Do You Suffer From PMDBS? It’s Okay, You’re Not Alone

Pretty as a cookie; smart as a cupcake Do you suffer from high expectations for Mother’s Day, only to be disappointed year in and year out? Do you think you’ll get breakfast in bed, macaroni art, and a trip to Paris? Le sigh. I get it. I, too, suffer from Post Mother’s Day Blues Syndrome (PMDBS). Symptoms include: ridiculous standards but fuck you because I deserve this, phenomenal letdown that can only be equated to the time when your hair stylist most definitely made you look like fat Monica and NOT Rachel, and explosive diarrhea … due to the fact that (because you’re not a complete monster) you ate the breakfast in bed your kids made you and your spouse didn’t supervise. You love those little buggers for giving you food poisoning that will help you lose those last 1o pounds but, damn, it sucks when it’s coming out of both ends.

PMBDS – the struggle is real, people. You birthed a baby out of your vagina and you get one day. ONE MOTHERF*CKING DAY. All the nursing. All those late nights where you woke up, so sleep-deprived that you weren’t sure if you smothered your baby against your boobie while nursing him in your rocker. All the pee pees and the poo poos and the diapers and that damn smelly diaper bin. ONE DAY. That’s okay, Hallmark. We get it. Life is hard when you’re not served seared yellowtail on your yacht because your chef ensured you the farmed stuff is crap and you’re not being served it until an adequately wild variety is marinated just so. Go on with your bad selves, your horribly written cards, and manufactured holidays that send the majority of people into a fit of depression that would cripple Pollyanna herself. Seriously, it’s alllll good.

Did you know that the day after Mother’s Day and Christmas sees the most women filing for divorce? Okay, don’t quote me on that but I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere. But seriously, we birthed them babies, took care dem babies (sorry, Mariah), and made sure all the people and all the creatures haven’t died! I mean, if we don’t deserve a fucking medal, who does? And we get one day? So when your husband goes out to Lululemon and gets the obligatory yoga pants or gift card, something just feels a bit like a deflated balloon … or a deflated something else after too much whiskey. After you’ve done the also-obligatory brunch, broken up 1o fights because–let’s face it–Mother’s Day ain’t no break, and have even lovingly cuddled with your itty bitty schmoopies while basking in your macaroni art, you still feel a bit empty.

Enter PMDBS. The day after Mother’s Day, you’re not special. There is no macaroni art. There is no more explosive diarrhea (well, hopefully) due to grimy hands making your breakfast in bed. It’s just you getting your kids off to school, making the same gahdamned sandwich you’ve made for the past 145 days. It just feels like a ripoff. So when you settle yourself in front of your computer either at home or at your place of you work, it hits you – you’re a giant dick. You are! You know are because you had a great day and you love your family and it was great and you got plants and a card that says you’re as smart as a cupcake but…and…but…and. Something feels wrong. You feel ripped off and somewhat empty. Not to get too serious but it is also the basis of what many people think postpartum depression is, right? There is so much buildup … nine months of anticipation with ultrasounds and baby showers and getting the nursery ready. And then the baby is born and you’re thrilled (hopefully!) that your baby is healthy but a month down the line you think, “Is THIS it? Is this my life? I love this being with all my heart but where am I in this whole thing? Where have I gone? And will I come back?” And, again, you feel like a giant dick.

This also could be more personal to me, too, and I will totally admit that. I’ve been told several times by people about the infamous book on The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. This is just another thing to make me feel like I’m an asshole, as it turns out I like to receive things. Of course, they don’t have to be big gifts but I do like to get things from my mate (Disclaimer: I’m separated, so this could very well all be B.S.). When I discovered this about myself and actually owned it, I felt like the most horrible person. But it’s true – whether it’s a single flower or a pair of socks from the sale pile when my (ex) would be shopping for himself at REI, I would think, “Oh, that’s so cute. He thought of me.”

Then again, I think much of it is ALL THE HYPE. It’s much ado about almost nothing, right? It’s one day. It seems like we deserve so much more than that. But I guess what we can do is embrace that it’s a huge ripoff and move on. As my therapist says to me all the damn time, “You need to take in the good.” It truly is the little things. When you finally taught your son how to tie his own damn shoes. Win! On those rare occasions where your kid still falls asleep in your arms, squeeze them to the max without killing them. When you catch that sweet little smile from them at the dance recital or the baseball game, savor that shit. That right there is the stuff. Remember when Jim and Pam got married and they talked about the mental pictures being more important than the real ones? It’s so true. Yeah, our lives as moms are extremely hard and we often get undervalued but we also get the biggest prize of all: OUR KIDS. Treat PMDBS with a little bit of wine and Amazon Prime, and just know this: You’ve got this.

 

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