Be You Louder

Today I got a private message via the fancy new Instagram instant messaging (was that really necessary?), that instilled a deeply proud feeling inside of my heart. 

It was never the plan to start littering my follower's feeds with posts about my illnesses (both physical and mental) but I received such support in the comments sections. I quickly came to realize how therapeutic it was for me, to type the things in my head and have really people hear them. To share real unfiltered, unconcealed (usually unshowered) photos of my life and have real people see them. To be heard and seen, and not abandoned, even by people I'll never meet and who owe me nothing, is therapeutic. 

Today though, it wasn't a 'you are so strong' or 'hang in there' that moved me. Today I received a private message from a young mother living in Turkey, who came across my Instagram feed while doing 'panic attack' research online. (THAT is why hashtags are so necessary, lol I don't care what anyone else thinks!) 

Here was a person just like me, a million miles away, so thankful to have found someone who seemed to really understand what she'd been going through. And that's the thing! We can have dozens of friends and family members who support us and love is no matter what, but no matter how hard they try, no one can actually understand what you're going through unless they're going through it to. And despite not wishing what you're going through on your worst enemy, it is a special kind of comfort when you find someone who is. 

When I was first diagnosed with depression in high school, I didn't tell any of my friends because I assumed no one would understand. When I got so sick that I had to quit my job and was living at home in my late 20's, I literally ran away from anyone who MIGHT ask, 'so what have you been up to?' I have been alive for 30 nearly years, I have been (some sort of) sick for maybe 13 years, and a good 8 or 9 of those feeling too embarrassed or guilty to be honest about who I really am. 

I blog, and I Facebook and Instagram about my Endometriosis and the Anxiety Monster because of panicking moms in Turkey. Because of people all over the world who should never feel embarrassed or guilty, because I no longer do. 

Efron Induced

September, 8th 2015

You know what's weird?  Experiencing a panic attack in the car. 

Usually the moment it starts I head for the bathroom.  9 times out of 10 it's my own bathroom, which says a lot about my current social life.  The bathroom is my designated recovery zone.  I usually end up sitting on the toilet for a few minutes, then sitting on the floor for a few minutes, and going back and forth until the attack is over.  Sometimes I think that my panic attacks usually happen at home because my brain NEEDS to have them, but also knows that home is the easiest place for me to recover. 

This time though, my husband and I were in the movie theater.  Zac Efron was tripping on PCP, and the camera angles went weird and the soundtrack got too loud, and I panicked.  Which is new.  New is fucking infuriating.  Make believe things never used to make me panic.  I never used to get dizzy watching a huge moving screen (a roller coaster would literally murder me right now).  I never used to HAVE to cry during an attack.  Now I do, and I fucking hate it. 

Initially I retreated to the theater bathroom, obviously far less comforting then my own bathroom.  There's usually terrible music, there's no room in the stall to sit anywhere but on the toilet, and no matter how far away from the door your stall is and how empty the rest of the bathroom is, someone always chooses to use the stall right next to yours.  It wasn't good enough. I tried for another few minutes to sit back in the theater and hold my husband's hand, but I needed MY bathroom.  In order to get from the public bathroom to my bathroom, we needed to get in the car. 

It's actually only a 5 minute drive back to our house, but it blew my mind.  When you're panicking in the bathroom, it's just you and the fan, and whoever you're texting.  That's it, that's the whole world, for the time being.  Driving home though, I saw the truth; the entire universe continues to spin whether you're functioning properly or not.  There were other couples starting their movie date night, people stocking up for the weekend at the LCBO, people walking through the parking lot with their gym bags.  There was an older couple walking hand in hand, a bunch of people gardening or cutting the grass.  Cars and trees and intersections and what seemed like the entire rest of the world being completely normal and care-free, while I held my seat belt away from my chest trying to talk my pounding heart down, and attempted to hold my tears in until I got home. 

Literally 5 minutes down a single street (also, granted a painfully long traffic light..that's painful even when I'm not dying), and I have never felt so fucking small.  Now I can't deny that while I can't even sit through a crappy movie...while I can hardly breathe...there are a million people being productive and contributing to the world.  There are people giving birth and people getting home late from work, people researching a cure for cancer and getting on a plane to go build schools in a third world country.  And I can't even breathe. 

When I'm on the bathroom floor, I'm oblivious to such things.  As far as I'm concerned, the rest of the world pauses, while I catch my breath. 

Mother vs. Monster

It is harder.

