Saturday, October 07, 2017

Je Suis Malade

Complètement mala-deeee.

Complètement, non. Mais je retire tout ce que j'ai pu dire sur le fait que je donnerais tout pour être malade à la place de ma fille. Putain, une semaine que je me traîne sa merde de gastro et je suis toujours pas remise alors que j'ai pris des cachetons probablement 10 fois plus forts que les siens. 
Sans déconner. Lundi déjà, au boulot, j'étais pas jouasse. J'ai été en vidange toute la journée, heureusement, pas seule mais alors y'a eu 2 moments, au dessus de 2 bacs à graisse, je me suis dis, oh là, si je reste là, je vais dégueuler mes tripes. Et puis non. 
Arrivée à la maison, j'étais au lit à 20h30, après avoir zappé le repas du soir. Déjà le midi, je m'étais fait violence pour avaler un bol de soupe et il m'a pesé tout l'après-midi. Bref, je partais me vider aux toilettes toutes les demi-heure environ. C'est quand mon homme est rentré vers 21h30 et que je lui ai demandé de se grouiller à m'apporter une bassine que je me suis dis que la nuit serait longue. 


Et comment.

C'est vers 1h30 que les choses ont pris une autre ampleur. Je suis descendue (oui parce qu'on n'a pas de toilettes à l'étage et que les 2 chambres sont précisément à l'étage!) pour la énième fois histoire d'éviter de me faire dessus et surtout, de m'oublier dans le lit conjugal! Sauf que, n'ayant quasiment rien avalé depuis le dimanche soir et ayant passé une grande partie de ma journée et de ma nuit de lundi à me vider, je suis tombée dans les pommes. Non mais sérieusement. J'ai repris connaissance, j'étais tombée des toilettes, la gueule dans le mur, un pied coincée derrière la cuvette, je ne me souvenais pas être tombée donc forcément, j'ai mis un certain temps à comprendre où j'étais et ce que je faisais dans cette position. Tout ça dans le noir hein, parce que la nuit quand je vais aux toilettes j'allume pas! 
Je suis parvenu, tant bien que mal, à remonter sur les toilettes, pour me revautrer aussi sec (je pense que je me suis re-évanouie puisque je n'ai aucun souvenir d'être tombée une deuxième fois). En tout cas après ma deuxième perte de connaissance, j'ai réussi à rester assise sur la cuvette. J'ai fermé les yeux, j'ai même dû m'assoupir un moment. L'idée de devoir remonter les escaliers m'épuisait. Celle d'appeler pour qu'on m'aide encore plus. J'ai finalement réussi à regagner mon lit. J'ai quand même prévenu B. de ce qui venait de m'arriver. Il me sort: appelle mon père pour lui dire que tu ne vas pas bosser demain! Euh, à 2h du mat? Je pense que ça attendra encore quelques heures hein ...

J'ai quand même été bosser le lendemain, et le surlendemain. Et le reste de la semaine. Parce que je suis une warrior! Mais bon. Une semaine plus tard et 4 kilos de perdus, je suis toujours loin d'être au top.

Donc ma fille, le jour où tu retombes malade, ce qui arrivera très certainement, ben, je serai là pour te donner tes médocs mais je ne souhaiterai plus jamais être malade à ta place.
Non mais!


Sick

Sick as a pig.
I'm taking everything I said about that "being sick instead of my daughter" 's crap back. Seriously. It's almost been a week since i caught her crappy stomach bug, i took meds probably 10 times stronger than hers and i'm still not 100%.

On Monday morning, i wasn't top notch. I was emptying fosses pretty much all day but thank God i wasn't on my own. At one point, as we were cleaning a grease tank, i was like, oh dear, if i stay above that tank another split second, i'll puke my insides out. Miraculously managed not to.
So i went to bed at 8:30pm and to the bathroom pretty much every half hour. When my man came back home at around 9:30pm and i had to urge him to bring me a bucket in the toilets that i realized that things weren't looking good at all.

And boy, were i right.

It's around 1:30am that things took a whole different turn. I went downstairs (oh yeah, cuz we sleep on the first floor and there's no bathroom upstairs damn it) for the nth time in order not to shit myself or the bed! But on an empty stomach for a good 24h and after spending most of my Monday day and night emptying myself, let me tell you that i was far from being on top of my game. I passed out. Seriously. I passed out while i was sitting on the toilet! I regained consciousness some time later with my head against the wall, one of my legs stuck behind the toilet seat. Took me forever to realize where i was and how the bloody hell did i end up on the floor. Obviously, all of this happening in pitch black darkness since i never turn on the light when i go the the bathroom at night!
I managed to get back up, lost consciousness a second time, got up again, sat on the toilet for a while, closed my eyes, most likely fell asleep for some time. I was exhausted. The simple thought of having to climb those stairs again to go back to bed or to even call for help was killing me.
When i finally managed to get back to bed i told B. about what just happened. He told me: call my dad tell him you're not going to work in the morning. Hmm, it's 2 in the morning, i think i'll wait a little.
I know it's a terrible pun!

Long story short, i went to work in the morning, and the next, and the rest of the week as well. Cuz i'm a warrior. But a week and 4 kilos down later, i'm still not completely cured.

So my dear daughter, next time you're sick, and i know it'll happen again one day ... you're on your own!


Sunday, October 01, 2017

Le Cauchemar d'Une Maman

Je devrais plutôt dire le cauchemar de tout parent qui se respecte mais j'ai souvent l'impression que les sentiments sont plus visibles chez les mamans. 
Depuis 3 jours, notre fille Lucie est malade. Elle a une gastro. Jusque là rien d'exceptionnel me direz vous, c'est la saison et ça se soigne plutôt bien. Sauf que ma fille n'a que 11 mois et que c'est la première fois qu'elle est vraiment malade. Elle vomit les 3/4 de ce qu'elle ingurgite et quand elle ne vomit pas, elle a des diarrhées de dingue! Conclusion, elle a perdu plus de 200 grammes en une semaine et je suis à 2 doigts de fondre en larmes toutes les 5 minutes.

