So many people talk about postpartum depression these days, and yet the awareness we all hope for is not even remotely close to existing. So how can I begin to imagine that same awareness for those of us who experience postpartum anxiety? Or can I?

Towards the end of my pregnancy I found myself awake at night, thinking and thinking. And thinking some more.

What is going to happen with this baby? Will s/he be okay? Will *I* be okay? Will childbirth go okay? What if my water breaks and my husband isn't home? (It did, but he was home soon after.) Is it going to be like in the movies? (It wasn't.) I think I have to pee again. Do I really have to pee again? So soon? Ugh. I wonder if something is wrong that is making me have to pee or think I have to pee like 900x a night. Is it normal? Is it possible something is the matter with the baby?

Damn, how is he asleep? How can he just lay there and sleep that way? So easily? Damn him. Closed his eyes and rolled over and that's that. It's his baby, too. He's going to have to take care of it. It. Everyone thinks he's a he. But I don't know. Should I know? Shouldn't I know by now, instinctual-ly or something like that? Don't most expectant mothers have dreams that tell them what their babies are going to be and aren't they almost always right? Why haven't I had that dream yet? Well, I guess I should know - I mean I'm NOT asleep. How can I be dreaming up the gender of the baby if I can't even close my eyes and fall ... I think I really do have to pee now. Sigh.

And so it went. Night after night until I suddenly realized I couldn't take much more of it. I wasn't sleeping. And if I did fall asleep and eventually woke up to go to the bathroom I could not fall back to sleep. It would take hours of my mind racing before I was finally able to shut it down. If only for a little while. I was exhausted.

I was a stay-at-home not yet mom, and I was so tired I could barely function. And I was having a healthy pregnancy. A really healthy pregnancy, with no issues at all. What was my problem? I didn't know - but I knew enough to decide that it was time to find out. I called my doctor.

Now, mind you, this was a few months before baby arrived. I was able to monitor my anxiety and manage things with a small dose of prescription medication. It was the right thing at that time for me. After baby was born I was on alert. Would I be exceptionally moody? Uptight? Angry? Overly-hormonal? A friend of mine who had suffered from pretty intense PPD after her second child called regularly. 'You're doing alright?' she would ask.

And my answer was always a resounding 'Yes,' as I felt I was doing alright. In comparison to what I experienced talking to her nightly into the wee hours of the morning during her postpartum experience, I was doing amazingly well. And I loved my baby. I never wanted to put her down. I rarely wanted to step away from her, but did enjoy the R&R provided by having family in town, as I knew that would soon end.

And then family left and headed home. My husband went back to work regularly. And my baby and I? We were home. Alone. Together. With our pets. And that was pretty much it. Holy crap! What now?

My anxiety didn't skyrocket as one would expect. It wasn't a level of heightened anxiousness automatically for me. But man, as soon as she hit that 3 month-mark of colic, reflux or whatever else that was combined, I hit that wall. And as she grew and started rolling and moving some on her own, I started climbing it. The wall - that is. Get her crawling and I was all about upping my meds. The anxieties increased. The nights of not falling asleep multiplied, as I was already a new mom. I was breastfeeding. And I was awake nearly ALL. The. TIME.

I used to joke about my experience being PPD-lite. Meaning I didn't have the mood swings and such that many a PPD mom will reflect on. I even coined the term PPA in my mommies' PPD support group, thinking I was the first to think of it. Ha. What did I know? I was a new mom, ya know?

Obviously I made it through those early days. I found a way to hang in there, to survive. There was so much going on, but having people to talk to - to count on - to listen, that's what made it pass so smoothly. And to remind myself of how strong I was, that helped make it all okay. But the interesting thing to me about postpartum anxiety is that it never really, truly seems to go away. Because - after all - you are ALWAYS postpartum after your child is born. At least that is my perspective, four years+ into motherhood. And so the story continues ... stay tuned.

I was a teenager when my cousin Jordan was born. As Jordan grew from preschool to preadolescence I would observe her to be an endearing but demanding child. Jordan had a host of small idiosyncrasies that individually were minor but collectively made her a handful. It was not uncommon for Jordan to end up in her parents' bed or function on her own eating and sleeping schedule. I quietly wondered why this cantankerous little girl behaved the way she did. And silently I vowed not let my own child shape our days and nights with such command.

