Mother's Lie - Chapter 2: Colic...say it again and I might punch you in the face

“Baby colic (also known as infantile colic) is a condition in which an otherwise healthy baby cries or displays symptoms of distress (cramping, moaning, etc.) frequently and for extended periods, without any discernible reason.”

Swear words don't bother me. I swear. I swear a lot. I know it's a lazy way to express myself but sometimes saying FCUK!  feels better than DAMN. Just does. I don't even get offended by 'that' word...you know the one that all women hate apparently? I don't like it or use it but I'm not particularly bothered by it either.

There is however a word that not only gives me chills but actually makes my stomach turn and can make me instantly incensed…Colic.

I think my ‘baby bliss’ lasted about 12 hours. 

And then the crying wouldn’t stop.

At first she would cry for an hour…I thought that was bad but I had no idea what I was in store for.

I’ll never forget the look on my husband’s face. He left for work for his first day back after the birth of our daughter.  I was in my bathrobe, she in my arms…screaming.  Although completely unfair, I hated him a little for it and he knew it.  He was able to escape...I was not.

But that’s not the look that is burned into my memory that every now and then surfaces and gives me a little twang somewhere deep in my heart.  It was the look when he arrived home after a full day of work to find me in my bathrobe…she in my arms…screaming.

The weeks that followed were the same…some days better and some worse.  It’s interesting what happens to you.  You would think that it would numb you or that you would somehow get used to the sound but to this day, a screaming child rocks me to my core.

I won’t depress you with the details on the many trips to the doctors office where I begged, crying and pleading for her to check to see what was wrong. I was told is “she’s got colic” and was sent home time after time.  I remember one time my doctor saying, “I’m worried about you” and I think my response was “so am I”.

I looked up the description for Colic in every book and website I could find but the description never changed. I was perplexed.  Was it only me that read this description and realised it meant nothing?  I mean really, it basically says "we don't know what's wrong with your baby so we'll give it a name and send you home until it goes away". 

I was perplexed.  I was frustrated.  I felt cheated.  I felt alone. I felt abandoned. I was angry. 

I wanted help.

It's funny how life works.  The person who finally helped me?  my daughter.  How?  She threw up blood.

As we waited to see a doctor in emergency all I could think of was...if they say the word "colic" I'm going to punch someone in the face, directly in the face.

You can imagine my surprise when they head paediatrician looked at me and said "your child has reflux, probably a sever case."  she hadn't even touched her...she got this from my explanation of what we had endured the last four weeks.

I weep when I think about it to this day.  My child suffered in pain and agony for 4 weeks to the point that her insides were raw and began to bleed...and I did nothing to help her.  Aren't we supposed to protect them?  Fight for them?  it doesn't matter what anyone says, I fell like I failed her.  I am her mother, I knew something was wrong and I should have fought harder.

We spent the next week in hospital with her, her one arm bare because of the IV drip...oh did I fail to mention he was severely dehydrated too?  and had a milk allergy that was undiagnosed? 

Oddly, that was the best week I had spent with her until that point.  I remember sitting and looking at her as she lay on her back on the hospital bed, looking up at me and I started to cry.  No, I started to sob.  When the nurse asked me what was wrong all I could say was "this is the first time we've done this..."  "done what?" she asked me  "it's the first time we've looked each other in the eye's without screaming and wailing".  She was a month old.

I'd like to say that it got easier.  It got less hard.  We had to get to know each other.  I think, and I still do to this day that my daughter gets frustrated easily and cries quickly because it's what she knows...she tried so long to tell me what was wrong but I just didn't understand.  I try to take my time with her and be patient in hopes that I will teach her better ways to communicate.

Who my daughter is now is almost hard to describe in words.  She is truly amazing, remarkable even.  She is smart, beyond smart really.  She is the funniest person I know, she makes me belly laugh...you know that laugh that makes you cry of joy?  She is affectionate and kind and has true good in her heart.  My daughter will do great things in this life and in this world, of that I have no doubt.

I write this entry with the hope that it reaches someone that is going through what I went through and that it offers a glimmer of hope and comfort.  If someone had said to me back then that I would do it all again just to have this joy in my life now - I might not have believed it.  But if it came from someone who felt the sorrow, the pain, the loneliness, the heartbreak, the disappointment, the cheat, and the frustration...well then I would have had some hope.  And that might have made it a little easier.  I remember once finding a post from a dad who had a baby who suffered from endless hours of crying and I remember finding comfort in his words...yes comfort because it was the first time that I thought "I'm not the only one going through this!".

I feel that as women, mothers and fathers, we need to share the hard times and be honest about what we feel and the struggles we have.  I worry that if we aren't honest about the hard times that we will alienate those 'sisters' that need us most. 

I love my daughter with every inch of my heart and soul.  She has made my life richer and more complete and I thank her every day for being the amazing creature that she is and for bringing so much joy into my life.  The struggles I had with her have made me a stronger person and I believe, a better mother.  I share these stories not for sympathy or pity, I share them in the hopes that it gives someone, even just one person going through this a sense of hope and maybe even a little comfort.