C'est un colossal sentiment d'impuissance que de voir son enfant malade sans pouvoir faire grand chose de plus que de la prendre dans ses bras et d'essayer de la faire dormir. Elle pigne, elle a faim, elle a soif, elle vomit, elle pleure, elle dort, elle a mal au ventre, elle re pleure, elle boit un peu d'eau, elle re-vomit, la couche déborde ...
C'est la voir hagarde entre 2 siestes qui est le plus difficile. Elle si souriante et si guillerette normalement, la voir éteinte comme ça et clairement en souffrance, honnêtement, je donnerais tout ce que j'ai en ma possession pour que ce soit moi qui sois malade à sa place.

Et puis je pense à 2 amies, mamans elles aussi, l'une d'une grande prématurée et l'autre d'une petite fille polyhandicapée, 2 mamans qui passent, pour leur enfant, un temps considérablement trop important dans les hôpitaux, 2 mamans qui vivent avec cette épée de Damoclès au dessus de leur tête, 2 mamans qui vivent une angoisse quasi permanente entre deux examens ou deux hospitalisations, 2 mamans qui se battent corps et âme pour que leur enfant ne souffre pas et je me dis alors que moi, j'ai pas le droit de me plaindre.
Et donc je culpabilise de me sentir aussi mal pour ma fille quand je pense à ce qu'elles endurent quotidiennement, je culpabilise d'avoir envie de pleurer toutes les larmes de mon corps et je me dis que finalement, j'ai de la "chance" que ça ne soit qu'une gastro.

Au bout du compte, même si ce sont des niveaux très, très différents, une maman ne cesse de s'inquiéter pour son enfant. C'est viscéral. On renonce à sa tranquillité de l'esprit le jour même où l'on apprend que l'on va être mère. À partir de ce moment là, c'est un non-stop d'inquiétudes en tout genre. On donnerait notre vie pour nos enfants. Et qui plus est, sans douter une demi-seconde. On trouve des forces inespérées à des moments improbables pour continuer à aller de l'avant, continuer à se battre pour le bien être et la santé mentale et physique de notre progéniture. C'est beau. C'est de l'amour pur. C'est de l'amour infini et désintéressé. Ça vaut tous les sacrifices du monde, ça vaut tous les moments de détresse, d'angoisse et de stress.

Une maman, c'est une lionne, une super-héroïne qui gère plus ou moins bien les aléas de la vie d'un enfant mais qui parfois, comme c'est mon cas ce soir, a besoin d'une épaule pour pleurer et pour se laisser aller à craquer un peu. 


A Mother's Nightmare

Maybe my title should be "A Parent's Nightmare" but i've always have the feeling that emotions are more easily seen in mothers.
It's been 3 days that our daughter Lucie is sick. She's got a gastroenteritis. Nothing too extraordinary i'd say, it's the season and it's easily cured. Except that my daughter is only 11 months old and that it's the first time she's that sick. She throws up 3/4 of what she eats and when she doesn't puke, she has crazy diarrheas. In the end, she's already lost 200 grams in just a week and i'm this close to disolve in tears.

Seeing your sick child is a feeling of total helplessness. The only thing you can do, or try to do, is to take her in your arms and try to rock her to sleep. She whines, she's hungry, she's thirsty, she pukes, she sleeps, her belly hurts, she cries again, she drinks a little water, pukes again, the diaper overflows ....
Seeing her distressed is the worse. She's so smiley and active normaly that witnessing her down and clearly suffering, honestly, i'd give every single piece of what i own to take her place and have her healthy and well again.

And then i think about 2 of my friends, both mothers as well, one, the mother of a great preemie and the other, mother of a poly-handicaped little girl. 2 mothers who spend way too much time in hospitals, 2 mothers who live that almost constant anxiety in between two exams or hospital stay, 2 mothers who throw themselves body and soul in order for their child not to suffer and i realize that no, i don't have the right to complain.
So i feel guilty and like a massive pile of shit for how i feel about my daughter's being sick when i think about what they have to deal with on a daily basis. I feel guilty about wanting to cry every single tear my body can hold and i finally realize that i'n "lucky" it's only a tummy bug.

In the end of it all, even though situations can be drastically different, a mother doesnt cease to worry for her child. It's visceral. You let go of your own peace of mind the second you know you're pregnant. From that very moment, it's welcome to worryland over and over again. We'd give our life for our children, not even thinking twice about it. We find unexpected strengths at unexpected moments to keep on going, to keep on fighting for our children's mental and physical well being. 
It's beautiful. It's pure love. It's infinite love. It's selfless love. 
It's worth every sacrifice in the world. It's worth every single moment of distress, anxiety, fear and stress.

A mother is a lioness, a super hero who's dealing to the best of her abilities with the ups and downs of her child's life but sometimes, only sometimes, just like tonight for me, a mother is someone who needs a shoulder to cry on and to crack a little.


Saturday, September 30, 2017

C'était Toi ...

Hier, alors que j'étais en voiture, je t'ai vu. Je reconnaîtrais ta silhouette et ta démarche entre mille. Cette façon nonchalante de marcher, de traîner tes chaussures sans vraiment traîner les pieds. Cette habitude de t'habiller en noir de la tête aux pieds. Cette coupe de cheveux, à la tondeuse parce que c'est plus pratique. Toujours ce souci de gagner du temps pour faire autre chose. Tu marchais avec un pote qui poussait une poussette. Vous rigoliez. Il marchait sur le trottoir, toi sur la route. Mais quand je suis arrivée, forcément, tu t'es poussé, tu t'es retourné vers moi ... Nos regards se sont croisés l'espace d'un instant. Et c'est en cet instant, durant cette fraction de seconde qui m'a pourtant semblé éternelle, que je me suis rendue compte que ce n'était PAS toi. Bien sûr que ce n'était pas toi! Que ça ne POUVAIT PAS être toi. Sauf que l'espace d'un instant, j'y ai cru.

