MenGetPregnantToo

Postpartum Depression: Early Symptoms and Preventive Measures

Few life experiences introduce feelings of euphoria and despair more quickly, consecutively and frequently than becoming a first-time parent. The elation of holding your first child can be as acute as the melancholy of postpartum depression.
But what if the latter were not only more manageable, but also foreseeable?

Dawn Kingston, a registered nurse, and PhD is Canada’s only endowed research chair in perinatal mental health. Before specializing in the causes and prevention of postpartum depression, she was a neonatal nurse focused on preventing preterm birth. Her research led her to examine the effects of stress on premature births, and low birth weights. The data began to lead her to the cause-and-effect relationship between a mother’s perinatal anxiety and depression, and the development of more acute conditions post-delivery. In other words, as with maternal instinct after birth, women often feel something is wrong before they even become pregnant. This can then manifest itself into postpartum depression.

   “One of the biggest predictors of whether women get postpartum depression and anxiety is if they had something not only during pregnancy, but before pregnancy as well. For women who struggle with prenatal depression and anxiety, as many as fifty to eighty percent continue to have symptoms postpartum. So we’re used to thinking of postpartum depression as this globular thing that happens after women have a baby, but (if you have) those symptoms prenatally, those symptoms very often continue, which is another reason to make sure you get help in pregnancy.” Dr. Kingston said, when we spoke recently.

By radarxlove

As is so often the case when attempting to overcome mental health issues, stigma is the tallest hurdle. Women who are, or who are attempting to become pregnant, will pay closer attention to their work schedules, their diet, and their exercise routine - generally with the blessing of their partner, family and friends. But expressing concern about stress or worry is still discouraged or dismissed. I asked Dr. Kingston why women were reluctant to broach the subject.

   “I think part of it is the media propelling the myth that the only mental health issue in the perinatal period is postpartum depression - I think that’s a big part of it. I think that the other part of this is that women who are pregnant are stigmatized and silent. Without even understanding there is even such a thing as prenatal anxiety and depression, women are afraid to ask their physicians about it. It’s interesting, when we’ve interviewed women, and asked what are their barriers to raising a conversation about mental health and pregnancy, some of them have given answers like, 'We want to be a good patient. We don’t want to talk about things that might not be an issue during our seven-minute prenatal visit.'”

Like many of us, they don’t want to seem a bother to their physician.

Upon hearing that a mother is anxious or worried about her pregnancy, it is natural for a friend’s or partner’s calming instinct to take over. After all, parenting is a tremendous responsibility that a mother and father are committed to for a lifetime. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” seems a responsible form of encouragement. Unfortunately, this sort of support can be one of the biggest barriers to a mother-to-be who is considering mental health treatment, or who feels despair.

   “Three-quarters of women told us, ‘If my partner, or my mother, or my sister normalized or told me I was okay, I would likely not have raised it with my doctor.’ So it becomes a barrier. I tell women, trust your gut. At this stage in our healthcare system you must raise it with your doctor. They are not going to ask, so you’ve got to trust your gut that something is wrong. What is wrong with asking? There is no cost to asking the question whether this is normal or not.”

Barefoot and Pregnant - Ryan

A woman’s personal support system may not even be the biggest obstacle. Dr. Kingston explained that, shockingly, the Canadian Medical Association guidelines don’t support depression screening in primary care. Why? There is a fear that the screening itself will make the condition worse. There is a sense that talking about depression will be a catalyst to triggering the condition. However, Dr. Kingston says, the exact opposite is true,

“There’s no evidence. And we found in our work that women actually feel validated. You want women to be able to say, ‘That’s me; that’s exactly me.’ Then the next step is, where so we go from here?”

This triggers mental illnesses most nebulous questions, “What is normal?” and, “When is it time to ask for help?”

   “A normal life anxiety or a bit of worry over the baby, or the baby’s health, or (the baby) not eating the right thing...are not going to be long-lasting in general. You won’t have those for weeks on end; maybe minutes, maybe hours, but certainly not much beyond that. The diagnostic marker is always two weeks or more; for anxiety it’s more. I think, in general, it’s the longer you have something the more you should be concerned that it’s something above normal.”

