Posted by Kimberly on October 10th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple, Oncology Odyssey
Even though I breastfed The Zen Baby into preschoolerhood, finally weaning her around 40 months, I don’t consider myself a lactivist. I don’t believe that formula is poison, that silicone nipples make the baby Jesus cry, or that bottles mean braindamage. I do, however, believe that “breast is best” and that no woman should be made to feel ashamed of the choice to feed her child according to her conscience.
I have a been a bottle feeder and a nursing mother, and I don’t think one choice was more right than the other. Each decision was dictated by circumstance, and was made with the best interests of that particular child in mind.
I tried to breast feed Diva Girl, but threw in the nursing towel after about three months. It just didn’t work for us, and we were both happier and more relaxed once I finally admitted that and stopped trying to force both of us into a dynamic that just didn’t work. Diva Girl on breast milk was a fussy, uncomfortable, unhappy baby with the worst case of acne I have ever seen. For her, the switch to formula was magical. Suddenly, I had a happy, content infant in my arms rather than a flailing, angry demon. I threw away my cheap, uncomfortable nursing bra, gave away the expensive yet awkward breast pump, and started buying formula by the case at Costco. I’ve never looked back.
Clearly, my experience with The Zen Baby was the polar opposite. With Zen Baby, the issue wasn’t the boobs, it was the bottle. I taught summer school when she was 4 months old–when she was busily growing the tumour that would cause so much heartache, but before it had made its insidious presence in her belly known. During the month I worked, Regan nursed all night and refused all forms of nourishment during the day–it didn’t matter that the bottle contained the exact same nectar that mommy provided, she wasn’t having that thing in her mouth.
Tired, frustrated, and at a loss of what to do with my tiny girl, I consulted our pediatrician, who advised me to stop nursing the 4 month old baby altogether.
“Starve her for a couple of days,” she advised, handing me a free sample of formula. “She’ll finally give in and take a bottle.” I smiled and thanked her for her advice, privately vowing to ignore, or at least modify it.
During the day while I was at work, my mom worked hard at getting a bottle into Regan. Once I got home in the afternoon, she pretty much latched on and stayed there for the rest of the night. And still, her weight gain dropped to ounces, not pounds. The medical solution? Once again, “stop breastfeeding.” This time, however it wasn’t offered as a convenience solution, but as a medical necessity shrouded in blame and judgement. Clearly, my boobs were defective. The baby was starving to death, and it was all my body’s fault.
Again, I declined to follow the doctor’s advice to the letter; I began feeding Regan solid foods, but I also, against her recommendation, continued to nurse her. I did the same thing two months later when I was advised by another doctor to give up breast feeding because “she didn’t need it anymore.” and place Regan on a high fat diet. Had I followed that advice, at best, Regan would have suffered far more lasting effects from her tumour, as it starved her body of nutrients–primarily the fat I was directed to feed her–and severely limited her stomach capacity.
I truly believe that breastfeeding saved my daughter’s physical and emotional health, first by providing her overtaxed system with easily digestible nutrients, and then by giving her traumatized little psyche the safe haven and comfort it needed to heal. And that’s why I’m joining in today. Not because I think bottles are bad, but because I think children have a right to what they need to thrive, and that mothers have a right to provide it for them without shame, ridicule, or judgment.
5 Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on October 9th, 2007 — Posted in Oncology Odyssey, Blah Blah Blog
All four of you.
Just a little PSA to let you know that that whack of entries that showed up in your feed over the weekend isn’t exactly new content. The entries–all filed under Oncology Odyssey–are the chronicle of Regan’s Tumour. They came from a now defunct blog and are posted here because they’re special to me.
So, don’t freak out. The Zen Baby is fine. Feel free to read the entries though; it’ll give a lot of insight into the ways I talk about (and parent) my youngest daughter.
5 Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on March 24th, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
We saw Regan’s paediatrician today. Technically, she doesn’t have a paediatrician anymore, but back when she was in the hospital, Dr. Yang was in charge of the non-cancer, non-surgical aspects of her care. We haven’t seen her in years, not since the day I happily skipped out of the hospital, my miracle baby held safe in my arms. Today, we ran into her in an elevator while making one of our semi-annual follow up visits to the hospital.
