Boring and crazy.

Life for me as of late has consisted mainly of mundane days that blend in to one another with such ease that it's hard for me to recall which day is which, or even what I had for breakfast this morning. Winter arrived in one fell swoop (a blizzard, that is), and with it came these freezing temperatures that make it so painstakingly difficult for me to muster up the energy to bundle up and go anywhere. 

I'm still riding this colossal wave of hormones following my miscarriage. Certain days go by where it feels like all I really managed to accomplish was to quell the nearly insatiable desire in my heart to set fire to the universe and flush myself down the toilet. Needless to say, I'm waiting rather impatiently for my body and my hormones to regulate - and in the meantime, I'm crying over Christmas music and yelling at the boots sitting in my front foyer. 

Margot is growing up. I know this isn't news to anybody - least of all to me - but I'm really noticing it lately. She's sweet, she's beautiful, she's funny, she's curious, and she's all sorts of maddening, but she's this incredible person with ideas and opinions all her own.

She's starting to wean from breastfeeding. This is something that I knew would come one day, and probably someday soon, and my plan all along was for her to lead the way; but now that she is - oh, my heart... I'm sad about it. Just this morning I tried offering to nurse her, but "No, thank you," she said. 

"Are you sure?" I replied, as I sat down with her in my lap.

But instead of latching on, she again said, "No thank you," and then proceeded to push and shove my boob out of her face, saying, "Put it away. Put it away." 

...Oh. Okay, hilarious human being. Did you just turn into an embarrassed teenager overnight? 

Speaking of overnight, she's sleeping through the night. With this statement comes a wild and exaggerated dance number that I bust out every time I say it. Because SHE'S SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT. You heard that, right? It only took almost two years... no biggie! 

I think in this picture you can see exactly how weary I am, how stupid-happy I am, and how in love with this girl I am. 

And the one thing you can't really see is the sweet little shiner I'm sporting on my right eye since Margot head-butted me last week. You know when something hurts so bad that you just instantly and uncontrollably burst into tears? That. My first black eye! 

Chaos and wild greatness

Sometimes I forget to eat and sometimes a load of laundry takes three days to process and usually I'm suppressing cuss words while I'm cleaning up messes and generally speaking I'm getting really good at putting a jacket on a moving subject and tying shoes onto kicky feet and in the last 12 months I've swept the floor probably more times than all the other times in my life combined.

The things that come out of my mouth most often are, "please stop throwing food on the floor" and "how do you ask?" and "what did I just tell you?" and "do not touch the computer" and "you sit on your bum if you're going to be in that chair" and "put the mustard back in the fridge" and countless other new me-isms but nothing do I tell my girl more often than, "I love you" and "I love you" and "I love you."

The days are long and the nights are just not long enough and the months and the weeks pass by at varying rates of speed but all of it, as it turns out, is just exactly my definition of perfect.

Today sucks and I am complaining.

As I write this, there's a little storm cloud hovering above my head; I'm sitting on a chair in my dining room gorging on chocolate peanut butter ice cream and effectively nursing a throbbing wound in a self-serving pity party. There's no question whatsoever as to whether I'm being dramatic, here - I am - but I'm on Day Four (going on Day Five) of single-parenting while Daryl's demanding work schedule requires him to spend nearly all waking hours away from home and the only time we're spending together are those quiet hours where we're fast asleep with drool running down our cheeks. Either that or we're conversing for fifteen seconds over which one of us should be on Margot duty since she's just woken up and is calling out for someone to hold her, and I make a point of taking every chance I get to lie in bed while someone else takes care of her.

But I digress. The amount of whining and crying and screaming I've weathered from one tiny human who stands, like, two feet tall has been far more than I can handle today. She was being a royal turd at home all morning, so I decided we needed to get out of the house so that she could be a royal turd somewhere else for a little while. I don't know whether she's working on a new tooth or going through a developmental leap or whether she's tired or gassy or what her deal is - and might I take this opportunity to implore the good Lord as to why he didn't equip babies and toddlers with some sort of adequate signage? - but at any rate, we were fresh out of Chill Pills in this house, so we went out.

And it was worth our while! I have to confess something, actually. It's something I feel weird saying, because this is entirely out of character for me, but I'm saying it anyhow: I went shopping. I bought clothes. Now for those of you who know me well, I absolutely loathe shopping. I can't stand it. My eyes glaze over when I stare at racks upon racks of clothing and over my dead body am I up for trying any of it on. Which is why Daryl, my husband, and Ashley, my middle little sister, are my saving graces and my personal shoppers - once every year or so, one or both of them has the opportunity to drag me through a few stores, grab stuff off the rack, and go, "Here. Try this on." And I obey, I fall in love with a few basics (I mean, serious basics. My wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts, tank tops and hoodies. I don't do "nice" well.), and we move on. Then I wear those pieces until they're full of rips and holes, and we start again.