Dr. Kingston goes on to describes acute situations,

“You’re worrying about things you might not have worried about before, and your worry is relentless; you wake up with it in the morning and you go to bed with it. There is this uncontrollable, agitating, restless worry where you just can’t stop it. Your mind is spinning. All the things that you do to control your normal anxiety and worry don’t work anymore. So it becomes this relentless kind of gut-wrenching tension, irritability, (a) sense of not having control.”

Trust in your instincts is invaluable. Raise your hand, step forward, ask questions. There is never shame in self-care. Approximately 9 months after conception, a parent becomes a psychologist, a relationship and grief counselor, a teacher and a doctor to their child for the rest of their lives. Time put aside for yourself becomes inversely proportional with your dedication to your child. Talking about your anxious feelings, and your worry about becoming a mother, is more easily said than done. But going into pregnancy with joy and confidence can lead to two lifetimes of benefit. It will allow you better manage the occasional despair of parenting, also to revel in its frequent euphoria.

By Adam Hilliker

 

Parents Should Claim Their Baggage

    “You have to stop looking at everything through the lens of your childhood.” 

    Shit.

    Therapy.

    Kenny Bodanis, oversize baggage is now being offloaded on carousel 7. Please report to the loading/unloading area and claim your slough. Then sift through it, and avoid bringing it home.

    I’ll soon be 47-years-old. I know have many good years ahead, although I doubt there will be many formative ones. I am fully formed. Any course corrections may not be impossible, but the rudder has rust, and the tanker has fewer kilometres ahead than it used to before reaching its final, fateful destination. And, of course, there is no backing her up.

    We are all the result of our genetics and our upbringing. Nature and nurture. The percentages of the recipe may be debatable, but the cake’s out of the oven: we are our parents’ products, for better and for worse.

Happy Mothers Day by Thomas Hawk

    
    We openly cite our childhoods as examples of wishes and fears for our children:

    “I don’t want my children to grow up with the same…”

    “I only hope my kids can experience what I…”

    “When I was young I was left to my own devices and I turned out...”

    “As a kid, no one took any interest in my passions; I don’t want that for…”

    Environments change drastically over a generation. Most parents are blessed with wanting what’s best for their child, and cursed with believing they know exactly how to make that happen.
We are also in the unique (and often overwhelming) position of being the sole authority, expert, and origin of our young children’s experiences and truths - as our parents were with us.

            The parenting tools we use to tweak our kids were accumulated in a box over decades. They are what worked for our parents, but they may not be ideal for our children.
Coming of age in a household fraught with strife and dissent may result in a parent with an exaggerated aversion to conflict.
An opulent and insulated childhood may produce a parent who crumbles at adversity and is incapable of self-reliance.
Patterns of abuse can be repeated from one generation to the next, as a child learns that physical confrontation is the sole solution for dispute.

    So much sifting, and straining, and skimming. Our childhood experiences are like trees overhanging a pool in the fall, it’s nearly impossible for everything to always be clear. Some leaves are so deep, they just have to be left as part of the basin. The pressure of retrieving them is too uncomfortable to be worthwhile.

Mother by Thomas Hawk

    
    As for the rest, often the work is difficult, but worthwhile.
Unlocking the oversized trunk and sorting its contents is daunting:

    Don’t need that; I held onto that?!

    That’s been there the whole time?!   

    Oh, that’s why this is so heavy.

    I’m learning the trunk is huge, but it’s never too late. That carousel keep turning, offering me my baggage with each pass; a Lazy Susan of my youth.
One item at a time. One today, two tomorrow, another next Tuesday. Eventually, I hope to have only the essentials - a little psychological gym bag.

    Gotta get started, though. My children are products of their parents, for better and for worse.

Sgt. Pepper Puts a Spin on Connecting with Teen

We had a turntable in our basement, though I had no appreciation at the time of how inferior a machine it really was. It spun primarily Dr. Seuss's “Fox in Sox,” and its ‘B’ side, “Green Eggs and Ham.” Another favorite of mine was an LP of “Sneetches and Other Stories,” also by Seuss. The last track on the album - its “A Day In The Life” - told the story of Seuss's gender non-specific protagonist being stalked by a pair of pale green pants with nobody inside them.
In 1979, I was not yet 8-years-old; the thought of being pursued by abandoned trousers was darn spooky, thank you.
My records were decorated with chalk doodles and tattooed with permanent needle drags. But, who cared? The machine, and the stories it told, were timeless companions...until, that summer, I was introduced to what true magic could be conjured by a vinyl record.

