I planned and schemed and even wrote a speech for the big day. Everything went perfect. Getting him out of the house, keeping him gone. Finding spots for everyone to park so he wouldn't see cars.
He was so surprised that he cried when he walked in the door and saw everyone waiting inside. Then things got difficult . . . My toddler, who is usually super friendly and happy, became withdrawn, quiet, and only wanted me to hold me. She rested her head on my shoulder as I made my way around the party. I kept trying to put her down, get her to eat, or play, but she just wouldn't. I wasn't sure at first, mostly because I was carrying her against me for so long and I'm 7 months pregnant, but her little body felt so hot.
I was getting tired and sore from holding her, and it was time to do cake. We sang happy birthday with my sad little girl still flopped over my left shoulder like a limp doll. Cake got cut and passed around and she finally let Greg hold her so I could have a small break. Within two minutes of me passing her over, and maybe four bites into the cake that took me a combined four hours to decorate, she threw up all Greg! In the middle of all our guests eating cake, we took her to the bathroom and got them both cleaned up and decided to wrap up the party.
As I snuggled with Mavis on the couch that night, it hit me that I didn't take one picture of anything. I had my camera out, and I planned to get photos all day, but was distracted from holding my daughter. I also never read my speech. The speech that I secretly worked on during her nap time for two months! I never got to even read it. The speech my husband deserved. For everyone to know how incredible he is and all that he has accomplished. It sat under 'saved documents' on my laptop.
Mavis woke up that night with a 103 fever. She slept in our bed and the next day we took her to the doctor. They thought she had an ear infection and we started antibiotics. A couple days later, she still wasn't better. She was actually worse. She had watery diarrhea all day long for 3 days, wouldn't eat, barely drank anything, and only wanted to lay on me on the couch, falling in and out of sleep. By Wednesday, she was still not improving. She threw up again that morning and we took her back to the doctor. She never had an ear infection and we were told to stop the antibiotics, and she had something viral and we just had to ride it out. The rest of the day we snuggled under a blanket on the couch, and Greg took the day off work because Mavis was too sick to ride around in the car all day picking up her siblings.
The next two days were about the same. I was exhausted, worried, and in pain from sitting in one spot all day and carrying her around on my hip if I had to do anything. If I had to pee I had to take her with me and then she would cry on my lap the entire time. After almost 3 days had passed since I showered, I had to take one, but Mavis wouldn't let me leave her side. I had to do it. I brought her in the bathroom with me and hopped in. She sat outside the shower and screamed my name, tears streaming down her face while I quickly scrubbed down. As soon as I got out, she jumped into my soaking wet arms where she stayed as I struggled to get dressed with one arm and she clung to me as tight as she could.
By Saturday I felt completely defeated. It had been seven days and she woke up for the seventh morning in a row at 5 am and all she wanted to do was snuggle on me on the couch. Greg had to work so I was on my own. I kept telling myself each day that it would be okay, that she would be better tomorrow. But tomorrow came every day for a week and she wasn't better. I was tired, emotional, and frustrated.
Mavis eventually fell asleep on me as Layla was waking up. Layla is very particular and likes things to happen in a certain order in the morning. That order was not going to happen. She wanted me to get up and make her breakfast and I couldn't. It was 8am and Mavis had been up since 5 and had just drifted off to sleep. I knew if I got up, she would start crying and I wanted her to rest. She had to get better. I explained this to Layla and after a small tantrum, she understood. I watched her from the couch, my heart slowly breaking, as she made herself some toast. It hurt that I couldn't be everything they both needed at the same time.
We got through the afternoon, me still in my pajamas, the exact clothes I also wore the day before. Mavis wasn't getting better and I couldn't coax her into eating anything. I mentally began to panic. Thoughts of all these possible things wrong with her infiltrated my head as she cried on my hip while I tried to make lunch. "Couch. Couch," she cried. "Mommy, couch."
-Why wasn't she getting better?
-She doesn't have a fever, so what else could it be?
-Why wont she drink anything? I offered her some water, then juice. "No. Away," she cried, pushing the juice box from her face.
-She isn't really peeing. Maybe she is dehydrated.
-Bladder infection? UTI from having so much diarrhea? I know I wiped her carefully and bathed her every night.
I started to cry. Tired. Worried. Irritated. I lost my patience. I shouted, "Just be quiet."
The moment I grunted those words out, regret immediately followed. I felt like a failure. I just shouted at my sick toddler to be quiet. The tears poured out of me as I kept cooking lunch, and crying while she cried.
I was at my limit. Pregnant. Tired. Scared. Sad. Annoyed. Needing a break so badly but felt too guilty to actually take one.
It took her two more days and a reassuring phone call to her pediatrician before she was 100% again. After getting some gym time and rest, and peace of mind from actually seeing my daughter act like her happy normal self again, I reflected on the past week.
I'm an incredible mom. I am not a robot who can go endlessly without emotion. I get cranky and pushed to my limit. I break sometimes and that's okay. No matter what anyone says, I will forever feel guilty about taking time away for myself even though I know I need it. Even when I whine about needing a break, when it comes down to it, I would rather be in the middle of chaos with my family, then sitting at Starbucks drinking a hot coffee that isn't spilling on me or needing to be reheated 400 times.
It's okay that my daughters saw me cry because it's okay for them to know that mom's get tired too. We aren't this disposable thread of everyone's needs all the time. It's okay for my kids to understand that mom's are human and we need breaks and hugs just like they do. They saw me break down, and then they saw me take a deep breath and keep moving forward despite being exhausted. Even when I thought I was failing, I was showing them how to keep fighting and stay strong. They saw me putting other's before myself in a time of need. They saw compassion, love, and tenderness.
I'm so hard on myself that I often fail to see myself through my kids eyes. I think I'm falling apart and they see me pulling it all together. I think I look awful and they simply see their mom.
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