More than you wanted to know about WordMama

So my doctor's office called last night (at about 8:30 p.m. - strange) to say that she has referred me to a dermatologist for the lump in my armpit. She had second thoughts on her diagnosis of a benign cyst and wants a second opinion. Um, slightly alarming. So now I have appointments with a dermatologist, an OB/GYN (because I haven't had a physical in about two years), an ultrasound, a specialist that links some of my physical symptoms with mental ones, and a homeopath. The thought of it all is a weird combination of comforting and disturbing. On one hand, I'm glad that these specialists will be able to rule out anything major. On the other hand, what if they find something instead.

Now, if I'm straight with you, you need to know that in addition to being slightly OCD (things need to be done in order and to be in their place) and more than a little germaphobic (which stems from getting sick so often), I also tend to "prepare for the worst but hope for the best." This line of thinking is designed to strengthen you to deal with bad news, but more often than not, it just makes me a little manic. There's nothing yet to worry about, but it doesn't seem to stop me from fretting about it.

Before I had Hayden, I used to believe that I would die young. No definite reason why or how, just that I would never reach middle age. It's a lingering thought that has been with me since I was a teenager. Now that I have my heartsong, I find myself fighting back this notion. I can not and will not die young because I am a mother and Hayden needs me. End of story.

So reading all of this over, I realize that I'm coming off as completely insane. I assure you that I haven't come unhitched. The OCD, germaphobia and strange premonitions are things I've lived with for quite some time. It's stress that brings them front and centre. I'll just be happy when all these appointments are over and done with and the guessing is over.

Anyone else out there ever have these kinds of situations? Am I alone in my weird manic state? How do you deal with not knowing, modern medicine, and stress? I could use some real life mama tricks and tips!

*CRACK* .....did you hear that?

Lately my body hasn't been working up to par. I've been plagued with various illnesses from strep and scarlet fever to stomach bugs and headaches. I went to my doctor last week to try and get to the bottom of why my immune system seems AWOL. I brought a list of symptoms with me, as I figured any one could be the key to unlocking the mystery.

My doctor did some blood work (which came back fine) and then sat back thoughtfully and listened to my grocery list of ill health. When I was finished, her first question was whether my family had a history of mental illness. I was sort of taken aback as none of my symptoms were mental, they were all physical. I quickly dismissed her idea that I may be depressed or over-stressed. I mean, I have a very supportive husband, an equally supportive extended family, a pretty perfect life...what the heck would I be depressed or stressed about. But now, a week later, I'm thinking back on her diagnosis and wondering if she might have touched on a truth.

As you know, I have a huge aversion to admitting that I can't cope with things or that my problems are anything more than trivial. I can always find someone out there who has a much bigger burden than I have and who (outwardly) is coping fantastically, so I clam up. Afraid to admit that I'm having trouble dealing with much smaller issues. And yet, something in me seems to be cracking. There's a fissure behind the pressure and I think a large part of it is self induced. This effort to maintain a perfect exterior to the world is actually causing more harm than good.

I am stressed. In the past two years, we have had a baby, moved 500kms, changed jobs (Adam many times), lived through some pretty major infections, bought a house, started a business, and struggled to pay the bills. And the whole time all of this was going on, I kept my brave face on. I told everyone that we were fine. That it was just another hump and we'd push through. And yet, when I look back, our road of life looks like the car-eating potholed roads of Costa Rica. There were so many times we were balanced on the edge of one of those huge holes and somehow we teetered past. Often by the skin of our teeth. But I didn't talk about it. I didn't admit to anyone that we were struggling. I was too proud. And with Adam chugging along beside me, often picking up my slack, I felt that if I caved, I would bring him down with me.

Now that we're on the other side of the storm (I hope), the weight of it all is catching up with me. It's not easy being a working mum. And it's definitely not easy being a working mum who kept a stiff upper lip through some major life transitions. I think it's time I cut myself some slack. Let myself admit that I'm tired and drained. This is a tough gig, a 24-7 job. And anyone who can do it without breaking a sweat is probably wearing the same perfect mum mask I've been lugging around.