I recognized her instantly, but it took her a few minutes to place us. Not surprising, given the changes we’ve undergone in the last couple of years. The gaunt, silent, critically ill baby who was her patient bears little resemblance to the round cheeked, vibrant preschooler standing before her. Gone were the iv pole, the multiple tubes, the look of absolute terror in her eyes, replaced by a child filled with humour and curiosity. And me? Well, sure I’ve cut my hair, but more than that, I’m no longer shell shocked, clearly keeping it together by sheer force of will. Today I’m confident, relaxed, smiling, and I’ve got great hair.
A few key words refreshed her memory–”baby,” “giant tumour,” “nearly coded,” “miracle”–and her face lit up, then clouded with concern. After I assured her that we were fine, and that our presence in the hospital was merely routine, Dr. Yang relaxed and smiled at Regan, complimenting her glowing picture of health. As the elevator doors opened onto the paediatric floor, she thanked me for introducing ourselves, for reminding her that sometimes miracles happen and that even here, under the worst of circumstances, there can still be happy endings.
This part of our story isn’t quite over yet. There will be another year or so of tests and visits, but I can live with that. Because I know I’m not looking at a happy ending so much as a very bright beginning.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on March 9th, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
The test itself barely registers as an event anymore. Now that Regan is old enough to understand, and we don’t have to hold her down to get it done, the test is no longer something to be dreaded or endured. By now, 2 full years into this particular drama, we’ve got it down to a routine: In the days leading up to the appointment, play “hobstible” with the dollies. Scan their bellies with the doctor equipment, and talk about how it doesn’t hurt them. Talk about the “tickle” and the “slimy.” Remind Regan that soon she gets to go to the “hobstible” so that the doctor can look at her tummy. Make it sound like an adventure.
She lies still for the scan now, holding on to me instead of forcing me to hold her down. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t fight it, either. Gone are the days when I had to get on the gurney with her; now I sit in the chair beside her and hold her hand while the technician glides the various instruments over her small body. While I praise her for her bravery and compliance, I keep an eye on the monitor, making small talk with the tech as I watch for abnormalities. I’m by no means an expert, but I’ve seen enough of these pictures by now to fool myself into thinking that I have some idea of what I’m looking at.
This is all the easy part. It’s what comes next that’s hard. The wait.
Usually, it’s not too bad. Usually, I’ve chatted up the technician enough that they give me the “all clear” before they even leave the room to check the films. Not this time though. This time, she leaves to get Regan a finger puppet reward and to “check some measurements,” leaving us waiting in the darkened room.
At first, it’s not too bad. The time is taken up with wiping the goo off of Regan’s belly and high fives for a job well done. But, as the minutes stretch on, and the woman doesn’t return, I start to wonder exactly how long it takes to get a finger puppet. I start to remember the last time I was left to wait this long in one of these room, and resolutely refuse to think about it. I know Regan is healthy now, just like I knew something was wrong then.
But then, what’s taking so long? Seriously, how long does it take to find a finger puppet? Or is it something more? Did she find something else? Is she waiting for the radiologist? Why would she need to do that, if the films are clear? My breathing starts to speed up, and I will myself not to hyperventilate, to concentrate on the obviously healthy child who is surfing on the gurney. The waiting, though, it gives you time to think.
What if it’s started to grow back? I haven’t noticed anything, but what if that’s because it’s still small? Well, that would be good, right? Small would be ok, early detection and all that. What’s the worst that would happen, that they’d open her up and take it out again? That wouldn’t be so bad.
Except, it was hard enough with an infant who was too little to put up much of a fight–although she tried; good lord how she tried. How much harder to go through it with someone who understood? Who knew what was happening to her. Did I have it in me to do it all again?
And then, before I have to answer that, the technician is back with a finger puppet and a clean bill of health. Turns out the finger puppet wasn’t really worth the wait; Regan would have rather had a sticker. The all clear, though, that’s something worth waiting for.
Now, the question is, how long do I have to wait before the waiting simply becomes another part of the routine?
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on March 3rd, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that my Zen Baby is 3.