It is so much harder dealing with my illness, and the anxiety that walks hand in hand, now that I have a baby.

I don't think I ever thought it would be easier as a mother, but I hadn't imagined it'd be this much harder. And my heart hurts a lot admitting that. I keep hearing outsiders wonder, 'Why would you have a baby if you can't take care of it properly?' And that's how the Monster makes me feel.

I had surgery 5 weeks ago, and that's when my current spiral (a term Google taught me, very similar to 'falling off the wagon' but for someone who before had their mental illness in check) began. I still don't know why this surgery, and everything surrounding it, felt so different...so much worse. This was my third Laporoscopy and the first two went swimmingly! Of course it's natural to be anxious before you're about to be sliced open, but I was fairly confident going into this one. More then confident, I was excited, knowing that this surgery would bring me relief from my physical illness, and that would make mothering even more wonderful.

The hospital policies had changed a bit since my last surgery, and that threw me off. I didn't get my IV (always the worst part for me) until I was in the OR instead of in my pre-op room where my husband was there to hold my hand. The newness lit the anxious match. The anesthetist missed my first vein and the flop sweats and creepy crawlies kicked in. And this time, I honestly don't know why, I fought going under. Suddenly I hated that sleepy high! This was also when I realized for the very first time (due to the tickle on my nose from the oxygen mask) that they strap your wrists to the table, and had the drugs not kicked in when they did, I would have been on the floor at that point.

So I went under in a panic, and that's how I woke up. Coming in and out of sleep, not knowing where I was...a nurse had to find my purse and rummage through for my Ativan. And that was where it all started, this 5 weeks of feeling like a shitty mom thanks to the Anxiety Monster.

While I was in surgery I had an IUD put back in. The idea was to stunt my cycle as soon as my insides had been cleared of all current Endometriosis, in hopes of warding off new growths for as long as possible. This particular IUD releases progesterone, which was all fine and dandy when I had one 2 years ago, but it turns out having a baby can permanently FUCK up your natural hormones...and my postpartum hormones instantly clashed with the IUD hormones. And when I say clash, I mean more of a war. A blood bath of a war leaving nothing but destruction in its path.

The first night after surgery I woke up in the midst of a panic attack. This is called a nocturnal attack, they are horrifying, and this one was triggered by a super strange (not necessarily a nightmare) dream that I could not keep myself awake from. In all my anxious years, Id never experienced an attack triggered by a bad dream. It was a full blown run to the bathroom floor, get the garbage can ready, cold cloth, frantic texting attack. The same thing happened every night afterwards. At first I blamed the painkillers. But it only takes one good attack to start the spiral.

If I felt an attack brewing 13 months ago, I would drop whatever I was doing, I would take the Ativan, I would take my sweet time laying on the floor, I would call in sick, and I would sleep for hours until the panic hangover passed. But 13 months ago I didn't have a baby.

Two weeks ago an attack came out of nowhere (that's kind of a lie, I was super nauseous, so I'm sure that was the trigger) while I was feeding my baby his nap time bottle. We were just sitting on the couch watching the last night's Bachelorette, and I kept telling myself to ignore the hot prickles and the pounding chest. The second you at all acknowledge the Monster though, he just tightens his grip. Suddenly I was sure I was about to throw up and/or shit my pants and/or pass out, and his bottle lands on the floor next to where I sit him and run the the toilet. Of course he crawls in after me with absolutely no idea, as I call my dad who's upstairs in his office, and ask him to come finish nap time. And then I bawl.

Panicking and bawling because what the fuck would I have done if we lived on our own, or my dad wasn't home to look after my baby while I was dying in the bathroom? It is MY job to give him his bottle and rock him to sleep, and for the first time since becoming a mother, the Monster was robbing me of that. Robbing me blind.

Over the next few weeks, I continued to wake up sweating and pounding and frantically trying to keep awake out of weird dreams. Our son isn't confidently sleeping through the night still, so as I'm grabbing my glasses and my phone and my tummy pillow to run to the toilet, Id also wake my husband up to let me know that he had to be on call if the baby woke up. Again, that's my job.

The nocturnal attacks murdered my confidences and engrained a sense of anxiety in my brain again. I was growing afraid to go to sleep, and the attacks started happening during the day too. Being a mom means being a receptacle for guilt. Our baby had a rough delivery which kept me from holding him for hours, and that's a guilt I honestly don't think I'll ever overcome. Every mother (parent) experiences guilt revolving around what you are and aren't feeding your baby, whether you've got them on the right schedule, whether you should go back to work or not. Since becoming a mother though, no parenting choice or incident or judgement has made me feel anywhere near as guilty as the Monster has.