So I heed this call: Imperfect mothers of the world unite. Let's air this dirty laundry and admit that it's a grueling, filthy, stressful, never ending job to be a mother. That our hours stink and the list of duties grows daily. That every time we master the skills we need, a new one is required. That there are many days that our minds and bodies are pushed to the breaking point. That sometimes despite our best efforts, we can't fix the situation at hand. That the most important job on the planet, that of raising the next generation, is unpaid and under-valued. That we race to the ends of the earth and attempt to overcome insurmountable obstacles for those we brought forth into the world. And that we wouldn't have it any other way.

Matters of the heart

On Saturday, my father was admitted to the hospital after having a heart attack. When my mum called me to let me know, I was strangely not surprised. It wasn't as if I was expecting the news, but I have feared this call for quite some time. Dad is certainly not the picture of good health, although he has made great strides in improving his lifestyle over recent years.

I'm happy to share that he has been diagnosed and treated with two stents to relieve the blockages in his arteries. No open heart surgery or lifetime supply of medication, thank god. He is recovering well and is now resting at home with my mum as his nurse.

Like a cheap metaphor, I find that whenever I get these calls of illness or accident, I view life a little differently. You don't know what you have until you lose it, right? I've always been more than open about my love for my family and I live a relatively healthy life, so I'm not tempted to drastically change how I live. It's my husband I obsess about...

Adam treats his body the same way that most young men do - with reckless abandon. He smokes a pack a day and indulges in more than his fair share of wine at the end of a long day. Given his crazy schedule, he doesn't get much of an opportunity to exercise. (And he definitely doesn't share my enthusiasm for walking.) He never wears sunscreen and has battered his bones and muscles over the years with hard labour jobs.

Mentally, Adam is a high stress kind of man. He internalizes a lot of things and takes life pretty personally. Although he lives in the moment with his body, his mind jogs ahead of time, constantly dreaming of new ideas and wishing for the day when our struggles are finally behind us. He wants to be the 50's dad who went to work and brought home enough bacon to pay the bills and allow his trophy wife to stay home and raise babies (which just happens to be my dream). Adam keeps me hopeful about our perfect future through his fantasies. But my realist side sometimes doubts that he'll ever see that rosy time...

I worry that someday I'll be the one calling our children to deliver the news that their father is in the hospital. Or worse, I'll come home some afternoon to find him expired.

He is my other half in the most literal of ways. He understands and loves me like no other has. Through his tenderness, love and thoughtful nature, his essence is tattooed on my soul. How does one ever recover if their soul marker is taken away? I don't think I would. I think I would dry up and fold into myself like a leaf in autumn.

I tried to tell Adam all of this last night, but instead it somehow came out as a hideous nag about his smoking and drinking habits. It seemed that I couldn't put into words the fear and anxiety behind the matter. I couldn't express that I never want Hayden to worry about losing his father the same way that I do. That I'm not the unwavering rock my mother has become; staying strong for everyone and keeping us from seeing her pain or trepidation. Instead we argued and I pointed out his faults like barbs. But bless his heart, he somehow saw through my verbal assault. Although my intentions and dread remained unspoken, this morning he wrapped me in his arms and promised to live a healthier life. He had pushed through my angry insults and found the cowering child silently hiding within. I suppose words are just noise when you live in someones soul.

Bed bug!

Hayden and I have both been sick this past week with strep and scarlet fever (ya, I know, who the heck gets scarlet fever outside of novels from the 1800's). When Hayden gets sick, he gets clingy. Very clingy. And so, for the past week, he's slept more in our bed than he has in his own.

At first, I resented this little invader with his flailing limbs and persistent seeking out of nursies. I resented not having the freedom to flip over when my side was sore or being able to get up and pee without slithering out of the bed onto the floor like a liquid blob.

But then the other night he reminded me of why we had this co-sleeping arrangement for a whole year. He was having a particularly bad night and refused to even entertain the thought of going to sleep in his crib. And so I slung him on my hip and he kept me company while I got ready for bed. We climbed under the covers and instead of his usual giggling pleas for nursies, he climbed on top of my chest, flopped down so all four limbs were dangling to my tickly sides and promptly fell asleep.

I lay there for a minute, sure that he was just storing up energy for a melt-down before I realized that his breathing had become deep and even. And it was at that moment, as I kissed his wispy hair and breathed in his signature smell, that I remembered just how much I love holding him in my arms as we sleep. So I snuggled the heck out of him all night. And I'll keep snuggling him when he asks for it. I never want to think back and wistfully say "I wish I'd just held him more often. You know, back when he wanted to be held"

I love that Hayden is a cuddly child. I love that by hearing my heartbeat and feeling my breath, he calms and feels secure. I love that he still likes to sleep with his mama sometimes. These days are fleeting - soon enough he'll be taller than me and telling me how uncool I am. Till then, I'll keep him as my favourite little bed bug.

