Hayfever bites the big one. When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and daffodils are bursting with color, one might think such glory would be cause for jubilation. And it would, if it weren’t for this wretched lack of tolerance for so many varieties of pollen. Bah.
It’s going to be a very busy work week. It was going to be busy anyway, with Athos out on vacation, but now Porthos is out for the week as well, with a family matter. Which leaves me (Aramis*) to hold down the fort. All of it. And I tend to have a full workload of my own anyway, and even more so this week due to an impending major deadline. That’s the flip side to specialization. With very few backups, occasionally one is left holding the bag. I am glad to have a bag to hold, though.
Part of me is wrestling over the weaning decision. How I look forward to life beyond the pump, yet, at the same time, I almost don’t want to stop. Maybe because it marks the end of a path I’ll never walk down again. I won’t be having another child. I won’t be making milk again. I will be wistful, when it’s time to close that door. I’m wistful now, just thinking of it.
There is also a part of me that is trying not to be afraid. I thought LB’s lower back looked a bit more hunched than I remember BB’s looking at that age, and inquired about it at his 6 month well-child checkup. His doctor didn’t think it seemed too unusual, but ordered an x-ray as a precautionary measure. The report came back with some frightening words and we were referred to a specialist. When we got there, the diagnostic imaging service had put the wrong x-rays on the CD (it’s all digital these days), so the specialist couldn’t look at them. He said that we could take more, or reschedule for a later date, since he wanted to order an ultrasound anyway, to look at the kidneys and thereabouts. I chose to reschedule. I don’t want to bombard my baby with any more radiation than absolutely necessary. He also mentioned that an MRI might be needed, but I don’t want to make that decision until we have more information from the ultrasound results, and the evaluation of the x-rays. With an infant, an MRI requires general anesthesia, and I don’t want to put him through that unless it’s necessary. Anyhow, there are many hanging questions, and there may be nothing at all wrong, which is my deepest hope. I’m doing my best not to allow myself to worry over the what ifs until or unless there is cause. But it’s very hard for me. I’m not so good at letting things roll.
I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy of late. Consequently, I’ve been overly indulgent with the food scene.
I’ve also been feeling more aware of my age, for some reason. I don’t feel old, per se, but I clearly remember thinking how old my own mother was when she was 42, and here I am, 44. When she was 42, I was in college, and had made the decision to give up the big V, being that I thought I was an adult and all. She wasn’t very happy about that news, when I shared it with her. That was the end of our mother-daughter-friend-friend relationship, which in retrospect was mostly a sham anyway, initiated by me under some self-imposed sense of what a mother-daughter relationship should be like.
Poof.
Anyway. She was 42 and I was ‘grown up.’ I’m 44, and I have a baby. Different worlds. Different generations. In my world, now, I’m going to try to be a real friend to my boys. To listen. To hear.
This means, of course, that I need to get over myself, so I can be there for them. Not so easy. At least, not for me. Else I’d have managed it by now. Getting over myself, being 44, and all.
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*Okay, so I watched Slumdog Millionaire this weekend, and it’s fresh in my mind. Excellent movie.
MsCellania Says:
