Happy Day!

I am seeing an orthopedic doctor ASAP.

Why's that happy?

Well, because I need this hip replaced/repaired.

In my family runs a gene for degenerative joint disorder. That gene is present and unfortunately dominant/active with me. I would normally have been on top of it much sooner, as in not waiting months to get it addressed.

This ties back to my former OB in a big way. Remember I was posting about how we (women in particular but everyone) have to keep pushing when we know what we feel but doctors keep dismissing it?

Around the 8th month of pregnancy 3, what had been written  off as round ligament pain and hormones was finally diagnosed as symphysis pubis dysfunction. (That's where relaxin causes your pelvis to spread too soon. It happens naturally before delivery, but in SPD it occurs too early and leaves the patient in pain and in bad cases, unable to bear weight on the pelvis--which includes walking.)

The pelvic pain was one thing--but my right hip was an entirely different matter. It got to the point where I could hear my bone grinding when I walked. (This is a symptom of SPD as well--but SPD does not involve your hip. The pain can radiate, but radiant pain does not cause audible cracking and popping of a joint.) The bone burned, and it kind felt like the joint was made of velcro! It would stick and catch whenever I was bold enough to walk.

Somewhere after week 30, I took to crawling around the house. I couldn't bear standing on the leg any more than absolutely crucial. I couldn't drive. I couldn't get down in the tub for those warm soaks my doctor recommended.

And it was depressing. I lost so much mobility and quality of life in those last weeks. No cooking. No baking. No running around with the kids. I couldn't do any outings with them. And when hubby had to work longer hours, I'd be in bed hating every second.

Anxiety had its way with me. What if I couldn't walk anymore? What if the pain, which was in a class all by itself, never went away??? Early 30s is a bit young to be worrying about all that. Especially when my kids are still young and fairly needy.

I woke up one day. It was a Sunday. Right before Halloween. My hip had spasmed all the previous night, felt like a dang bowling ball. It was hard to the touch and I felt like I'd been running all night although I had literally not moved from my pillow nest. (I gave up sleeping in my bed by this point--too hard to get in and out of it.)

We went to the ER. (No choice, as I  couldn't even move.)

...and a doctor finally listened. She did not do x-rays due to my pregnancy (they are safe in certain instances but she opted to forgo them, and I appreciated the concern). She took a detailed history of what I was dealing with! including how I had to crawl and roll to get around in the house, and the cracking and grinding in my hip.

As it turns out, the cracking and grinding was my actual hip and not an imaginary hormone hallucination. The cartilage had worn down. She could feel the friction just by touching my leg as I tried to move. What's more, she actually heard it. The hip is a ball-and-socket joint (think your shoulder) and should move freely and fluidly through its range of motion, but I could only move my leg directly forward and directly back (like a hinge joint--think a door, or your knee) without a jolt of pain. Because I was being monitored, she could read the spikes in my heart rate from moving. She also noted that my blood pressure readings were elevated, quite likely due to pain. (It literally hurts all day, every day--even at rest.)

...and I was honest with her. She asked why I hadn't gotten treatment before now and I told her, because my doctor is generally only concerned with my pregnancy. If it's not a direct effect of that, I don't get any airtime.

...and nowwwwww we wait! I have never been so excited to know I might be facing a painful recovery.

Key word: RECOVERY.

...Because I Am A Whole Person, NOT A Portal or Means to An End

So...

I've begun the process of unpacking all the "baggage" from my third pregnancy. Compared to the first two rounds, it was much harder on me emotionally. Physically, I had my discomforts for sure--a hyperemesis gravidarium stint worse than any I've had before, a traumatic season of life events, and anxiety that sorta complicated everything else. I could manage those fine.

It was the feeling, and actuality, that the person I trusted to care for me and the little bean, did not at all.

While I pride myself on being the easy, pleasant patient, I also make a point to be well-read and informed about my health. I read medical journals. I follow research. I try to stay in tune with myself. Probably most importantly, I stay the heck away from Google when something is amiss! I also have an advantageous professional background, having worked in the field for a few years, not so many years ago. This coupled with my hubby's experience means I have a great grasp of what doctors do, as well as what they should not do. And I know how to advocate, to use my voice to make sure I'm getting the care I need.

As such, I have often been called the dream patient. I've never had an issue with doctors before, because even as I advocate for me, I respect their position. (I've never been a doctor, for clarification--while nursing is its own difficult, the two jobs do not exactly compare.)

Before I get too far into it, let's be clear: My former OB was never mean to me. In fact, he and his staff were amazing. They would always be warm and welcoming, even playing with my toddler and entertaining him during my appointments. The practice felt more like a visit with friends than a medical building.

But maybe that's where the problem began.

