Mamas spend a lot of time thinking about their babies and families: dads, not so much, but it doesn’t mean they don’t care. Honestly, I think Joey is a good role model for not losing yourself in your kid, so I try to appreciate his example and incorporate what I can into my own desires.

This morning I commented that sometimes, I can’t wait for Javi to get a little bit older (train tables! trips out of town! backyard camping!) but others, I want to freeze him right at this age (he’s so silly and capable and himself while still needing us just enough).

On my current Want List:

A Montessori-style first table and chair. Javi is increasingly frustrated at sitting through an entire dinner in his high chair. I like the “don’t have to eat but you have to sit at the table when you do” rule, but it’s hard to put into practice when we have to lift and lower him into and out of his high chair.

A train table! For now, he could just play around it since he loves his Fisher Price play table (but I’m not a huge fan of the insipid FP-chick’s voice) but later, we’d start getting him train sets and accessories.

A picnic table. This is a family thing, a way to sit outside and eat dinner while our kid plays in the grass around us. We had a meal at our local BBQ restaurant that was just like this, on a picnic table under the trees with Javi playing in (okay, okay, pulling out) the grass and plants around us, and it was so nice.

So tell me, is your Want List heavy on the baby stuff, light on the me stuff?

Yet, I put off actually doing it for two months. Two months! Why? Because I simultaneously fight what I know I need and need what I’m fighting. My soul won’t settle when I’m not in some kind of control of our money, but I push away the idea that I need it anyway.

People are weird. I am weird. Who knew that getting older just meant accepting your juxtapositions with more gentleness?

After an hour of procrastination (Mint? Mvelopes? Spreadsheet?), I spent 15 minutes on it and was finished. Huh. All that dread for just a few minutes of frankly satisfying work.

It got me thinking about how many of my married female friends are also in this position – the family CFO because we’re better at it. I know a handful of us who have proven a point to our mates by letting them take the reigns, then cleaned up after they cried uncle and admitted we were better at it. Interestingly, I also know quite a few women who are the primary breadwinners while their husbands find their dreams. Funny how times are changing, aren’t they?

And yet, bacon-bringing aside, we’re still the mamas who hold their babies just because, even after the babies are asleep in their happy little beds, just for our mama hearts. It’s hard to reconcile sometimes, but fantastic how a girl can at least try to juggle a little bit of it all, no?

Sure enough, it feels like our easy, inexpensive life is going to have to change.

Not too many years ago, I would have been excited. New city, new home, new start, new life. Each move was an adventure. Even before I started moving between cities, I’d gotten the urge to move houses at least every 18 months.

But I’ve been here – in this city, in this house – long enough that change feels more scary than adventurous. Owning a home has upped the ante, too. Whereas before I’d just go the low-commitment route of renting, my hubby is a devoted homeowner. The idea of selling and buying and qualifying and paying and closing and… yuck.

I’d been composing a post in my head about the peace I’ve felt since having my son. Unlike the adult life I’d known, with him in it, there’s no chance of stasis. Every day, he moves inevitably, inexorably, forward. I love it.

The contrast to how I feel about causing a change is interesting. I used to force a change to get the movement I needed but causing an abrupt overflow of chaos. Now, much as I’d like to ride the waves a bit longer, I’m going to have to suck it up and go for a swim.

“No big deal, Mom,” said his grin.

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Emily is my go-to recommender for baby paraphernalia via her blog, Oh Apostrophe. After ordering far too many things simply because she recommended them (and rarely being disappointed), I realized I should be paying it forward by sharing some of our favorite things.

I bought this tug boat on a whim when my son was old enough to play in the bath tub without one of us holding him afloat. What I didn’t realize is that it’s also a pour-er, meaning I can use it to rinse his hair and he thinks it’s great fun. Yay! After months in the bathroom, it’s not moldy or musty at all, and we still play with it every day.

• I don’t want someone working for me who isn’t earning a good, solid, good-living wage. Daycare is pretty inexpensive around here, and the downsides aren’t worth paying 4 – 5 times more for someone to come into our home to watch our kid 30 hours per week. Sure, I could find someone (lots of them, actually) who will take much less, but in the end, I’m not comfortable with that.
• My son really enjoys daycare. Really. I promise I’m not justifying our choices to make myself feel better – he really enjoys daycare. He plays with other kids (it’s hilarious), hangs out in a fun playroom, and honest-to-god doesn’t miss us once he can’t see us. They have a window just inside the door to the room, and sure enough, by the time the door is closed behind me, he’s over it and playing happily.
• I really enjoy daycare. I like that he is cared for by a variety of people who do this for a living. Really. People call in sick and not only does he learn to cope with a substitute caregiver, I don’t have to figure out how to cover them.
• Our daycare plans are ultimately temporary. When he starts the new school in the fall, I am determined to make sure he can go from there to his own home for the rest of the afternoon/ evening, which is unfortunately much more expensive than having him stay there until 5, but that’s too long a day for my little guy. So, instead of worrying about a temporary summer solution (with a temporary caregiver), I’ll focus my efforts on finding a sitter for the afternoon hours starting then.

