Phil, we're not gonna leave a baby in the room, there's a fucking tiger in the bathroom!

I was driving home from who knows where with my MiL and BiL, sitting in the back seat with the baby looking out the window and only half paying attention to what they were talking about. Conversation turned to BiL's friend who was studying to be a pet therapist. (One who uses pets during therapy with humans, not one who provides therapy for pets.) Musing out loud I say, "I've been thinking about going to therapy lately." Silence, that I don't notice. "Not pet therapy though, dogs bug me too much." "...." I've often said if it's gone through my head, someone's heard about it. I didn't realize this would be a big deal because to me, therapy isn't something to ashamed of. Something whispered behind closed doors. Not searching for answers to my problems, taking advantage of all the opportunities available to me to be the best mother possible is what I would not forgive myself for. "So, why is you think you need therapy?" Hesitantly comes from the front seat. I look around and realize that I now have their undivided, and concerned attention. Oops. "Well, my inability to make decisions when it comes to Vivi, numerous anxieties, things like that." "Oh" I understand in my head that some of this is normal, being a new 1st time mother, hormones and such. And I also know that my circumstances are a little more extreme then usual, what with her eating problems, food allergies, and skin rashes. People don't come up and say; "Oh, look at the beautiful baby, you can tell what a good mother you are by the way that rash is spreading from her cheek down into her arm!" or "It must be so satisfying that she's so constipated she's pooping rocks while she screams." It just doesn't happen, I don't have the proof I'm doing a good job with a healthy always laughing, easy baby. She's not sick, or unhappy, she's just her, gorgeous wonderful her, with issues. People ask me; "Is she a good baby?" Are there bad babies?! Of course she's a good baby. Yes she screams a bunch, (that is getting better) but that's not her fault. I'm constantly on the look out for what I'm doing wrong, what did I eat? Or feed her? Or wash the clothes with? What is causing the damn rash this time? Am I making enough milk? What can I do to make more? I'm the one in charge of her intake and outtake, her every happiness, and I can't get my five month old to drink some damn juice to prevent possible stroke from straining just to poop?! So yeah, it's stressful. I wouldn't trade her for the world, but I'd love for her just to be able to eat normally. A few days later MiL comes home with a diet magazine that yells from the front cover "7 Foods to Defeat Depression!". She's looking up recipes in it when we come into the living room and sit down. J starts watching tv, and she begins to dramatically point to the cover, thumbs up, eyebrows raised. I had to laugh. Her concern is very much appreciated, but I don't think avocado is going to cure what ails me.