Because they were so kind and warm, I was reluctant to entertain the idea that my OB was not really listening. Not just failing to listen, but failing to care for or about the woman carrying the baby he'd been tapped to monitor and deliver.

My anxiety was written off as simple hormones and stress. Not unbelievabale--I was setting up base in a different town, away from everyone I knew, to open a new busimess. In addition to number 3 (now known as Tiger Lily), I had two other kiddos to care for; my husband works crazy long hours so it's often just me with a side of cute small fries. When I asked the good doctor to refer me to a counselor or a doula, I was told I didn't need those Hollywood things and to just relax, that my pregnancy needn't be a production with an extensive cast.

When I developed symphysis pubis dysfunction--a condition where the hormone relaxin softens the pelvic ligaments and joints to prepare for delivery. My body did not adjust well to this new stretchiness and responded with hip, lower back, and pelvic girdle pain that left me walking side to side when I was able to at all. Good doctor didn't see an issue with this. Again, written off as a normal discomfort. Didn't hesititate to try to ply me with pills to shut me up though. I'd never heard of SPD and was only properly diagnosed once I transferred to a doctor 3 hours away.

My hyperemesis was not taken seriously until I lost 15 pounds. I was a sad, sad sight--dark circles, skin and bones. I was done. This was the final straw for me, and I transferred back to my doctors in Atlanta. It's one thing to ignore my discomfort, but if I couldn't eat or get nourishment, there was no way my little bean could thrive. Babies draw their nourishment from us, and my reserves were tapped out. (Admittedly I still have nightmares of my little bean in there, starving, meanwhile instead of the IV nourishment my doctor shoves pills down my throat so "it won't hurt.")

Anxiety, sure--I've lived with it for a couple years now and can manage. I have resources and know when to draw on them. The SPD? NOT a common occurrence for me but I'm fine with a wild card as long as I can get what I need to deal with it. (In this case, some actual treatment--turns out I had a severe case of SPD as well as degenerative joint disease in my hip, and would need surgery to even address the latter.)

The hyperemesis, I could not play around with, as it has always led to hospitalizations and bed rest for me. IV nutrition and anti-nausea meds delivered through a port, via a pump, which I've always gotten no later than the 14th week. I desperately wanted to avoid a hospital stay, but even with a late yet intensive course of actual treatment, I was still too far behind my usual curve to not end up admitted for inpatient care.

The good doctor took it personally upon finding out I would be delivering elsewhere. Had I stayed in Albany, there would be a chance that he'd end up delivering my baby anyway, as only one hospital has labor and delivery. That meant either he or his colleagues would still be responsible for me and my bean at some point, and that was a risk I simply refused to take. Thanks to his lack of concern and ability to make me feel as if I were overreacting, whiny, or both, I needed to get out.

Anxiety does not directly affect the baby unless it is unhecked. SPD has no bearing on a pregnancy besides potentially debilitating the mom. But hyperemesis...that can be deadly for both baby and mom.

So, after a particularly harrowing visit where my blood was lost and my blood sugar readings were erased from my pump, I threw in the towel.

Why wait?

I waited because I needed to be sure my anxiety wasn't driving me toward hypersensitivity over the new doctor. I didn't want to make unnecessary waves. I didn't want to be a fuss bucket. I didn't want to go through a pregnancy and delivery three hours away from my family.

Why leave that practice, then? Couldn't I just grin and bear it?

I transferred because I didn't want to suffer any more missed diagnoses or patronization. I didn't want to suffer period. I didn't want me or my little bean to die.

My husband was more than happy to come back to Atlanta with me. The kids just wanted their real mom back, and a healthy baby sister.

That doctor in Albany treated me as a portal, a means to a delivery. I was not a person, just a vessel for a baby. I'm pretty sure our outcome would be more than grim had I not stood up and spoke out.

I'm NOT just a portal. My baby was not just a number.

Toxic Masculinity

May I take a moment to express a thing that bothers me lately?

I'm not really one to be bugged by people, as I've never had a problem sending them on their merry way.

As you very well know, my little guy, my Bop-Bop, my Bud, is almost 3. (Time,  you can slow down any minute...getting out of hand here with the birthdays, sheesh.) But before I digress and start crying because my little boy is getting so big...

He's the best little boy in the world, full of wonder and surprises and noise...and dirt. I really dig his little personality. He's strong, he's swift, and he's really carving out his own niche. (He's outbumbered--there are more girls in our house now, thanks to our tiebreaker Miss Tiger Lily.)

He's also the perfect mix of big boy and snuggle booplesnoot.

While I haven't steered him toward any particular interest set, he loves his cars and Mickey. He likes watching the school buses in the mornings. He enjoys a good dirt fest with his Tonka trucks. Also, it's a good thing I'm not particularly afraid of critters because he loves bringing me different bugs and things to identify when we're outside. (It's perhaps a better thing that I'm willing to chase said critters for a pic or two, because if he can't get to them, he expects me to!)