It’s similar to the same sort of “where did the time go?” wonderment that I felt when Diva Girl turned 8, but tinged with a sense that every single one of those 1095 days were hard won. I don’t really dwell on it anymore, but sometimes, especially on days like this, I’m reminded that there was a time when I wasn’t certain I’d be celebrating Regan’s third birthday. So, all the gifts aren’t necessarily for the Birthday Girl; the mere fact that we have a Birthday Girl is a gift in and of itself.
And what a girl she is! This newly minted preschooler bears only a passing resemblance to the Zen Baby of a year ago. Last year, Regan was silent, rarely speaking above a whisper, and then only to a select few–her grandparents, her sister, me. Now, she is a boisterous chatterbox, full of ideas and almost always engaged iin a running commentary of her thoughts and actions. She used to be pathologically shy, unwilling or unable to interact with friends she saw nearly every day, let alone people she didn’t know. These days, she happily chats with random strangers in the elevator and she delights in introducing me to her friends.
It’s been a long time coming, this transformation from silent observer to boisterous participant, and like most incremental changes, it’s happened so slowly as to be unremarkable, at least in the day to day living of our lives. The differences however, in who she is, and in how we live, truly are dramatic. I notice them, of course, but like all changes, they quickly get folded into the rhythm of our lives and, if not exactly forgotten, accepted as the norm.
I was reminded how far she’d come a couple of weeks ago, when I knocked her down at my nephew’s party. Intimidated by the strange surroundings and the horde of unknown people, Regan had reverted to a longheld security measure and took up residence about an inch from my right leg. There was a time when Regan’s position there was simply part of my own body awareness, when her presence was just a part of me, and I didn’t even need to think about where she was. There was a time when I never would have knocked her down by turning too swiftly, forgetting that I would need to compensate for her. I would have just known she was there, hovering silently, and I would have instinctively moved with that awareness.
Those days are long gone. It began slowly, subtly moving farther and farther away to explore the world around her–trailing behind me at the mall, playing on her own at playgroup…baby steps for the Zen Baby. Now, Regan almost always occupies her own space, not mine. And so, I was unprepared for her presence at the party, unused to this quiet creature who I used to know so well. This shy child, looking up at me from where she’d fallen, was both achingly familiar and wonderfully foreign. I remember that little girl, so serious and silent, and even think of her fondly, but I don’t miss her.
Happy Birthday, Regan! You’ve come a long way, baby! And I can’t wait to see where you go next.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on October 27th, 2006 — Posted in Oncology Odyssey, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
I’d forgotten about weekends during the last two and a half years. I’d forgotten that bone tired feeling at the end of a busy work week; it’s a different bone tired than the exhaustion that comes with the constant care of a tiny human being or a full playdate schedule. Tonight, though, it’s all coming back to me, the meaning of TGIF.
Lately, weekends just meant that I’ll have 2 kids home all day, not picking up their toys and demanding snacks. And that the Shaolin Toddler will probably forgo her nap, choosing instead to chase her sister around and get in her business until they are both whining uncontrollably. Weekends in the land of this accidental SAHM were certainly a break in routine, but when you’ve got a high strung Diva and a Toddler Formerly Known As Zen in a small apartment, changes in routine aren’t always…restful. Tonight, however, I’m sitting here, utterly exhausted and grateful that it’s Friday. Two whole glorious days to sleep in, laze around, and do absolutely nothing……Or, you know, spend quality time with The Ladies, do the laundry (normally I wouldn’t bother, but the underwear situation is nearing critical levels), and get the errands done I didn’t have time for during the week.
Still, I’m thrilled that it’s the weekend. Even more than that, I’m thrilled that I’m thrilled that it’s the weekend.
I’ve been a mom for going on 8 years now, and for the first five, I was a working mom. For the first year and a half of Diva Girl’s life I was in school, getting my teaching credentials. And by the first year and a half, I mean all of it. For a completely….unexpected baby, Sabrina had the good grace to be born over Christmas Break. I attended my last class of the year, went home, had a baby, and showed back up at school three weeks later without missing a single class. After I got my teaching certificate I went to work pretty much fulltime, first as a supply teacher, and then, the year she was in Jr. Kindergarten, as a teacher at Diva Girl’s school.
