Sometime in the next week or so I need to go back to my GP to assess how I'm doing on my drugs, and to be given the repeat prescription for the next five months. Sounds simple enough, right?
"Hi doc, it's me again. Yes, yes - all singing, all dancing, smiley-faced and dry-eyed. Side effects? Well, a touch of dry mouth in the morning, but that I can live with. None of the weightloss you promised. I was hanging a few hopes on that. Mmm. Ezra? He's fine. No, no more thoughts of strapping him to a rocket and sending him skywards. Yes, quite right you were, quite right, not an ideal solution to a parenting crisis. Committed to completing my course of treatment? Of course. As I said I would be. Repeat my script? Erm, sure. No, no problem. No, not at all.. Well..., there is the one thing. It's just, ....well, ...about that commitment you want..."
Could someone just explain to me what the deal with human nature is? Because in my newly clear and rational mind, I know, that the right thing to do is to go on with the drugs as planned, wean myself off sometime after September and wait to see if the problem is resolved once and for all. If not, reassess treatment and get on with getting on.
Instead, what I'd like to do is, either scrap the drugs entirely (okay, I don't actually want to do that) or be changed onto something that is safe in pregnancy so we can go ahead with the original (read: pre-depression) plan to start trying for number two sometime soon. If I'm not okay in September and I'm going to have to stay on pills forever then why change our plans, right? You see, if we leave it until after September to start trying, then we're going to have a baby born in winter, and getting up in the middle of the night will be yuckier than necessary. And if we wait until the next year, well, a three year gap is too big for my ideals, and it's an uneven number, and I don't want it.
I am fully aware of just how inane the 'want' side of my argument is and even more so, I am amazed to see that the 'need' side of my brain is still entertaining the debate. Because really, what is important in the long run, is not the mental health of their mother, but the perfect two year gap between our children. Right? Groan.
And while I write this, Reality stands up and slaps me on the ear. "So you think all that stands in your way is a fistful of pills and a timing problem? How about the miracle that is successful conception? And a healthy pregnancy? A perfectly formed set of hands and ears and toes? Dry your eyes little girl, and be grateful for what you've got. You've got more choices than most."
Thanks for that Reality. Always nice to know someone is waiting in the wings to piddle all over my pity party / parade.
The real concern for me is this: I am completely smitten with my little boy, and I wouldn't change a thing about him. But as his cuteness grows (and grows and grows), so does his anti-cuteness. And I am rapidly chickening out of doing this all over again (yes, I hear you laughing, those of you whom I had assured that I wanted at least three children. Laugh it up, I know where you live). I know that this testing stage will get worse before it gets better, I know it will get a lot worse, and I know that it will get a lot better. But if I don't get myself pregnant soon, I think the worse part will get the better of me before the better part arrives. And by then I'll be way too scared to start with a brand new baby all over again. Thinking about it is already bringing me out in a light sweat.
Is that a really crappy reason to want to try for another one right now? I'm trying to make myself feel that I'm being selfless (*cue violins* putting aside her need for anti-depressants, one mother fights her doctor and her demons to provide an appropriately planned two-years-younger-sibling for her son...) but I'm damned sure that I'm really just being idiotic for the sake of argument. Shane's take on this: 'Well, we'll just wait'. End thought process. Infuriatingly reasonable. I flushed the toilet while he was in the shower the other night to punish him for it. Swine.
You know, I really thought I was going to skip all the angst about parenting. Truly I did. For now I'm putting it down to the last few months of zero navel-gazing and hoping it'll leave me in peace, instead of in pieces.
Until that happens I'll be in the pantry, sucking down gin and hot cross buns. All visitors welcome.