Thirteen years ago, I couldn’t have known all that motherhood held in store. I knew I wanted to be a mom and have a handful of kids. 3-4 would be good. God saw fit to bless our family with three wonderful boys. Benjamin came first. He was going to be William until the day he was born. I was in labor at home, and we were just sitting in the living room waiting to go to the hospital. We found ourselves discussing his name, and we remembered we had really liked the name Benjamin. All of a sudden, William went out the window and Benjamin took its place. Labor was weird and nothing AT ALL like what we had learned in Lamaze class. It was so far from text book, it took us all by surprise – especially me. At 9:23pm on January 11, 2004, I birthed my first baby. My Benjamin.
I wish I had known more of the warning signs of post-partum depression. It took several months before I talked to the doctor about everything I was experiencing. I thought I would be the mom who went running at every little cry or noise. Instead, I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed to feed him when he cried. I couldn’t shower. I felt like I had no feelings for him, most of the time. I felt disconnected and absolutely nothing about being a new mom matched the picture I had in my head of rocking him to sleep, singing to him, and just loving every single minute. I did rock him to sleep. I did sing to him. In fact, I printed out the lyrics to the standard lullaby song because I didn’t know all the words. I napped with him swaddled next to me in bed. I did what I was supposed to do. But there were times in those first few weeks when the feelings hadn’t quite yet set it. And when I think of those days and the obvious depression I was in that I didn’t even realize, I hate myself for it. I feel like a terrible mother because I didn’t love him the way I should have—the way I was supposed to be able to love him. Of course I loved him. But there should have been more. I should have been better.