My family’s semi-detached cottage was in semi-industrial suburb on the island of Montreal. Several times each year, the six of us would pack ourselves - and our patience - into a midsize sedan and drive five or six hours west to visit my first-cousins in Toronto. The three Ontario brothers were, on average, ten years older than I. So, not only was I careful to pack a healthy imagination for a long drive sandwiched between by siblings in the back seat, I was also smuggling a healthy portion of hero worship for the visit that awaited me.

As with most homes that are not your own, my perception of the house in the borough of East York was that it was filled with cool stuff. There was the secret kitchen drawer filled with Twizzlers and marshmallows. There was an upright piano guarding a basement room whose floor was coated with orange shag carpeting. As if waiting for a scene from Studio 54, the matting continued up the side of a bar, whose melamine counter was illuminated with red and green pot lights which resembled oven burners inverted into the ceiling.

Trippy. Even for an 8-year-old.

Each of my cousins’ bedrooms had as its centerpiece a high-end hi-fi system, with hearty speakers of dark wood and black mesh hiding behind them whatever magic made the music.

The stereo offered only two sources of entertainment: an AM/FM radio...and “phono,” which channeled the turntable.

While I sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor (my 1979 joints were more forgiving than they have been in the 21st century), my cousin selected an album from the horizontal stack in his closet and said, “You should listen to this.”

He handed me a pair of headphones which were so large that, once they were clamped over your ears, one could not help but compare oneself to Princess Leia, whose brunette Kaiser rolls had become legendary two years earlier.

The ‘phones were umbilically connected to the amplifier by the granddaddy of electrical cords - a black, coiled cable long enough to remain attached to your headphones and still offer a freedom of movement which would compete with the cordless technology a decade into the future (until it became a knotted mess as a result of too much pacing and multi-tasking).

The headphone jack sparked and hummed as I connected it to its female counterpart - as though whatever was bottled inside the machine sensed its imminent release.

Moments later, as the needle skated along the first inches of vinyl groove, I was introduced to “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

What a funny name, I thought.

Then, immersed in my first stereo recording experience, I was surrounded by an orchestra tuning up, followed by a rock band’s thirty-nine minute story which began “...20 Years Ago Today.”

Thirty-nine years later, my wife and I smuggled our thirteen-year-old son’s Christmas present out from the corner of our bedroom - an Audio-Technica turntable.

Everything old is new again.

In our basement, leaning up against books of decades ago by Ayn Rand and Stephen King (the former my wife’s, the latter mine), stood a dusty collection of mistreated vinyl: Faithful Seuss, Hitchcock stories, and Batman adventures. All of which were fettered with more scratches and speed-bump warps than any needle could handle.

The old gang was no match for a new phonograph.

This is why my son’s gift also included a certain album whose cover alone could captivate one for hours.

“Listen to this.”

Fate has its own sense of timing which often dabbles in the extremes of “perfect” and “horrible.” Ron Howard’s “Eight Days a Week,” was released in 2016. The following year, the world would celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Fab Four’s seminal album. As a companion to the musical landmark, PBS broadcasted “Sgt. Pepper’s Musical Revolution.”

The documentary dissected the LP: how it was recorded, why is was recorded, what techniques were used, and how innovated the band - and especially George Martin - had to be to glean the sound they wanted from 1967 technology.

Perfect. Fate provided my eldest with a Sgt. Pepper master class during the run-up to Christmas.

 

Turntable by David Lenker

 

While my son’s gift was uncovering the revolutionary magic of analog needles and grooves, my gift was reliving my adolescence through the hums of base notes and the vibrations of rock-band-meets-orchestra working its way through my bedroom floor.

In his room, just below mine and my wife’s, the record was spun over and over, with brief pauses only to rotate from side A and back again.

Nostalgia is a creeping companion. It appears to some as re-creations of memories, to others as the mechanical wonder of a needle racing round and round through a vinyl canal, digging from them the ghosts of an English quartet.
I think this is where the past is a wink ahead of the future.