On dit qu'on a tous, dans le monde, 7 sosies. C'est la deuxième fois que je croise un des tiens. La première fois, c'était il y a 3 ans quand je suis venue m'installer en Charente, alors que je faisais mes courses au supermarché. Ce moment où tu regardes à droite, à gauche, alors que tu remontes l'allée centrale histoire de t'assurer de ne manquer aucun rayon dans lequel tu dois prendre un truc et paf, il était là, à choisir son paquet de sucre en poudre. Ça m'a clouée sur place. J'ai quand même eu le pseudo courage de m'approcher pour m'assurer que je ne rêvais pas. De plus près, y'a pleins de trucs qui clochaient mais le choc n'en était pas moindre. Ça secoue de voir un mec qui ressemble à quelqu'un qui est mort. Ta raison te dit: mais t'es con putain, ça peut pas être possible bordel, il n'est plus là, c'est pas lui qu'achète son sucre en poudre ou qui se balade dans la rue avec son pote. Ton cœur par contre, ah, lui, c'est une autre histoire. Ton cœur lui, il a trop envie d'y croire. Il a envie de pouvoir te dire que toute cette mascarade n'était finalement qu'un mauvais rêve et que, envers et contre tous, ton petit frère adoré a atterri dans le supermarché du pauvre bled de Charente dans lequel tu t'es installée et fait des courses pour que tu puisses lui faire ton gâteau au yaourt.

C'est perturbant comme expérience. Ça déchire ton âme et ton cœur une nouvelle fois. Un sursaut d'espoir qui retombe malheureusement comme un soufflé.

Je ne crois pas au hasard. Je suis convaincue, encore et toujours, que tout arrive pour une raison précise au moment précis ou cela doit arriver. Hier encore, tu m'as fait un signe. Tu me manques 'tit frère. Tu me manques ...


It Was You

Yesterday, as I was driving in my car, i saw you. I could recognize your figure and your walk in between thousands. That casual way of walking, kinda dragging your shoes without dragging your feet. That habit of dressing in black from head to toes. That GI haircut you did yourself because it's easier. Always that will to save some time to do other (more interesting) stuff. You were walking with a friend pushing a stroller. You were laughing. He was walking on the sidewalk, you were on the street. As i got closer, you shifted and turned around to watch the car approaching. Our eyes met for a split second. And during that particular second which seemed much, much longer, i realized that no, it wasn't you. Of course it wasn't you. It COULDN'T be you. Except that, for that very split second, i believed it was.

I read somewhere that we all have 7 lookalikes in the world. It's the second time i met one of yours. The first time, it was 3 years ago. I was doing my grocery shopping in the local supermarket, pushing my kart in the main aisle in order to browse all adjacent aisles to make sure i wasn't forgetting anything. And BAM, there he was, chosing between different kinds of powder sugar. I was rooted to the floor. I somehow found the "courage" to go check it out, to check that i wasn't day-dreaming. Getting closer, a lot of little details were off but the shock didn't wear off for a while. It shakes you to the core to see a guy who looks so much like someone who's dead.
Your reason tells you: come on you dumb ass, it can't be true for fuck sake, he's gone, it's not him buying sugar in aisle 4 or him walking down the street with his friend. Your heart, on the other side, well, that's a whole different story. Your heart, it so wants to believe. It wants to be able to tell you that this was all just a bad dream you're waking up from and that your dear beloved little brother landed his ass in the supermarket of the town in the middle of nowhere you live in and that he's currently buying all the ingredients you'll need to make him his favorite cake.

It's a disturbing experience. It tears your heart and soul yet again. A jolt of hope that ends up in the drain in less time than it's needed to phrase it.

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe that everything happens for a reason at the moment it should happen. Yesterday, you were there saying hi.
I miss you lil' bro. I miss you ...

Friday, September 22, 2017

40 ans

Cette année est une "grande" année. Je change de décennie à savoir que je viens de passer le cap fatidique des 40 ans. Bon, je vais être honnête avec vous, c'était effectivement mon anniversaire le 18. Sauf qu'au matin du 18, je ne me suis sentie aucunement différente du matin précédent. En fait, c'est un peu comme ça tous les ans, à chaque anniversaire. Alors? Ça fait quoi d'avoir 40 ans? Ben, euh, rien. C'est un chiffre. Oui mais quand même, 40 ans, on fête pas ça tous les jours ... Comment dire? En fait, c'est le cas tous les ans. On ne fête ses 27 ans, ses 35, ses 50 ou ses 92 qu'une seule fois. C'est un peu le principe en fait. Le même âge ne revient pas quelques années plus tard, ah ba tiens, cette année, tu refêtes tes 35 ans, j'espère que t'as gardé les bougies! 

Donc du coup, c'est vrai, pas de grande fête pour mes 40 ans mais honnêtement, je n'en ai pas fait non plus pour mes 20 ou mes 30. Enfin, si, j'ai fêté mes 30 ans avec peut être un peu trop d'enthousiasme mais les circonstances étaient différentes. En fait, je préfère penser que je ferai un grande fête le jour où on pendra la crémaillère de notre chez nous. Je préfère annoncer la couleur de suite, c'est pas pour demain! Mais bon, peut être qu'on fera une méga fiesta pour les 40 ans de monsieur dans 6 mois.

Plusieurs jours ont passé depuis cette fameuse date socialement si importante et je ne ressens toujours aucune différence. C'est juste quand on me demande quel âge j'ai, que je réponds 40, que je me dis, putain ouais quand même, 40 ans c'est pas rien. Par contre, quand on me dit que ça y'est, je suis à la moitié de ma vie, euh non merci, je compte vivre au delà des 80 ans si ça dérange personne. Quand on voit la proportion de gens aujourd'hui qui atteignent haut la main les 90 ans, je me dis que non, je ne suis pas à la moitié de ma vie ... Peut être pas loin mais pas encore totalement à la moitié.

A part ça, c'est vrai que les nuits blanches, je mets une semaine à m'en remettre mais bon, c'était déjà comme ça à 30 ans. Et même si, surtout vis à vis de ma fille, je m’ôterais bien 10 ans des épaules, je me rends compte que chaque nouvelle décennie a ses avantages. A 40 ans, en général, on sait à peu près où on en est dans la vie. Bon, pas moi mais c'est pas grave. Ce n'est qu'une aventure de plus. Et puis on le dit partout, "orange is the new black" et 40 c'est le nouveau 30.