On the floor bed, do try it! I’m not needing to transition him for any other reason than I thought it would be fun, and since my kid is clearly happy in his crib (SO happy, it was really quite funny) I’ll leave him be. That said, I’ll post something tomorrow on my (admittedly unproven) thoughts on how to transition if I really wanted to.

I was pretty much finished with slowly rearranging his room so it’s safe for him. To transition slowly (or so I thought), I put his mattress on the floor exactly where his crib had been and picked the “easy” (or so I thought) morning naptime.

{Here’s where I always forget to remind myself that adjusting to change is a learned behavior and often much harder than we expect.}

Poor Javi. Yesterday was his first time with a babysitter here at home (with both parents in the house but stuck doing other things, no less) and today I switched things up again. He was thrilled at first, climbing all over the mattress and trying to eat the pillow (he loves pillows), but soon we both realized that he has no concept of edges.

Oops.

First he tried to sit on the edge of the mattress and toppled over backwards onto the floor. Mom fail. I brought pillows from the bedroom and put them around the edges, but he was already freaked out. We played in other parts of the room and things seemed back to normal except for the dirty looks he kept shooting the mattress.

Then I tried to rock him to sleep (as per usual) and apparently not seeing the crib over my shoulder was freaky. I didn’t expect this at all given how often we move the glider around the room; you’d think he’d be used to seeing (or not seeing) different things in his peripheral vision. Nope. Lack-o’-crib was a total mind blower.

After some songs and rocking and his usual flopping around (which always means: put me down I wanna sleep already!), I laid him on the mattress. Remember, same exact spot as his crib…

… but lower, and boy, that little bit of vertical craziness was just not okay. Poor kid flopped and wiggled and reached out for me, so I laid down with him (kinda) and that was just way too much weirdness oh my GAWD MOM.

More rocking, then I realized this was kinda stupid. I don’t actually need him to sleep on a floor bed, even if I do want him to get used to it before Montessori school in the fall. Somehow I continue to fail to learn that it’s okay to transition when it’s time rather than trying to pre-transition way ahead of time.

Back went the crib, in went the mattress, out went the pillows and down went my kiddo. Sure, he did some fussy flopping around for about 5 minutes (takes a while to come down from that kind of nutso extravaganza, ya know) but he’s down now.

And while I still think that’s the case, I just don’t have the oomph anymore. Maybe being on meds has mellowed my angst and thus, my need for constant introspection. Maybe growing and producing a kid has given me perma-mama-brain and thus, limited my ability to think in paragraphs. Maybe life is too good to pause and write about it and even if I did, how interesting is yet another, “Oh, hey, life is good!” post?

My husband and I still fight, though we’ve learned to let things go better. I used to wonder how you let things go. Tell me the steps you follow, please, because I’d like to know how to do that. Turns out you just turn your head, close your mouth, and let it go. Yes, it’s still there festering sometimes. Sure, in forty years we’ll be arguing over how he doesn’t even notice when I do things and don’t bitch about them or how I never, ever scoop the litterbox. (He doesn’t; I don’t.) I sometimes step into “Why did I choose this life?”, but the spiral doesn’t really get momentum.

Yup, this is probably all meds.

Almost seven months ago, I made the best decision I will likely ever make for myself on behalf of my son: I told someone I thought I needed meds for depression. Until that day, while I’d often visited a therapist, I’d not let myself be willing to try anything, but for my son, I said the words.

My best friend just had a baby and I was thinking about what I’d tell her, if she were me, back before I had my son. (Following?) I think I’d tell her – and you, if you’re facing your first child – to have a plan. We’re all told about the risks of PPD, but if my experience is an indicator, new mamas will go through hell before admitting they might maybe quite possibly perhaps needs to do something – even something this critical and far-reaching in effect – for themselves.  The thing that I couldn’t stop thinking about was how my son would grow up if he didn’t see his mama smile.

So I ask you: what’s your thing? How would you know you weren’t yourself? What are your own personal, unique, just-you red flags? Take a moment and think about them, then write them down, then send them to a close friend or your husband or mom.

Here’s what mine would have looked like:

The normal me, when under stress or overwhelmed, asks for help, polls people for input, researches (but only until it’s too much), gives up, cries, texts (but hates talking on the phone) and blogs. Music makes me swoon. Dancing makes me smile. I do what I have to do if it’s for good and not evil.

While I don’t know what the mama me will do, if you notice that I’m not doing more than two of those things, please remind me of this letter. Remind me that depression deprives not only the mama but also the family and the baby of the joy and happiness they deserve… even if most of the day is suck, some of the day should be good. Not okay or not-as-bad, but good. Something, somehow, at some point, should make me break into a smile I can’t help, the kind that comes from my soul, not my head. And if at any point I’m not doing things for his own good because I can’t bear to put him through it, I need help.

Please, go make your list and send it to someone. I’m mourning the first nine weeks of my life with my son right now. I was such a mess, it’s amazing I managed to get through the day much less while providing him some semblance of a good life. I did, but I feel like I missed it all because I was in such a fog.

It’s hard to tell someone you think they need psychiatric help, but this way, they’re not telling you, you’re telling you.