On the other hand, he loves to snuggle and read a story or ten. He likes being in the kitchen. He enjoys a good yoga sesh, although he's only just learning poses besides downward dog. And he is an emerging empath--if he senses sadness or pain in any of us, he feels it too and will cry of his hugs and sugars don't help.

He's everything I dreamed a son would be. I wouldn't change a thing, even that hot little temper he's got.

But what irks me badly is, when an adult tries to foist their views of masculinity and/or what a kid should be like...

...on a kid who doesn't flipping belong to them!!!

I have this discussion a lot with a member of our circle. He isn't some hard ass dude himself, actually, which confuses me a LOT. (He isn't "girly," but he is a far cry from tough, and he's a good bit more sensitive than most men.) He has a difficult time NOT telling my boyo to not cry, and he seems to forget that the kid is a person entitled to the same feelings he himself has.

Needless to say it pisses my grits.

One, he doesn't have any biological kids, so while it's for the most part appreciated, his input and opinions--along with those of anyone besides me, hubby, and kid in question--simply do not matter.

Two, he's not necessarily the example for the behavior he seems to expect. He doesn't just accept what people say, he expresses his stuff whether anyone wants to hear it or not, and he doesn't embody a lot of the traits the average man holds dear. (As a woman, I can't judge--I only know what makes a woman, and even that varies by lifestyle and experience. I've only lived my own story so who am I to dictate?!)

That's not a jab or trash talk at him, just an example. Because of how he was raised, that's the masculinity he thinks is correct. Even though he himself doesn't display the traits, he feels that he can impress them upon the male kids he's around.

He's a great dude but misguided.

There's no space for toxic masculinity here.

1. Boys can cry.

2. Boys can express their feelings.

3. Boys do NOT have to automatically be rough and tumble, dirt and rumble.

4. Boys do NOT have to conform to some archaic model of masculinity.

5. Boys are HUMAN, FIRST. Quit projecting your own insecurities about your masculinity,  or lack thereof, on kids who are barely old enough to know. They're not puppets.

I'm not a gender neutral parent by a long shot. I jist know my limitations. As a woman, I know I can't really direct my son in the ways of dudeness. I'm cool with that. My primary job is not to project what I think a man does, but to raise a decent human. I know exactly what decent humans do, from personal application!

He's got his dad for that dudeness.

His dad totally rocks that shit, too. He's a hard-working, strong, honest, fair person. He believes in earning his way. He doesn't wait for an opportunity--he creates them. While we have definitely had our share of struggles, he's never voluntatily left me to the dogs or watched me fumble through a problem.

THAT'S the kind of masculinity I want to embosom to my son. I hope he always creates his own way, and I hope he is never too timid, too stubborn, or too lazy to realize that won't be easy. I hope he has the perseverance to get it on his feet versus live on his knees.

*sighs*

Right now, he's navigating the seas of toddlerhood as he approaches preschooler-dom. That's enough for his little Mickey plate, for now. He's got his whole life to define what kind of man he's gonna be. I just declare it's a good one, that he'll be more than a talker--after all, it's the walkers who run, and change, the world. Not the ones who merely have opinions about it.

Being a man is a lot more than thunderous voices and muscles. There's no manual for it. Even with my hopes and dreams, and Dad's guidance, Bop-Bop will have to sail those seas for himself.

As a woman I still adamantly affirm that I can't say what makes a man. I can just avoid what I know makes a toxic one. I can keep those at bay, because children emulate what they see, NOT what they hear.

Adults do as well, whether we own it or not. Why else do people still need to look at the GPS screen when the directions are audible?!

Why I DON'T Want to Know Your Stance On...

Circumcision.

I don't want to know what decision you've made about your son's anatomy. I don't want to discuss why you did it. I don't even care, because it's your son, not mine.

By the same token, I won't be engaging any conversation about my own kid in that regard.

I do have opinions and such. It's almost impossible not to! I read the pamphlets and brochures and talked to the pediatricians. It's all over every mommy message board and group, and discussed at play group with the same casual segues as current gossip.

...can we say, "Weird as shit?"

(I don't apologize for cuss words. Judging me for the occasional emergency word says more about you than it does about me.)

I discuss coffee. I discuss potty training. I discuss breastfeeding. I discuss food--all the foods, yums. But I don't discuss my son's penis. I don't compare it to other babies' penises. That would be creepy at best and pedophilic at worse, and that's exactly how those conversations and arguments ring as far as my opinion goes.

I don't get why it's cool to discuss something that personal. It isn't even your body, it's your kid's! You're literally posting (and probably arguing) with total strangers about why you like a mushroom or a turtleneck. Doesn't it feel kinda awkward to discuss your kid's penis anyway? In most forums I've seen, the majority of the ones speaking won't even refer to it by its actual name.

