Bumpy Hot Dogs

Did you lock the front door?! I don’t know, DID YOU?!

Did I unplug my hair straightener? Oh God. I’m just turning the car around now.

Did you fill the dog’s water? I THOUGHT YOU DID!

My dad once pronounced that he had never met anyone as uptight and nervous as me…until he met my husband. “My god, I think he makes you look a little laid back!” When we moved into our first house my nervousness and paranoia fed his, and vice versa. Gone were the carefree days of dating and early love. We had responsibilities now. People had expectations.

It.was.exhausting. We were like MiracleGro to the other’s crab grass. It wasn’t just leaving the house. We’d freak out about financial decisions, wardrobe decisions, whether the chicken was thoroughly cooked―just about everything could cause us to wring our hands. We made each other nervous wrecks. Two people with mild anxiety issues met, fell deeply in love…and went mad. We both probably should have been medicated but we would have just passed out from hyperventilating, trying to remember if we had remembered to take our pills.

I was destined to be a terribly nervous and fearful parent. I even tried to joke about my anxiety issues at my first obstetrician appointment. Aaaaand that’s how I learned that certain healthcare professionals are not amused by wisecracks about mental health disorders.

Then Monkey was born. I will not spin you my delivery yarn, but suffice it to say it did not go smoothly. I was left recovering from a C-Section in a home alternately referred to as a ‘60s back-split, a quad-level or, as my dad once barked, “The stairs that never end!”  If you haven’t had the pleasure of a C-section, one of the discharge instructions from the hospital is to, “Take the stairs only once a day.” I also couldn’t lay flat for a couple of weeks, so that complicated sleeping a bit, and all of this meant I would have to choose between sleeping, eating, and using the bathroom. Pick one and stick with it all day. So I slept, sitting up, on the couch on the level that put me just four stairs from a bathroom but two flights away from my newborn. It was the best I could do. Even if I’d wanted to violate the “no stairs” rule it would have taken me 15 minutes to go anywhere.

I was in pain, exhausted, and a scared new mom…but I couldn’t go check on Monkey every five minutes. I couldn’t make sure he was breathing or that he hadn’t somehow hoisted himself up and out of the crib, rolled down the hall and up into the knife drawer two sets of stairs away. Somehow I found a little peace. “Eh. I guess he’s fine?” 

The pain that kept me from moving freely through my house was a blessing. It was a baptism by fire. I had to let the fear go. He’d be fine and I needed to get some sleep. Unlike when I babysat as a teenager and would actually wake up the poor babies to make sure they were still breathing (crying at that point), I developed a calmer demeanor. He was fine and I physically couldn’t live in a constant state of fear.  Now, there were flare-ups of course. No one quits hysteria without a few episodes of sobbing whilst sloshing a bucket of bleach around the house and shrieking about people who bring germs around newborns. But, overall? Having a baby had settled the nerves that once scratched the edges of my brain.

Luckily, we also have a great pediatrician who is all tough love and calm. I once let my mom freak me out about Sassafras’ wonky toe. She was born with a bit of a crinkled toe and it has yet to fall in line. My mom refused to just wait and see what happened (as prescribed) and she hounded me out of my more relaxed approach and told me I needed to ask our pediatrician again.

Um, <tentative and scuffing my toe against the floor> my mom wants to know if there is anything we can do about her toe?

Does your mom want her to wear a big shoe?!  She’s 11 months!  It will be fine. But ask her―does she want her to wear a big shoe?

I returned to not worrying about what was certainly out of my control.

In four years nothing terrible befell my family and I had moments of the blissful sense of entitlement I think so many parents feel:  “Well, I must be doing something right―we’re fine!”

As a young public defender, I learned that when selecting a jury you had to overcome the general public’s belief that “they must have done something because they are sitting in the defendant’s chair.”  Potential jurors need to believe, like the greater population, that bad things don’t happen to good people. We don’t say it out loud because it sounds awful, but I see it as a different way of living in fear. I believe that at their core, many people are so terrified of pain and suffering that they believe “others” have done something to deserve their misfortune.

I have always loathed when people say things like, “She loved her husband too much to let cancer win,” or, “He loved his kids too much to give in.” Bullshit. Those words gnash my teeth. That person was fortunate to survive, yes, but that doesn’t mean those who did not survive are any less deserving. Bad things happens to good people and there is nothing you can do to avoid that.

People who succumb to cancer or serious injury or depression?  They loved their family just as much. Don’t get me wrong―I do believe a positive attitude and deep love can sustain people through so much―but it isn’t a magic cure and it’s not a force field. As a recovering catastrophe-enthusiast and worrywart I appreciate where people are coming from when they utter such platitudes. I appreciate it because I recognize it for what it really is: fear. It is too scary and awful to think no one is safe and that death and destruction encircle all of us like a pod of hungry shark.

We have close friends who are going through parent hell. One month ago everything was fine. Today they are living your worst nightmare as a parent. In a moment they could not see coming, they were forced to stare into the face of their child’s mortality. I sit in stunned sadness just thinking about what they must be going through.  I grieve for the way of life they lost and the new one they have to fight through. They did everything “right.” Their child is sweet and kind and beautiful and they are loving and conscientious. But awful shit happens.

And so I let the fear creep back in. As I shed endless tears for our friends I begin to see illness and danger as guaranteed if I do not stay vigilant. All the work my pediatrician had done in convincing me not to overreact was nearly completely undone. I began to interrogate Monkey about his little complaints of minor physical ailments. I started obsessing over Sass’ fussiness that was obviously just teething.

The other night Monkey called us into his room.

My foot <sniffle> weawwy weawwy huuuuuurts.

He was teary and rubbing the top of his right foot.  He had been mentioning that his foot hurt on and off for a few days. I had been writing it off as growing pains but our friend’s terrible diagnosis was dominating my mind.

Where does it hurt? How long has it hurt? Does anything else hurt?

My mind was racing. I ran my hands over his foot and took shallow breaths. It was bone cancer. Muscular Dystrophy. He had some disorder that caused his muscles to disintegrate.  We were going to have to find a Dr. House-like specialist.

What does it feel like?

Well, Mom, <big sigh> it feels like a bumpy hot dog. It’s weawwy bad <sniff>.

Aaaaaaaand that’s how your nearly-four-year-old brings you back to reality. For some unknown reason, when he’s faking illness because he needs a little more attention, he complains that his ailment feels like a hot dog. E.g. My head feels like a hot dog. Sometimes it’s bumpy, sometimes it’s big, sometimes it’s jumping. I find him marvelously quirky.

Monkey gave me what I needed―a big dose of get-over-yourself. Other people’s suffering is not a reflection of me.  Other people’s tragedy is not a reason to take stock or change my behavior or make it personal. Other people’s pain is theirs. There is no blame. There is no avoiding it. Such is life. Such is being a mom. 

I need to get back to that “Eh, it’s going to be fine” mentality. The shark will never stop circling, but it’s going to be okay. Sadness and suffering finds us all, but we will persevere. Worrying about Monkey and Sassafras isn’t what has kept them well, but they are healthy. We are lucky. It is going to be fine. And I am grateful. 

-Elizabeth