The past was never instantaneous. Anticipation and patience were things to be celebrated: the moments during which the record spun, but the needle still searched for a composition’s first notes; the slow-motion retreat of a tone arm back to its seated position awaiting whatever jewel may be encrusted in the B side of a classic work.

Digital is instant. Digital is right now. To lag is to fail; to wait is to waste. There is no anticipation in buffering, only aggravation.

A vinyl record is, like a child, is something which must be cared for; something which takes time to play itself through; something to discover.
The only thing which gives more pleasure than marvelling in discovery is being awed by rediscovery.

I will never relive my first encounter with Green Eggs, or Hitchcock, or the Batman. But I can, thankfully, revel in my reintroduction to Lovely Rita (where would I be without her?). All thanks to a little help from a revolving platform, a curious teenager, and that infamous band leader, Sergeant Pepper.

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What to Buy for Father's Day? Ask Him! (...and, no garage door openers.)

Yesterday on City TV's BT Montreal, Joanne Vrakas and I talked about Father's Day gifts. What was ironic was, just before going on, the make-up artist said to me, "I don't know what to buy my husband for Father's Day!"
    "Why Don't you ask him?" I said.
That seemed to be a new concept.
    "Ask him at night, away from the children." I continued, "Tell him you really want him to be honest about three things he would like."
That was part of this more philosophical conversation Joanne and I had about the evolution of Father's Day (which has been a pet topic of mine for a while), and the gifts that go with it.

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Dear Doctor, I think My Kids Aren't Working Properly.

        Dear Family Pediatrician,

    Thank you for your suggestion that I put all of my concerns into one letter so that you may give them proper consideration.
As I had (briefly) mentioned during my son's last exam, I find some of my children's new behaviors worrisome. I have listed them below, in no particular order:

THEIR EYES: I am ignorant as to the musculature associated with the eyeball, and how it interacts with its socket and the surrounding nerves. Having admitted that, I am fairly confident both my children's ocular regions are malfunctioning.
During times of emotional stress, or even mild displeasure, they seem to have trouble focusing their vision straight ahead. Their eyes seem to wander towards the ceiling, or towards either side of the room. Sometimes this rolling of the eyes seems so extreme I worry they may lose consciousness. 
Is this normal?

 

Crazy Kid by Crystal Stallard

 THEIR PHYSICAL STRENGTH (especially as it pertains to the lower back and arms): When each of my children was a toddler, their strength seemed unusual for such a small child. They would be able to heave large toys across the room, inflict pain on a full-grown adult either by grabbing fistfuls of skin or hair, or kicking them in the stomach or groin area upon being lifted.
Now, nearly a decade removed from this stage, they exhale a groan of pain while lifting even the smallest of items; a sock from the floor, or a plate off the table, for example.
Sometimes the pain seems to even precede the task. My son actually began groaning on his way to his school bag, before even attempting to carry it to the front door. Should I give them Tylenol daily, perhaps with breakfast, to relieve this symptom?
Is this normal?

THEIR MEMORIES: From what I have read online, the different sections, or lobes, of the brain are responsible for different cognitive abilities. For instance, I have read our long-term memories are stored in one area, but our capacity to perform daily tasks (such as eating, writing, walking, etc.), are governed by a different cerebral mechanism entirely. This would explain the problem my children seem to encounter where selective reasoning and recollection are concerned.
This morning, they asked what was for supper. I told them it was Tofu Stir Fry with Rice and Vegetables. When they returned from school, they asked again, and then yet again once their homework was done. They really seemed to have trouble remembering what was for supper. This wouldn't normally be of any concern, except that they have nearly photographic recall when it came to reminding me that the 21st and 28th of this month are pizza days at school.
Also, I had to remind my son three times to feed his guinea pig (the poor thing, I believe, is horribly malnourished. You don't treat family pets, do you, Doctor?), yet, he was able to recall all the showtimes for the 3D viewing of Dr. Strange this weekend at our local cinema.
Is this normal?

