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.
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.
