Milestones are exciting but I’ve never been someone who gets weepy about them. Ok, I may have cried a little during pre-k graduation but I have never gotten verklempt about first steps or pooping in the potty. I tend more towards, That’s done. Check it off the list. What’s next?
Two years ago a phlebotomist came into my room at 5 am. She inserted a needle into the crease of my elbow like someone had once every few days for the last two weeks. I was amazed they were still able to find a vein. Nothing stands out about that particular needle stick. It melts together with all the rest of the early morning wake up calls that involved someone standing over me with a needle and vacutainer.
Have you ever been so stressed out that suddenly you just… weren’t?
Last week I was clinging to the end of my rope by a very frayed thread. Tuesday morning, I woke up extra early. The windows were open, the ceiling fan was on, the birds were chirping, and it was the perfect temperature in the house. It was just perfect. For about two minutes. As soon as I noticed myself thinking about how lovely everything felt, my brain fell apart. It’s not even that I was having coherent anxious thoughts — there were no thoughts, it was all chaotic swirling of overwhelming feelings. It was suffocating and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I mean it felt like there was literally not enough oxygen in the air.
I still have dreams about the NICU. Two years out and I find that to be one of the most surprising remnants of Rowan’s birthday. Most of my dreams are stress dreams anyhow, though they tend towards scary wizards and plots Steven Moffat couldn’t come up with in his own wildest dreams.
I don’t trust birth.
There. I said it.
I feel like I’m supposed to be a good little half-hippie, trusting birth and bodies and earthmothergoddessblahblahblah.
Rowan had yet another audiologist appointment yesterday, followed by an appointment with the ENT. It turned out the audiologist appointment was very brief; she did the test to check eardrum flexibility and it was still showing that his eardrums were not moving nearly as much as they should be. She decided not to make him sit through another hearing test.
Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.