Through the years I continued to quietly build my portfolio of child rearing opinions. I wisely concealed my sometimes ignorant views. Nevertheless, I banked my thoughts. Nearly two decades after my cousin Jordan was born, I was blessed to birth my own child. Ten days after my son Watson's delivery, he began to exhibit colicky behavior. Watson's discontent seemed to increase rather than diminish as he turned 10 weeks and then ten months old. Watson never acclimated to a schedule. Feeding regimens were abandoned in pursuit of relief that only a bottle would provide. Attempts to implement sleeping routines failed as Watson awoke often and unhappy. At eighteen months he began vomiting when he became especially upset, which included bed time. My husband and I resorted to less than ideal sleeping arrangements in desperate search of rest. Most of my parenting choices went against any text book instruction. Coping was my goal.

Through Watson's first two years I experienced all the looks I recognized. Friends, especially those who were already parents, sometimes verbalized their body language by offering advice. It wasn't uncommon to receive a well-meaning but poignant email from a friend who had spent time with us and felt "led" to share their opinion on the problems. Parenting books frequently appeared in our mailbox. My feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment mushroomed.

I too had begun my parenting journey with the same goals and ideals as my friends. I read all the books and consulted my pediatrician until he was tired of seeing me. Watson seemed to struggle more than any book or friend could explain. I started avoiding acquaintances and social gatherings and especially if Watson was with me. I tried my best to keep our difficulty under wraps. And when pieces of reality escaped concealment, I would joke "I don't think he'll serve prison time over" and I would fill in the blank with "bottles after age one," "crazy sleeping arrangements," or "his lack of schedule." I smiled through many hard conversations as I listened to unasked for and usually uninformed advice. In the meantime, I felt something must be wrong with my child.

Just as Watson turned two I was nearing an emotional and physical breakdown. During a church small group gathering I candidly shared and cried. I was exhausted. I started my long diatribe with: "Please don't give me advice. There is nothing I haven't already heard or tried." The women listened without judgment and then prayed for me. The next morning one of the ladies from the small group called me to say "you are not crazy." She explained that she was a pediatric occupational therapist and asked if I had ever heard of sensory integration disorder. She recognized Watson's challenges and peculiar habits as possible signs of this neurological disorder.

For the following months we slowly walked a course leading to answers and relief. My occupational therapist friend assisted in obtaining a referral and diagnostic assessment. Watson was soon formally diagnosed with the sensory seeking type of sensory integration disorder. Simultaneously he was diagnosed with sleep apnea as well as being severely lactose intolerant. After a change of diet, intense occupational therapy, a formal sleep study and ensuing tonsillectomy, our lives changed dramatically. Within six months of my occupational therapist friend's phone call, Watson slept in his own bed through the night and lost a whole host of bad habits. His regular daytime behavior changed noticeably. Our life began to feel manageable.

Days after Watson's S.I.D. diagnosis, my aunt, Jordan's mother, called me. She explained Jordan grew up with what today would be recognized as S.I.D. as well as severe allergies. My aunt and I laughed and cried as we compared notes and understood each other in a way we knew few others would. And I felt tremendous hope. Jordan was now an accomplished, college bound freshman who was very possibly one of the most enjoyable people I knew! Indeed, maybe my precious son would avoid prison, as I had joked for the past year!

Now at age four, Watson is a happy and healthy preschooler. He is a different child. And since overcoming over two years of sleepless chaos, I am a different friend! My patience is longer with most people in my life, and especially other moms. Recently while in a mall I observed a mother gingerly handle her preschooler daughter's temper tantrum. I caught myself forming judgment on this mother's parenting. I quickly reminded myself that I didn't know what battles had been fought earlier in the day or what developmental obstacles the child may possess. Not too long ago I passively handled mad-fits in order to prevent Watson from vomiting. I reflected and offered a silent prayer as I watched this mother from afar. If there was one, key learning in my hardship with my son, it was that judgment is fruitless. I now make a point not just to conceal an opinion but not to form one at all! Most parents in my circles are bright, independent, and informed people. They know conventional wisdom and genuinely care for the well-being of their children. What they need most from me are prayers and compassion, not opinions or advice.

Originally posted on AtlantaAreaMommies.com

My mom visited this past week (a whole blog on its own I assure you) and of course, when the ‘rents visit, we try and do something extra throughout the week for fun. One of the activities we did this week was to go bowling. Now bowling sounds like a safe, friendly thing to do with kids. I thought so. I mean, I used to take Zavi once in a while when we lived back in Mass and we never had an issue. So what could possibly go wrong bowling with 2 more kids added in and a grandmother? Oh. My. God.

To anyone who may be reading this and was at the bowling alley the same time we were, I am so sorry. I hope Ashe did not erase your computerized game thingy. I tried to keep him away, I really did. But that bugger is fast!

