After my first child, a handful of people asked me if I was feeling any Baby Blues. Thankfully, I was able to escape the hormonal imbalance that often affects new moms and merrily went about my new role of mother with zest and vigor. I quickly immersed myself into all things baby. As my son grew, my world consisted of classes, play dates and, of course, daily trips to the playground. My mornings were about pancakes shaped like dinosaurs, my vehicle only played Old MacDonald, nighttime had me reading Moo, Baa, La La La five times over, in wet clothes from the splashing that Nemo and Dora made in the bath.

As much as I enjoyed this new “lifestyle”, I didn’t realize how much the massive changes would affect me as a person.  Of course I had heard about the no sleep, dirty diapers, and teething from other moms.  Most of my friends who were parents had no trouble telling me what to expect, both good and bad. Many had said how hard it was, how rewarding it felt and that they wouldn’t change anything for the world, but few of them warned me of the loss of self, identity and autonomy that I was most certainly going to feel.

With my first baby now three and his little sister almost eleven months, I’ve come to determine that I sometimes feel the mommy blues. A small ache inside of me that that used to be filled by my career, my salary, my ability to do nothing on a Sunday. Not to mention my girly desire to wear an amazing, height-of-fashion, ridiculously-priced ensemble that is the farthest you can get from practical.

Now I am lucky if I get a chance to comb my hair some days.  Almost every shirt I put on has spit-up on it, and I can forget those drop dead gorgeous boots I saw in the window–they definitely clash with my double stroller. What used to be me doesn’t seem like me anymore, and although I love my parenting role, a part of me is like a flickering candle about to go out. There are days when I strictly avoid the mirror; times when I pray I won’t run into anyone I know at the mall. Calling a friend without kids or reading a steamy romance novel seems foreign and frivolous. If I am home I do nothing but pick up toys, make food, clean up food, prepare food, throw away uneaten food. I tried confining myself to my room, demanding mommy time, but that didn’t work. Even my baths were interrupted by my son’s curious questions and desire to be included.

Many women I know have worked hard to build amazing careers. If I look at all of my friends pre-children, I would happily say that each and every one of them were articulate, professional, successful, and smart. They were doctors and lawyers, directors and accountants, holding important jobs and dealing with mountains of responsibilities. But like me, they too chose to have children, leave work and become stay-at-home moms. Now our conversations are no longer about politics or foreign affairs, it’s all about preschools and dance lessons. We don’t linger over long lunches, talking about movies or clothes.  We quickly catch up on the phone eating PB&J sandwiches and taking a pee. We are always rushing, or calling to cancel because of the sniffles. We meet at the playground only to end up chasing our kids at two different ends. We plan a night out, arriving after the kids are down, leaving little time before it is us who need to go home and sleep.

I don’t always recognize this new person, this woman half hearing what the rest of the world is doing because she is so busy with children talking and crying in her ear. In a small way when I am alone, the sadness or mourning for that other life creeps in. It’s not because it was better, freer or more meaningful, but because it was me steering the reigns. I was in control of what I was doing, I had time to think and my brain wasn’t foggy from sleep deprivation. I was living proactively, thinking things through, making decisions and planning ahead for the best results. Now I twirl and spin, lunge, and dodge for spilling cups, bumping heads, breaking glass, flooding toilets, falling fish tanks, tripping laces, and anything else unexpectedly thrown my way. It seems that I never can complete one thing without another that needs to be started; it feels as though I fix one thing only to find something else broken; it feels as though I clean up in one area to find a mess in another.

When they said mothering is the toughest job in the world, they weren’t joking. I often say it is the most rewarding and difficult experience intertwined. Yet alongside the role of being a mother, remnants of the woman I once was still needs to be there.

I have taken to making time for myself. I wrote of list of the things I loved to do that was me before my children. I thought of the events I used to enjoy and the activities I always made time for in the past. Making sure that I am the best parent I can be means that I have to nurture and love the part of me that needs attention and importance. I have to make the time to do what I love, and fill my own spirit so I can be a fuller person, a happier person, and have more of me with my kids.

To get rid of the mommy blues, make a list of the five things you enjoy doing, five places you enjoy going, and five hobbies you enjoy taking part in. Then commit however you can to doing at least one of those things every two weeks. Share with your partner your commitment and enlist whoever you have to in order to make it happen so you are free to enjoy the part of you that needs enjoyment. It is easy and hard, takes commitment and determination.  But just like mothering the needs of our kids, we need to mother the needs in ourselves.

Standing on my soapbox,

JB