Mother’s Day Weekend with a Trip to the ER
I don’t really know how to describe this last weekend. Roller Coaster is, frankly, an injustice. It was much more than that. Mother’s Day was amazing. Full of family, good food and lots of laughter and play with the kids. I got a beautiful basket of flowers (that I really hope I remember to water!) and most importantly lots of hugs and kisses from my Ava.
The day before Mother’s Day? Day. From. Hell. No hyperbole. I’ve been through some truly awful things in my life. Nothing, and I mean nothing compared to this.
I don’t know how else to tell you except to start at the beginning. I hope that writing this all out, will somehow help me put it behind me. At least, start to. The day started off great. Ava and I spent a couple hours in the kitchen. We baked a cake and prepped pasta salad for dinner that night and the next. (our job was to bring the pasta for the Mother’s Day dinner). We were looking forward to her best friend Ella, and her mom, Shiela, a dear friend of mine coming over that afternoon. We planned a trip to the park and then back to our place for burgers on the grill.
Mid morning we set off to hit up a couple of thrift stores and then have lunch. Ava wanted to go to Dairy Queen, and since it was a pretty warm day, I had no problem agreeing. We ordered our food and sat down to wait. After a minute or so, Ava announced she needed to use the bathroom. So I took her back, and here’s where the fun started. She sat down and immediately began crying that she hurt and couldn’t go potty. She said it burned and hurt really bad. Ok. I immediately suspect a UTI. Problem? It’s Saturday afternoon. No Urgent Care places open. Next stop? ER. Can’t let this go until Monday.
We got checked in and had a pretty short wait considering how many people were there. I explained what was going on to the triage nurse, the next nurse and then the doctor. As I expected they wanted a urine sample. And that my friends is where the ship went off the rails. She tried. Bless her little heart she tried so much, but she couldn’t go. Even after a cup of cranberry juice. The doctor was insistent about getting something. (Please note here that after attempt one, she got a couple of drops out, and we were told, nope, not enough). So in comes two nurses and catheter. Ever had one of those put in? I don’t recommend it. Much less on a not quite four year old.
I had to hold her hands and hold her still while they tried. Three times. After try three, I drew the line. STOP. You’re done hurting my child. I have to write it out here. She screamed at the absolute top of her lungs. Her face and head was beet red. Her whole body shook with pain. And not only was I not stopping them, I was holding her down while they did it.
I know it had to be done. I know they had to try. I know she had to be seen to get meds so that we could kill the infection. I KNOW this. But I cannot get those images of her screaming in pain out of my head.
I still haven’t really let myself have “breakdown” over it. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I’ll start crying and never stop.
At this point the doctor came back in and said she couldn’t diagnose her without something. I told her right then and there they weren’t laying another hand on my daughter. She looked at the “sample” Ava was able to squeeze out earlier and said that was enough to culture at least. At that point I wanted to slap the shit out of pretty much every person there. They really didn’t need to put Ava through that. Other than being money hungry, test running jackasses.
See I know a thing or two about UTIs. I also know that almost always a broad spectrum antibiotic will take them out. I also know that getting a successful result on a culture is only about 50%.
The doctor left and a nurse came back in asking if we needed anything. I said other than a prescription and our discharge papers, no we didn’t. About 15 minutes later we got both of those.
By that time my ex had arrived and we all went back to Dairy Queen and had an actual meal. Then we went to Walmart to fill the prescription and, as I put it, buy the poor kid any damn thing she wanted.
And what she wanted, as it turned out was this: 
She’s talked about it a few times since. The nurse kept telling me “Oh, she won’t remember.” Uh no, she remembers everything. Like the house we moved out of a year ago when she wasn’t even three yet. She says she doesn’t like going to the doctor anymore. I’m worried that from now on she’ll make that association.
On the whole, she seems to have moved on. I am trying really hard to do the same. But there is no hurt in the world like your child’s hurt. I’d have taken on any amount of pain to spare her that.
So. That’s how my Mother’s Day weekend went. I really hope yours was awesome.
22
It is January and the sky is a vibrant blue today. Not something we often see here in Oregon in the dead of winter. There is a cold wind blowing the clouds and rain away, rain that would remind me of that day 22 years ago when I said goodbye.
I don’t want to always feel sad on this day, and yet I do. I feel sad that as I watch my girl play he’s not there to chase her around the house or terrify her with stories of bugs and wild animals, as he used to do with my cousin and me when we were small. I call my mother and wish that he was there to join in the yelling of I love yous and I miss yous into the phone line across the distance.
I guess what I miss now isn’t so much for me anymore, as it is for what could have been and what should have been for her. Sad for him that he never got to witness the impish delight in which she goes through life, finding laughter and smiles in the smallest of things.