Some days it feels like my baby is spending more time in his crib with Bubble Guppies on, and I'm spending more time on the bathroom floor telling myself to just breathe, then we're spending time together. And that guilt is crushing. It got to a point where my husband had to take a few days off work because my dad was away for business, and I NEEDED someone else around just in case it struck while I had the baby. And that made me feel pathetic.

It is so much harder, being sick and being anxious now that I am a mother. However, this baby has me far more motivated to climb out of this panic pit, then I ever have been before. The Anxiety Monster crawls between me and my baby, and I've never wanted revenge as desperately as I do now.

So I did a lot of research, and talked to my doctor. Nocturnal panic attacks (whether you have a preexisting disorder or not) are on the list of the IUD side effects. No, I never experienced that side effect the first time I had an IUD in, but my natural hormones were in a completely different state back then. So a week ago I had it taken out. I am back on my original birth control (hello, high school Jorja!) and will take it constantly for 3 months, before reassessing the situation. I have a RAGING period now, but no weird dreams I can't wake up from, and no desperate attacks since.

Now all that's let to do is stay conscious, stay brave, and continue to work through the lingering anxiety that always follows a hugs episode. As luck would have it, my baby and I leave for a week away with my mother up north at 6:30am tomorrow, so the timing of my anxiety recovery is in no way ideal.

I know the Monster wants to travel with us, and I just need to be aware of that, and accept it. I will believe that taking as many Ativans as I need to survive the flights and the days away from my comfy place, is totally acceptable and we can worry about weaning off it again once we are back home safe. I will not feel like a pathetic failure of a mother is I need my mother's help to survive these next few days without my husband. I will be brave, and soon enough it'll all be ok.

The battle continues, maybe it will continue forever between me and the Monster. But now I am a mother, and that makes it all very different.

#momlife

Today I felt the full spectrum of #momlife, in one small moment. 

In the last year I have blogged an amazingly disappointing amount.  That's just a fact.  What I hate even more, is the weeks that go between the pages in my personal journal.  These are the most important days of my life, and yet I'm writing about them far less then every other day of my life.  I'm still trying to wrap my head around the psychology behind that...maybe I wrote more because back then my brain needed more distraction, and I needed more time to process my thoughts, and understand my days, where as now my feelings are obvious, and I know that this is where I am supposed to be, and this is my life. #mombrain is something that lasts far beyond 'new mommyhood', I'm not even going to try to ponder all that right now. I know though, that a big part of why I don't write, or type is exhaustion. And the fact that there aren't enough hours in the day anymore!  And also, I now run a small business that's heavily social media based, so while I used to journal regularly in the bathroom (where I've always had to spend too much time), I'm now answering emails and using adorable apps to create adorable graphics for my adorable Instagram contests. (Case in point, I started typing this two days ago...) 

All of which is beside the point.  Except for the exhaustion.  That is in fact the whole point. And the exhaustion peaked today. 

In the first few months of being a parent you're amazed to learn how little sleep you need to survive.  Or perhaps you simply ignore the tired ache in your brain, because 'they're a baby and they're supposed to be up all night long!'  I also didn't care much about accomplishing anything but keeping my baby alive and happy in those first few months.  I've always hated laundry, vacuuming could be done another day because it's not like he's crawling around yet, I definitely don't NEED to shower (just change my undies and my spit-up covered clothes every day) because there's an abundance of perfectly capable baby wipes everywhere I look!  I was also already sick enough from the Endometriosis that was semi-dormant while pregnant, that I didn't have to spend much time eating.  Any 'free time' I had could be spent sleeping when he slept, and I loved it. He made the schedule, and I went with it.  And I loved him so much I didn't care if I ever slept again!

Months later, it's not that I don't love him that much anymore.  In fact I'm amazed every single day because I love him more then yesterday, when yesterday I already thought there was no way I could love anything any more then I love him!  Eventually the house really did need to be cleaned though, and my booming mommy social life meant needing to actually shower, and I was oddly driven to create a mountain of work for myself by starting a little business. Suddenly the lack of sleep hit me like a brick wall.  Over and over, and every morning when I woke up. 

