I finally made it back to my psychiatrist today. I hadn't been there since July, two months after my daughter's birth. My normal depression had become compounded by postpartum and I found it necessary to go back onto anti-depressants. I've been on a very low dosage because I'm breastfeeding, but my old scary-depressed tape loops have been playing in my head again, so we're upping my dosage a bit.
Genny is down to nursing only about three or four times a day now, which is good. And bad. She's growing up so quickly.
Pushing her stroller home today after visiting Travers Park I asked her if she'd like me to put her hat on. There was a slight breeze kicking up.
"No." Simple and clear, but very unlikely. I stopped and asked her to say it again, but then all she said was, "Baa, bah, baaa..."
I have the distinct feeling that she understands more than she lets on. I realize that before I know it she'll be snooping around our apartment, digging through old photographs of me that appeared in magazines. Instead of being surprised by a single word coming out of her mouth, I'll be surprised by questions like, "Mommy, why aren't you wearing any clothes in this picture?"
I haven't figured out yet how I will talk about my past. I don't know what the proper age she'll need to be before I can discuss those kinds of issues with her. I'm counting on learning as I go. And I'm hoping that she'll be a very understanding and loving young woman. Loving me no matter what my life has been.