No time for shame in this mommy game

It’s been 11 weeks since I gave birth to my beautiful baby girl. And in that 11 weeks I have became one of those mothers who doesn’t make time to read, write blogs, or go to the gym. I seem to have become one of THOSE moms who spends any extra time she has cuddling her little one, smelling her hair, kissing her cheeks, and telling her just how much I love her.

Yes, I am indeed one of those moms. But underneath all the warm fuzzies that come with giving birth to such a perfect daughter, I am still me. I still think and feel and write, although lately most of my words don’t make it from my head to my computer. But I decided it’s time to let those words out. So, today I am going to write a blog the only way a new mother can- quick and dirty. Quick, because I really don’t have time to write long thought out prose. And dirty, because I likely won’t have time to copy edit this either.

Been wondering what’s on my mind lately? Here goes.

Who has time for mommy wars?

Before my baby was born I worried about what other moms would think. Being bipolar I knew that I would have limitations that other moms might not. I knew that I would have to stay on my medication and would need to make sure I got enough sleep to avoid a manic or depressive relapse. Would other moms judge me for not breastfeeding? Would other moms judge me if my husband helped out with night feedings so I could sleep? Would other moms judge me for putting such a high priority on my own mental health?

And then what about when I decide to go back to work? Would other mom’s judge me for that?

What I learned rather quickly after giving birth is that motherhood has a way warping time. When you spend all day caring for an infant the endless feedings and diaper changes make time disappear at a speed much faster than you ever thought possible. Sure, sometimes the days drag on, but then you look back at weeks and months that seem like a blur. In many ways it seems like my daughter has been with me forever, yet at the same time it seems like she just got here.

When you are a mother, time goes by too fast to worry about what other mothers think. I admit before I gave birth I judged a lot of Facebook friends for their obnoxious mom posts. (No one cares about your parenting theories or wants to see 20 pictures of your child each day.) What I didn’t realize then, that I do now, is that these moms probably don’t give a shit about what other people think. They are too busy being a mom.

It’s a shame more people don’t watch Shameless.

When you are on maternity leave you spend a lot of time feeding your baby. Whether your child is getting milk from the bottle or from your breast, feedings will consume your days. And there isn’t much that you can do during these feedings. Maybe seasoned moms know how to multi-task during feedings, but the rest of us can only muster enough energy to watch TV. And watch TV I did. I watched more TV during my 10-weeks of maternity leave than I did during the entire year of 2013. Reality TV. Daytime TV. British TV. You name it and I watched it. And my favorite show as of late? Shameless.

If you aren’t watching Shameless you should. It’s on Showtime but you can watch past seasons on Hulu. The writers of this show are brilliant. The characters are so well developed and witty that at times I forget that they aren’t real. And what I appreciate the most about this season of Shameless is that it has shown bipolar disorder in it’s most common form, undiagnosed.

Ian, the mild mannered, sensitive middle child of the family has acted different all season. He went AWOL in the army and now works as a stripper, runs 8 miles after three hours of sleep, fills journals with ideas about video games he wants to create, and is fearless enough to pull a knife on a man more than twice his size.

“Are smoking meth?” Ian’s boyfriend Mickey asked him in the last episode.

No, Ian is not smoking meth. what Ian’s family and TV reviewers have yet to realize is that Ian is bipolar like his mother and is in the middle of a manic episode. I wonder what will happen to Ian. How will his mania end? With him arrested? Or hospitalized?

Sure, I know that Shameless is just a show and Ian is just a character. This story is fiction, but this condition is not. It’s part of my life, something I think about every day when I’m watching TV and feeding my baby out of bottle instead of my breast. I know that the lithium that flows inside of my blood to keep me sane would be too much for her little organs to handle. So each day I feed her donor milk and thank God that my bipolar disorder has been diagnosed and is well managed.

There are things more shameful than not watching Shameless.

When we first brought our baby home I spent every waking minute looking at her, and thinking about her and cooing over her. It’s as though the rest of the world didn’t exist. I started to worry that I would be one of those mothers who stopped caring about society. I didn’t want to be one of those mothers. I wanted to care about the world around me. And I wanted my daughter to grow up to be the kind of person who cares about the world around her too.

About a month after my daughter’s birth news of Kansas House Bill 2453 jolted me back into social consciousness. This bill, which didn’t make it through the Senate, would have enabled Kansas businesses to discriminate against gay and lesbian couples on the basis of “religious freedom.”

