Six Weeks of Misery

(Since I originally wrote this, 12 people senselessly died in Colorado. In light of this, complaining about a short run of minor health issues seems petty. I am grateful that my family is healthy and safe. My hearts go out to the victims and their families.)

Until 6 weeks ago, I'd never been a big believer in karma. But after three hospital stays and one slightly abbreviated fingertip, I am wondering what I did in this and my past life to deserve such a run of bad luck.

June 9, 2012

My appendix decides my body is no longer a welcoming host and takes the laparoscopic way out. I won't bore you with the details, as I wrote about it after the fact here. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the appendectomy marked the launch of Bill's career as Best Husband Ever ... PhD. 

June 27, 2012

I undergo surgery to deal with the damage my two behemoth children left behind, so to speak. Recovery was painful and longer than anticipated and, as prescribed after the appendectomy, I was not allowed to lift my heavy toddler for another 6 weeks. Bill's fledgling career as BHE is taken to a new level, thanks to a wife who can do little to help with childcare and spends a good part of her time doped up on pain medication.

July 10, 2012

Evil contraption

I decide, as an instructional designer, that I am too good for instructions and hastily employ the mandolin slicer to make some zucchini chips. Several slices in, I leave more than a zucchini chip on the cutting board. Bleeding and crying, I do my best to show my "mommy's fiiiine" face to my toddler, but he doesn't buy it. Back to the hospital (well, urgent care) we go.

Diagnosis: avulsion. Prognosis: 7-10 days to heal. Prescription: a bandage the size of my foot. Things to avoid: pools, hot tubs ... and dishes. I am now limited to lifting only my infant, and only with one arm, and I can no longer clean up after the dinner that Bill inevitably has to make because I am now terrified of sharp objects.

Bill is begrudgingly promoted to senior management.

July 13, 2012

We wake up prepared for our fun weekend with Bill's visiting family and my parents in Central Oregon. Bill has taken the day off to pack and get stuff done. Despite my aching finger, life is looking up. Then the niggling stomachache I'd been experiencing attacks with fury. So much fury that while Bill is dropping the kids at daycare, I call an ambulance because I couldn't get through to Bill's phone. I am sweating, shaking, and unable to move because of the pain. I begin vomiting. I spend 2 days in the hospital because I can't keep fluids or medicine down.

Diagnosis: colitis, gastroenteritis, and a urinary tract infection. Prescription: rest, antibiotics, and pain meds while in the hospital. Prognosis: 1-2 days to feel better. Things to avoid: "controversial" foods. Bill reaches the pinnacle of his career as he cares for our children (with the help of my parents) while I am gone, and misses the much-anticipated visit with his family.

If the appendicitis, avulsion, colitis, gastroenteritis, and UTI don't kill me, guilt will.

July 20, 2012

My amazing family

As I weigh the options for making it up to my husband (get your minds out of the gutter), I am also trying to glean a lesson from the past 6 weeks. My theory is that my body was worn out after endless months of just trying to get through the day, with two very young children, a terminally messy house, one regular job, and multiple freelance clients. My body threw up the white flag, subjecting me to lots of pain and frustration, but also hours of rest and recovery.

In light of this, I decided with a heavy heart to give up one thing that was draining me and causing me stress--pumping at work. I hate pumping and I dread it, but I also dread the day I have to stop breastfeeding completely. It was a hard decision to make, but something had to give. J still gets half of her nutrition from me, and I've accepted that that is enough, given the circumstances. I now relish my lunch breaks, which are mine and mine alone. 


So, thanks to my wonderful family for your support through this time. I am so lucky to have you. Here is to a 2012 spent far, far away from any hospitals (with the exception of visiting my sister's new baby!).

My Kids

No one could deny they are siblings!

The above photos are from their 2012 school photos. Apparently, C wasn't so into picture day, and J just wanted to nap. 

Also trending:

• C telling us to go away or just go somewhere else. It usually comes in the form of "mommy back" or "mommy gate" (i.e., go to the other side of the baby gate) or "mommy couch" (i.e., go sit on the couch that is far away from me)
• C kissing anything and everything. The latest object of his affection? Chewbacca from his Star Wars ABCs book.
• C learning to dress himself, which usually means 5 minutes of him running around in his diaper while we struggle to get his shirt over his oversized head.
• J sitting up. Well, sitting up for 10 seconds and then slowly listing one direction or the other. She's getting there though.
• J adoring her brother. The girl can't stop smiling whenever C walks into the room. I am sure this will end when they start sharing toys.

OK, I know only friends and family read my blog, but I am trying to avoid using my kids' full names. Is that just irrational paranoia? Does posting their pictures just cancel it out? Is "irrational paranoia" redundant? Thoughts?