If you ask me today, "was it worth it?"  I'll tell you this - my daughter has made me a better person who loves life and lives it much more fully than I ever have.  I love deeper and stronger and I can find joy and beauty in things I never even noticed before.  So in other words, HELL YA!

Mother's Lie - Chapter 3- Stroller-Gangs

I hated maternity leave. Yup, sure did. All those idyllic images of walks with my baby in a stroller through the park while sipping my Starbucks non-fat chai latte in my lulu lemon outfit (this image also included a fully toned, baby weight ridden version of myself...just so we are all on the same page of altered reality) all went out the window on my first solo outing with baby in tow.

It looked more like this: washed hair that air dried - think Nick Nolte's mug shot...if you haven't seen it, Google it - trust me, you need the visual. Dirty x-large Old Navy sweatpants...lulu lemon doesn't make size “mommy doesn't have a nanny so she's still the size of a truck" but thankfully Old Navy does. While getting the stroller out of the car, the dog jumped out, coffee spilled on my pants, the stroller and the dog - serves him right - and woke the baby. Urg. The "walk" lasted about five minutes before the screams shamed me into getting back into the car to both hide...and cry.

I can laugh at it now...after a numbing glass of wine.

Anyway, I learned that the mall is a much better place to 'walk' with a newborn. It's also instant therapy. Every time I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and after the shudder of disappointment and self-loathing was over, I could buy a purse...because my 'purse size' hadn't changed.

And this is where I saw them for the first time. Stroller-Gangs.

I remember walking past the mall coffee shop, seeing a group of mom's sitting together sipping coffee and chatting while bouncing their new born babies or rocking their strollers back and forth in almost a hypnotic rhythm of calm. This was a vision...maybe a mirage.

I didn’t realize how deprived I was of social interaction until I came upon this group of cohorts. The sense of longing and the need to belong was so overwhelming I had to steady myself in fear that might run over to one of those mom's and throw my arms around them.

I kept my composure, ordered my coffee and proceeded to an empty table as close to the group as possible. Like a teenage girl on a first date or the new kid in the playground I would glance over and smile at the group and waited for the inevitable invitation to join their merry group.

The invitation never came.

I remember feeling like the pimple faced chubby kid at the grade 8 school dance leaning against the wall, waiting to be asked to dance but knowing deep down inside that the only dancing I would be doing was the 80's side-to-side step. You know the one.

It was only when I noticed a few moms’ staring at me that I realized my child was screaming at me from her stroller. I quickly got up, left my coffee untouched on the table and hastily made my exit.

I wish this story had a better ending. I wish I could tell you that as I ran away down the hall of this shopping centre that one or all of the mom's followed me asking if I needed assistance. But that's a fairy tale and this is life. I wish that I could tell you that this didn't happen to me many other times and in different locations until I gave up trying and ended up spending my afternoons in Chapters, my child in a sling, sipping my chai latte and reading the novels I never had the time to read before.

A few months later when having coffee in an outdoor cafe with my sister and daughter I noticed a lady sitting on her own with a newborn, sipping her coffee while her baby slept. I could recognize that look anywhere...I had seen it many times in the mirror.

I think I startled her a little when I said "hello" and started the conversation with "it's lonely isn't it?" We ended up turning our chairs to face each other and chatted about the struggles of being a new mom, the changes to your life and its demands and most importantly, how utterly alone you can feel.

To this day people are shocked when I talk about this or when I make comments about what I experienced. My friends who are pregnant now or who are new mom's look at me a little cautiously when I tell them the ugly truth's about pregnancy, birth and the first days of being alone with a child and thinking "how the hell am I going to do this".

Now I'm not saying that everyone goes through this or that it's all bad, quite the contrary. I wish that someone had said to me: you are going to have days that you have no idea why you did this! Days where you wish you could run away, days where you long for your old life and its freedoms. But then you are going to have those days where it all makes sense and no words can describe the love you feel for this child who looks at you as if to say "I'm here because of you."

These days I have 'those' days all the time. The love I have for my child was worth every bit of pain, hurt, struggle, loneliness I ever felt. I just wish someone had been honest with me about what I might face.

So, new mom's - when another mom says "oh Jimmy was sleeping through the night at 7 days old..." or "Emily? She eats like a champ, poops twice a day and is always happy".

They are full of shit. Plain and simple.

Interaction and friendship are necessities of life. As women and ESPECIALLY as new mothers, let’s be kinder to each other. Instead of staring at the mother whose child is screaming, lean over and say with a smile "been there." We all have. 

 

"A mom first" ? The politically incorrect answer

Why is it that when a woman who happens to be a mother is asked to describe herself usually says "I'm a mom first...."  And if they don't, it raises eyebrows.

I'm not going to get into a sexist rant about how men don't say "I'm a father first" and about how they are not judged for doing so - that's not the point of this post, nor do I feel that's the issue.

Why is it that every time I read an article or see an interview with a strong, successful woman who happens to be a mother, they almost always say "I'm a mom first". 

Really? 

Did what defined us before children change with the arrival of them?  Does everything and everyone automatically take a back seat?  What exactly are we telling our girls then?