Last week I saw stories splashed across Facebook about World Vision’s decision to hire people who are openly gay and in same sex marriages. The Christian global aide organization went on to retract that decision because so many conservative Christians pulled their sponsorships from the organization for making a pro-gay stance. Sorry, Jesus but we can’t feed your sheep if gays are involved in the process.

These stories break my heart because they are so far off from the Jesus that I know. The Jesus that I want to share with my daughter.

We are going to have her baptized in a couple of weeks. On Easter, to be exact. Will some people judge me as crazy for believing a resurrected savior whose name is used for such hate and bigotry?

Sure. But this mom has no time to worry about those judgments. She’s too busy keeping herself sane and teaching her little girl about the God of compassion and grace and love. A God who we will never fully understand, but believe is omni-everything enough to conquer even death. And this is a belief that I will never be ashamed of.

Seven- This week's lucky number

Seven. It’s the number of days in the week, the number of colors in a rainbow, a Christian symbol of completion and the number of weeks left I have in my pregnancy.

With only seven weeks left I feel like my life has become consumed by numbers and doctors appointments. Thirty-two, the number of weeks I am into my pregnancy. Thirty, the maximum number of carbs I can consume at breakfast. Forty-five, the maximum number of carbs I can have at lunch and dinner. And 110, the level my blood sugar should be two hours after these meals.

Before my husband and I pulled the goalie, I made sure we were both ready to handle my pregnancy with my bipolar disorder. I made sure I had the support I needed to be healthy throughout pregnancy. When it came to my mental health, yes I was prepared and that preparation paid off.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a gestational diabetes diagnosis.

I have known several women who have gestational diabetes. It even runs in my family on my dad’s side. I knew that this wasn’t the end of the world and that my baby would be fine.

But I also knew I had a history with disordered eating. There was once a time in my life where numbers and food consumed my brain. It started out as something as innocent as trying to keep my grocery bill within budget. I was in an urban ministry program where we had $21 a week per person for food. I think this was the food stamp budget at the time and the budget was partially intended for us to really see what it’s like to live in poverty.

Our household of five had $105 a week to spend on food. To put in comparison, that is about the same amount of money a week I currently spend on food for myself, my husband and our Jack Russel.

Growing up where frugality was next to godliness I was determined to make this budget work. And I was also determined, as all my teammates were, to eat healthy, lean meat and fresh produce. This meant weekly trips to Aldi’s and portion control for my Midwestern appetite.

The further I was into this year-long ministry program the more I cut back on eating. And the more positive affirmation I received. I didn’t own a scale so I wasn’t accountable for any weight lost. For me, it was never about the weight. It was always about this search for purity, perfection and and above all else control.

But at some point I realized I was no longer in control, but rather a slave to the numbers and food and obsessive thoughts that circulated my mind. I had lost almost 16 percent of my body weight when I reached out for help. At the time I hadn’t been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and there was so much going on in my mind that I couldn’t explained.

I gained back my weight before I came home and haven’t really talked about my disordered eating to many people. I certainly don’t talk about it in detail because I don’t want to create a how-to guide for anyone struggling with this.

But the thing is, I know that there are other people out there who struggle with eating disorders and disordered eating. And I know that there are other people with bipolar disorder who struggle with obsessive thoughts that lead to neurotic obsessive behaviors.

To those people I want to say, you are not alone. We are not alone.

Right now I’m back in the ring, battling these numbers, wrestling to gain control through food. I’m trying to eat as much nutritious protein and fats as possible and keep my carbs within the bounds of my diabetic diet. But my blood sugar continues to be unpredictable. With every high or low reading I fight the urge to obsess. And honestly, I just need to tap out of this fight.

I’m not sure that I can learn how to stop obsessing about these numbers in the next seven weeks. Lord knows I’m trying.

What I do know is that this battle will come to an end in seven weeks. I only have seven weeks left. Just seven.

Facing the mean girl within us all

My mind is full of mean girls. Their names are Ego, Super Ego and Super Duper Ego.

I’m not sure how my preconception consultation with the perinatologist turned into a cathartic rant about how mean and judgmental women can be, but it did. It totally did.

First, I would like to start off by saying that I am absolutely not one of those women who don’t have women friends and says she “relates” better to guys. Gag me. That’s  not who I am at all. In fact those women annoy me. (Looks like maybe I’m the one who’s being mean and judgmental.)

I have handfuls of women friends, whom I love. My husband has noted that he has never known a woman to have as many female friends as I do. And to give credit where credit is do, my friends are awesome. I feel extremely blessed to have such an amazing group of strong, intelligent, funny, sincere, beer-drinking woman in my life. I am truly blessed.

