I had an interesting start to my morning today. Madalyn hopped in bed with us around 5:45 this morning toting along her blanket, piggy, and cup of morning strawberry milk. She cuddled up with me, as usual, and sucked down the entire cup of milk. And then, she began to cough. And cough, and cough, and cough. And then she gagged. I suppose she has inherited my hatred for vomiting because, somehow, she maintained composure and did not toss the cookies. Or, should I say milk? But then I could hear her holding back and gagging in her throat, and I knew that it was inevitable. So I made her sit up and I got a towel and told her that if she had anything in her mouth, she needed to spit it out. I was trying to prevent the vomit from ending up all over me. So she sat up and coughed some more, and out it came. All of it. All nine ounces of strawberry milk mixed with a lot of mucous. Beautiful way to start the day. And I know that my husband got incredibly irritated with me. He thought I was being a little rough on her. Perhaps I was. I had to get a little loud with her to make her sit up. She is so stubborn. I can't get her to blow her nose, so everything is just rolling down her throat and going to her stomach. And just the thought of that is enough to make me want to throw up.
I just feel like I am losing all control. I honestly feel like I am in a fog right now. I am in the midst of a "flare up" of my beloved fibromyalgia - a diagnosis that I received almost two years ago, and that I don't talk about that much at all. I first noticed that things were different after David was born. I just never felt like anything got back to normal. The pregnancy fatigue lingered, and at first I chalked it up to having a new baby. But after six or seven months, I knew something wasn't right. It took four years and many, many crazy tests to get to the bottom of things. And I wanted to resist a formal diagnosis of fibromyalgia. I wanted something that could be fixed. I wanted the doctor to give me the magic medication to make me feel good again. But that's not what I got. Not at all. And so I will live with this crazy disease for the rest of my life. And that's fine; I feel so relieved to know that whatever is going on inside my body is not causing any permanent damage to my organs or joints. But during times like these - when I haven't been taking care of myself, when I am feeling the most fatigued, when I am wanting to just lie in the bed all day - that I have no patience. And I always take it out on my children. And that is something I am definitely not proud of. And I am praying about it and searching my soul. Because I know that the patience is there. I know that God has given me everything I need. But during these times especially, I feel like I just can't tap into it. But I will get through this one. And I will feel better, and I know my kids love me despite my imperfections. At least, I hope they do!