Bienvenue à moi dans le monde des quadras. Ça fait doucement sourire. Il parait que je fais pas mon âge. Tant mieux. Mais bon, une fois encore, l'âge, c'est quand même principalement dans la tête!

The Big 4-0

This year is a big year. I'm changing decade age-wise, meaning that i'm reaching that fateful age of 40. Honestly, it was indeed my birthday on September 18th but on that very morning, i didn't feel any different than the morning before. Actually, it's pretty much the same every year, at every birthday. So? How does it feel to be 40? Well, hmmm, nothing. It's just a number. Yeah well ok but 40, man, that's quite the mark! How should i put it? It's actually what happens with each and every single of your birthdays. You'll only celebrate your 27th, 35th, 50th or 92nd birthday once. It's actually how birthday work you know. They don't come back every other year, and bam, great, you just turned a few years younger, i hope you saved the candles from 5 years ago when you turned the same age!
So no big celebration for me for my big 4-0 but i don't remember having one for my 20th or my 30th either. Even though i must admit that i celebrated my 30s maybe a little bit too enthousiastically but circumstances you know ...
I'd rather have a big celebration when we'll do the house-warming party of the house we're currently remodelling. Let me be straighforward here, it's not gonna be soon. But maybe we'll have a big party for my man's big 4-0 in 6 months!

Several days have passed since that socialy so important date and i still feel no difference. It's only when i'm asked how old am i and i answer 40 that it kinda hit me in the face. Damn. 40. That's quite something!
But when people are telling me that i've reached the half of my life, i'm like hell no. I intend to live well pass 80 if you don't mind. When you see how many old farts are reaching (and passing well over) 90, i'm thinking that no, i'm not half way through my life. Not just quite.

Apart from that, true story, sleepless nights, well, takes me an entire week to get over it but it was already that way 10 years ago. And even though, especially regarding my baby girl, i'd glady take 10 years off of my shoulders, i realize that with each decade comes new good stuff. At 40, you normaly know where you're standing in life. Well, not me but oh well, it's just another adventure that's just starting. And you read it everywhere: orange is the new black, 40 is the new 30. Yeah, well whatever.

Welcome Me in the 40s. Makes me smile. Aparently, i don't look my age. Good for me. I don't feel it either. But again, age is just a number and in all honesty, it's all in the head!

Saturday, September 02, 2017

5 ans

Une fois n'est pas coutume, aujourd'hui, je vais écrire ce texte en français. Je prendrai peut être le temps de le traduire en anglais pour mes amis anglophones mais peut-être pas. C'est un projet que j'ai d'écrire ce blog en 2 langues mais bon, ça n'est pas le sujet de ce post.

Aujourd'hui est un bien triste anniversaire. A savoir que ça fait 5 ans pile que mon frère nous a quitté, dans un funeste virage du circuit du Val de Vienne. 5 ans qu'il ne passe pas une seule journée sans que je pense à lui, 5 ans que j'ai appris la pire nouvelle de la pire des manières, à savoir la mort de mon frère, apprise sur Facebook, 5 ans aussi que j'ai été, malgré moi, l'annonciatrice de cette terrible nouvelle à ma propre mère. Le cri qu'elle a poussé au téléphone quand je lui ai annoncé la nouvelle me hantera jusqu'à la fin de mes jours. Entendre, pour de vrai, ce cri de déchirement et de désespoir le plus total d'une mère qui apprend la mort de son enfant est digne d'un film d'horreur.

Il existe, selon les experts et médecins, 7 étapes du deuil (1. Choc et déni, 2. douleur et culpabilité, 3. colère, 4. marchandage et négociation, 5. dépression et douleur, 6. reconstruction et 7. acceptation) et il faut, selon les sujets, de 3 à 5 ans pour arriver à l'acception de l'horreur de la perte. Passé ce stade des 5 ans, une personne qui n'avance toujours pas, apparemment, c'est pas sain (ni normal).

Aujourd'hui, ça fait donc 5 ans. Et si la douleur n'est pas aussi intense qu'elle a pu l'être, elle reste là, présente, qui m'accompagne dans chacun de mes pas, chacune des minutes qui s'écoulent de chacun des jours qui passent. Cette douleur sourde qui peut être invalidante, voire handicapante avec cette sensation que le sol se dérobe sous mes pieds et d'avoir un grand trou béant au niveau du ventre ou qui parfois, est juste là, présente mais gérable. 

Mon frère avait 32 ans. J'ai mis beaucoup de temps à accepter l'injustice de son décès. Et j'ai eu beau me dire et me répéter que c'était sa course, sa moto, qu'il est mort au milieu de ses potes en vivant sa passion et que c'était tout de même mieux que d'être passé sous un camion ou un bus en allant chercher son pain, le résultat était le même, il n'était plus là.

Comme tous ceux partis trop tôt, mon frère ne connaîtra jamais certaines choses et ne sera pas là pour partager les moments importants de ma vie ou de celle de ses proches. Il ne connaîtra jamais ma fille qui fait déjà des trucs que lui faisait enfant, mon homme qui a les mêmes goûts musicaux que lui ou le simple fait que je sois habilitée à conduire un poids lourd. Tous ces moments de "tiens, ça plairait à mon frère ça" qui nous ont été volés, toutes ces choses qu'on ne pourra plus partager, ces fous-rires qu'on ne rira pas ensemble et toutes ces années que je devrai vivre sans lui.

5 ans c'est court. Et c'est long à la fois. Mais on a beau avoir passé toutes ces fameuses étapes du deuil, avoir accepté l’inacceptable et surmonté l'insurmontable, on n'en reste pas moins amputé d'une partie de soi. J'avais, avec mon frère, une relation fantastique qui s'améliorait chaque année un peu plus. Il me manque comme jamais. Aujourd'hui tout particulièrement. On n'accepte pas la mort d'un proche. On apprend à vivre avec son absence. 