Then I had the Zen Baby. I took the full year maternity leave and really enjoyed it. Well, I did teach summer school when the baby was four months old, but other than that, I was home fulltime. It was a unique experience for me, this life of a stay-at-home-mom. I hung out on the playground and made friends with other mommies. I attended school assemblies, went on fieldtrips and to playgroup, and napped when the baby napped. But I’ll confess, when I was offered my dream job just a few days after Regan’s first birthday, I was ready to go back to work. Especially since it was only one 70 minute high school English class, meaning I would still be able to drop Brina off at school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons, and would only be leaving Regan with my mom for about 2 hours a day. It was perfect, and I was thrilled.
Three days after I started work, Regan’s tumour was discovered. My immediate instinct was to quit. In fact, I walked into the Vice-Principal’s office later that day and tendered my resignation. He didn’t accept it, telling me that a decision shouldn’t be made in such an emotional moment. Part of me was very relieved, because terrified though I was for my baby, I really, really wanted that job. And I kept it. The day after her surgeon removed a tumour the size of a grapefruit from the Zen Baby’s belly, I returned to my class, commuting from the hospital until she was released a week later. After that contract ended, I again worked summer school , basking in the fact that my baby was healthy.
But, the entire drama had taken more than a physical toll on my family. By August, Regan had stopped talking. At. All. No words–not even Mama, or NO. No baby babble. Really, no sounds at all. And she was painfully shy. People terrified her. Not just random strangers, pretty much everyone who wasn’t me. I never had to look around for her, I simply needed to look down to see my little shadow standing silently, no more than an arm’s length (hers, not mine) from my leg. This was not a child who was going to be able to cope with daycare, not even the fantastic home daycare where I’d secured her a spot.
So, I took the year off and instead of lesson plans, report cards, and parent teacher interviews I immersed myself in a busy schedule of playdates and circle time as I tried to socialize my traumatized little girl. It worked beautifully. With the help of some great friends, including the aforementioned daycare provider, Regan is a different child from a year ago. She’s happy. She’s social. Last week, she walked up to me holding another little girl’s hand and said, “This is Emma. She’s my friend.” It was time to go back to work.
So, this week I walked back into a classroom for the first time in 14 months. And started to remember what it’s like to look forward to the weekend.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on September 19th, 2006 — Posted in Zen Baby, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
I knew there wouldn’t be any bad news today, but I was still careful in picking out my outfit for this morning’s ultrasound. I learned from the first time not to wear anything I really like to an ultrasound appointment; even though the sticky jelly I ended up covered in washed right out of the dress, every time I looked at it all I could think about were the words, “Twelve Centimetre Tumour.” Eighteen months later and I still haven’t worn that dress again.
Everything is different now. Regan is a healthy, happy, active toddler, not a critically ill, undiagnosed infant. Instead of distended belly and a gaunt face, she’s got chubby little cheeks and the same slender build as her sister. Today she was old enough to understand what was going on, and to be bribed with a sticker; the first time we did this dance, she was too little to be anything but terrified, and all the princess stickers world wouldn’t have been enough to convince her to lie still on the gurney. A year and a half ago, the techs were inscrutable, sticking firmly to their “you have to call your doctor” scripts; now, they give me a subtle thumbs up, reassuring me that there’s nothing to see here.
A week after her first birthday I was told that Regan had a 12 cm neuroblastoma in her abdomen. The day after that, we began what I was told would be a long odyssey through the world of oncology. Three weeks later, it was over.
We were lucky. Well, as lucky as you can be when your infant has a tumour 1/8 of her total body mass stretching her bowel to the breaking point. But, it wasn’t a neuroblastoma. It was benign. Incredibly rare, and still potentially life threatening, but benign. Which meant that after the surgery to take it out, we were free and clear. No chemo. No chemicals, No hard choices.
Our family was changed by those three weeks in March, but it wasn’t shattered. While some of the effects of that experience are still being explored–Diva Girl, for example, is just starting to be able to talk about how she was affected by that time–it’s not an every day part of our lives anymore. As a mother, it’s always in the back of my mind, but luckily it’s only at the forefront of my life every six months.–like today.
We can live with that.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on May 14th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, Oncology Odyssey, Blah Blah Blog, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
I had planned a post for today about Mother’s Day as a solo mom. About getting “Mom and Me (aka Make your own) Cookies” and crafts made at Brownies that need “some parental assistance” to put together at home and breakfasts in bed that require that you get up to supervise the burning of the toast and the scrambling of the egg shells before rushing back to bed to be “surprised” by your lovingly prepared feast.
