I was surprised both by what she said and how she said it. “It does seem pretty bad to me,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know if this is normal anymore.” “I don’t know what is going on,” I said quietly, running my fingers along the edge of the sheet, my eyes filling. Teri opened her eyes, her thin hair strewn across the pillow, and smiled sleepily. The crumpled white sheets next to Teri felt like an invitation, and even though I knew it was an odd thing to do, climbing into bed with one’s sleeping mother-in-law, it felt like it was either that or walk down the stairs and out the front door and never come back. I walked a few feet farther to the small guest room. The next morning, I woke at 5 a.m., stumbled toward the nursery, and assessed from the doorway that Hope was still asleep. That evening, Teri made soft clucking noises as she followed me around the house and in and out our sliding glass door to the backyard as I tried to nurse and settle Hope with little success. The regular stuff of my life, from working at a magazine to the bright Gerbera daisy centerpieces at my baby shower, made her suck in her breath as if witnessing a mini-miracle. At 53, just 20 years my senior, everything about my tall, dyed-blonde mother-in-law was soft - her body, her voice, her way of being in the world. I held out a glimmer of hope though that his mother, Teri, might somehow help return me to myself. And I knew he needed to work, so I tried not to let on to him how bad I was feeling. Rich was concerned, but with him, as everyone, I didn’t know what was wrong or what to ask for. Mom’s comment stung, but more than anything it told me two things: She was very worried, and she wasn’t going to be able to help me. She was mixing oatmeal for me, the spoon clinking accusingly against the ceramic bowl, her short dark hair falling just so. “Maybe you shouldn’t have had kids,” Mom said on another one of those endless mornings after Hope was born, standing at my sink in her red capri pants and white Talbots short-sleeve button-down. I tried to make things easier by hiding my troubles from her and sometimes even myself, but this time I was too weak to pretend. She rarely complained, but I thought I detected the toll this sacrifice took in the way she seemed happiest not with us, but at church or petting the dog or watching PBS. Mom had steadfastly cared for my dad, my brother, and me since her early twenties. “I’m worried about you,” Mom said sharply one morning after she’d placed Hope in a bouncy chair festooned with teddy bears. I, meanwhile, sat around a lot in my nursing gown and robe, crying or about to cry. Mom was doing her part - changing Hope’s diapers and dressing her in gingham and florals with frilly socks and matching soft leather shoes. My mother flew from Kansas City to my home in Los Angeles to help for three weeks, a period in which we both imagined I’d be getting better at this mothering gig, not worse. My husband, Rich, returned to his long lawyer hours and two-hour daily commute a few days after Hope was born. Eventually I could name it - postpartum depression - and begin to recover, but for a while it just felt like all the good parts of me had slipped away the day I gave birth. Yet because my lead-up to motherhood had been nearly picture-perfect - a happy marriage, a wanted pregnancy, a birth so smooth my OB had said I should have a whole football team of kids - it took me several weeks to understand that while Hope was healthy, I was not. Instead of love or joy, I felt panicked, worried we were already nursing failures two minutes in. Looking back eight years later, I can see that something was wrong just moments after my daughter, Hope, was placed, pink and new, on my chest.
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