Fear, illogical fear

How I long for a nice anonymous, boring life with nothing but the laundry and a three-year-old's tantrums to piss me off.

I don't want any hosptial staffers to know us by name. I don't want anymore exciting ambulance rides. And I don't want to be afraid of what might happen next. I'm just sick of it. Everyday I worry that my son will get an infection that his weak immune system won't be able to battle. Everyday I worry that his heart will get worse and he'll need that transplant sooner rather than later. Everyday I think of the hollow life I will have after we lose him. Everyday I worry that my husband won't come home from riding his bike. His most recent crash landed him in the ER just four hours after we got Toddler in Chief home from the hospital last week.

Have I been afraid all my life? Or do I become more afraid of things as I get older? Am I more jaded? Am I just more of a realist? Or have I just seen too much tragedy to feel safe, cushioned? Fear. Illogical. Fear. Mostly, I think I'm just tired of seeing the people I love hurt and banged up. I know that my son's health problems are not the same as my husband's bang-ups, but I just can't take it anymore. I feel like my head is going to explode worrying about people, worrying about things that I cannot control.

I shared my fears with Father in Chief, and he listened with compassion. And being the logical and rational guy that he is, he set about to fix my fears with knowledge. He emailed me some statistics about how safe road cycling is compared to other life activities, and how the benefits of cycling outweigh the risks of cycling. I appreciate the effort, but that doesn't change how I feel. Feelings aren't logical or rational. If only it were as easy as reading a few thousand words on the topic. If only there was some pill I could take or salve I could apply. Maybe I've just been through too many emotional blenders this year to be able to step back and brush off the illogical, emotional mind-fuck that life is playing on me.

If only I could rewind my life back to when my biggest problem was who is going to walk the dogs. I'd be well-rested, physically fit, and emotionally stable. And my boobs wouldn't be quite as saggy either.

TIC hospitalized

For the 15 of you still reading my very slow moving blog, I wanted to let you know that Toddler in Chief was admitted to the ER on Tuesday afternoon before being transferred by ambulance to UCSF. After a couple of days of trying to diagnose the problem, it seems that he is having complications from his surgery this past March. You can find more details and updates here.

It really was just 15 minutes

I guess my kind of fame is very short lived. Almost as soon as I posted about my Internet fame, it was gone. Easy come, easy go. Good thing I saved a copy locally. Sadly the copy I saved is just a fraction of the actual photo. The real version has much more sky and weeds, etc. Ah...it was nice while it lasted.

I'm practically famous

One of my biggest regrets from my first pregnancy is that it wasn't properly documented. Sure we had the mandatory monthly belly snapshots taken in our living room. But I wanted to have real portraits done. And yet I didn't manage to get my act together enough to actually do it. Then I got another chance--I got pregnant again. We already know that second kids are destined to a life of hand-me-downs and that they get significantly less one-on-one time with mom and dad. But this second kid will have something his big brother doesn't have--very cool pictures of him in my belly. Not that he will care about that at all.

Yes, that is me and my eight-month-pregnant belly featured on my very talented photographer's web site. Ah, fame is just a web site away.

Another new family member

About three weeks ago we welcomed a nice Toyota Prius into our family. This replaced my wonderfully reliable Honda CRV. I have had to do some mourning over not being able to charge into and out of our very steep driveway. I need to slowly and carefully back out into the street. If I don't do it just so, then I scrape the underside of my car. And sadly, I can only back out one way. That means if I need to go the other direction down our street, I need to turn around in our neighbors driveway. Seems silly. And I'm sure it will be very annoying when I'm in a big hurry.

We've been learning how to drive our new baby to get the best mileage out of it. But so far, we're only averaging in the high 30s. I suspect this is because we live on a hill. Every time I go out for an errand and have to drive up the hill to get to our house, my overall mileage dips. Still, even with less than stellar mileage and having to go at a snails-pace in and out of my driveway, I feel better that I'm a bit less reliant on fuel. Even if I continue to get in the high 30s, I'm getting 50 percent more miles than my CRV got.

And to the obnoxious Hummer owner on my street (I don't know you, but I know you're obnoxious simply because you purchased a Hummer): sure you could drive up and down our driveway no problem (not that you're welcome here), but you can't fit into your own garage. So there. And by the way, I hate you.

Dressing up the smart girl

Tonight I cashed in some chips and had some girl time out with Therapist Friend. I put on a form-fitting, stain-free shirt, some cute and forgiving gouchoes, and sexy dance shoes. I styled my hair, brushed on a little eye shadow, and lacqured up my lips. I even put on a necklace, knowing that no tiny hands would be groping at my neck.

