses they’ll never wear again and plop them down on some weird guy’s lap so they can whisper in his ear and tell him what they want for Christmas. A truly magical moment. That being said, we always seem to find a way to make this Christmas tradition happen. A lot of times, it ends up a complete gong show, but take a look at the hacks I rocked with my daughter and at the very least, you’ll have done everything humanly possible do to get that perfect picture with Santa Claus.
Postpartum depression is the single hardest thing I’ve ever had to contend with in my life. Don’t get me wrong, giving birth was no picnic either, but having my recovery sabotaged by a dirty little mental illness just made everything so much harder.
Postpartum depression is a sneaky little bastard that creeps up on you when you least expect it. It hides in and among your already-raging hormones, stealthily camouflaging itself, and prays not to get caught.
But I did. I caught that bugger red-handed, treated it and now I’m the best mom I can be.
But how do you Know You Have postpartum depression?
Before I became a mother, I was nice. I was friendly and giving and kind. I wasn’t selfish or mean. I hardly ever got angry. I’d go out of my way to help my friends. They trusted me. They thought I was a good person. I was well-liked and reliable. I wasn’t a bitch.