Here’s an excerpt from my book that talks bout the days following my newborn son’s arrival into our lives and how I struggled to grow into my new role (not very well).

What the hell had I signed up for? I had heard with my ears that my life would completely change and that I would not get much sleep. But I had not actualized the information and now I was living it– not very gracefully.

After the first few nights of sleeping for two or three hours here and there, I was over it. Darkness descended upon the land. My mother reached out to help me with advice. I became allergic to it and pushed her away. I did not want anyone’s advice, especially not hers. She had managed it somehow, to be the loving mother, while I was flapping my wings and flailing. I wanted to claim this new role as my own. But I was not the image of mother that I thought I would be, nothing was as I thought it would be.

 Our new son wanted to eat every three hours around the clock and it took an hour to feed him each time. There was no space left to sleep, eat or bathe myself and this depleted me. I turned on my baby. In my mind I put him out in the garage at night where I could not hear him and I fantasized about sleeping uninterrupted again. I daydreamed of calling the adoption agency up and asking them for a refund. Adrian worked twelve hour shifts and I envied him for it.

 One evening while he was away, I could not sooth my baby. I had fed him and changed him and still he cried. I swaddled him and rocked him and sang to him, but he did not hear me through his wails. My hands began to tremble and my face changed to mirror his grim one. Carefully, I carried him to his beautiful room and lay him down in the crib. He laid there, bundled, eyes shut, mouth open, noisy. I backed out quietly and shut his door. Listening to him I walked to my bedroom and shut that door too. What a terrible mother, unable to sooth her baby, leaving him all alone. Surely if the agency could see, they would take him back. I retreated further into the en-suite bathroom and closed that door too. I could still hear him though three sets of doors separated us. I turned on the shower and stripped off my clothes. I climbed in and sat on the cool bottom of the tub and turned the taps. There, now it was silent. My tears rinsed away before I could taste them. I folded my arms across my chest and pretended the stream of water hitting my skin was pure forgiveness. I needed forgiveness. I needed distance. I needed perspective. This was not the mother I wanted to be. I sucked.

 I struggled on and a couple weeks into our new roles as parents Adrian and I were driving in the car. I needed to know if he felt the same way I did. “Do you love him? Does he feel like he’s yours?” I prodded.

 He answered without hesitation, “Ya, I do. I think I probably would walk through fire for that little guy.”

I thought about that. I could not relate. I might have felt potent mother love sometimes for a few moments, especially when he was asleep, but mostly I felt tired and frustrated and overwhelmed. And stupid. And guilty.

This was what I had struggled so long for? I felt guilty I didn’t feel closer to him. I felt guilty that I wanted to sleep. I felt guilty that I was entrusted with his care to love him and I just wanted to have my own space back. I felt bad that I was not that mother who gave unconditionally of herself without needing to refill her own cup. I was not her. I now hated that idealized role of mother. It did not fit me. I had to find another way. I had to carve a new version out for myself.

Those feelings lasted only a brief few months before I was able to grow into my new role. I don’t think it was PAD, just a time of adjustments. The PAD came with my daughter.

 However, I’ve been wondering lately how closely linked PAD and PPD might be. I have only adopted children, so I can’t answer this, but I would love to hear from those that had PAD and you thoughts on it.