These kind of look like mints and now I want mints. Damn it. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia commons.)

I used to think all the tough parenting choices happened early on: breastfeeding, co-sleeping, discipline methods, whether you should buy your toddler Baby Gap clothes or make them get a job so they can buy their own (teaching responsibility is important.)

I used to think that once you found your footing in the early years, that momentum would more or less guide you the rest of the way.

I was wrong.

Yesterday I gave my 10-year-old his first dose of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication, and that is by far the hardest decision I've ever made as a parent.

We met a new doctor on Tuesday - a pediatrician who gets mental illness and is happy to work with Gutsy. (He's also easy on the eyes and that does not hurt at all from a mom point of view when you're making tough choices, thank you very much.)

I went in ready to activate my mama bear super advocating powers at a moment's notice. I'm used to doing this. We spent years fighting against a system that had little understanding of childhood mental illness and a dismal lack of services. We even moved provinces three months ago in an attempt to get our son the help he needs (for those not in Polar Bear and High Octane Beer country: Canada's public health services are provincially run. Good news: we live on the border of two of them, so moving was tricky but not impossible).

And here, finally, we have people who are listening to us, and services available to help our son. Here, finally, we're starting to feel hopeful.

At the appointment, we talked about alternative methods (we've tried many), dietary methods (we've tried those too), exercise (this is ongoing, but he's depressed and not moving much these days), sleep (which is always an issue), and cognitive therapy (which we've been doing for a couple of years). Finally, we discussed medication.

Medication. Medicating our child. I wanted to throw up. But I didn't because I was worried Dr. C wouldn't want us to come back if I'm a parent who vomits.

Gutsy was hesitant and I don't blame him. The idea of flooding your brain with something foreign is a scary one. Dr. C. was great at answering his questions and telling my boy that ultimately the decision is his to make. He told Gutsy to think on it; that he would give us the prescription and we could decide later.

I took Gutsy to Walmart (and saw Wilbur, who looked right through me like I was nothing but a drunken one night stand at a Greenpeace protest. I'm heartbroken.) We walked around, talking. I told him about my hesitation about medicating when I was diagnosed with postpartum depression after Intrepid was born. I told him that medication saved my life; that I had done everything I could possibly do to feel better on my own and none of it worked. That once I started taking the meds, my brain finally began responding to the other treatments, and that I was able to pull myself out of that dark place.

"Look at me, dude," I said to him. "Can you imagine me sad all the time? Can you imagine me wanting to take my own life?"

"No," he said. "You're so happy."

"Totally. And awesome and beautiful and intelligent. It's ok. I'm sure you meant to say those things too. This is who I really am, and who was hidden by all that sadness. My brain was so sick, buddy. It's just like when other parts of your body are sick. Sometimes they can't get better on their own and they need some help. What we want to do is help your brain get better. I know it's scary, but imagine how you'll feel if this works."

He thought for a moment. Gutsy is a quiet, thinking sort. I love him for it. "I really want to get better, mom."

"Then let's do this," I said, relieved.

"And I also want a tent."

"What?"

"A tent. A big tent. We'll put it in the backyard and have campouts. Oh, and I'm going to need an air mattress or two."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"You want me to buy you something for agreeing to this?"

"Yep."

"Done."

And that is how I essentially bribed my kid with camping gear so he would take Prozac. Please get my Worst Mother of 2013 trophy ready.

Look, this is scary shit. I'm terrified. Nobody wants to give their child medication with a list of potential side effects longer than my list of attractive qualities. Nobody wants to lie awake at night wondering if they're doing the right thing. Nobody wants to worry about doing more harm than good.

But we feel like we're out of options at this point. We feel him slipping away. And once those puberty hormones hit in a couple of years, the likelihood of uncontrolled depression and anxiety taking him in a frightening direction dramatically increases. I don't want to be that mom who says, "I wish we had tried harder. I wish we had done more." I'd rather be the mom a section of the population will always deem the "Can't deal with her kid so she medicated him" parent. I'll wear that title if it saves his life.

There are no easy decisions with mental illness. There is no map for this. The waters are murky, the jungles are thick, and you have to just trust your instincts out here. In my hands is a precious little life, and I will fight tigers and cheetahs and rabid, uh, sloths to protect it.

I just hope we're on the right path.

Love you, Gutsy.