Until he started SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!?!!!?!  Which requires multiple punctuations, because I think at some point most parents terrifyingly accept that they will never sleep a full nights sleep until their kid is like 15...only once they're 15 you'll be up all night worrying about them making the wrong friends and missing curfew, and holy shit was that the front door?!  Did he just sneak out?!  But around 6 months old, after a little work, our baby started sleeping 9pm-7:30am.  Every night! Sometimes he'd need a little rock after (I assumed) a bad dream, but his new night sleeps were so glorious I couldn't care less about the fact that he still hates to nap unless he's on you, or in the car.  I could go upstairs to 'my office' for a few hours, and still get a very decent nights sleep, and my brain and my body quickly got (re)used to it.  When he'd have a random off night, it would throw me RIGHT off too. My brain got used to functioning WITH sleep again so quickly, that not getting enough sleep suddenly felt much worse then it did before.  Regardless of the months I spent never sleeping in the beginning. 

This week, every night has been an off night.  For 5 nights now he, and therefor I (because Daddy is working the early shift, and operates heavy machinery, and therefor needs to sleep all night more then I do), have not slept more then 2.5 consecutive hours. And yet he's still up for the day at 7:30am.  And he still thinks real naps are dumb.  And today it broke me, for a small moment. 

It wasn't just his shitty sleeping at fault, of course.  This strange phase of his obviously had to align with my lady-cycle.  And when you have Endometriosis every day feels like a PMSing period day, and the actual PMSing period days feel like the first few aching, exhausted, barfy, far too emotional months of pregnancy AND the excruciatingly painful, draining, barfy last few days of pregnancy, all at the same time.  It may not sound like much (maybe I didn't use enough scary words), but it was enough to break me, for a moment. 

Side note: how does HE function without sleep?!  No, he doesn't have to work and clean up, and plan a Birthday party, and book 5 appointments, and fill 5 orders, and push a stroller around.  But one would assume that GROWING, and learning where your ears are, and how to feed yourself, and how to walk, and where the the treats are hidden must require some sort of energy-making rest, right?!

After being up and down all last night, to the point where we kicked daddy out of bed (to go SLEEP upstairs) so that I could at least lay down and rock him every hour, I thought I could at least look forward to a co-sleeping nap after our morning snack.  I played our Disney lullabies, turned the fan on, snuggled him close, and rocked us.  It's actually something I've grown to love deeply.  He's slept-slept in his own bed since day one (besides these off nights), never in our bed or a bassinet in our room, so I quickly (secretly) fell in love with the fact that he napped better/longer when we were doing it together.  After two songs he was out cold, and I rolled him off my throbbing shoulder, and closed my eyes.  And 15 minutes later he was screaming and crying and flailing, and I lost it. 

I ugly-cried like it was my job, sobs and snots and huge exhales.  I just lay there under our covers with my hands over my eyes, while he sat up and started flopping around. They were sad and frustrated and overwhelmed tears.  They were 'I can't/don't want to do this anymore' tears.  And then those tears made me feel like a fucking asshole, so then they were guilty tears! But what happened next brought on like, a monsoon of tears.  Happy, blessed, thankful tears. 

He found his sucky that he'd hid under the duvet (his favorite new instead-of-sleeping game), and he stuck it right in my face!  Because that's what suckies are for!  For making the sad stop!  Then he used my forehead to balance, and leaned over top of my face and kissed me.  My nearly one-year-old kissed me, without being asked to.  And my chest exploded.  Just exploded. 

In the last 51 weeks we have had the lowest lows and highest highs, as a family.  And in that little nap time moment I felt them all, all over again.  From feeling like an absolutely miserable failure, to realizing that in less then a year we have grown the most remarkable human being.  He is just a teeny boy, but a long with crawling and dancing, facial features and how to sign 'more', he knows how to empathize.  Most importantly, he knows how to love.  At 51 weeks old, he realizes that he has the power to make the world a happier place, and he accepts that responsibility.  And we did that.  And I think, in quite a timely fashion, that moment was the greatest moment of this #momlife so far. 

(That moment, and also the first time he used his pincer grasp!!! Fuck I love the pincers!!)

All Hail The Queen

I sometimes wonder if readers have noticed the absence of a queen in this fairytale. There have been many posts about my Princes, and King, and super heroes, and monsters, and a little teddy bear, but never a Queen. 

The Queen-Princess relationship is one I have struggled with for many years. It's a struggle I've often wanted to blog about, but she is a loyal reader, and I hate hurting feelings. I know though, it's a struggle that comes naturally, and is relatable amongst the vast majority of Queens and Princesses. It's one of the reasons I feared having a baby girl, because I personally am not able to envision that relationship transitioning from parent-child to adult-adult very smoothly. Are there mothers and daughters that survived the teenage years, and remained best friends throughout it all? 