THEIR SPEECH & GRAMMAR: I remember, when my kids were younger, they were constantly asking me to explain things. I would have to speak very slowly, and use repetitive, simple language to be sure I was understood. Recently, though, we have been experiencing role reversal on that front.
Their speech velocity has increased dramatically, while their enunciation has become so muddled, I have difficulty understanding them. Sometimes I ask them to repeat themselves, and to slow down (which, once again, triggers that weird ocular reflex I mentioned earlier). But, even then, their language is nonsensical. They say things like "Get wrecked," or "BooYa," or sometimes they just look at me and yell, "Ohhhhhh!" when they have made an argument they are particularly pleased with.
When I seem to have the upper hand during a family debate, they sputter quietly and mumble unintelligibly. Perhaps their brains are suddenly having trouble understanding my point of view?
Is this normal?

 

Bad Fingers by John Christian Fjellestad

 THEIR SPATIAL AWARENESS: Finally, Doctor, I may have to phone your receptionist and book an appointment for myself. (Do you see only children, or will you examine parents of children as well?) I have sustained several injuries lately, which, I'm afraid, I must blame on my kids.
Last week, the kids and I pulled into the driveway, after having been grocery shopping. I exited the vehicle, went around to the trunk, and grabbed two bags full of produce. I turned to head into the house, and tripped over my daughter who was suddenly standing right behind me. The celery flew onto my neighbor's lawn, and I hit my head on the uni-stone. My daughter claimed to have not seen me. Isn't that strange?
On Monday, I was emptying the dishwasher. When I stood, I smashed my head (fortunately on the opposite side from the uni-stone contusion) on the cupboard door, which my son had opened while I was gathering soup spoons from the cutlery tray. He, too claimed not to have seen me. Weird, no?
I would not mention this at all, except that yesterday, during family movie night, my son was scrolling through our collection of shows on our PVR when he asked my wife whether he could erase the Godfather trilogy I had recorded last month. My wife suggested he ask me that question. My son's reply was, "Well, when is Dad getting home?" 
Doctor, I was sitting right next to him!
I'm not sure if this "parental invisibility syndrome" (PIS?) would be categorized as difficulty with spatial recognition, or vision.
I suppose first I would need to know: Is this normal?

    Thank you very much for your time, I am eager for your opinions on these matters. Meanwhile, would you recommend heat or cold for minor head wounds?

Sincerely,

Kenny Bodanis, "Parent."

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I Want Loneliness for Father’s Day

I have always craved solitude. Perhaps this is a symptom of the fractious household I grew up in. Heaven meant alone time, either in front a mirror imagining myself the Garfunkel half of the duo while lip-syncing into a deodorant stick, or lying in the dark at bedtime being entertained by Bob Newhart’s standup routine threading through my cassette player.

Now I am a 44 year-old husband, a father of two children—ages 11 and 9—and the co-owner of a 1955 detached cottage which is making demands on my DIY skills that I can’t keep up with.

I am gainfully employed at a job which allows me to earn a decent wage while also being available to involve myself deeply in household chores, to coax my daughter through piano practices and stand at the sidelines during her soccer games, and be a committed volunteer at my children’s school.

I am a solid citizen.

I am an evolved male.

What do I want for Father’s Day? For it all to go away.

Photo: Looking for Sunset by Giuseppe Milo

There is one universal truth for parents: the moment you accept the responsibility of child-rearing is the same moment you abdicate the right to absolute selfishness, forever.

There will be date nights; there may be weekends away without the kids; and there are sleepaway camps which provide a sense of freedom while they ironically also instill a sense worry and longing. Even once alone, reclined in an Adirondack, it is impossible for a parent to psychologically transcend their role. We will read two pages of John Irving; then we may spend a moment spotting shapes of mammals in the clouds; then we will ease ourselves into a shallow dream; then, inevitably, we’ll wonder how the kids are doing.

You may have gotten away, but there are no direct flights to true escapism.

We are kind and loving, but not completely selfish and free.

I miss selfish and free.

There seem to be only two of the three-hundred-and-sixty-five days per year when a parent can attempt unabashed narcissism: Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, and on his or her birthday.

Despite that greedy right, there is an aura of Romper Room circle-time celebration surrounding Parents’ Days.

It is a day of gathering.

This is especially true when your children are tweens, as mine are.

They have outgrown the ignorance of toddlerhood—when they present you with a pipe cleaner stickman, and can then be led away and distracted by sandboxes and beetles. By the time they are teenagers, you are as relevant to them as a bathing cap in the Sahara, especially on Father’s Day. They yearn to give you the gift of abstention from your household on your auspicious day; a day with Daddy is uncool.