So today I mysteriously for some reason took myself shopping at Target. We had just been there yesterday, as it happens (uh... I go there a lot), and I had walked past some really great stuff and I remembered how much I like Target's clothing. I usually buy all my clothes at H&M or American Eagle or Joe Fresh (if I'm lucky to be back in Canada!), so Target is never really on my radar. But today, because I was so at my limit and all my patience had dripped out my ears a few days ago, I went, and I tried on, and I bought. Only three things, I should say, so for me that's going crazy but probably not for you, but I felt better! Imagine that! I understood for the first time that feeling that people get when they need to shop out their frustrations.

Today just sucks, though. I swear I'm going to work on my attitude as soon as I'm finished writing this post, but I'm just so tired. Yesterday was a remarkably hot day considering how relatively mild this summer has been, and for some reason I thought Margot's nap time would be the perfect time to mow all the grass on our property. It took an hour, and by the end I was drenched in sweat, and I got a blister on the back of each of my heels and one on my hand, and today all my muscles hurt. And I'm tired and there's still laundry to do and dishes to wash and junk to put away and vacuuming to do and I think I've already swept the floors in this house 14 times today but I'm still stepping on crumbs and dirt and why isn't sock & slipper season here yet and I know that this is a run-on sentence and that it's just gratuitous complaining but it's my blog and I can complain about stupid stuff if I want to, right?

But why do toddlers have to be so hard? I mean, really - WHY do they have to be SO HARD? I should try keeping a tally of the number of times in a day I repeat myself saying, "Margot, don't touch that." "Margot, what did I tell you? Don't touch." "Miss Margot James. I have asked you nicely. You know that's a no-no. Do not touch that!" Then inevitably, "MARGOT. DON'T. TOUCH." And my voice comes out of my mouth sounding like Zuul's (please tell me you've seen Ghostbusters and you know what I'm talking about here).

Parenting involves so much push and pull and there are days where every limb is being stretched in a different direction and today just happens to be one of those days where the demands of motherhood and marriage and keeping a home from accidentally imploding became so great that I sent Daryl a text so long that it probably took him an hour and a half to read in full, in which I said something at least once about wanting to kill everyone I know. (I did say I was feeling dramatic today, didn't I?) I think I need a hot bath and a bottle of wine with a bendy straw.

Image source: Google Images

Your story matters, and this isn't a contest.

I know how easy it is to feel overwhelmed. Particularly when I was going through postpartum depression, I spent so much time floundering to stay above water. It was hard not to look at my life as a big-picture piece and wonder how on earth I was going to make it through the next five minutes, let alone the following weeks, months, or the entirety of my life as I knew it. I knew it was important to take each thing as it came, baby steps all the while, but depression and being overwhelmed tended to find me compounding issue after issue on top of one another until I was roughly the size of an ant standing at the bottom of a mountain of problems that I couldn't see how I'd ever get through.

I remember being in elementary school or high school and having my parents' friends brushing off whatever it was that I was going through - like if I said I was involved in this or that, or that I was up against x amount of assignments or exams, I remember these adults turning to one another and almost laughing at one another over how petty these issues of mine were, that I was calling "problems", so to speak. They'd talk to me and around me as though it was cute that I was feeling stressed about a test or social hurdles at school, but that if I thought that life was stressful now, I had another thing coming. Because as I can only imagine they were thinking, I had no idea what stress meant until I was up against things like mortgages or marital problems or employment struggles or the like. I remember on numerous occasions feeling indignant when adults made my problems out to be non-issues, when I felt very legitimately upset about this or that.

And now that I am an adult (well...am I? I could argue strongly that I'm still six in my brain; or that I'm actually still every age I've ever been - but whatever) ...or I should say in spite of the fact that I am an adult now, I still remember that feeling so vividly. I remember thinking how unfair older generations tended to be - that just because I'm only 16 doesn't mean I'm not a real person yet, that my emotions aren't weighty or legitimate, or that my experiences are somehow lesser than anyone else's. I remember being 18 years old and making a conscious decision to always remember what it felt like to be that age; that when I grew older, I needed to fight the tendency that adults seemed to have to make light or make less of what an 18-year-old was going through, or what things are like at that point in a person's life. I chose to make note of the importance of acknowledging the personhood of an 18-year-old; or of any teenager, because it felt important to me. It still does. I knew there would come a day when my own teenagehood would slip away from my memory - and it did - but I remind myself that even though they look like puppies and often act like idiots, they're muddling their way through life no differently than I am today.