He would have loved that she likes to help in the kitchen.
I’m left to only imagine in my mind’s eye the two of them together. I can see her standing on a stool, next to him, as I once did. Stirring something in a pot. I see her under a blanket, being read a story, clutching an old teddy bear that once belonged to me.
I see my past and my present collide so fiercely when I look at her. I see his ears. Ever so slightly pointy and elfin. I see his eyes, which are also my eyes, peering back at me under impossibly long lashes. I imagine how his face would light up when she would come over to play. There would be tea parties and games of hide and go seek.
I know he’s watching over us and smiling somewhere. I feel it, I believe it.
Tomorrow I’ll sit down with pictures and my girl and we’ll talk about him and how much I loved him, and how much she would love him too. I”m the keeper of the memories, now, of the past and all it contains. I’ll try to bring him to life as much as I can, for her. And for him.
Beauty in Small Things
“Mommy wait, stop, I need to give you a leaf!”
I stop my car, putting it back in park and wait for her to select one from the leaf cluttered lawn. She carefully looks them over and then chooses the one she likes the best. With grandmother or daddy in tow, she runs over to my open window and hands it to me. I place it on the seat beside me and thank her for her gift.
I have a shoebox full of leaves. Carefully selected by Ava to give to me each morning and afternoon as I leave her to head to my office. I don’t save them all, but a chosen few, waiting for a shadowbox to place them in.
Why do I save them, you may be asking yourself. They’re just dead leaves. Except? They’re not.
At three years old, Ava has no concept of wealth or money or materialism. She sees something she thinks is beautiful and chooses it to show her love and affection. To her, a fallen leaf from a tree is as worthy of being a present as a new phone, or computer or piece of jewelry might be to us as adults.
When do we stop seeing such beauty in ordinary things? When do we start thinking of displays of love as being synonymous with price tags and shopping malls?
I can honestly say that some of the best times I’ve spent with Ava involved not a single cent being spent. No toys purchased, no movies, no games. Just the two of us, hanging out and being silly with each other.
My three year old girl looks at leaves and sees treasure. I save those leaves because I want to remember that lesson.
Highs and Lows
When you squealed with delight and yelled “Sprinkles” there was no one’s hand to squeeze.
When you sang the ABC song all the way through correctly, there was no one with whom to exchange that knowing look of bursting pride.
When you climbed into my bed all alone, without even needing a pillow to use as a stepladder there was no one to hold out a hand for me to high five.
When I watch you sleep, there are no arms holding me, sharing the same feelings of wonder and joy at this beautiful, amazing creature that we created.
There is no one to call to take over for bath time when I’m exhausted and my back hurts.
There is no one to ask to take over helping you through your morning routine so that I can take a shower uninterrupted.
There is no one backing me up when I have to put you in a time out.
I can’t make quick runs to anywhere, because there is no one else at home to watch you while I do so. You go where I go.
When you squealed with delight at sprinkles I alone made that possible for you.
When you sang the ABC song, I got a private concert that was meant for my ears only.
When you climbed into my bed, I didn’t have to share your snuggles with anyone else. They were delightfully all mine.
When I watch you sleep, curled up in my arms, I drink in every moment of it, so glad that I get to hold you sometimes while you are sleeping.
I never miss an opportunity to make a funny face or tickle your armpits in the bathtub.
I get to make your breakfast each morning, and know that I am giving you a healthy start to your day.
No one is questioning my decision in why you needed that time out.
I have an amazing shopping buddy, who is awesome company. You go where I go.
Fridays are cyclical contradictions. Highs and lows. Last night I resisted the urge to run into your room and scoop you up in my arms. Instead I turned the volume on the baby monitor up a bit, and listened to your soft breath as it made your chest rise and fall, imagining in my mind that movement and your sweet face as you slept.
Terror. Loneliness. Joy. Fulfillment. Sadness. Emptiness. Gleeful anticipation. Contentment.
One constantly follows the other.
Up.
Down.
Highs.
Lows.
Home
A month ago, I couldn’t imagine calling anyplace other than the one I’d lived in for the last 9 years home. I loved everything (well, almost everything) about my old house. I loved the abundance of windows that allowed it to always be bright and cheerful, no matter the time of day. I loved the large bathtub with it’s massaging jets that were awesome after a hard day of work. I loved the tall ceilings which gave each room an open, airy feeling.
I loved Ava’s room, in all it’s bright cheery yellowness, even if it was a tad on the small side. I adored my bedroom. Large, open, comfortable. Walls painted a deep plum, they were soothing and calming to me.
There is something about this new house. It’s older, to be sure. And a bit smaller. One less bedroom. The ceilings are lower, and there are no funky plant shelves to decorate.