One Appendix and Many Brain Cells Lighter

Last weekend, we headed to the Seattle area for my niece-in-law's graduation party, excited to see Bill's extended family. Before leaving, we'd waffled about whether to stay in town, as I had a bad stomachache. We decided to stock up on Mylanta and Tums and give it a go, but conditions did not improve on the 3-hour drive up. In fact, I'd also developed a pesky side-stitch, which I then attributed to my lack of ability to breathe normally because of my stomachache. Clearly, I am no doctor.

When we got to the party, I struggled to chase my son around, wincing when I picked him up. I was grateful when my daughter was ready to eat, because that meant I could finally sit down. Sweet relief. Standing up again brought such pain that I was forced to walk with my torso tilted forward at a 15-degree angle.

Finally, I got Bill to call it a day, and we headed back to his grandma's house, where I balled up on the couch. Remarkably, it took us a good 12 hours of this nonstop pain to think to look it up on the Internet. Dr. Google's diagnosis: appendicitis. I was still skeptical, but despite my fear of going to the hospital only to be told I have bad gas, we headed to Highline Medical Center. We chose Highline because of its proximity to Bill's grandma's house; we chose wrong.

I am not even going to go through the entire list of what went wrong at the hospital. It ranged from the nurses not knowing how to read records, to a faulty blood-pressure machine, to disagreement over how soon I could safely nurse my daughter (yikes!). I felt as though I was being Punk'd. The only thing that I am *pretty* sure went right is the surgery itself. So far, I have been healing well, and have shown no signs of missing any other organs (though, strangely, there are no stitches on the side where my appendix used to reside ... hmm).

After 36 hours of these hijinks, we headed home, where I continued my recovery. The pain subsided in a couple of days, but the anesthesia hangover lasted days longer. I slept for hours on end, unable to work or take care of my kids. Bill really stepped up and took over as Mr. Mom, earning himself a guilt-free pass to CEDIA in September. Today I am almost fully recovered, though I am still not allowed to carry anything heavy (e.g. my son).

The lessons here? Never leave town with a stomachache, and research your hospital. If the emergency room is empty on a Saturday night, or the nurses indirectly blame you for the poor care because you came in on the weekend (true story), run away and don't look back.

(Sidenote: I emailed customer service at the hospital, and they have diligently followed up.)

Give and Take ... But Mostly Give

Not my Prius

This morning I went to Maplewood Coffee, drank two cups of coffee, and read. Alone. Entire articles in a real magazine made out of paper. It was truly the highlight of my week.

Of course, the politically correct thing to say here would be that seeing my son do this or daughter do that was really the highlight of my week. But after day after day of just trying to find time to take a shower, carving out 45 minutes to do nothing but be selfish was honestly the best thing I did this week.

We parents of young children do nothing but give and give and expect nothing in return; the unconditional love of our children should be enough, right? We wake up at the crack of dawn after a night of broken sleep, give all of our time to our kids, and then go to work and give (well, sell) our time to our employers. We then return home to give and give again until the kids finally go to bed, at which point we give in the form of preparing for the next day of giving. It's exhausting, all this give and no take.

So this morning I decided to take, and it was good. That 45 minutes was what I needed to recharge and be the mom my kids need me to be, and not the one fighting back the urge to run out of the house screaming. I made a resolution to schedule this "me" time every week, whether that takes the form of a quick run or reading time at the coffee shop. It doesn't have to be a whole day off, or some big spa excursion. Just a few minutes to remind myself that I am more than just mom. I will be a better mother for it.

Working Moms and Quality Over Quantity

Does it ever get any easier?

This morning, I couldn't let my little girl go. I'm pretty sure she was super-glued to my hip, her chubby little hands around my neck. I knew she would be OK, that she would forget me as soon as I left her sight, but would I be OK?

As a parent to two small children, having to work is a blessing and a curse. I don't mind work--in fact, sometimes I look forward to Mondays as an end to a chaotic, exhausting weekend. I like talking to adults, eating lunch by myself, and using the bathroom on my own schedule (what a luxury!). I like that I can contribute to our household income.

The stats on working moms in 2011

But when my son says "Mommy, play?" as I am rushing to get out the door, my heart breaks. When I have to put my daughter down because I can't possibly get my stuff together with one hand, I am flooded with guilt. Guilt that I leave them with virtual strangers in a germ factory 40 hours a week. Guilt that I am missing their firsts and their lasts. But mostly guilt that I am not equipped to be a stay-at-home mom, and this is the best situation I can give them to maintain our collective sanity.