We are not best friends, my mother and I. That's a simple fact. Ta da! Lol. She is not my best friend, and she's not the best person I've ever known in my entire life, but that doesn't hinder my claim that she was the best mommy. Ever. 

Regardless of the ways relationships inevitably change as we all become our own people, you would have a very hard time trying to convince me that your mommy was even a smidgen better then MY mommy, when we were growing up. 

My mommy was Christmas and Easter and Valentines Day and Halloween. She was the tooth fairy, and the barf-cleaner-upper. She packed our lunches right through high school, and hosted the greatest Birthday parties. She helped with the homework, drove to dance classes and soccer games, planned the family vacations. She was gentle, and then angry when she needed to be. She loved her kids fiercely and unconditionally. As a kid, these were all the things I loved her for. As a mother myself now, these are the things I finally appreciate the way they deserve to be appreciated. 

This is my very first Mother's Day. Imagine that! Naturally I'm feeling an overwhelming amount of excitement and thankfulness, and wonderment for all that my life has become since receiving the title, 'Mom'. But as excited as I am for myself, I've found myself thinking far more about my own mommy these last few days. 

I can not say that she is my best friend now, but I can without a doubt say that during the years we needed mothering, the Queen in this story was the very kind of mother I want to be for my baby. And I can never thank her enough for being that mother. 

Back And Forward Steps (Kind Of Like A Dance)

When you become a mommy, you find this sense of power. Super power. I made life, and not even Batman can do that! I made life and I'm keeping it alive! I know when that life needs to eat, when he's too sleepy, when he just wants to be held even though I have a million other things to do..and I know these things despite the fact that he can't say more then, 'grrrr'. Super power. 

For the longest time, almost 7 months (Ps. I do indeed win the award for laziest blogger) I felt invincible. I have been remarkably productive, despite never feeling actually awake, I have been more social on a daily basis than ever before, more confident, more in love, more proud of myself. But that feeling couldn't last forever.

Every time anxiety hits, really hits, the recovery process has to start all over again. After months of being panic attack free (the low grade anxiety hovers on a regular basis, but I hadn't had an attack since laboring), one night of hit-the-floor panic, and we're back to square one. It's been 48 hours since the sudden spinning, and the sweating and the pounding through my chest, and I'm quite sure the initial threat/ fear has been eradicated. And yet, this next week will be spent constantly reassuring myself, undressing and redressing to battle the warring sweats and chills, and regular stops to put my hand on my chest and close my eyes and ask it to beat a little slower. I'll spend the next few days reminding myself that I don't NEED an Ativan right now, but feeling like I need one doesn't make me a loser. 

If you've made your way through past posts of mine, you know that my anxiety is very much fear-based, that my greatest fear is not being physically in control of my body, and that being sick to my stomach is my least favorite way to lose control. So much so, that when someone else gets sick to their stomach, and it's something I can catch, I panic.  And that's what happened this weekend. And that's something I've worried about ever since deciding to have a baby. 

On Thursday night our son threw up for the first time. I'd always wondered if you could tell the difference between a baby spitting you and throwing up. You can. And it was awful, and everywhere, and I panicked. At first it was totally normal mommy panic... I peeled his jammies off, stripped his bed, and we jumped into the shower. And he was fine, for almost a half hour, and then it happened again. And that's when I panic-panicked. I knew he was sick. And instead of remaining calm for him, I needed an Ativan, and called my husband to come home early from work. While laying with him on a towel on the couch, I was having hot flashes and spinning and wondering what the hell I was going to do with him when I started throwing up. But I didn't, we took him to emerge, and everything was ok. 

On Saturday night though, it hit my husband, and that's when I hit the floor. The panic hit me so quickly that I physically hit the floor, and prepared myself to be sick. He threw up on the couch, while I sat on our bathroom floor, and my dad brought the baby up to his room. It didn't take too long to remind myself of the hundreds of times he'd looked after me while sick, and I was able to get him a cold cloth, and drugs, and rinse out his bucket. I'm proud to say that I was able to put my anxiety away enough, eventually (with the help of Ativan) and care for our baby by myself all day Sunday, while he rested. 

