Hey, It's Franklin...

And apparently, he's comin' over to plaayayayay. I went in to check on my 3 year old yesterday during his "quiet time." Normally, he's out cold for an couple of hours. And I thought he was this time, but suddenly he popped up from behind his mesh bedrail and exclaimed, "Franklin's coming over to our house!" He then proceeded to gush for about 10 minutes about how Noggin's favorite reptile will be gracing us that evening, as will Beaver, Beaver's mommy, the snail, the porcupine and the teddy bear.

"Sounds like a big day," I said, "you'd better get a nap to be rested for all the fun."

Big mistake. When he eventually woke up, he was literally quivering with excitement. "Is he here yet? Is Franklin here?' He grabbed his little red chair, raced to the window, and took up post for awhile. At first I didn't much of it, I just figured he was playing a game. But when I told him that it was time to go on a walk, he turned desperate. "No Mommy! We have to wait until Franklin gets here! We don't want to miss him!"

And he was so damned earnest that I started to get the creeps. He wasn't playing. This was absolutely real. So when he shouted that he actually saw Franklin, that he was actually outside, I called my friend across the street.

"Hi Heather, Oh fine, fine. Hey listen, is there a large turtle in a red baseball cap standing on my front porch?"

I quickly filled her in on my predicament, and she helpfully offered to come over in a turtle suit, which she claims she actually owns. I kind of want to know why she has this, but perhaps it's none of my business. She then suggested that I tell my son that we might see Franklin on our walk.

So of course, once I spring this on my son, he couldn't jam his feet into his shoes fast enough. We combed the neighborhood, went to the library, stopped for ice cream, and there was no bipedal reptile in sight. He was crushed.

He later told me he was pretending, but I'm not so sure. In any case, the TV will be off for a few days, lest he starts waiting for Dora to stop by. I'm sorry, but a little girl who wanders freely around the countryside talking to a monkey worries me just a bit.

Welcome to The Prozac Nation

When my three year old was a week old, I was so depressed that when a friend saw us during a walk and mentioned how adorable he was, I said, "Do you want him?"

He chuckled, made more small talk, and walked on. But I don't think he realized I was serious. I thank God every day that I'm married, because I was so depressed that I would have given him up for adoption, had I been single. And then I wouldn't know now this child who is truly the love of my life.

And the odd thing is, as educated as I am, I didn't recognize postpartum depression when it was dancing right in front of my me. Naked, pungent and screaming.

But the months wore on, and I came out of it, and getting to know this child was pure joy. We developed a new normal, a rhythm, and soon those crushing first few weeks were nothing but a memory. And I felt normal again. Whole, and funny and sassy and a damned good mother, wife and friend.

So we didn't think twice about having another child. I got pregnant immediately, and soon found out I was having twins. I was overwhelmed thinking about how hard it was going to be, but I never thought twice about postpartum depression. I may have actually forgotten about it. But when you have two babies, you have twice the hormone crash. And until now, I just figured I was a little moody from sleep deprivation. But then the babies started to sleep better, and I didn't. I'd be awake for hours, too tired to sleep. And I was still a bitch. I just hid it as best I could. What came out of my mouth and what was actually in my head were often two completely different things. I thought I'd snap out of it.

Last week I came home from grocery shopping, stretched out on the couch, and burst into tears as my ice cream melted in the car.

Also last week, I told my husband that I spend the entire day in state of such high stress, that I feel like the only time I'll be able to rest is when I'm dead. But not in a suicide way, please. No one's getting hurt here.

Regardless, neither stunt went over well with my husband. "Enough," he told me.

Enough.

So yesterday, I put on my balls and got in to see the doctor. And I had to answer all of the usual questions. Questions I've asked my own patients.

"No, I don't have impulses to hurt my kids. Yes, I have help at home. No, nothing's going on, it's just I feel so overwhelmed with everything. My shoulders are always hunched around my ears, I'm putting out fires all day, I'm pulling away from friends because it's too much effort to pretend I'm doing great. Everything seems like work to me, even when it's supposed to be fun. And the weird thing is, nothing's wrong! I just cry for no reason! I'll walk down the street, get teary, and figure my contact must have ripped, because I don't feel sad, I just feel turned down. Muted."

Then she asked if I'm enjoying my kids. She asked, God, she asked, and there it was, like the clank of a quarter dropped on the desk between us. "No," I whispered. "I'm not."

She asked if I wanted counseling. No, I don't. We know everyone in this town. "Gee, Doc, I'm so out of sorts I can't even FAKE a good orgasm. So, will you and Joe and the kids be over for dinner tonight?"

So, I've joined the chemically blissful population. I take my first pill tonight. It's not a cure, but it's a start. I've got my Dixie cup full of water, and I'm ready. Ready to feel like myself. Ready to feel something, anything. And I'm ready for the mood I've been having to match the happy woman I've been faking. My kids deserve at least that much. And so do I.

Cheers.

Oh and P.S. --- Tom Cruise, go to hell. Brooke Sheilds wasted a whole op-ed on you, but it really just comes down to those three simple words.