But it has built in cabinets in three rooms. Hardwood floors in both bedrooms, something I’ve always wanted. Storm doors with screens to allow for a nice summer breeze to blow through them. An enormous laundry room that allows for more than just laundry. There is a covered back patio, so no matter the weather, sitting outside is always an option (once I get patio furniture that is).
The expansive back yard has a large old maple tree that’s just begging for a swing. There are flower beds and a garden area. They need some tender care, weeding and cleaning. But soon they’ll be back to their former glory. The front yard boasts a lovely brick planter. It too needs some sprucing up, but I’m already imagining it full of trailing petunias and tall, regal geraniums.
This house is so different from the last, but it has a friendliness about it. It seems to welcome me in, saying, “Come on in and pull your feet up by the fire”. It has 60 years of personality and charm. It appears happy with the life that our little family has brought to it.
Over the coming months, I will be working to put my own touches on it, splashes of color here and there, to make it more my own. I’ve started already. Ava’s room, which is so much bigger than her old one, got a brand new coat of cheery yellow, so similar to her prior room. I felt having some form of continuity was important for her.
I was surprised at how quickly the image of this place popped into my head when I thought of home. And last Friday when my ex brought Ava back to my house, she ran in the door and hugged me and said “I’m home!”
Yes you are, baby. We both are.
Remembering to Smile
I have come to realize that I tend to dwell on the negative an awful lot. I’m not a half glass empty person. I’ve always been more of a glass is surely going to break and cut my hand at any moment person.
Yeah.
I’m trying to change that about myself, thanks to some wonderful friends and some good tools from therapy sessions. I don’t always succeed, and lately it has been harder than ever to focus on the positive. With so many changes looming and so much of it being filled with uncertainty, some days I feel simply overwhelmed by all that is happening.
I vented all over one of my best friends in an email today. Poor dear simply emailed to offer some help and I spewed an entire page worth of angst and whines.
I felt infinitely better after doing so, I will admit.
But it got me to thinking about trying to push my brain toward more positive thoughts. To focus on the good things in my life and remember the things that make me smile, even if it’s through tears.
So that I remember them, I’m going to list some here. On days when I’m feeling angry or bitter or just plain melancholy, I will look at it and remember that life has it’s good side too.
Things that make me smile:
- Ava asking to get in bed with me to cuddle.
- My necklace, that reminds me every day that someone loves me.
- Emails from friends, whether they be silly or heartfelt.
- Unexpected sunshine on a rainy day, no matter how fleeting.
- The warmth from my electric blanket on a cold winter night.
- Comfortable new shoes, even if they aren’t the height of fashion.
- The smell of my new soap, which lingers slightly on the skin.
- The jingle of my charm bracelet and the weight of the charm that reminds me of the best day of my life.
- The smell of roast cooking in the crockpot.
- The salty tang of that first bite of salt and vinegar chips.
- Making a friend laugh when she’s had a hard day.
- Warm hugs from Ava.
Last but not least, just seeing this face every day.
Little Glass Houses
We all live in a glass house of some sort. There is always something about each and every one of us that we wouldn’t want to be judged upon.
I’ve written before about this. Why do women judge each other? We judge based on weight, eye color, hair color, clothing, nail polish color, and oh yes, how we raise our kids.
I don’t have any new answers to this. I’m just sick of the mom wars. Why aren’t there any dad wars? Are they simply more comfortable in their roles than we are? More confident?
The latest study by some “experts” and I use that term loosely, finds that working mothers have children who are ill more often than mothers who stay at home with their kids. They say things like ” Maternal employment imposes a burden on a mother’s time and may result in the poorer supervision or care of her children”
Wait.
Hold the phone.
Did they really just tell me that because I work, I am poorly supervising my child? So I guess all that time I spend looking at ingredient lists on boxes, cans and bags is a result of my poor supervision. Or the fact that each time Ava gets juice in stead of plain water, and I water down that juice with 75% water so as to keep a lid on her sugar intake, that’s the poor care they are talking about.
Should we talk about how she’s only had the flu once and never really had a cold? Sure she’s fallen and bonked her head or her knee. Show me a two and half year old who hasn’t, working mom or not and I’ll call you a liar.
And the fact that I make sure she gets her two vitamin chews each day, wow, I’m a real fucking slacker, aren’t I?
Their other assertion is that working moms have dirtier houses. Um. Maybe you can’t eat off my floors, but I’ll guaran-goddamn-tee you they’re not teeming cesspools of germs, either.
I know plenty of moms who don’t work who have homes that I would not dare to eat a meal in.
Let’s get this straight once and for all. It’s not whether or not we work outside the home that defines who and what we are as mothers. That boat sailed the moment a child was born. You are who you are.