Monday, January 30, 2017

Back to Work

In exactly ONE more week, I'll be seeing the end of my back to work day after 6 MONTHS and 2 WEEKS off of work. I'm probably as nervous as i was a few days prior to starting this job 2,5 years ago. But most of it all, i also wish i didn't have to go back. Don't take me wrong, it's not because i don't like my job, on the contrary, i love it, but after this massive amount of time out of it and more to the point, after 3 months spent with my little miss, i can't seem to grasp the fact that in a week's time, i won't be spending my entire days with her.
She'll be in good hands for sure. With her dad in the mornings since he works from home and with a nanny 4 afternoons a week. So yeah. We can't say we won't see her grow up because she spends 50 hours a week with a nanny. My cousin is a nanny and she told me she has a little girl about 50 hours a week. I mean seriously. I can understand you having a very busy schedule with work and so but i couldn't get myself to leave my child with someone else for more time during the week than what I'd actually spend with her. What's the point of having a child in the first place? My point of view obviously but seriously. Would that be a wake up call if the child ends up calling the nanny "mom"?
Anyways.


So yeah, back to work in a week. I know everybody is telling me that it's gonna be good for me, that I'll see other people, I'll get out of the house and the baby-caring routine 24/7. I know they're right. I know it's important to just go out there and not worry about the baby and do stuff for myself and shit. And I've done it. Left her with her grand-mother, or her dad and get going with my stuff.
But what if i don't want that? What if i wanted to stay at home to take care of my daughter and be a housewife? Given I'd be a terrible one since i hate doing chores but a house-mom. I'd like that!

I honestly never thought I'd ever say something like this. Me having kids was not a given thing to begin with but the fact that I'm happy being at home with her, wow, that's surely an entire new dimension. I was always convinced that, if i had kids one day, I'd be eagerly waiting to go back to work and be the super-wonder-working-mom. 
Well. 
Nope.
I am this complete different person now and let's be honest, becoming a parent changes you. My sole priority now is my daughter. And my family. Would i be filthy rich, or just rich enough not to have to go back, i honestly wouldn't. I know we always joked about winning the lottery and what we'd do with all that money. I've always said: I'd keep on working not to lose control over my life and keep it real but right this second, give me a check of several millions euros, i would at least take a sabbatical. 

Bottom line is: i have 2 more chances this week to become a millionaire with the national lottery. I'll play. Who knows? My wish might be granted!

Why cuddling polar bear mommy with cub? Because it's cute that's why!


Sunday, January 29, 2017

Sad But True

The other night, as we were laying in bed, Bruno said something that really buggered me. It buggered me because when I came to think about it, I thought it was not only true but incredibly sad: technology has taken over us.

I'm pretty sure a lot of people don't actually care or think that'd matter but it's been such an incredible amount of time since the last time I read in bed before sleeping. What do I do instead? I play on my stupid phone. Not only is it not good to actually be in front of a screen just before going to sleep but it's also so much less stimulating intellectually.

I used to read tons and tons of books a year. But now, i barely read one a month. I have about 5 or 6 that I've started but not finished. They're laying around in the house, on my night stand, on my desk ... I'm TSUNDOKU all over the place! LOL.
I absolutely LOVE the fact that the Japanese actually have a word for that: TSUNDOKU is the condition of acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. That is so accurate and so what's happening to me right now!

And it's not just the books that i'm leaving aside. I don't play sudoku anymore either. I used to fill up grids and grids every night. Well not anymore. Saaaad.

So today, i've decided something. Since i have just a week left before getting my ass back to work hence with not that massive amount of "free time" in my hands (i put it in between quotation marks cuz let's be honest, having to care for a 3 months old is no vacation whatsoever. And there is pretty much no free time!), I will have a week to acclimatize!
In order for me to allow myself to play a game of stupid candy crush (damn that's addictive!), i'll first have to either, read at least a few pages of a book or even better, an entire chapter, fill up a grid of sudoku, write a journal and/or write a blog entry.
That's an excellent reason to go through the dozens of books still unread, the hundreds of sudoku puzzles waiting to be solved and increase the amount of entries in the blog i have abandonned a bit over the past few years. And let's be honest. Either writing or reading is so much better for the head than candy crushing! LOL
It's a win-win situation! 

OK, gotta go now! These candies ain't crushing on themselves!


Sunday, January 15, 2017

I Get Knocked Down

But I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down ...

Ah ah ah, pretty sure you got that song stuck in your head now. It happened to me. To get knocked down and to get that song stuck in my head in the aftermaths.

I gave up on karate classes at the end of May. I was pregnant and didn't want to risk getting hurt or hurt the baby. And since i went on a maternity leave a whole 3 months earlier than expected, needless to say i didn't do much physical efforts at all. 
When my OB/GYN told me i could start practicing again, weeeee, I was so excited. Waited until after the Christmas holidays and went back on the tatamis. 

I felt stiff with very contracted movements but enjoyed being back in action.

I'm not a very good karateka, I'm just green belt (without any practice in 9 months). So i was a bit nervous to have to play pretend in a fight with a brown belt. The guy is nice and he's obviously a lot better than i am but i knew he wouldn't be an ass and try to voluntarily hurt me. 
Since he's also a lot taller than i am, he swept me a few times with indecent ease. Except that on the last "fight", i got knocked out. And no, i didn't get up again. I didn't even hit my head, it was my hip that hit the floor and i was K.O.

My eyes filled up with tears instantly. Not from the pain but from a rage that crept from inside me at the speed of light. I couldn't get up or speak. I could see and hear what was going on around me but i was unable to function. It's an extremely frustrating feeling. I was short of breath and i was angry. I was so freaking angry I could barely keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
That's when i knew i could never have been an athlete. I can't handle losing, i can't control myself, i can't keep a clear mind of what's going on, rage blinds me. It's terrible.

And it's kinda scary as well. To be KO i mean. It's that weird feeling that you have zero control over what's going on. You can't talk, can't breathe well. You can't handle yourself basically.