And then I learned that Cancerbaby died this week. And the highs and lows of doing this motherhood thing on my own just didn’t really seem all that important anymore.
Cancerbaby was one of my favourite friends I’ve never met. We are friends in that peculiar way that bloggers sometimes are. We never knew each other’s names or saw each other’s faces, but we shared each other’s lives. Through posts, comments, and email we supported each other through our struggles, cheering on victories and commiserating over defeats.
I like to joke that The Universe is out to get me. That these past few years struggling with a seeming incredible confluence of bad luck have been the repayment of some sort of gigantic Karmic debt. But really, Cancerbaby’s story puts my life into stark perspective.
Shortly after she and her husband decided that they were ready to start their family, Cancerbaby began to have symptoms. As is so often the case, by the time the correct diagnosis of Ovarian Cancer was made her reproductive system–and her dreams of having a baby–were sacrificed to save her life. Her blog chronicled her journey to accept this. To incorporate this devastation to her being into her sense of self. To survive it and own it. Cancerbaby spoke intelligently and passionately, and often hilariously about the state of cancer in America. She was heartbreaking and inspiring in her eloquence.
And she appeared to be thriving. To have embraced her life and begun making plans for a future. A future that would include children and motherhood, regardless of her cancer-induced infertility. I and many others were exicted for her. She so deserved this chance at happiness, at having some variation of the life she’d dreamed of.
Then the rug was pulled out from under her again. The cancer recurred. And in spite of all the latest and best treatments, the cancer killed her.
I first “met” Cancerbaby when my own Zen Baby’s tumour was diagnosed. I was tickled and moved by a brilliant post railing against the “mood oglers” of the world, those people who exhort you to “cheer up” or “smile” without having any clue as to your personal circumstance, just a feeling that your emotions–or their perceptions of them–are ruining their day. I was moved enough to make my very first comment ever on a blog. In it I briefly referenced Regan’s cancer diagnosis and how it had redefined my own response to mood oglers.
I was shocked when later that day Cancerbaby emailed me to ask how my daughter was doing. That first email began a correspondence between us that was at times made awkward by my guilt at my daughter’s miraculous survival, and even her very existence, in the face of Cancerbaby’s own tragedies, but was always smoothed over by her generosity of spirit. She acknowledged with shocking honesty that, as an infertile woman who bore a certain amount of healthy bitterness about her state, she didn’t particularly relish conversations with friends about their children. But she made an exception for Zen Baby, counting her among her own personal ranks and cheering on milestones both extraordinary and mundane. She expressed as much joy and interest in Regan’s first steps as she had at her successful debulking surgery. She truly cared about me and my daughter, and I cared about her.
Her death was not a surprise. Certainly by the end, every one who followed her blog knew that it was coming. Even before it got really bad, before she stopped posting because between the pain of her disease and the pain of its treatment, simply living life took so much effort that there was nothing left for publicly private reflection. Cancerbaby knew, and had accepted her fate. One of our last email exchanges was about this newfound attitude of peace she seemed to have found. She certainly wasn’t willing to lay down and allow the cancer to claim her, but she had a calmness about the prospect of it. A feeling that she had made sense out of her journey and could see the end, one that wasn’t what she had hoped for, but one that she thought she could accept for herself.
Cancerbaby’s journey is done now. I do not have the words to express how saddened I am by that. But I feel priviledged that I was allowed to share in it along the way. She was an extraordinary woman, and she will be missed.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on May 5th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
Well, I have to say, that was the least traumatic medical procedure I’ve ever been through with Zen Baby. There was absolutely no screaming. (None that I heard, anyway. I’ve chosen not to think too hard what it means that her hair was soaked with sweat and she was doing that hitching sob thing when they returned her to me after the procedure.) No flailing around. No vehement protestations of her displeasure.
She allowed the Dentist to administer the sedation drug nasally without a peep. Last year she freaked out about having to swallow candy flavoured medicine even when I was the one giving it to her. This year she allows a complete stranger to squirt drugs up her nose. Oh what a difference a year makes.