I remember once hearing this woman speak about how one of the worst lessons her mom ever taught her was that as a mother you sacrifice for everyone else.  It caught me off guard because my initial thought was "well isn't that what mothers do?"  I remember her saying that when preparing dinner, her mother would take the burnt or dropped or smallest piece of chicken in order to ensure her family had the best.  While putting herself last. 

So what exactly are we teaching our girls?  Strive for the best!  Be all that you can be! Don't let anyone put you down! Insist on equality!  Oh and when you have a family, shelve that - you come last.

So maybe the parallel between chicken and family succession is weak at best but don't our children learn by example?

I'd like to believe that what defines me changes.  That as my passions and drive changes, so does what defines me.  I hope that one day when someone asks my daughter what kind of mom I am that she answers "I'll tell you what kind of woman she is".

Faith?

I've been feeling distraught.  I think that's the best way to describe it.   

The events of late have made me yearn for a simpler time - as I'm sure many are.  Lets not kid ourselves, there was still crime and violence in our day.  Children were abducted, hate crimes occurred and people died. But as children we walked the streets without the fear of bombs and chemical warfare. 

Today I logged into Facebook, my socially acceptable guilty pleasure and read a story about a guy who takes his elderly dog into a lake everyday to sooth his arthritis and provide him some comfort.

Then I read a story of a severely malnourished pup that was literally skin and bones and who was nursed back to health and is thriving today. 

Then I read a quote by Gandhi reminding us to not lose faith in humanity, that a few dirty drops in an ocean does not pollute the entire sea.

As I'm sitting at my computer reading one story after another I realised that I'm crying.  Yes, I do a lot of that after becoming a mother but this was different.  I was crying because I was being reminded of the good in the world.  That in a day of violence, of terror, of complete disregard for human life...there is good.  Not just good but pure selflessness.

Bad things happen, bad people do bad things that we can't control.  But I feel like if we lose faith, if we give up on humanity then they have done far worse than bomb innocent people and take innocent lives.

So I'm going to force myself out of this funk.  I'm going to hold my head up high and I'm going to think of those people who died in Boston and smile - smile because I want to remember them in life, remember them in pleasure, not pain and honor them with keeping faith by recognising the good that happens each and every day.

I guess the fairy tales were right…evil does exist.

I've been thinking about starting a blog for about a year now...maybe longer.  I keep finding excuses as to why I don't have the time...and all those other reasons that we make up to avoid starting something that might be a little intimidating.  Writing your thoughts down is intimidating.  Putting those words swirling around you head down on paper or screen for everyone to see...down right scary.  But hey, life's all about taking the chances that scare the crap out of you.

Is it surprising that the events in Boston yesterday happen to be the thing that triggers me into action?  Not to me. 

The bombing at the Boston Marathon has affected me enormously. Why?  I'm a runner.  I'm a mom.  I'm a wife.  I'm a human being that respects life...even the lives of those who have different views and beliefs. 

I'm scheduled to run the Boston half marathon in October.  My plan was to run the full marathon in the next few years.  The commitment, drive and sheer will needed to complete a race of that kind is only outweighed by the pride and sense of accomplishment one would feel at completing that race.  That's my feeling anyway.

That's not why this affected me so much.  This is why. 

Last May I ran my first ever 10K.  Might not sound like much but two months earlier I couldn't run a city block.  No joke.  I knew I wouldn't be able to run the full 10K.  By the race date the most I had run without stopping was 3K.  As I stood at the starting gate with 10,000 other runners I was nervous...nervous is an understatement.  I was happy that it was a little chilly out so that my shaking could be disguised as cold and not what it really was.  I was scared.  I was alone. I was intimidated.

When the horns went off for my group to go, my heart was firmly planted in my throat.  I think I was holding my breath for at least the first 200 meters.  As I ran down Yonge Street in Toronto I was suddenly very aware of the crowds of people lining the streets.  I remember thinking "why are all these people here so early on a Sunday?"  The my 'common sense' part of my brain thought "oh, they are trying to cross the street, they are trying to get places for Mother's Day". 

I was wrong.  As I continued to run I noticed that they were not in fact trying to cross the road.  They were cheering.  These people were lining a city street, ringing bells, cheering out and holding signs of encouragement.  All for total strangers.  Why?  I'm not sure.  Was it because we, as runners, raised money for a charity?  because we were achieving goals?  because they wanted to support their neighbours, community, friends?  does it matter?  All I know is that they gave me the strength to continue, to run harder, to breath deeper and mostly to feel proud of what I was there to do.

As I approached the finish line, tears streaming down my face and feeling pride in literally every ounce of my body, like it was pouring out of my finger tips, all I could think of was seeing my daughter and my husband on the other side of that clock. 

STOP.

What if it stopped there.  What if I never got to cross the line.   Never got to rush to them, hold them, cry tears of joy, be a true example to my daughter of accomplishing goals and achieving anything you put your mind and heart to!

I think of that.  I keep thinking of that.  I promise to keep thinking of that, if for no other reason than the fact that I did get to cross the line.  I did get to hold my daughter.  And I will again today.