But, tweens? They still devote significant classroom time crafting keepsakes and composing poetry they can barely stand to withhold from you until the third Sunday in June.

  “I’m so excited to show you what I made for youuuuuu!”

Crap.

They still want you, and they want you to want them.

  “Daddy needs some alone time for Father’s Day,” is not only a bizarre and abstract concept to 9-year-olds, it is also hurtful to them. Once it’s run through the tween filter, it is received simply as, “I don’t want to be with you today.” The message is distilled into an empirical form of selfishness and rejection.

How can you want to be away from me? “Me” is love, “Me” is fun, “Me” is your children, you jerk!

Photo: Life's Pathway by Mariyan Dimitrov

But, I’m tired.

My Gen-X level of engagement and involvement is exhausting. I’m dizzy, perhaps due to too much helicopter parenting?

I want twenty-four hours of selfish unpredictability.

I want to lay on my bedroom floor and stare at the ceiling, listening to the baseboard heaters crackle until...until I don’t want to do that anymore.

I want to play half of a song on that piano I don’t play anymore, and listen to its sound echo off the walls of my empty house. Then I’ll play another half of a song, and then maybe a whole song. And I’d like to maybe play for an hour, or just for five minutes, and then maybe go back to that later.

I want to fall asleep in front of a movie—perhaps one of the Oscar nominees...any of them, really, I’ve seen none of them.

When I wake up from my nap, I want to rewind it and watch the rest without scolding myself for not having started dinner.

I want to stand in my son’s room and talk to his guinea pig in an honest way that I can’t do when people are home because they’ll think I’m crazy.

A heart-to-heart with a rodent who also has nowhere to be.

I just want time.

Time is that thing that, at 44-years-old, is in decline—certainly in terms of quality, if not quantity.

I’m in love with fatherhood. And loneliness, in a permanent state, is a tragedy. But, like a favorite dessert or a seat under a tree, solitude would trigger some necessary decompression.

I believe being a parent is a gift. But, by definition, it is a gift which requires you to give and give and give.

On Father’s Day, I just want to take one...full...day.

I’ve lost my corny imagination which convinced me I was Art Garfunkel; I’ve thrown out that Sanyo cassette player; I don’t want to also dismiss my need for solitude.

I just don’t know how to explain that to my kids without bruising their hearts just a little.

So, on Father’s Day, we’ll do something together, as the family we have worked so hard to build.

Perhaps I’ll call in sick the following Monday, and spend some time talking to that caged rodent.

 

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Interview with CTV Montreal's Mutsumi Takahashi - A Father's Role During Pregnancy

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"What Do I Do While You're Pregnant?" Now Available at All Major Online Outlets

I'm happy to announce that my book "What Do I Do While You're Pregnant?", in addition to being available for Kindle and in paperback on Amazon, is now also being distributed through all the major online retail outlets. This means it can now also be enjoyed on the Nook, iPad, and Kobo. You can find it easily through these links (or, by, you know, Googling):

iTunes         Chapters/Indigo         Barnes & Noble     Amazon

A great gift for any new parent, or parent-to-be!

Many parenting books deal with pregnancy and mothers-to-be. Some mention fatherhood or focus on the humorous side of a dad who is all thumbs.
This book is a unique story by an expectant dad who is remarkably candid about how terrifying and overwhelming it is for BOTH parents to become responsible for a baby for the first time. It is respectful of both sexes; remarkably aware of the incomparable experience of physically carrying a baby for nine months, as well as how confusing it is for a father-to-be on the sidelines wrestling with how to voice his insecurities.

How does he encourage and comfort his wife, while also balancing and expressing his own worries about becoming a first-time parent? When he is told he should be 100% involved in the pregnancy, what does that mean? Can he insist on knowing the baby's sex? Should he be planning his own baby shower? Who can he talk to about the overwhelming job of being the source of information for an entire extended family?

What Do I Do While You're Pregnant? is an honest and touching book by a dad-to-be wrestling to find his place. He balances news of his possible infertility and his pregnant wife's medical emergencies with his own phantoms symptoms and sleepless nights. This funny and poignant story respects an experience which is unique to both first-time parents.

 

 

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