And honestly, if it weren’t for Facebook, pregnancy blogs and daytime television I wouldn’t even know how viscously opinionated woman can be when it comes to anything related to child bearing.

I left my small town because I hated the fish bowl, yet daily I log on to my cyber fish bowl where I see a plethora of photos and status updates reminding me of all of my shortcomings. And to be fair I put myself there. I mean I created this blog to share my experience about living with bipolar disorder and trying to have a baby.

I wanted to empower other woman who have this disorder. I wanted to break the stigma that’s associated with mental illness. I wanted to inspire others to share their stories.

But the truth is family planning is a very personal topic. One that I’m not willing to completely share on the public blogosphere.

I sat in the high risk OB’s office today with tears streaming down my face.

I tend to worry. And when it comes to decisions that will effect my future children, I tend to worry a lot.

I also have a neurotic concern that others are judging me.

“Uh, did you hear about Arley? Staying on her medications, despite the fact that there is a 1 percent chance that the baby could have Ebstein’s anomaly.”

“What a bitch. I mean sure she went two doctor’s who said the likelihood is less than 1 percent but what kind of selfish mother would put her child at risk like that. I mean just because she can’t handle the 'pre-baby blues'?”

“I know. People like her shouldn’t even have children.”

Okay, so maybe women in real life aren’t as mean as those in my inner-monologue, but you see what I mean. And I haven’t even replayed the conversations these evil inner-voices have had about me regarding, gasp, formula feeding! Or adoption. Here’s brief snippet of how the adoption conversation that plays in my head.

“Can you believe that stupid bitch Arley wantsta procreate? I mean how narcissistic is that when there are tons of children just waiting to be adopted. Not to mention all the 'crazy' genes she’ll pass down to the poor kid.”

“I know. I mean, sure most adoption agencies don’t let mentally ill people adopt, but really should the mentally ill have children at all?”

Let's hope that women in general aren’t as judgmental and bitchy as the super ego who dominates the conversations in my brain.

But this is the state to which I came to the doctor’s office today.

“I just want to know,” I said after blotting the tears from my eyes. “Is it completely irresponsible for me to try to conceive as someone with bipolar disorder?”

“No,” the doctor said without hesitation.

One word. Two letters. Lots of relief.

Perfect in all her Imperfections

I am officially on pregnancy watch at my doctor’s office.

Before you start to get to excited I should let you know that I’m not actually trying to get pregnant yet. We are far from removing the goalie.

But apparently when you are on lithium and say that you are maybe, thinking about, perhaps trying to get pregnant you get flagged. Lithium is that bad for a fetus, according to my doctors and my husband, who is pharmacist.

If I get pregnant while on lithium my baby could be born with a heart defect. And it would be all my fault. I’ve been told this for the past seven years.

Sure, some doctors say it’s okay to stay on lithium during pregnancy, but I’ve only read of these doctors on the internet. None of the doctors I’ve ever went to have said it would be okay to stay on my lithium during the first trimester.

If I do wean myself off of my medication and get pregnant it will be a risky pregnancy in that I could become depressed or manic (aka dead inside or detached from reality.)

Contemplating pregnancy when you are bipolar is very isolating. I don’t know anyone else in this situation and feel most people either don’t, or wouldn’t, understand the severity of my decision whether or not to pursue pregnancy.

Never the less I have done all the things you shouldn’t do when you are not sure if you can get pregnant.

I’ve picked out names and can picture the baby in my head. She has my curly hair and spunk and Logan's mischievous smile and knack for science.

I’ve imagined how we would decorate the nursery and can almost hear her little giggle.

Yes, I’ve done every thing you should NOT do if you aren’t sure you can get pregnant. This little girl in my mind is just a figment of my imagination.

In reality, I have a lot of choices to make before I can get pregnant.

1. Do I want to be off of my meds completely during the pregnancy or at least first trimester?
2. Do I want to get on medications that are less risky?
3. Am I willing to risk another major episode of depression or mania?
4. Even if I am willing to make take this risk is that the responsible thing to do?
5. Could we financially afford to adopt a child?
6. If adoption is an option why am spending so much time obsessing about getting pregnant?

I believe in a woman’s right to chose, but when it comes to my own reproduction I wish I didn’t have so many choices to make.

Adoption clearly makes the most sense. It is best for my health, it is best for the environment (hello population control) and it is best for the child we would take in as our own. Yet, there is a narcissistic part of me that wants to create a baby that is a little part Arley, a little part Logan, and 100 percent ours.