The sedation though, that was small potatoes. I figured the real fireworks would start when they tried to take x-rays of her teeth. Because I’m not thinking your average 2 year-old is really down with that particular procedure. And Zen Baby? Less inclined to suffer the indignities of medical probing than most. And really, really strong. But she surprised me. I was prepared for a scene out of The Exorcist as I held her jaws clamped shut against the film. I expected tears. At the very least, accusation. I didn’t expect her to lay there with this horrible bit of plastic gagging her, looking up at me with a heartbreaking mixture of bewilderment and trust. I was so incredibly proud of her.
And then, well, I’m not proud of what happened next. Because I fled. They said, “ok Mom, we’re ready to start. You need to go to the waiting room now.” And I did. At an unseemly pace. My father, who is Zen Baby’s back up support in all things medical, lingered in the doorway, asking to stay with her. But not me. Nope. Her mother, who was with her every step of the way last year, present for every iv insertion, blood draw, needle stick, and sedation, couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.
When they brought her out a half hour later she sweaty, sobbing, and swollen. But basically ok. The minute I had her safe in my arms I started singing her special song–the one I used to settle her in the hospital. I was so relieved to learn as she slowly relaxed in my arms that not everything changes in the course of a year and that it stilll has magic for her. It made it easier to leave her in her Grandpa’s capable hands and move on to the next part of my day: Diva Girl’s field trip.
The smile that lit my daughter’s face when she saw me walk into her classroom made the knot in my belly a little looser. The fact of the matter is, Zen Baby was sleeping and oblivious as to whether or not I was waiting on her every breath. Diva Girl was sitting there waiting with baited breath to see if I would walk through that door. I’m glad I didn’t disappoint her.
The field trip itself was, well, a field trip. There was a bus ride–oh how I love being trapped in a tin can with 60 hyped up seven year-olds. Each and every time I am astonished by the sheer wall of noise that is produced. The stop at the train tracks was a special treat. Especially when, after taking 10 minutes (which is more like an hour in bus time) to make it through the railway crossing, the train then proceeded to back up. Yeah, that part was awesome. There was an afternoon spent attempting to contain the excitement of the aforementioned second graders while not dampening their enthusiasm for the play; a really good, nearly professional quality highschool production of a Broadway musical. Aside from the one gentleman who had quite the fascination with the velcro closure on his shoes and the fact that some genuis seated our group behind a class of eighth graders, leading to a near constant murmer of “I can’t see!!! ,” it was great. And then there was the inevitable bus mixup/delay on the way home. So, all in all, pretty standard. But the point of the trip wasn’t the trip, it was that I was on it.
Which of course didn’t stop Diva Girl from complaining that I never do anything with her and demanding that I spend the evening playing with her. Because that’s just who she is.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on May 4th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
It is one of the inevitables when parenting multiple children that at any given time, they will have conflicting needs and wants. And the greater the need of one child, the more intense the want of the other.
After three months of waiting and watching her teeth slowly deteriorate, Regan is finally scheduled for her surgery to have them cleaned and capped. On the same day that I had already agreed to supervise Sabrina’s field trip. Regan needs this procedure. Sabrina desperately wants me to go on her field trip. And so I am left feeling pulled between my conflicting responsibilities as a mother.
To up the ante, this is not the first time I have been put in a position to choose between my children. Last year I spent a month living in the hospital with Regan while Sabrina stayed with her grandparents. Sabrina was loved and spoiled and taken care of in every way possible. And Regan, at barely a year old, needed me with her as her tumour was dealt with. I did the best that I could to do right by my girls. But the fact remains that I am only one person and I could only be with one child. And I chose Regan. It was the right choice, but it was a choice. And at six years old, that’s all my Diva Girl was really able to understand: That I didn’t choose her.
This scheduling conflict is the same drama in a smaller scale. I need to make a choice as to which daughter will have my time and my attention. And much though I am sure Zen Baby will want me to be there with her as she recovers from this most recent indignity to her small body, Sabrina needs me to be with her. To choose her. So this time the roles will be reversed and I will choose to spend my time with Diva Girl and the Zen Baby will rely on Grandma and Grandpa to take care of her in my absence.
And me? I’ll toss another quarter in the therapy jars to cover all the mommy guilt. Or just blog it. That works too.
No Comments »