As I waited for Therapist Friend to come take me out into an adult world of coctails and dinners that don't include a cup of complimentary crayons, I dashed upstairs to get my glasses. This isn't the first time I've done this--it's just the first time I noticed. When I go out to get in touch with the other me that used to live in an adult world of socialization and libations, I wear my glasses--my sassy, I-work-and-am-cute-and-smart glasses. I used to wear them daily when I had a real job to go to that required that I could read small print and type several words minute while talking on the telephone. But now, in addition to helping me read the small print on the menu, they make a statement. They say that I know how to talk about stuff that has nothing to do with matchbox cars and the cool new stroller that I just bought on eBay. They've become the accessory that says I'm smart.

And apartently others think so too. Therapist Friend and I had barely scooted up onto our bar stools when two guys came over to settle a bet: Was I the designer that they met at a friend's party just a couple of weeks before? Nope. Not me. But it was very flattering to think I had done such a good job camoflaging my post-partum self as to be mistaken for a party-attending designer. I confessed that I was a writer and not a designer, but never mentioned that I was a mom. That will have to take backseat to my sassy glasses-wearing alter-ego.

I am powerful: I am woman

It was terrifying. It was exhausting. It was by far the most powerful thing I have ever done. It was one of the most normal things in the world.

I laughed. I sobbed. I doubted. I rocked back and forth. I growled. I screamed. I swore. I sang Johnny Cash's Ring Of Fire between contractions. But mostly, I trusted my body. I gave birth--without drugs.

The female body is amazing.

The sicko lactation diet

Okay, here's the real reason I breastfeed: I can eat lots of food and still lose weight. But that's not all. I can use the breast pump in lieu of exercise. For example, this morning while Baby in Chief was asleep I pumped five ounces. Five ounces equals 100 calories. I don't think there is any other way on the planet I could burn 100 calories in about five minutes. Perfect. Now where's my chocolate croissant?

More than a mom: my eternal link to me

On many days it seems that I am not much more than a maker of food, a cleaner of spills, a organizer of activities. And under all that mundane, there is just not much left. It's so easy to forget that there is a real live person under those necessities who has needs and wants and desires and interests and passions. Or at least a real live person who used to have those things.

So where is that person now? I know she's in there somewhere, and hanging onto that person is essential to remaining sane. Photographer friend told me that her link to her former self is going out and talking shop with other grown-ups, maybe only mentioning her two daughters in passing. Because in that circle, they aren't the glue. They aren't the most important thing, or only thing defining her or connecting her to those other adults. Don't get me wrong, the kid connection is hugely important and the women I have met through my kids have saved my life.

But being a mom isn't the be all, end all. I think that having a newborn has made that much more difficult for me to remember. It seems that having another baby has pushed me farther away from myself because I am nurturer and protector and everything to this new puny human. My wants, my needs, my passions are virtually nonexistent because of this other incredibly important person who I love dearly.

Still, I know the old me is in there and I'm staying connected every once in a while. My link is dancing. I loved going dancing when I was in high school (I met Father in Chief in a roundabout way though a very cheesy club in Western New York called the Yellow Jaguar back in 1989), I loved it in college (Venus de Milo, Avalon, TT The Bears, and others in Boston--especially because my college sweetheart was in a band and I was one of the most dedicated fans), and here and there in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past 10 years. Most recently at the Little Fox Theatre while my three-week-old baby was home with FIC.

Dancing reminds me that I'm still me, even if I smell like spoiled milk and you can see my breast pads under my shirt. I'll probably out there shaking my groove-thang when I'm 75--and for those few hours I'll feel like I'm timeless, ageless, and childless. I know that dancing isn't the be all, end all either. And it's not more important than my kids. But we all need something fun once in a while just for us.

Knocked up at the prom

What includes a black stretch limo, a high school year book show and tell, oodles of tell-all girl talk, gabs of glittery eye shadow, and 80s pop superstar Rick Springfield? It wasn't a high school prom. Nope. It was the Second Chance Prom--a local-radio-station-sponsored event in San Jose on June 10. I was a mere eight months pregnant.

Don't know what your high school was like, but a ripened-fruit like me was not an unusual sight when I actually was in high school way back when. There were probably 20 babies born to classmates during the four years I spent at Lockport High School. And who knows how many other pregnancies no one knew about.

But at this prom--this Second Chance Prom--I was proud of my blossoming belly. Sure my massive middle left me a little off-kilter and my left foot was still sore from my falling-down-the-stairs incident in May, but I danced and laughed and revisited my youth for a few hours. It was by far the best baby party ever, the best prom ever. There were no annoying jocks or popular kids to avoid, there were no curfews, no parents to lie to about where we were headed afterwards, and no boyfriends trying to score--that mission had been accomplished at least twice since this was my second pregnancy. That night, those couple of hours were about me and my girlfriends connecting, not necessarily as moms, but as friends. We forgot about laundry and dishes and diapers and husbands. And we remembered how to laugh and reminded ourselves that we need to do stuff like this more often.