As much as I fantasize about not working, that fantasy usually involves afternoon pedicures and leisurely mornings at the coffee shop--not tantrums and diapers and endless pleas for snacks. I just can't do that 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Not to mention, working puts me on a level playing field with my husband. When he gets home from work, he knows that I, too, recently got home from work, and we are equally responsible for childcare. If I stayed at home, I'd be eager to thrust the kids at him and head for the hot tub.

Most important, though, is the fact that I really, really love seeing my kids when I pick them up at daycare. I relish the 2.5 hours between pickup and bedtime that I get to spend with them, as chaotic as that time is. Yes, sometimes I want to pull my hair out, trying to prepare dinner and watch them at the same time, but it's not out of exhaustion from being with them all day; it's because I just want to be with them and not cooking dinner.

I have several friends who love being at home with their kids, and have made a wonderful life of it. I have other friends who miss work terribly. So if you're a new mom weighing whether to go back to work or not, there is no right answer--only a right-for-you answer.

In Defense of Defensive Cycling

In response to the recent death of Kathryn Rickson, I'd first like to say how awful I feel for her family and friends. I can't imagine what they are going through. I just know that every time my husband leaves on his bike for the traffic-heavy commute to work, my heart races a bit, and I wait for confirmation he made it to work. I've seen drivers acting as though they own the road, sometimes yelling out their windows for me to get out of their way. I've been threatened by a driver for giving her a look when she parked in the bike lane. I even ran into a car once as it cut me off in the bike lane, resulting in an ankle strain and fried nerves on my part. It's a scary world out there for us bike commuters, and we put our lives at risk every time we head out the door.

A bike box like the one at the
intersection where Kathryn Rickson died

On the other hand, we cyclists carry a lot of responsibility for whether we make it to our destination in one piece. We can't ever let our guards down. A bike lane is a wonderful thing, allowing us some security that we are protected from normal traffic, but a bike lane doesn't protect us from human nature.

In the case of Rickson's death, there is a chance the truck driver just didn't see her. Maybe he looked, but she was in his blind spot. Maybe she was going faster than he thought. Whatever happened, I am sure Rickson isn't the only one whose life was ruined.

A 140-pound person is no match for a compact car, let alone a 30,000-pound truck. That is just the nature of the beast; no matter what our legal rights are as cyclists, fast-moving metal boxes will always win in a fight. And the easiest way to get hurt or killed is to assume a driver has seen you. The point is, some of the onus is on us cyclists to ride defensively.

I really feel for Rickson's family, especially her parents, who lost a daughter who had a long life ahead of her. But I hope cyclists will not react by persecuting motorists and truck drivers as a group, but instead focus on what can be done to increase bike safety--including a better, safer infrastructure for cyclists, as well as defensive-cycling education.

Quality Time

"Mommy run!" giggled my son.

I was in a denim skirt, and I didn't think it would shed water very well, but run I did. I ran through the very edge of the sprinkler's reach instead of right through the middle. To C, it was all the same--total comedy.

I dubbed yesterday Mommy-Son Day. My only agenda was to spend as much time with my 22-month-old boy as possible, time that has been hard to come by since his little sister was born in January, and since I went back to work.

We started the day off with a trip to the zoo to see the lions (off exhibit) and maybe the giraffes (also off exhibit). We found success with the elephants, who were outside basking in the sun, and C was proud to yell "eh-punts!" to everyone passing the exhibit. Mostly, C just wanted to run around, and paid little attention to the animals. I think C was just happy to have me to himself, regardless of where were were or what we were doing.

After lunch and a long, well earned nap, C woke up ready to go back outside. I needed to water the garden, so I happily agreed to laze around the backyard while C ran around. Well, as anyone with a toddler knows, lazing around was not to be had. C discovered that sprinklers are fun AND cooling, and simply must be enjoyed by all, including his reluctant mother.

C ran circles around the raised bed, soaking his fresh shirt, shorts, and leather shoes. He laughed non-stop, and begged me to run with him. So I did. And in the process, I realized how much I had forgotten about childhood--that running barefoot through sprinklers is really, really fun. That not caring how wet you get, or whether you might step on something unappetizing, was par for the course at age 2.

I also discovered a few things about C during our day together: He likes to push the stroller, which I'd never seen him do up until yesterday. He is generally happy and easy to please as long as he has my full attention and freedom to run. He is happy to wear his hat and sunscreen if it means more time outside. He will take off without warning, and runs surprisingly fast.

Life has been hectic since C's little sister entered our world, and our attention has been spread thin, but yesterday I vowed to myself to always make some one-on-one time with my kids at every opportunity. While sometimes it seems the spit-up and tantrum years will never end, I do not want to miss a single moment.