Monday, March 30, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Lumps, bumps, and Teddy Grahams
I know I said in my last post that I don't tend to do a lot of worrying in life, so what I'm about to launch into is really going to put my credibility into question. I accept that.
It's hard for me, though, not to worry about lumps.
But they're scary for everyone, aren't they? Haven't we all been conditioned to fear that mysterious lump that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere? And to then wrack our brains as to whether or not it did just mysteriously appear at all - or just maybe it's been there for ages, creeping up slowly and steadily in size, and now there it is whispering our name ominously, and oh God... what IS that? Am I dying? Okay let's just stop and be rational, we think. Don't Google it, whatever you do, you tell yourself - except well, it's probably best if I just have a quick little Google check. I'll only click on the first few links, and I promise not to visit a single forum. And above all bloody else, I'll stick to the code and I Will Not Press the Images Button. ...Okay I did. This is bad. It's bad. ...It's bad.
And so what, then, if that little lump shows up on your child? Dare I even venture down that path to explain to you how scary to the power of one hundred it is to see a lump on your little walking, talking toddler?
It happened to us once already - a lump, ensuing tests, uncertainty; a cancer scare - and behold, benign that little tumor ended up being, rendering us utterly and completely beside ourselves with relief. But little did I realize at the time, it ingrained within me a quiet, silent and steadfast fear - or a realization, maybe - that this baby girl of mine could be snatched out from under me at any time. Finding a tumor on my daughter inadvertently had this effect on me.
And this morning we found ourselves at the doctor's office once again, this time to bring to attention two tiny lumps sitting right below Margot's bottom eyelash line on her right eye. I will confess that they've been there for what seems like an eternity - probably six months or more - but as time passed, and they didn't disappear, I decided it best to talk to her pediatrician about it. She gave us a referral to an ophthalmologist, and this morning we made our way over with some distinct level of trepidation.
I really hate taking her to doctor's appointments, in all honesty. Without fail, the mood is light while we're in the waiting room, and then the moment a nurse comes around the corner and says her name, she loses all her shit. Every ounce of it. She screams, "NOOOO!" while tears careen down her face, then clings to me like should she release her grip from around my neck even slightly, the world will implode and all of humankind will disappear into oblivion.
So this morning, pre-appointment, I was tense. I coached her throughout breakfast, though, maybe as much for her benefit as for mine.
"We're going to go to the doctor's office today, okay, babe? Everything's gonna be just fine. Mama's going to be with you the whole time; and I need you to be a big girl, okay? No crying."
But sure enough, emotions exploded out of her face as soon as it was our turn to be called. It was a long walk down that hallway, loud and disheveled, but eventually we made it; and while I like to think we achieved calm thanks to my presence, my voice and my touch, there's really no question it had everything to do with three huge stickers and a little bag of Teddy Grahams that the nurse procured.
And, after a wildly successful examination, I'm relieved once again to report that these little eye bumps are nothing more than blocked oil glands, with no further need for attention in the foreseeable future.
Maybe I'm a worrier, maybe I'm a Class-A stereotypical textbook first-time Mother. Maybe both.
At any rate, we made our way back home and rewarded ourselves with some time together, gallivanting around in our backyard. Me with my camera, and she with her tummy full of stickers on the outside, and Teddy Grahams on the inside.
It's hard for me, though, not to worry about lumps.
But they're scary for everyone, aren't they? Haven't we all been conditioned to fear that mysterious lump that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere? And to then wrack our brains as to whether or not it did just mysteriously appear at all - or just maybe it's been there for ages, creeping up slowly and steadily in size, and now there it is whispering our name ominously, and oh God... what IS that? Am I dying? Okay let's just stop and be rational, we think. Don't Google it, whatever you do, you tell yourself - except well, it's probably best if I just have a quick little Google check. I'll only click on the first few links, and I promise not to visit a single forum. And above all bloody else, I'll stick to the code and I Will Not Press the Images Button. ...Okay I did. This is bad. It's bad. ...It's bad.
And so what, then, if that little lump shows up on your child? Dare I even venture down that path to explain to you how scary to the power of one hundred it is to see a lump on your little walking, talking toddler?
It happened to us once already - a lump, ensuing tests, uncertainty; a cancer scare - and behold, benign that little tumor ended up being, rendering us utterly and completely beside ourselves with relief. But little did I realize at the time, it ingrained within me a quiet, silent and steadfast fear - or a realization, maybe - that this baby girl of mine could be snatched out from under me at any time. Finding a tumor on my daughter inadvertently had this effect on me.
And this morning we found ourselves at the doctor's office once again, this time to bring to attention two tiny lumps sitting right below Margot's bottom eyelash line on her right eye. I will confess that they've been there for what seems like an eternity - probably six months or more - but as time passed, and they didn't disappear, I decided it best to talk to her pediatrician about it. She gave us a referral to an ophthalmologist, and this morning we made our way over with some distinct level of trepidation.
I really hate taking her to doctor's appointments, in all honesty. Without fail, the mood is light while we're in the waiting room, and then the moment a nurse comes around the corner and says her name, she loses all her shit. Every ounce of it. She screams, "NOOOO!" while tears careen down her face, then clings to me like should she release her grip from around my neck even slightly, the world will implode and all of humankind will disappear into oblivion.
