In this house, I’m the Mama…

I am hypervigilant. It’s a certainty. I didn’t used to be like this. Really, I didn’t.

I mean, when Freddy was a baby, I was definitely a certified freak. He was early… and tiny… and I didn’t want to take any chances. But when I became a caregiver for the rest of our crew, it was different. It helped that Freddy was older and I was no longer terrified of SIDS or some other evil that might befall him as he slept. But the reality, when our household went from two to seven, was that there just wasn’t time to be that kind of hypervigilant anymore.

Gone were the days of washing everything that a small one dropped on the floor in the dishwasher. You know how that goes. You slide a little bit from the dishwasher to a quick rinse in the sink, followed shortly thereafter by rinsing it off with your own spit and a swipe on the leg of your pants, to the eventual nod to our Lord and Creator, “God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.”

Gone were the 57 changes of clothes in the diaper bag in case something might soil a little shirt, or those sweet, tiny overalls. Gone were the Shout wipes I carried by the caseload for their clothes or mine. Gone were the extra snacks, the healthy fruit bites, the SPF 50 sunscreen, and the insect repellent. They were older, my shoulder hurt too much from carrying the aforementioned items, and I was too tired to think straight. I was lucky to make it out of the house with an umbrella stroller and a diaper that fit the youngest.

Adjusting to an instant, very large, very needy family takes all of that planning and organizing right out of the most OCD among us. That included me.

I remember having a discussion, in the muggy, dark, oil-and-gasoline scented recesses of our garage, with My Hubby one night, right before the crew went to bed. I assured him, blowing my nose for the six hundredth time, and swiping rivulets of tears off of my cheeks, that I was NOT cut out to do this job. I wailed, sobbed, and hiccuped. I reminded him that I was an ONLY child… and I had an only child. I had no idea what to do with this many. I couldn’t take the craziness, the neediness, the hanging on, the fighting, the constant, endless, work. I could NOT do it.

Sweet man. He held me tightly and, if he was laughing at my sheer incompetence, he kept it to himself. Though a tiny smile played at the corners of his lips, he told me in his best no nonsense voice, that I did NOT have to be all things to all kids. He reminded me that I was the one in control of my destiny–that no one would die of hunger in 20 minutes, or of thirst in 15; that no one would get a flesh-eating diaper rash if I didn’t check 32,000 times a day; that everyone under our roof did not need my undivided attention 24/7; that they would all manage to wake up the next morning intact if I did not wash every, blessed thing they touched; that I needed to set some boundaries for them… and for myself; that I could make a schedule and they would adjust. I might need to bend a little, but I did NOT need to break.

Things changed. I learned phrases like, “No blood, no foul,” and “Time out, both of you,” and “Get right back on that horse,” and “It’s naptime, right now!” and “You are NOT dying, I promise.” I kissed boo-boos but didn’t spray them down with Bactine anymore. I band-aided the war wounds, but didn’t carry Neosporin in my purse pocket diligently. I implemented the one snack in the morning, one snack in the afternoon routine, on the days I was home. I checked hourly on diaper changes, rather than minutely and changed my focus to potty training. I stopped mediating every argument. I put the cups where they could reach them and showed them how to work the water dispenser in the fridge. I taught them how to carry their own stuff.

In short, I learned to let go… a lot.

It felt good. We all settled in to our new little corner of the world and we learned about each other. We managed. And now, seven years later, they’re all still alive. They’re even better than alive–they’re healthy–not a flesh-eating bacteria on one of them!

But I am still hypervigilant.

It’s not as bad as it was when our little band of outlaws first got together. I don’t pay nearly that kind of attention. And truth be told, I don’t need to so much anymore. They’re much older. They take much more responsibility for themselves. They do a good job of helping out.

But in certain situations, it still happens. Velma, for example, had a playground “accident” on Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it had to do with someone jumping down from some monkey bars, and colliding with her foot. I don’t, to this moment, really understand if they landed on her foot, if she stepped on theirs in a funny way, if there was kicking involved, or what the deal was. The result is that she has a giant bump on the side of her foot.

She says she sprained her ankle, but really she hurt the side of her foot–the inside, right below the arch. Now, let me say that I learned a lot from those early years about letting things slide. I’m not generally the “rush to the doctor” type either, unless it has to do with Strep Throat or eye infections.

In my normal world, I would have waited a few days to see how this shook out. She had normal movement, was not in serious pain, and did not have a lot of swelling. I thought, as did My Hubby, that it was just a bad bruise. I would have applied an ice pack, kept her off of it, written a note to the PE teacher for a couple of days of sitting out, elevated it… whatever it took. Once we were through all of that, if it still hurt, or suddenly swelled up, I would have taken her to the doctor.

But you know, in OUR family, we can’t do that. The last time we let an injury wait (two days, to be exact), was when Daphne jammed her finger playing basketball. It swelled, and got nasty black and blue, but we really thought it was just a jam. When two days went by and it looked worse instead of better, when ice wasn’t helping, we took her. It was broken. Very slightly broken (a hairline fracture), mind you, but broken. They splinted it, exactly what they would have done for “just a jam” (and exactly what we were already doing at home), and we all drove on… until court.

In court, The Egg Donor (ED) blasted My Hubby for waiting “several days” to take Daphne in to be seen for “a serious and painful injury to her finger.” She worked that angle as hard as she could (which was not very hard, by the way, given the circumstances and her great propensity for lying). Though she hadn’t bothered to take Daphne in herself, nor had she participated in any of the care or follow-up care required, she made sure that it sounded like we were the worst people on earth for waiting two days (she stretched it to 3, then 4, during her testimony).

And just two weeks ago? She called and left a long, overblown message about Daphne’s medication being covered in silicone beads (whatever) and unusable. She made sure to tell My Hubby that his failure to act and bring more medication would be the reason that Daphne would go without. Far be it for her to take them to the pharmacy, or just give Daphne the 8,723,579 extras she had laying around from her failure to give them to her prior. No… threats via voicemail. That’s what we do. So I’m sure we’ll hear about that in mid-May.

My normal reaction? The reaction I would have if it were Freddy with the bump? Not so much. My Hubby hauled Velma off to the pediatrician yesterday afternoon, who also opined that it was probably just bruised, and likely not broken, but wrote a scrip just in case to get an x-ray done. Of course, in front of Velma–who would have a conversation with her mother in a few hours–he explained that it could be broken, and that guaranteed the trip to the radiologist.

I took off of work this morning to take the munchkin down to the radiology department at our local hospital.

Get it x-rayed we did.

It’s not broken.

Just bruised.

Ice and elevation are the tickets.

$50 please.

Maybe I should go into medicine.

I am the slightest bit annoyed that we have to do this dance. After all, it’s not our decision anymore. Our actions, in a scenario like this one, are driven strongly by the possibility of someone else’s manipulation of the facts. I do grow weary of worrying about what ED will come up with to say next in court. And the thing that makes me grit my teeth the most? Is knowing that she’ll come up with something even if we take the “perfect” steps.

Hypervigilant? Yep. Have to be.

More than I would do under “normal” circumstances? Yep. Have to do it.

But I can at least thank God that we can do it, that we have insurance, that she’s in our care when it happens. I’m so relieved that it’s not broken. I’m glad for her, and for us, that it’s just a bad bruise.

And really? $50 isn’t too much for the peace of mind.