But I remained completely jittery and on edge, and prepared. Being prepared is one of the only ways those of us with anxiety, can curb it. And how do you prepare for the tummy flu? You make sure your bathroom is clean, and your toilet is always flushed. You make sure there is Gravol and Ativan and Imodium in the bathroom, and your bedroom, and the living room, anywhere that the initial getting sick can start. You make sure you know everyone else's schedule, and reassure yourself that if worse comes to worst, someone else will be able to help you get through it. And most importantly, to me, as mental as it sounds, you don't eat. 

It's a gross fact that I convinced myself of when I first got sick: if my tummy is empty, there won't be much to come out when I get sick. A psychiatrist once referred to it as an involuntary eating disorder. My desire has never been to lose weight, but to protect myself. A logic that obviously doesn't make sense to most others! It is half the reason I lost almost 40lbs after high school, the other half being that I spent/spend so much time throwing up and at risk of shitting my pants thanks to Endometriosis. But that's old news. 

I woke up Monday morning, after getting little sleep with a fussy baby (he was healing himself, and I'm quite sure he can tell that something was wrong), and it was officially my turn. In a way I was relieved, that I hadn't been freaking out for no reason, that my yucky predictions were correct. And yet, I always feel caught off guard when panic sets in. I yelled to my husband that he had to be the one to get the baby when he woke up, and took familiar comfort in how cold the bathroom floor always is. I have become a pro at being sick, you know? I know to get an Ativan under my tongue before it all comes out for the first time, I know to grab a bucket (because sometimes you need the toilet and a bucket) and a cold cloth, and I no longer NEED someone next to me while it's happening. I used to spend hours, days on the bathroom floor too terrified to leave, but now I can sit down, do my business, and find my way back to my much comfier and cleaner bed, until it's time to do it again. But I still rely on Ativan, and Gravol comas. And this time, grandparents to look after our baby while we emptied out and recover! I can't even tell you what a relief it is, as much as I desperately hate knowing that he's not outside our door right now, knowing that he is safe, and happy, and being better taken care of at my mom's tonight. 

I'm pretty sure more than one person would think that if I can't be sick AND be a mommy at the same time, then I shouldn't be a mommy. Sometimes I think that too, actually. But this is 48 hours out of the year (knock on wood, the bug tends to only hit you once a year) and so I remind myself there are 8,712 hours during which I am the best mommy. I remind myself that the best children are the ones who grow up with parents who aren't afraid to ask for help. Right? I hate thinking that the moment things get tough, I give my baby away... But I know he's FAR better off playing, and snuggling at Nana's, then being stuck on the bathroom floor next to me all day. I can barely lift my head (I started typing this 2 days ago, and get dizzy and winded just moving my fingers around my phone after 15 minutes), never mind a 7 month old, so the simple fact is that he is safer with someone else right now. Clearly I'm just trying to justify my actions to all the other judgy super moms out there that don't even break a sweat when they start puking, with 3 kids running around, and a dinner party to host in a few hours. Those moms are assholes, but I do bow down to them. 

The point is, becoming a mother, surviving a baby coming out of your body and then raising him, that equals super powers. Unfortunately, even super powers don't keep the anxiety monster away. Because he's not easily intimidated, and he's not an empathetic monster. He doesn't realize that someone like me can no longer afford panic attacks, now that I have a baby to look after. He doesn't give a shit!

I will get better at this, though. This balance between caring for myself while also having to care for my child. I have years to practice. And I will work hard. My son inspires me to be better at it. It's remarkable how resilient babies are, mind blowing actually. He'd be limp, and look sad for maybe 60 seconds after throwing up, but then he was laughing and squealing and doing his little humpy dance. I need to learn from that. And I need to do whatever I can to keep fear away from him. At 7 months old he is already stronger, and braver (and better looking) then I am, and I will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. 

The messy part is finally over for us all (my dad also got sick today!), and now we just have to recover slowly. This is the point where I have to start constantly reminding myself that it's over, that I'm going to be back to my old self, physically, in less then another 24 hours. Like I said, it may take the rest of the week to find my way back to a place where the teeniest tummy gurgle doesn't make me lunge for an Ativan. It will be a while before I can fall asleep confident that I won't throw up again as soon as I wake up. But that's just me, that's my reality. And I'm pretty sure that looking forward to dancing around and being silly with my baby again, is as great a motivator, as it is new! Years ago, I'd hide safely in my bed for a week after being this sick, but that can't happen now that I'm a mommy. Now smushing those perfect smirky cheeks again, is far more appealing to me.