Bruno has been in the martial arts for over 20 years and he knew what to do to make me get my shit and mind together again. But he mentioned something i thought was interesting. In boxing, when someone gets knocked out easily (even if he/she doesn't get hit in the head or face), they're called "tender". So yeah, I'm tender. Just because, apparently, my brain is not glued to my skull, it's easy to knock me down. 
Good thing I'm not planning on taking over the world with my karate moves!

hihihi, you can hate me now!


Happy New Year

Yes I know, it's already January 15th so what?
I figured out that i couldn't start the new year with a new post without writing about wishes and shit. So yeah, a new year started 2 weeks ago, didn't do anything fancy, just the 2 of us, some champagne and home made sushis and it was perfect.
I do not wish anything extremely complicated for 2017, i just wish that we'll finally finish up with the house and move in there this summer.
As for the resolutions, i'd love to say that i'll write at least twice a month in this blog but let's be honest, with a baby and work starting again soon, that'll most likely won't happen. Even if i had all the time in the world like right now, since i'm still on maternity leave, i don't find the energy or the will to write. Too bad. My laziness will certainly have the best of me.

Anyways, to a beautiful 2017. May it brings you happiness, love, health and peace of mind.


Thursday, December 15, 2016

Tattoo And Scar

A few years ago, I decided to go for my 3rd tattoo and I wanted it to be, just like the other 2 I had already, meaningful. I wanted something that wasn't hype back then, I wanted a henna design, but made with real ink, and one with a special meaning. 

I said it before, I'll say it again, Internet has yet to fail me and I looked for a design I actually liked and investigated the meaning it had. And I found one, one that women normally had applied on their feet, on their wedding day, in order to celebrate their new married woman "condition". Not too sure if I'm being very clear but in a fewer simpler words, it means: I'm married or better, I'm getting married, woohoo, let's celebrate.
Since I was newly single after 12 years of being in 3 long relationships back to back, I thought that yeah, that was a nice way of celebrating my new "condition",not as a married woman but as a single one. Yeah, I know it may sound paradoxical to use that particular design for the complete opposite of what it's supposed to be meaning but 
a) i do what i want, 
b) unless i tell people, nobody knows what that design means (not in my circle of friends anyway!) 
and c) as i said, I do what the fuck i want.

Since I wasn't gonna do it on the foot ... I'll be honest here, I currently have close to a dozen tattoos and there is no way on earth I'll have one on one of my feet. I'm a wuss, I know it'll hurt like motherfucking hell and there is no way I'll do it there. Period. So since I wasn't gonna do it on my foot, I've decided for a more, let's say, private area: my pelvis. I thought that hey, I'm celebrating my condition as a single woman, might as well put it in a place close to a very private woman area. I don't know if I'm making myself understood but I know what I mean. I'm twisted. I have weird ideas. What can i say?

Anyway, being a wuss on the foot area ... well, should I have known better. Waxing is already a bitch pain-wise, tattooing your pelvic area, yeah, well, bad idea. It's painful like you have no idea. During the entire hour I had it done, I kept on thinking: what the heck was I THINKING?

But the result exceeded my expectations:


Fast forward a decade later almost and I'm pregnant and about to give birth. Except that I ended up having a c-section. And even though it's a surgery and you're under anaesthesia, it's only half your body which is numb hence you can actually chat with the surgeon. Not that you really want to (especially since I was struggling to stay awake and that, well, he has to get the baby out of you being careful not to bleed you to death).
Anyway, the surgeon told me in a "I'm-so-sorry" voice that he had to cut right in the middle of the tattoo. Above would be too high and under would be too low. I told him not to worry since I honestly couldn't care less at that point but he apologized a few times after that.
When he came visit the following day, he apologized again about having to cut my tat right in the middle and said: you can ask your tattoo artist to retouch it once it's healed. And I thought, yeah, well, nope, not happening. Not only does that particular body part hurt like hell to tattoo but my tattoo artist is in Mexico and also, tattooing a scar can be tricky. A lot of tattooers won't accept doing it: the skin's a different texture, the ink might not stick and I don't even want to think about the feeling.

Since pretty much every hospital staff who came check my c-section scar mentioned about the tattoo retouching, I realized a few things.
First of all, yeah, my beloved tattoo would be altered by a scar and I honestly didn't care. It's not that I had that scar made for nothing, it was to deliver my baby and I would have "pay" a way higher price would have I needed to.
But the biggest reason why I will not have it retouched is because this particular tattoo was initially a celebration of my new "condition" as a single woman. It's a girl power tattoo. In my eyes at least. And now it's been modified by a c-section scar. It's yet another condition as a woman who has now become a mother. What cooler way of adding meaning to it? There is no way I'll ever have it redone. 
EVER.

And honestly, the surgeon did one hell of an awesome job!


Why would I want to retouch it? It's PERFECT now. Just as it was perfect on day one.


Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Stuff No One Told Me

Or maybe they did tell me and I didn't listen. Or hear. Or pay attention. Or maybe I was stupid enough to think they exaggerated!

If I might allow myself with a little piece of advice for every first-time-mom-to-be: IT'S TRUE! Pretty much everything people tell you you'll eventually endure after giving birth is true. I agree on the fact that every pregnancy is different. As every woman's experience about giving birth is different. So I won't pretend to hold the holy answers about them all but in my experience, these are some of the few things i've heard at some point but probably decided to take them lightly. Big mistake.

- If you breathe properly, contraction's pain can be "controlled".
No. It can't. You'll feel that your body is about to burst open. And that you want it all to end. And you'll wonder why on earth did you get yourself into this in the first place. And can I get an epidural already?

- An epidural doesn't hurt.
Trust me, it does. And i'm not the sensitive to pain kind of person, i'd even say i'm pretty tough when pain is involved but an epidural hurts like motherfucking HELL. Picture a needle going into your spine for crying out loud. How can that not hurt?
It's supposed to numb the pain of the contractions but your legs don't answer your commands anymore and you might as well pee or poop right there, you wouldn't know, you don't feel shit. 

