if it's not one thing...

It's your mother. Wynonna Judd said that on an episode of Oprah and I instantly liked her. Don't know all that much about her but she seemed so honest, forthright and funny while being surrounded by so much dysfunction in her life. That poor woman has gone through quite a lot of suffering. Seems almost like a prerequisite if you're going to be a country singer.

Owen's Easter break started today, he goes back to school on Tuesday. It stinks that the next 5 days are supposed to be cold with flurries. Plus we're trapped at home because Toby needed to take the car to go visit a steelmill. He asked Owen if he'd like to go visit one with him some day and I instantly said under my breath so Owen couldn't hear from the back seat, 'wouldn't that be kind of dangerous?' as I visualized Owen falling into a vat of molten steel. I seriously think I've got a case of hypochondria by proxy or I guess it's more like catastrophe by proxy. I worry about my kids safety constantly, to the point where it's a neverending litany of my brain saying 'watch out' over everything, constantly picking at that fight or flight response. I know that part of it is a result of my pregnancy with Oona, where I like to joke that I went from four months of throwing up, and losing a lot of weight in the process, to a five month panic attack. Having the hyperemesis was horrible and debilitating, Owen spent that fist trimester of my pregnancy being babysat by PBS while I alternated between the bathroom and the couch. I went to the ER five times, I probably could have gone daily to get rehydrated but stopped going because I had to dry heave in the waiting room for 3 hours before they would see me, I figured I'd rather be dehydrated in the comfort of my own home. When I finally stopped throwing up I could barely walk more than a block my muscles had atrophied so much from lying around all day. But I'd rather be that sick for my whole pregnancy than deal with how I lost my mind once the hyperemesis stopped. A week after the throwing up stopped my worrying about Oona's health started. I became convinced that she would die before she was born. This became an all consuming thought to the point where I couldn't get more than four hours sleep a night and Owen had to go into daycare because I couldn't function as a mother. I regret all the pain and frustration I put people through, but what I regret most is that my son saw me at such a low point and would tell me 'It's okay Mommy' when I couldn't stop crying. No child should be put in that position. My ob/gyn wanted me to take medication but I refused, concerned about how it might affect the baby. She tried to have me hospitalized for a few days, in a psych ward but I backed out of going at the last minute. My ob/gyn and all the mental health professionals were very concerned that once Oona was born I was going to plummet even deeper into my depression, which was already considered severe. But that's the remarkable thing, when Oona was born, alive and healthy and beautiful, the worrying about her surviving started to abate. Don't get me wrong, I was still worrying about her a lot more than the average Mom. I still do. My worry is a vicious muscle memory. But it didn't get worse. It's hard to imagine it getting worse when I look back on how bad I was. When I look back on that time it scares me and I feel quite sad that I couldn't enjoy what for many is a joyous time. I actually got mad that one of Toby's coworkers decided to throw a shower for the baby, I felt she was jinxing Oona's life by having a shower before she was born. I wouldn't buy any baby clothes, wouldn't decorate her room, wouldn't let Toby put the crib together until she was born. Needless to say, Toby deserves some special award for what he went through. My ob/gyn too, who was wonderful throughout and told me hormones can really do a number on some people. Bet she breathed a big sigh of relief when I told her I wouldn't be having any more children.