My choices and the things I do for my daughter are right for her. Some nights we do fast food because we are running late. Most of the time we eat a home cooked meal, that’s relatively healthy. Some days Ava gets a cookie or some “Ms” (M & Ms). Some times she even gets a whole cup of juice, without the water to dilute it.
I am not the best mother ever. I am not the worst mother ever. I am not the mother to your children. You are not the mother to mine. I do what’s right, and what works for us. I may not be the best mother, but I am the mother my daughter needs me to be.
The “experts” can kiss my ass.
New Normal
Last night I slept alone.
It was time.
Gone are the days of turning over at night, taking comfort in knowing there is someone there beside me. Someone who would hold and protect me. Someone with whom I could share my fear after a night mare, or to talk me down during a panic attack.
Truth be told that person hasn’t existed in a long time. We’ve just been two people sharing a bed. No true connection.
As much as I would like to turn back the clock, and have a do-over, I have to keep moving forward. If I allow myself to keep looking back, it will paralyze me. I can’t allow that to happen.
I spend my evenings alone, in quiet solitude. Sometimes with the television, sometimes with my iPod or Blackberry and Twitter to keep my company. Ava goes to bed early, leaving me with several hours to fill before it is my turn to fall into slumber. This is my new normal.
Mornings are spent in silence. Sitting beside someone who is at once familiar, and yet a stranger. No words are spoken, not even good byes. The new normal.
In the weeks and months to come, there are going to be so many more changes that will usher in the beginning of a new era. Papers will be filed. Our home will be going on the market. I will begin the process of finding somewhere new to live.
I am both terrified and oddly excited at the prospect. Terrified to be doing it alone. Nobody to help me make the hard decisions. Terrified at the thought of weekends and nights without my daughter. But excited to find a place that will be mine. Excited to build a home for her, and for me, that will be warm, inviting and safe.
I hate that we are about to turn her world upside down. Not just one new place, but two. The days of having both her parents under the same roof, giving her reassurance when she is anxious or frightened, gone. I don’t want her to have to come to terms with a new normal. Life as she knows it is all about to change.
God, don’t let us fuck it up.
Waffle Waffle Waffle
I’ll admit it. I can be a waffler. I make decisions when I’m feeling emotional, and then I come to regret them later when I’m not knee deep in the throes of a pity party.
Taking this site private was not an easy decision to make. I knew what it involved and how difficult it would be for me.
In the end, it is more difficult than I imagined it would be.
So.
Having thought about it for a couple of weeks now, here’s what I’ve decided to do. I know – you’re on the edge of your seat, holding your breath right now, aren’t you?
I’m going mostly public again.
Some posts will still be private, and if they are, and if you have a membership here, you will still be able to read them. All five of you. 
I love my baby girl. I love writing about her and I want to share that love with everyone.
Thanks for bearing with me as I figure this all out.
Real post to come later, I promise!
Oh Shoot!
We have most definitely entered the “monkey see, monkey do” phase of toddler-hood with Ava.
Anything we do is intently observed by her, and I can almost see her internal Rolodex filing the information away for future use.
Her favorite phrase at the moment is “I try”. Yes, baby girl, you can try. And most of the time? She succeeds. She can put her shoes on all by herself. Getting pants on is still a work on progress.
The hardest part for us has been curbing our rather blue language. After so many years alone in the house, we are trying to get used to saying fudge instead of fuck, shoot instead of shit, so on and so forth.
And then? There are the moments when something happens and it flies out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to censor the words.
Normally, when I take my jewelry off each evening (earrings, two rings, a watch and a bracelet) I place them on a shelf in the bedroom that is out of Ava’s reach. Being two, small and shiny objects naturally hold great attraction for her. But last weekend, I sat on the sofa, tired after a really long day, and without thinking, placed that pile of shiny temptation on the sofa table. The next morning Ava and I were playing on the sofa when she spotted the goods. She made a lunge for them, and I turned my head to see what she was after. Without even thinking I yelled “OH SHIT”. And promptly knocked the whole pile to the floor in my fervor.
Ava jumped down from the sofa and was under that table in mere seconds. And all the way over to the table? She was repeating “oh shit” “oh shit”. Great. Unfortunately, I was laughing too hard to correct her and by the time I stopped too much time had passed. So for the moment we let it go.
The next morning I was putting a diaper in the diaper pail when I accidentally ripped the lid off completely. This time my brain managed to redact the bad words about to fly forth and with Ava behind me I exclaimed “OH SHOOT”. And of course that was repeated. I am hoping that SHOOT sticks in her head, while SHIT does not. At least until she’s an adult. Then I will have fun watching her try to curb her potty mouth in front of her kids.
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