We got the Citi guide coupon book a few weeks ago and I saw you could get one game free of bowling. So on Zavi's early release day from school we piled into the car and drove to the local bowling alley. The older boys were excited, Soren was passed out in a drunken stupor, and my mom and I had high hopes. Bowling! Yay! Fun! Good times!!! We park the ginormous minivan (I'm getting better at parking that monster!) unload the kids in less than 5 minutes (a new record!) and head on in. And that’s where all hell broke loose.

You see, Ashe hates loud noises. He went to the fireworks this past July 4th and freaked out. I mean FREAKED! The whole time he sobbed yelling "FIREWORKS ALL DONE ALL DONE DADDY FIREWORKS ALL DONE" for the entirety of it. Stupid me, I didn’t even think that the sounds of bowling would mirror that of fireworks. Crap. And it’s dark in there with the black lights going, the music bass thumping and vibrating the floor. Ashe took 2 steps in and froze like a deer caught in headlights. And then started shaking. And I couldn’t take him home. J was working on a huge project and I had promised Zavi we would do this. He had been looking forward to this for weeks with Grammy. So I gave the car seat with Soren in it to Grammy, picked up Ashe, and cuddled/dragged him to get our shoes and lane. I had this thought that maybe I could get him used to it in time and he would be ok. I kept whispering "its ok honey it’s not fireworks (Yeah can I get shoes in size 8 kids, 13 kids...) Mommy’s here I won’t let you go (adult size in 8 and 10? Lane 4? Great...) I promise you are safe and ok, it’s not fireworks, no we can’t go back to the van sweetie (Here's my card.... can you hold the top so I can sign?... thanks) sweetie stop kicking Mommy that hurts...no I won’t put you down..."

After finally hauling 4 pairs of shoes and a squirming screeching two year old to our lane, waaaaay on the other end of the alley, I tossed shoes at Grammy and Zavi and took Ashe toward the back. Holding him I calmly told him how much fun bowling is, how he gets to choose a few really cool balls, and try to knock down things without getting yelled at. It took about 10 minutes of constant soothing whispers with a few thrown out yells to Zavi (Hang ON! I'll get the computer set up in a minute... ask Grammy...oh Grammy you don’t know how to do it? Dammit... ok hang ON!) until I could get Ashe to accept sitting on my lap closer to the bowling lanes. While Zavi went searching for the perfect ball, and Grammy took forever putting her shoes on, I tried figuring out the technological savvy computer to set up our game with a squirming two year old clinging to me like we were going down with the Titanic.

So after working the computer one handed, and everyone is ready to go we start bowling. Zavi goes first. And he does pretty darn well (with the bumpers on). Next up is Grammy. She also bowls well (with the bumpers on). Then it's Ashes turn. I ask him if he wants to roll the ball and he says YES so I stand up. To which point he grabs my shirt and clings so hard I’m afraid my cleavage and then some is apparent for all to see. Hauling him up and my shirt back into place, I waddle over to the bowling ball stand and ask him which color he wants. He points to a blue one, of course, 36 pounds. I pick it up with Ashe still stuck stronger than superglue to me, and slowly make my way to our lane. I put the ball down, wrestle to get his chubby STRONG fingers off my shirt, and gently show him how to roll the ball. He screams, throws himself on the floor and begins to cry. I sit down next to him; ask him if he wants to play. After a minute he agrees, wipes the tears from his eyes, and allows me to help him. We get a good roll going and he stares fascinated as the bowl rolls towards the pins, taking eons to make it there. But they go down and his face lights up and......

He’s hooked.

By our 6th round, Ashe has taken over my game, Grammys game, and his own. We found a child roller which helps little kids roll the balls down better. He would whip it into place, point at me to put his ball down, then shove it hard (rolling over my fingers a few times...OUCH!) and jump up and down screaming for joy. When it was Zavi’s turn, he would run to any computer in sight and start jabbing buttons (Sorry!!!!) If he wasn’t doing that he was running to put his head by the bowling stand where the used balls were racing back. I swear he came close to having three concussions in 15 minutes, despite my frequent attempts at keeping him far away from the darn thing. And Soren, my precious baby, was an angel. He slept for almost the entire thing. If he was fussy I just think I would have lost my mind.

Walking out afterwards, everyone was in high spirits. Except for me. I was happy the boys had a ball in the end (no pun intended) but all I could contemplate at that moment was how much tequila I had left in the freezer and how big of a margarita I wanted. I figured I earned it and then some.

Submitted by Brittany (Rhaven) of TriangleMommies.  Originally posted August 23, 2009 on Suburban Rebel Mom.