If I've never said it in this blog, I pretty much love our family doctor. Like, more than anything. So, back story time! (That's right, I'm digressing before I even get to the main point of this post!)
When I was 17, I was diagnosed with Systemic Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. The actual diagnosis came in July that year, but the symptoms started in early April. It took a LONG time and a LOT of testing to come to that diagnosis - my rheumatoid factor has never, ever popped up positive which made diagnosis that much harder. We went through testing for it all: Lyme Disease, Cat Scratch Fever, Hepatitis, Leukemia, Lymphoma... but our doctor, at my very initial appointment, was the one to say, "I think it might be Rheumatoid Arthritis." About 200 vials of blood, quite a few x-rays and body scans, and one bone marrow extraction later, we found out for sure he was right. So, it's safe to say, I trust the man more than anything. And when we knew we were having our first child, we knew we wanted our son there too.
I remember walking into the room with our first born at his one week appointment. I think my husband and I must have looked totally doe eyed and "exhausted" (I use that term lightly, because our son didn't sleep through the night until he was 14 months old, and the exhaustion would only worsen!). I was so anxious, and I had a running list of questions for him in a list on my phone (and I made sure to ask them all, too). Toward the end of the appointment, I remember asking him how he had done this seven times (they have SEVEN kids, six sons and a daughter!), and he told us that around 18 months we would start to see a sweet little personality emerge, and we would tell ourselves it would be a great time to have another baby for him, not for us.
So when Harrison's first doctor's appointment rolled around, we walked in even more exhausted but slightly calmer than with Henry. He asked how things were going, and we told him we were doing well. I didn't have a list of questions written down this time, and we all seemed more at ease. And we talked about that. He reminded us of coming in for Henry's first appointment and how scared we were and told us this was the natural progression with parenting. You calm down, and subsequently the baby calms down too. And then he dropped a truth bomb on us.
"Emotionally, you might feel better the second time around. You've done the rodeo before and you know what's to come and that you'll get through it. But physically, you're more tired than before. Because even now when you DO get a second to breathe from the baby, there's someone else that needs you." I expressed to him how hard the balancing act had been and how I wanted to make sure I was still getting enough quality time with big brother. And then the second truth bomb came (and maybe even the permission I'd been looking for). "You're going to have to let some things go. Like the house. Just let it go. It can be a mess. Take care of the kids and each other. The rest will wait."
I swear I took that to heart, and in that moment, I said, DONE! This, truly, is a total departure for me from what I normally do. I'm pretty (read: A LOT) anal about the house being picked up. I hate when things are left out (like, for instance, today's toys are still all over the floor, and my son's lunch plate is still sitting on the table with food on it (and lunch has been over for HOURS). All our holiday decorations are still up (and most likely will be for awhile). It still drives me nuts, but I'm letting it drive me less nuts right now because truly, it doesn't matter. It drives me insane, but it doesn't actually matter. Getting quality time in before my husband is back to work matters. Spending a few special moments with my oldest matters. Seeing those sweet baby eyes looking up at me matters.
Everything else? It can wait.
