Entries from August 2009 ↓

So. We’ve got an appointment with what is being touted as the best pediatric allergist/dermatologist in Vancouver. In February.

How do I know he’s the best? We went back to the pediatrician. Why? Because the ER sent us there, as well as referring us to a nutritionist, their in-house dermatologist and prescribing some laxatives. What ever did we need laxatives for?

Zoë, who has never had a truly constipated day in her life, woke  up one morning and her tummy really hurt. And she didn’t want to go to the bathroom. And her bum hurt. And the rashes, om my fucking god, the rashes.

I diagnosed her as being full of shit and at risk of impact, and then I got her to the Children’s Hospital.

…that was almost a month ago.

Since, the pediatrician’s vouched for the appointment in February, saying we should definitely keep it because she’s getting hives (so that’s what the rashes are) and unless there’s an obvious change in environment or diet, hives are damn hard to track down all Buffy the Hive Slayer like.

Fine.

He even agreed with my thoughts on visiting a naturopath, saying that he had great respect for the practitioners and anytime a parent was interested in proactivity, he gave it two thumbs up. He asked that we visit one and then come back to talk about their prescribed treatment before Zoë underwent any. He even recommended a couple of people.

And the nutritionist is kind of a fell-off-the-to-do-list thing, even though I have to take her back to the pediatrician in a month, to check on her weight. He’s a little worried because she’s lost a pound and a half since the last time he’d seen her, in January. Since her second birthday, over a year ago? She’s gained half a pound.

She’s under the 5th percentile for both height and weight.

Good thing she still has her strong sense of style, right?

Then about a week ago, I noticed exactly how much like mine her teeth may be. Fuck me in the goat ass, I feel like a terrible parent. Even though I know that yellowing teeth can be a seldom-recognized, but often present symptom of celiac disease, I still…feel guilty.

Maybe there were too many days that I only brushed her teeth once. Maybe twice a day for a minute and a half wasn’t as good as three times for two minutes. Maybe I should get some sort of restraining device to use while brushing them, so I can be a better mom.

So. She’s short and light. Check. She’s got smokers’ teeth. Check. She wakes up everyday with at least 10 hives that are occasionally cute when they’re shaped like a heart, and not at all cute when they’re shaped like Texas, spanning most of her calf. Check. She’s allergic to wheat and dairy, has two generations of depressives on both sides of her family tree and alcoholics for at least three generations.

I mean, come on, God or whoever! What the fuck else do you wanna load this tiny little kid up with?

Oh, I know. Maybe her skin should just start falling off for no reason.

Seriously. Are locusts next?

Here I am, done again.

Here I am, turning up my lip in a sneer. Judging. Questioning morals and priorities.

Here I am again, kicking him out of my apartment, ridding my space of his toxicity.

Here I am again, after hearing that he needs more time for himself.

Here I am again, replaying the whole scene, looking for the asshole card I must have played.

Here I am, for once, not seeing one. Only seeing what there was. He wanted, he didn’t get, he was done with me talking about it.

Here I am again in complete resentment of someone who doesn’t get that you can’t be a parent and make a commitment to seeing your child for ten hours a week and then 38 hours before you’re supposed to be here, ask if it’s okay to take the weekend off to go camping with friends that you drink with on nearly every evening of the week. If you replace it with a few hours here and there, it should be fine, right? You can always play catch up on your baby’s childhood. And her mother can always find other times to work.

Here I am, again, disappointed in someone that I keep seeing potential in, who rarely seeks to live up to it.

Here I am again, watching him be a victim, instead of owning his life, choices and goals.

Here I am again, shaking my head, thinking, “I already have one child.”

Here I am again walking away after sending him out the door.

Here I am for once, having put love, words, affection and the crumbling of mortar and bricks into it, saying that it’s not worth it, being disappointed, being second to a bottle or often third to friends with bottles, being amazed at his feeling that the Universe is fucking him constantly, not comprehending how someone so unhappy with their life doesn’t just change it.

I tried. Maybe my best. I’m done.

I’m not angry anymore. I’m not really hurt, now that I’ve talked about it to good friends. I’m just sad that he doesn’t have the ability to stop himself from throwing this away, when it’s something he seems to want and need so much. I’m just spent.

You can never change someone. They have to want to change themselves. I saw changes in him, not because I wanted to, because I was accepting of him and then he decided to make them. And now, he’s erased them all within a 20 minute conversation.

I’m lighter for it, already.

I’ll be more open and feeling like my debts have been repaid. I’ll walk into a room and be happy to be there, instead of worried that I might meet someone that I’d like to meet more but can’t because I have this emotional liability in my back pocket.

I’m getting all scrubbed anew and shiny already. Can you tell?

Good bye to nearly eight years of feeling like the master of his despair. Tonight, I gave the reigns right back to him, knowing that he will pass them around frequently between bottle, friend, boss, weather and transit times, amongst others.

Hello to emotional freedom.