So this morning, pre-appointment, I was tense. I coached her throughout breakfast, though, maybe as much for her benefit as for mine.
"We're going to go to the doctor's office today, okay, babe? Everything's gonna be just fine. Mama's going to be with you the whole time; and I need you to be a big girl, okay? No crying."
But sure enough, emotions exploded out of her face as soon as it was our turn to be called. It was a long walk down that hallway, loud and disheveled, but eventually we made it; and while I like to think we achieved calm thanks to my presence, my voice and my touch, there's really no question it had everything to do with three huge stickers and a little bag of Teddy Grahams that the nurse procured.
And, after a wildly successful examination, I'm relieved once again to report that these little eye bumps are nothing more than blocked oil glands, with no further need for attention in the foreseeable future.
Maybe I'm a worrier, maybe I'm a Class-A stereotypical textbook first-time Mother. Maybe both.
At any rate, we made our way back home and rewarded ourselves with some time together, gallivanting around in our backyard. Me with my camera, and she with her tummy full of stickers on the outside, and Teddy Grahams on the inside.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Mother I am, me I will be.
I don't fancy myself a worrier.
My family as it stands is made up of a handful of women who are powerful, capable, and strong; and it's an understatement to say that I am proud to be one of them - to stand beside these women and call them mother, sister, sister.
I grew up as a daughter of the strongest woman I know; and I like to think that even just a shred of my mother's confidence rubbed off on me. If not for genetics' sake, then at the very least because it's hard not to take it to heart when you're told over and over again throughout the course of your life that you need not worry, because everything's going to be just fine. Because after all, really, hasn't it always been?
Then I became a mother myself, though. I opted to form and raise up a small and ever-growing person, totally independent of me, albeit with an intent to raise her up to be powerful, capable and strong all on her own - but in doing so, I set free a very piece of myself to walk freely around, out and off into the world, without being so much as tethered to me by some unbreakable umbilical cord. (Or even just one of those leashed backpacks.)
And so as it turns out, I can't seem to shake but an ounce of worry that something's going to happen; not to her, though - but to me. Because whereas before motherhood I mattered, yes, but I matter now exponentially more so. I don't just belong to myself anymore.
I'm somebody's mother. But more importantly, I'm Margot's mama. I'm the one who does up the zipper on her pyjamas before bed ("Do up the snaps, mama! NO, dada! Mama do it!!"), the one who rubs her back if she wakes up from a bad dream, and the one who just...is. And this is not to say that nobody else in the universe can provide that girl with comfort, support, and zipped-up pyjamas at nighttime, but dare we not admit that nobody but nobody will ever replace our mother?
What I am remembering, though, is that I am not a person made up of microscopic mother-cells. A mother I am, of course, but as I have said before, I am not defined by this. Those cells that have banded together in order to act as this living, breathing me are exactly that: they're me-cells.
And so above and beyond all that may worry me - regardless of any moment in which I succumb briefly to fear - in spite of any of those exaggerated and fleeting moments of anxiety - I know that it's my responsibility - and my privilege - to go forth into the world and be me.
My family as it stands is made up of a handful of women who are powerful, capable, and strong; and it's an understatement to say that I am proud to be one of them - to stand beside these women and call them mother, sister, sister.
I grew up as a daughter of the strongest woman I know; and I like to think that even just a shred of my mother's confidence rubbed off on me. If not for genetics' sake, then at the very least because it's hard not to take it to heart when you're told over and over again throughout the course of your life that you need not worry, because everything's going to be just fine. Because after all, really, hasn't it always been?
Then I became a mother myself, though. I opted to form and raise up a small and ever-growing person, totally independent of me, albeit with an intent to raise her up to be powerful, capable and strong all on her own - but in doing so, I set free a very piece of myself to walk freely around, out and off into the world, without being so much as tethered to me by some unbreakable umbilical cord. (Or even just one of those leashed backpacks.)
And so as it turns out, I can't seem to shake but an ounce of worry that something's going to happen; not to her, though - but to me. Because whereas before motherhood I mattered, yes, but I matter now exponentially more so. I don't just belong to myself anymore.
I'm somebody's mother. But more importantly, I'm Margot's mama. I'm the one who does up the zipper on her pyjamas before bed ("Do up the snaps, mama! NO, dada! Mama do it!!"), the one who rubs her back if she wakes up from a bad dream, and the one who just...is. And this is not to say that nobody else in the universe can provide that girl with comfort, support, and zipped-up pyjamas at nighttime, but dare we not admit that nobody but nobody will ever replace our mother?
What I am remembering, though, is that I am not a person made up of microscopic mother-cells. A mother I am, of course, but as I have said before, I am not defined by this. Those cells that have banded together in order to act as this living, breathing me are exactly that: they're me-cells.
And so above and beyond all that may worry me - regardless of any moment in which I succumb briefly to fear - in spite of any of those exaggerated and fleeting moments of anxiety - I know that it's my responsibility - and my privilege - to go forth into the world and be me.
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