But the other cat is smart, I thought, and then I would cry harder.
Every time I looked at Serafina, I felt warm, soothing joy.
It was like a straight shot of serotonin, reliable and easy every time.
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When I looked at my child, I felt love, but it was so loaded.
The baby represented obligation and worry and loss.
We used to have so much fun together, I cried to him during the first week home.
Well have fun again, he promised.
I better understand the feeling of loss now.
Giving birth unlocked a rage inside me that I had no idea existed.
My anger was never actually about the baby.
And I realized I had no idea what to do with anger.
I became a mother on an impossibly skinny operating table.
I delivered my baby byC-sectionat 35 weeks.
Then my blood pressure spiked, things got scary, and they put me on a 24-hour I.V.
drip to prevent seizures.
I couldnt see the baby until I was off the I.V.
My husband had to go home because visiting hours were over.
Within a few hours of giving birth, I was high as hell on pain medication and alone.
I kept waking up and wondering where the baby was.
I didnt talk to the baby when I was pregnant.
I still wasnt fully convinced she existed.
We were reunited the next night in the dark, dreamlike environment of the NICU.
balloons, heart racing, feeling like my nerve endings were buzzing and ready for a fight.
People use the words gobsmacked and mommy bliss a lot.
Instead, finally home from the hospital, I couldnt stop crying and missing the cats.
And I still wasnt talking to the baby.
It made me even angrier that everyone kept telling me, Its okay if youre having a hard time.
My body, my mind, my relationship, and my sense of self were unrecognizable.
I wasnt sure when Id ever get to sleep for longer than an hour.
Of course I was having a hard time.
I love my doctor a lot.
I basically felt like he saved me by giving me a C-section when he did.
I wanted him to give me the answer, not ask me for it.
and are you at immediate risk of poisoning your children?
But I also wasnt anywhere close to hurting anyone.
I was furious at the lack of choices for how to be depressed.
I never got any kind ofmental health diagnosis, and I didnt pursue one.
It feels strangely dismissive, even though it shouldnt.
Like a teen rolling her eyes at her parents, my existential despair was mostly hormonal.
It was a Grape-O-Rita in a can, about two months postpartum, after seeing a friend.
It felt like I had reappeared, for a minute, after being missing.
I now know I would enthusiastically die for her.
Its exhilarating and devastating to know what this kind of love is like.
Everything was so much less intense this time.
I had a healthy pregnancy, a healthy birth, and a healthy baby.
The first few days were so good that I thought I could avoid the postpartum rage.
But, for me, the postpartum anger was unavoidable.
All through my first pregnancy, I was bracing for something.
I always imagined Id let that go once the long-wished-for baby finally arrived safely.
But the realization that I was capable offeelingit has stayed with me.
I cant go back to being a person who tries to avoid ever getting mad.
But I still havent completely learned what to do with the feeling.
I do have some inspiration, though.
Before we had kids, we went on a family vacation with my sisters-in-law and their two little boys.
On the first day, one boy didnt want to get out of the pool for nap time.
He went through the range of toddler tools to express his disagreementyelling, resisting, crying.
She just told him, I hear that youre mad at Mommy.
Its okay to be mad at Mommy.
Then theres Fred Rogers.
When she gets mad, I give a shot to remind myself not to be afraid of her feelings.
But I see the anger cresting, and I venture to let her feel it.
I can see that youre angry, I say.
I hold her and feel her furious weight against me.
I tell her, Its really hard to be angry.