- A C-section is not a real childbirth and it doesn't hurt as bad as a natural birth.
The next person to say one of these 2 things will get hit in the face. With a hammer.
I wish a c-section on NOBODY. First of all because it is, in my opinion, the worse way of giving birth. The dad can't be there because it's surgery. You, as a mom, are completely passive and you're just enduring the birth of your child feeling completely useless.
Second of all, you don't see what's going on obviously (i don't think you'd enjoy watching the surgeon cutting you open and pulling your baby out ...) but since I asked because I wanted to know ... Once the cut is made, the surgeon put his hand inside of you to pull the baby's head towards the new exit door. Then (and i felt it even though I had an anaesthesia) he kneads your belly to pop the baby out, just like you'd do to pop a zit. Then again for the placenta. Then he'll vaccuum your insides and stitches/stapples you up.

- You'll get sick and you'll most likely puke.
You haven't eaten in AGES, you have asked for an epidural, if the birth doesn't present itself well, you'll get a rachianaesthesia on top (same as an epidural but stronger), you're tired, you're in pain and since the ob/gyn will knead your belly, you'll want to puke. Except that you can't feel your stomach contract. Except that you don't have anything in to puke. So it's like at the dentist when they tell you to spit and you can't. You're lying on your back, you can only turn your head on the side. You'll drool/vomit in your neck. It's disgusting/nasty/gross/all of the above.

- You'll lose all your dignity.
I can't tell about a natural birth but as far as I've heard, it's the same. In my case, since i had to go through recovery, I didn't get to see my baby straight away. But you're in those hospital robes, with a tube in to drain your bladder, you're bleeding from down there, you obviously haven't waxed in ages (too painful) nor shaved (first because my beautician would kill me and second because you haven't been able to reach your ladyparts in quite some time!), you can't stand so you have to pee in a bedpan, you need the help of 2 nurses to try to stand a mere 12 hours after surgery, you take a shower sitting on a stool with the door open and a nurse in your room in case you fall, you'll feel like a hundred years old walking all folded up to ease the pain and you'll let the nurse check your bleeding on the gigantic pads the hospital gives you (oh, and the net underwear you get ... glamour at its peak!)

- You'll get contractions.
You thought you were done with it? NOPE. You'll still get some AFTERWARDS. I mean seriously. Isn't it enough as it is? They're less painful than the one BEFORE but still. Contractions! For crying out loud!

- You'll produce milk.
You can take all the meds you want to cut it (if you don't want to breastfeed your baby), you might thing that you're gonna get through without enduring this but no. You're in for some kick ass pain. Your boobs, all of the sudden, are three sizes bigger than usual, they're hard as stone, they're painful as hell and they leak. Yep. It feels like you have implants good enough for shooting a porn video but they're dripping milk. You feel like a cow. Honestly. And just looking at them is painful.
However (it worked for me), putting cabbage in your bra can help decongest them and cut the milk production. Not to scare you though but i read that a woman who gave birth recently is naturally programmed to produce milk and HEARING a baby scream can stimulate the production. Being in a maternity ward, i let you imagine!

- Last but not least, you'll get tired. And stressed up but mostly tired.
And by tired, I mean EXHAUSTED. You feed your baby every 3 hours, and in between two feeds, you also have to change him/her, wait for the burp and try to get some rest as well. Needless to say that whether you're at home or still at the hospital, sleeping in slices of a couple of hours is not enough. The slightest thing to do becomes an insurmountable task, you'll cry a tremendous lot because you're desperate for some sleep and some rest, you'll lose your temper, you'll feel guilty like hell about it, you'll want the baby to go to hell for a few hours just so you can rest, you'll feel guilty about having such thoughts. And you'll stress up and worry about everything. Is the baby hot? cold? hungry? is the diaper full? is it the right color? is she eating enough? too much? is a burp not out and hurting her tummy? is she tired? how can i get rid of her hick-up? why is she squeaking? does she need a pacifyer? can she breathe properly? how do i clean her nose? can she finally fall asleep so i can sleep as well?

I'll finish up with just one more thing: it's worth it. It's totally worth is. It's normal to feel helpless and oh so tired. But seeing your baby smile and make faces, grab your finger in her tiny hands, open her eyes wide to see and discover the world around her or simply watching your baby sleep makes it all worth it.

Don't hesitate to talk to friends who had babies, to ask stupid questions, to reach out for help with the simplest things. Leave the baby with the dad or the grand-parents for a little while, even if it's just for 20 minutes and go for a walk, or take a bath or make yourself a nice cup of your favorite coffee, read a book in front of the fireplace or take a quick nap. It'll make a world of a difference in your day. 
Thousands and thousands of moms around you have been through this. You can do it.


Monday, November 14, 2016

Pregnancy and Childbirth From Hell

So how are you? How did it go? Everything went well?
NO.
Not in the slightest way my delivery or even my pregnancy went well. 
The look on people's face when you answer a big fat no to "did the delivery go well?" ... Priceless.
Why on earth is that everybody assumes that because your baby is finally here and that you're finally back home that everything went well. Honestly, NOTHING went well. Nothing at all.
And no, it's not because i am indeed finally home with my beautiful baby girl that I'm gonna forget all the bad things that happened to me prior. Hell no I'm not gonna forget. I'll move on, yes, but I won't forget. And there is a very good reason to this: this is how my daughter's life started. 

My pregnancy got cut short. And thank god it did. It's been a very difficult first trimester, not because i was sick or nauseous or any of the classic inconveniences you can face at the beginning of a pregnancy but simply because I had that massive black cloud of my miscarriage hovering above me. During the second trimester, we were told that the baby was too small for its age, so there were the plethora of exams and check-ups and this and that. I was going to the hospital at least once a week.
And for the icing on the cake ... Last trimester ... Baby still small, i should get an ultrasound a week as well as two monitorings a week. By week 33 (which for us, was week 31 and a half but let's not dwell on that), i got told that they'll most likely induce labor between week 34 and week 36.

Since the baby was doing just fine (no kidding), they decided to wait just a few days short of week 37. 