I'm referencing this because I still very much notice this tendency when it comes to parenthood; whether it's brought on by people making passing comments, or even just by my own habit of holding my situation up next to somebody else's, I realized that this still exists today. We still have the inclination to belittle certain feelings or circumstances because we're holding them up to a greater standard - to think, "Oh, just you wait. This is nothing." It can be a mother of three telling a mother of one that she doesn't know what busy or exhausted means; as though a first-time mother feels even for an instant that she's got it easy. Or it can be a mother telling a mother-to-be to sleep now - sleep while you can - because as soon as that baby comes, you won't get a wink; as though they've forgotten completely how cumbersome it is to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and how little sleep she's actually even getting at this point - not to mention the gamut of emotions she's experiencing, notwithstanding total fear at what parenthood is going to end up being like.

Why aren't we investing more energy into supporting one another, and into reminding ourselves that the hurdles we face, no matter how paltry compared to someone else's, are not unimportant?

My struggles and your struggles are real, no matter how insignificant they may seem up against another person's; and that just because one person has fewer babies or a smaller workload doesn't make their struggles any less significant or staggering. We adapt, and we adjust, and life primes us for greater issues that we'll encounter along our way. So what someone else is up against, or what you might find yourself going through in the future, does not in any way belittle where you are or what you're feeling today. Don't let anyone make you feel like what you're going through is insignificant based on anyone else's situation. Your story matters.

That time I found a tumor on my baby.

This is the picture I took that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would flip our entire universe upside down. An entire month would come to pass, wherein we sat with bated breath waiting to find out whether our baby girl had a cancerous tumor.

Taken in early December 2013, when Margot was 10 months old, this picture became a blaring alarm bell; while I was running a bath for us to take together, I couldn't help but giggle and marvel at that cute tiny little bum - so I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and snapped a string of little naked baby pictures. I noticed nothing amiss, and went on to have our warm bath, then continue on with our day as usual. That night, though, long after she was in bed, I was looking at the pictures I had taken, and realized that in every single one, there was this small but unmistakable lump on her back, sitting just below her left shoulder blade. I'd never noticed it in person, but there it was in these pictures, staring back at me. I worked hard at keeping calm about it, not wanting to overreact, so at first I kept it to myself. But I spent the following day at work stewing over it all day long. I was obsessing. I kept flipping through these shots on my phone, zooming in, and simultaneously wracking my brain as to whether I'd ever seen this lump before - whether maybe I was making the whole thing up and it was just a little part of her body - or maybe it was just an odd shadowing effect and there was nothing there after all.

But I couldn't shake my intuition; there was a lump on Margot's back, and I knew something wasn't right. So when I got home from work, I told Daryl, showed him the picture, and he agreed that we should call the pediatrician. Well, okay, I thought - did Daryl's acknowledgement make me worry more, or less? I couldn't decide. We called the doctor, and the very next morning we found ourselves at our clinic, watching Margot's pediatrician examine the lump, ask us a series of questions about when we'd noticed it, what we could glean as far as whether or not it was causing her pain, or whether we'd noticed any changes in appearance since finding it - uh, no, as far as I was concerned, this thing was less than 48 hours old. We'd only just met one another's acquaintance; we hadn't exactly exchanged phone numbers or gone out to dinner and dancing. I had no idea what to tell her about this thing except that no, from what I could tell, Margot didn't even know it existed. She certainly didn't seem fazed by it. 

Well, while her pediatrician speculated that chances were good that this was nothing more than something called a lipoma, a harmless cluster of fatty tissue, she encouraged us to drive across town to the children's hospital, where Margot could get an ultrasound done on it. This would determine with more certainty what we were up against. Now, the pediatrician happens to be one of the most lovely people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and her bedside manner is remarkably wonderful. But the fact that she placed a call and got the hospital to squeeze Margot in for an ultrasound 20 minutes from that moment had me understandably on edge. I mean, if it wasn't at least some degree of concern, would we not have been waiting a day or two, or even a week? Anyway, off we went - we bundled back up into our car and drove over to the hospital, and sat with our tiny girl while she had an ultrasound.

This went as well as we could expect - especially since she was so caught up in that little light-up toy, she didn't even know what was going on. After it was over, we were sent home and told to wait for a phone call to give us the results and bring us up to speed. The waiting was agony, of course, but we managed. And a few days later, the pediatrician called us and told us what can only be classified as bad news, in spite of its uncertain nature. Unfortunately, she said, this wasn't a lipoma after all. There are blood vessels extending deep within the mass, she went on, and her hope now was that this was something called a hemangioma - a benign tumor, but a tumor nonetheless. She encouraged us to do our best not to worry, and told us that the next step would be an MRI.