It isn't a peen. It isn't a whacker. It's a PENIS.

UGH.

Do it or don't, that's fine either way. (I wouldn't dare judge you. Especially since I won't let you tell me anyway. *chuckles*) But the need to trumpet it is just creepy to me.

But an online forum isn't the best place to get help making a decision like that. And most people share their stories to sway you their way.

Just ask a nurse or pediatrician, WELL BEFORE DELIVERY, and weigh your options.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T and How We Embosom It To OUR Part of Generation Now

*cues the late great Aretha Franklin*

Respect is a huge topic. With regard to raising little ones, it's possibly divisive as well. Many argue that recent generations have no respect, are entitled, etc. (I definitely see this--remember, I'm 34! While the body still bangs and the melanin still pops, I'm still a fair bit older [and thankfully a lotta bit wiser] than I appear.)

But before we can even teach respect, we have to break down what it is we're really instilling. See, it goes a lot deeper than "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." And it doesn't equal total, blind compliance with whatever they're told.

Today's culture is a hypersensitive mess. People are inclined more toward pity, coddling, and participation points than anything substantial, and it's down to a lack of respect. Words like shame, trigger, and bully get tossed around too freely now. In a culture that promotes excess, nudity, and ignorance, society has basically become a rave at which the more practical, modest, intelligent are not welcome. If you're willing to show enough skin, be outlandish enough, or pretend your thought chamber is empty enough, you'll make it BIG, right?

Depends on what you're willing to concede.

We don't want our kids to concede their respect--that from others but most importantly and specifically, that which they have been raised to have for and within themselves--so we have to work at it daily. We've got a boy and two girls, and respect is a coin we constantly press both sides of to make sure they don't just get it, but embosom it, believe it, and keep it.

In our house, we don't subscribe to what's popping outside. The stuff we can't shield them from--what we call the microwave society--is not swept away, but instead counteracted with what we call the home cooking. The home cooking has three elements, which combine and overlap in a brew called RESPECT. The "magic" elements are: consent, assertiveness, and awareness.

I don't have to tell you what a big deal consent is, especially in the current climate. We must inculcate the principle of autonomy and the idea that consent about their bodies and personal space is theirs to give and/or rescind at any time without consequence or repercussion to them. They don't have to give hugs. If something belongs to them, they aren't required to share it. If they say NO, whatever they are refusing (within reason obviously--health, safety, and hygiene aren't negotiable) must and WILL stop. They don't have to go with anyone they aren't comfortable with, and in the event they are out on a social call and request to come home or be picked up, Dad and I do not hesititate. They are being taught that their boundaries are to be respected--and also that they must extend this same diligence to others.

Assertiveness is my favorite. See, I was a very shy child. I didn't make much fuss and I generally went along with whatever was happening because I didn't like to make waves. I'm raising my kids to be the exact inverse of that. They are to speak up. If they aren't content, they can let us know. They can say NO without being punished, even (or perhaps especially?) to adults. They have/are developing the confidence to assert their stances and advocate for their own interests. They are not allowed to be little Barbarians, but we definitely do not encourage pushover behavior. They aren't allowed to go along to get along. They won't be the next participants in generation Boot Lick. Because they are being equipped now to deal with others in a productive manner, I might not have to die of embarrassment from them resorting to name-calling instead (I would seriously, almost literally pass away if one of inexpensive ever uttered or typed SNOWFLAKE) of stating confirmed facts and moving along. One can, and does, hope.

Lastly, the kids have to be aware. They need to be educated on their rights and fully ready to exercise them. Too many times we think respectful kids just go along with the program. We don't like for them to disagree or buck the establishment so to speak. So we punish or chide them into compliance. A child who is respectful does not necessarily equal a child who just goes along. Personally I think that "go along, do exactly as told without question, EVER" is brainwashing at best, abuse at worst.

...so no, I haven't raised my kids to be that way.

When kids have a good grasp of how consent, assertiveness, and awareness work, they are also generally respectful. How?

Because when they know and understand how to properly apply these qualities for themselves, they can't help but simultaneously apply them for others! My kids won't likely be bashing around like a bull I'm a china shop where another kid is concerned, because they won't equate that as "how things go."

Again, one can (and does) hope.

Godparents

Like many lucky little ducks, my kids have godparents.

These aren't necessarily the humans who promote them most on social media or lug around a showcase full of their most adorable pics. They aren't the ones who sporadically see the kids and gush over how much auntie/uncle ADORES them. They're not the ones who buy the most gifts.

Nah.

When I named godparents for mine, it was a serious choice. These are the people I literally and explicitly trust to care for these kids in the event I die before they're old enough to care for themselves. If something happens to me or Dad, these people are ready to assume legal custody.

Have your babies got godparents?