Gratitude- Nov 23

I asked my daughter’s birth mom (Let’s call her Q from now on. Anytime you see Q, know I’m referring to her. Much less cumbersome!) for her banking details some time this week. She responded not too long after, apologizing for being late- believe me, that was not late at all- and saying that “this one kept us up all night.”

If it were anybody else, I would have overlooked it. But I don’t recall referring to no to any of my children as “this one,” and given she had tried to give her to me temporarily, it set off some alarm bells. I sent her some voice notes telling her that our situations are VERY different, but emotionally, some things are exactly the same.

I told her how I had our firstborn then our second born while our first was still a baby. I told her how I had such terrible postnatal depression that I’d lay my daughter on the bed and cry WITH her, wishing over and over again that I could place her for adoption but knowing I couldn’t exactly do it secretly. And I didn’t have money for psychiatric care and didn’t know it was possible to stay getting help in the community clinic. Then again, how would I have attended any therapy with two babies??

I told her that I too didn’t sleep, and described the reflux and colic I dealt with, people who weren’t even living in the house asking if our baby was sick but all doctors telling us they were doing well.

I told her that I know she’s even more vulnerable than I was. And I begged her to be as open and honest and vulnerable as possible with the counselor she will be seeing. I don’t want her harming herself or her baby.

She wrote back saying I was right. Different but exactly the same. She even found herself telling her oldest daughter where to take the baby if she disappears. Her teen asked her where she would disappear to.🥹

Postnatal depression is ROUGH. The loneliness, the tears. The number of times I asked God why He allowed me to have children if I wouldn’t even be able to soothe and comfort them (Evidence to me that I was a bad mother. This part makes me well up. I wish I had someone tell me that being a good MOTHER has nothing to do with being able to make an upset baby stop crying.)

Thankfully, she has support. Her relative is bathing the baby as she has never been a mom. Her eldest was raised by her aunt till aunt died in 2020. This is brand new to her. And what if her desire to pass the baby to me was also borne of depression? I reminded her that if her current anti depressants aren’t working, and it’s been long enough on them by the time she goes for counseling, to let them know. There are others to try. I don’t want her daughters to lose her.

And so, as I look back to how useless I felt. I look at today. Today, my children need me in order to be calm. My presence soothes in a way no other presence can – not all the time for my little girl, but much more often than not. I am a safe space for my little children with big feelings and no idea how to express those feelings. I am NOT a bad mother. They don’t cower in fear away from me. They don’t fear that I will beat them, or throw verbal bullets at them. They know I will try and understand and take their vulnerabilities into account. Where typical Black mothers would be smacking, I search for the cause and I forgive. Where extra words are needed, even when I need to lie down and my bones are screaming, I can give them.

I’m thankful for today. Today, I am certain that I’m not a bad mother. My children’s hearts are safely tucked away in mine.