An MRI?! Okay, I told myself; breathe deep. We don't know what this is, but the MRI will tell us conclusively. And until we find out, there's no sense in worrying. That little lump is there, snug on Margot's back, and there was nothing any of us could do about it. So an MRI was scheduled, and much to our chagrin, it was three weeks away. To this day I can't exactly be sure how I made it through those weeks, because never in my life have I felt so worried, so afraid and so anxious. My tiny, happy little girl was being poked, prodded, and examined and she had no idea what was going on; and really, I had to find solace in that; I was thankful that she wasn't in pain.

Finally, the day of the MRI came. We got up at the crack of dawn and drove back to the hospital, and checked ourselves in. We filled out the paperwork, we met a series of nurses, doctors, and an anesthesiologist, and then we got Margot into her tiny little hospital gown. How tiny she looked - how sweet her little face was - it was all I could do to keep from crying.

Then we held sweet Margot while she was given an IV in the back of her tiny hand, and while she was sedated. Never in my life have I so badly needed to crumple into a ball and weep as I did while I watched the life slip out of her eyes, and as she was laid onto a hospital bed and wheeled down the hallway, away from me.

We waited about an hour and a half when all was said and done; the MRI went perfectly smoothly, we were told - thank God! - and here was our groggy little girl, so doped up she looked as though she had had about as much wine as a frat girl at a party. And oh, did we ever laugh! She was like a little bobblehead on drugs.

SO. Okay. I'm getting long-winded, here. Back home we went, with our little frat baby in tow. And of course, we were told to wait again. This time, three days. It was a Friday, so we had to wait for the weekend to pass before we'd find anything out. So on Monday morning, I called our clinic, who told us our pediatrician was out of town until the following Friday (No. NO.), and the pediatrician who was replacing her was swamped with work, so I'd maybe hear back, but also maybe not. I was advised to call the hospital. Okay. So on a wild goose chase I went - but no, sorry, the hospital wouldn't give me any information unless I printed out an information release and either faxed it or snail-mailed it. (FAX? Who faxes anymore?!) I nearly bit this woman's head off on the phone, but Daryl bopped me on the head and reminded me she was just the messenger and to let it go. Blughghghh. So I called the clinic again and begged them to please have this on-call pediatrician call us. Please. Please. I just need to know if my baby's okay. Then I hung up, and waited.

And then - finally - a phone call...

With the blessed good news that this was indeed just a hemangioma! With an exclamation point at the end! We got the news that this little lump is a harmless, benign tumor that needs no further attention or treatment. It'll disappear on its own time over the course of the next handful of years, and won't cause our girl one bit of pain or discomfort.

I don't think I can ever do justice to the fear that rippled through my heart and my body while we waited. Never in my life have I been more afraid than I was at the thought of what could have been.

Daryl and I, well, we were bowled over. I was finally able to exhale for the first time in nearly a month.

Onward I march to 33

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn and swam a kilometer's worth of laps, which I normally do, then came home and ate a massive bowl of Alphabits, which I normally don't do – effectively undoing all my hard work. But that was my birthday present to myself, and I'm the boss anyhow, and also it should be said that there may or may not be a DQ blizzard sitting in my freezer waiting for me after Margot goes down for a nap. (There is.)

When I went in to get her up for the day, Margot gave me a spot-on rendition of a wolf's howl, then when I sneezed, she looked at me and said, "Um...gross." So far today we've listened to "Africa" by Toto on full blast, we rode on a carousel, and I kissed that girl on the lips too many times by her standards, and not enough times by mine.

I heard a song on the radio this morning - That Wasn't Me, by Brandi Carlile – it prompted me to ask myself a question she asks herself: "Do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet?" Well, no; I doubt very much that I do – that's a tall order. It's a lot simpler, I imagine, to be as such to friends, acquaintances or passers by, but it's a far larger fish to fry in the presence of my best girl and my best guy, who spend more than their fair share of time with me, whether they like it or not. But I'm up for the challenge; being allowed to experience a 33rd year on this planet is a blessing, to say the least. And I owe my most sincere gratitude to each of you friends and members of my family, whether your path has crossed mine just ever so briefly, or whether we ran on the same track for years. I'm blessed to know you, and am grateful for your presence in my life no matter how little or big.

At any rate, today is a good day. It's near impossible to be in a bad mood on one's birthday, isn't it?