It was a Thursday afternoon. Since the baby was small (estimated weight of 2kg then), they decided to go through all 4 steps of "smooth" labor: 
- the balloon first (inserted inside in order to detach the water sack from the cervix), set for 24h
- the "plug" - looks like a tampon that diffuses hormones in order to accelerate labor and trigger contractions ... Another 24h.
- an hormonal gel (same job as the tampon) ... 6h
- and last but not least, in the delivery room, with an IV to stimulate the contractions hence accelerating the distention of the cervix.
I went in the delivery room at 3pm on the Sunday. My man slept on the floor on Friday night and on our inflatable mattress on Saturday night. Needless to say, he was pretty much in the same state of exhaustion than i was. 
11pm or so, on Sunday, i got the epidural. It was a disaster. The anaesthetist was scaring me, the nurse was a bitch. I was losing it. I was exhausted, i was scared, Bruno couldn't be with me, tears were rolling down my eyes uncontrolably, I was shaking so bad from all the tension that was packing on for the past 4 days that it took for freaking ever. Or so it seemed.

Except that nothing went as planned after that. At around 1am, as they were increasing the dose i was getting in the IV, the baby's heart rate dropped. As the midwife said, talking about the baby: "she just made the decision for us".
She couldn't take it anymore. I was gonna get a c-section.
I couldn't stop crying.
After all we'd been through, i would be a lone spectator at my delivery. Bruno wouldn't be able to be there since i was going for surgery. I wasn't gonna participate nor see anything since they cut you open and it all happens behind a curtain.
I was struggling not to fall asleep. I wanted to puke so bad. I couldn't feel my right arm. I was scared. I wanted to be over with. I wanted to sleep.



I got to see my baby for a split second before they took her to the pediatrician. All i saw of her was that she had hair. I stayed on the table for another 15 minutes or so, just for them to get the placenta out, vaccuum my insides and close me up. 

The surgeon apologized a few time that he had to cut right in the middle of my pelvis tattoo. I couldn't care less to be honest. But i thought it was nice of him to feel sorry about ruining my tat'. 14 stapples later (and who knows how many stitches inside), i went to the recovery room for 3 never-ending hours, dying to be with my baby and my man. 

Best moment of it all: when i got to have her on my chest. I could have stayed like that for ages. But all good things have an end ...

I spent another week in the hospital. It was hard, i cried a lot since again, i was pretty much on my own most of the time (Bruno spent all the time he could with me but he had to go back to work and since the hospital is not very arranging for the new dads ...). And the nerves got the best of me ... After all i endured, i just couldn't take much more any more. The nursery nurses offered to take my baby for the night so i could rest. I cried my eyes out in guilt but truly appreciated to get a 7hrs straight night. 

Long story short, we're finally back home. All together like the family we now are. We do as we see fit for our baby girl. Maternal instinct kicked in and with a baby, you just know what is best for her. She's a very good baby. Quiet. Calm. And to all the people who keep on telling us "it won't last", i tell them: SCREW YOU. After all we've been through, we deserve to have some peace of mind and a quiet baby. You might have had a terrible few months with yours but you most likely didn't have to endure what we had to. So instead of being jealous of what we enjoy now, wish us the best instead!


So after a total of 14 ultrasounds, 27 monitorings, 72 hours of labor inducing techniques, 9 hours in the delivery room, it's by c-section that our beautiful baby girl Lucie was born, on Halloween.

Friday, September 23, 2016

I Contradicted A Doc

I don't know if you fathom the extend of such a sentence and act. I actually told a doctor that i disagreed with his diagnosis!
To be clearer, i disagree with my gynecologist's start date of my pregnancy hence my supposed due date and therefore, that my baby is not in the norm size-wise.

Needless to say that in order to actually speak out and tell him/her that you think (s)he actually made a mistake, you have to use a massive amount of tact. Medical staff don't like regular folks like myself telling them: sorry, not sorry, i don't agree with that.

As i mentionned it in an earlier post, my still in-utero baby is small. She's growing well so far but she's under the regular line of growth. Docs are estimating that she's between 10 and 15 days late. It's nothing you'll say, just like i thought as well, except that on a span of 9 months, it's quite a fair amount of time. Except that i disagree with them all on the starting of the pregnancy date. MY date being at least a week later than their. Actually between 7 and 10 days later than what they calculated. 

Obviously, pregnancy, conception times and due dates are not exact science unless you've had an IVF which wasn't my case. 

I mentionned it a few times to the many docs i've seen so far but i never felt heard. So i was like, yeah, well, whatever, i know they're off by at least a week, i'm not gonna worried about this all "too small" thing.
Except that i am tired. I'm exhausted. I could sleep pretty much all day and having to go back and forth to the hospital for monitoring the baby and ultrasound at least once if not twice a week is draining the little energy i have left out of me.
So when i saw my ob/gyn last Monday, i told myself, i HAVE to tell him that i disagree with him, i HAVE to get that load off of my shoulder and maybe, just maybe, he'll realize that yes, my baby is indeed a tiny baby but she's in between the regular growth lines and just fine.

Deep breath.

I used all my ingenuity and tact to tell him just that. I was actually pretty happy with the way it came out. And i was even happier with the way he reacted. He listened to me, double checked his measures and calculation, entered the measurements he did that day along with MY estimated date (8 days later than his) and printed the growth graph. 

And guess what?

It changed nothing. 
NOTHING.

DAMN IT.

The baby is still smaller than what she'd expected to be at the age she has. Whether she's 30 or 31 weeks old, she's still too small.
Which means that i'll still get monitored most likely every week until the end of my pregnancy, that i'll still get to see a ob/gyn every other week and even with all these precautions, i'll still most likely get a tiny baby. 

What worries me now? That she actually stops growing and that they have to trigger the birth a lot earlier than planned. Which might happen actually. 

Or she's just a happy go lucky tiny baby who has her mom already worrying for nothing!


End of it all, you should always say what you have weighing on your heart. It might not change the outcome of the situation but in my case, it surely eased my concerns that the hospital might do with me and my baby something that is not necessary. As i said, in my situation, it doesn't change much. But at least i've unloaded this off of my shoulders.
And it felt good.