The baby's asleep in the swing, Eric's napping in the bedroom, and I'm restless. Motherhood is not really agreeing with me. A couple of weeks ago Eric asked me to go talk to the midwives about possible postpartum depression, and I went, and they're sending me to a counselor--there's been no actual diagnosis, just a sort of a "if you say you're feeling bad let's treat you as if you've got a real problem" attitude, but I guess I can see why they'd do that. I've been having crying fits, mostly over the multiple feeding issues we've been having. (I don't think that's unjustified. These are actual issues, though they're mostly improved at this point.) I've been wondering if I've made a terrible mistake by introducing an element in my life that's displaced almost everything I enjoyed, required almost all of my attention, and given me nothing in return.
Things have gotten a little better in the last week or so; but I'm only just starting to enjoy the baby and see her as more or less mine. I'm hoping they continue to improve. I think they will; I'm still thinking about a second kid eventually and so on, rather than planning to stick to the one or give her up for adoption. We'll see how it goes as she gets older and more fun, and I get more used to this routine.