The Summer of My Husband’s Postpartum Depression
When I swapped parenting roles with my spouse, I never imagined he’d take on my stay-at-home-mom angst
Natalie, my therapist, leaned in and looked at me. “What can you ask for from your husband to help make things easier on you at home?”
I was sitting on a turquoise couch facing the window view of the parking lot. I had chosen this therapist after calling half a dozen others on the sliding-scale list, and I liked her better than anyone I had seen before. The others either leaned too far toward the “radical soul reclamation” side of therapy or told me to take bubble baths and get pedicures. I needed therapy because I felt like I was in early menopause or second puberty or something. Whatever it was, hygiene was not the answer to my angst.
While waiting for me to say more, Natalie flipped her silky brown hair behind her. I knew she was about my age and also had a three-year-old who was biracial. I once asked her how the hell she had things so together and I didn’t when we both had so much in common. What did she do right that I didn’t? Her arms were all tight and toned, her skin had a healthy glow, she showed up to our appointments on time.
I mean, she was the therapist, and I was the patient. The patient who had cycled…