Motherhood uncensored

I stayed in the hospital for two days after Hayden was born. He had a cone-on-cone head from the vacuum and his face was pretty bruised, but he was perfect and he was mine. I learned how to change a newborn diaper (things like using the hospital-supplied facecloths for getting the tar off his bum instead of expensive wipes), how to nurse him (although for the first day all he wanted to do was lick my nipple) and how to distinguish his cry from the other dozen babies in the ward. I slept best when he was in my arms – which would become the norm. We had many visitors and I healed quickly and almost painlessly from the tearing.

The day we brought him home, it was drizzling and cool, but it was all sunshine to me. My mum was waiting at home for us and my husband surprised me by finishing Hayden’s nursery. He had spelled his name out with wooden letters and put some pictures from those first few days in the hospital in frames. It was a wonderful, thoughtful gesture and sent me into a flurry of tears.

My mum was our saving grace during those first few days. She fed us and helped us clean and took care of the thousands of details that go out the window when you’re new parents. She helped to keep me sane as my hormones adjusted and taught me all those things that you can only learn from your mother. When she left, I bawled at the thought of having to be a mum without my mum there to guide me. And being the great mum that she is, she told me that I was already a great mother and I’d be fine. And if ever I wasn’t, she was only a phone call away.

Hayden was not the easy-going baby you see in commercials or in the carefully edited Baby Story shows. He cried often and needed to be held constantly. After some research, we determined he was what the experts called “High Needs.” Dr. Sears had phenomenal information on how to help these sensitive babies to adjust to the world outside of the womb. Lots of love, lots of contact and responding to their cries as often and as quickly as you could.

One of my girlfriends bought me a sling as a gift and it is quite possibly the thing that transformed my relationship withHayden and his relationship with the rest of the world. With the sling, Hayden got that close comfort he truly needed and I got the necessities done (like brushing my teeth and eating)! I became quite adept at doing just about anything with a baby strapped to my chest.

About three weeks after I brought Hayden home, I began to break out in boil-like lesions all over my thighs. It started with one and within a week I had a dozen of these painful b@stards. After a trip to the doctors and a subsequent trip to the ER, I was diagnosed with MRSA: a highly contagious and drug-resistant infection that comes from the hospital. Somehow I had been infected when I gave birth to Hayden. I had to wear a portable IV drip for a week to get the massive doses of antibiotics into my body. It was truly awful. On top of tending to a wonderful but high-need baby, I now had tubes coming out of my arm, very painful open sores on my legs and I had to go back to the hospital with my newborn (who was nursing almost every hour) every few days to get the lines checked and blood work done. Every day the VON would come to change my dressings and change the IV bag. Really, it was a very stressful time. I look back now and wonder how I managed to get through it all. I think I was just numb. Numb and also blessed with a very caring and supportive husband.

Adam did everything for me and for the house after Hayden was born. He cooked, he cleaned, he did laundry, he gave me pedicures, he did the banking and the shopping, everything. All he asked me to do was to take care of Hayden. Adam gave me license to just love that little baby all day, every day. I spent every waking minute just tending to his needs and not worrying about anything else. It was wondrous.

Hayden and I slept together after a few weeks of failed cradle attempts. With him safely nestled in the crock of my arm, we could both fall into a secure dreamland. My poor husband had to learn not to throw his arms around in his sleep, as per his usual routine. While it only garnered me a painful knock on the head, his giant arms could do a lot of damage to a newborn. For this reason, I also slept in one position all night, keeping Hayden safely away from Mr. Flaily.

But I have to admit that sleeping with Hayden was one of my favourite things. Listening to his tiny, quick breathing, smelling that baby scent and feeling his warmth against me fulfilled my every hope of what motherhood would be. He lay ever so still when he was in my arms. Together we would sleep for hours on end until his belly told him it was time to eat. By the time he was a few months old, he was sleeping for up to five hours straight a night (though this wouldn’t last). Co-sleeping, as the experts call it, was one of my favourite parts of being a mum. Until he was a year old, we cuddled all night and I breathed in his fresh baby smell as I drifted to sleep.