Our world. Plus one.
I’m finally beginning to get new pages completed. At the top of the post there are little tabs, which are the pages I’ll be creating. I haven’t written anything in the About one yet, so just ignore it. But keep checking as I add more!
It’s been a rough few weeks here in the Gillmor household. I was going to post about the various ear infections, sinus infections, GI horror illness, and colds, but then I figured the majority of the world has had the GI horror illness recently and probably didn’t need nor want to read the rehashings of our version of it here. So instead I figured I would switch to the other squeamish topic I love to talk about.
My Vajayjay.
But this is a different post. No graphic explosion stories. This is about repair. Because I have officially graduated from Vagina PT, or as it is referred to in a PC world as Pelvic Floor Rehab.
This has been a long journey. 15 months since the original trauma. 9 months since I was referred to PT. For a few months in the middle I was going to a specialized clinic where I was getting weekly injections of steroids/muscle relaxers directly into the damaged muscle. That part was super awesome, and probably the closest I’ve come to losing my sometimes shaky hold on sanity throughout this process.
After all of this, you would think I would be cracking open the champagne and running around the house celebrating. And I am happy, believe me, but there is also a surprise emptiness that hit me as I left my PT’s office.
My pelvic floor pain has been with me since Cameron was born. Obviously. His birth, a traumatic one on many levels, was the start of a huge paradigm shift in my life. The past 15 months have been full of more changes than I ever could have imagined. My pain has been my constant. It has been my security. And as I try to wade through my brain and figure out why after 15 months of pain I’m not running around shrieking with glee, it is because of the loss of my constant.
Around the time they finally figured out what was going on and I began PT, we knew my dad was going to have to go in for surgery. He had been given a similar timeline of recovery as I was given, something that was totally unrealistic on both fronts. But he and I would discuss the upcoming six months; we were in a race for a pain free life.
Pain free life. A seductive tease of riches. A promise of healing and recovery. For him an impossibility. For me, an unrealistic dream of perfection; as if the whole thing had never happened. But it did. And while I am relatively pain free now with many more pain free days than painful days, I won’t ever be back to normal. My pelvic floor muscles were ripped through and while they heal, the damage is there. It is my weak spot. As my PT put it, whereas other people get pain in their shoulders and back with stress or fatigue, I’ll get mine in the vajayjay. Insert your own joke here, everyone at work did.
But with the ending of my PT, I am ending a significant chapter in my life. I’m ending a battle I shared with my dad. I’m ending a weekly meeting with the only person who truly understood what I was going through and whose job it was to sit there and listen to me talk about it as she fixed it.
So I begin. A life not shadowed by pain. A life of realizing I am not actually broken anymore, just refurbished. Upgraded.
And for all of that I got a graduation present from my PT.
I spent 9 months in physical therapy. 9 months of, at times, pure torture, and all I got was this t-shirt.
It’s been awhile. Cameron is teaching us Russian Literature in between his conversations with NASA through the various telephones and remotes he seems to understand better than we do.
I can’t think of where to begin with all of his new developments. He is a person now. A complete walking, talking (in a toddler sense), being. He is obstinent, tries to pull things over on us practically on an hourly basis, rules the world, and continues to capture the hearts of anyone who lays eyes on him. I fully expect a physical brawl someday at Publix as the employees battle out who gets to help us to the car. Although his favorite employee usually is headed out with him before we’ve finished paying.
He continues to not be a big fan of TV, which is great, except for when his parents are contemplating the ethics of leaving the dogs in charge so they can escape the house and wouldn’t it be nice to have a ten minute foolproof distraction for the child. Sesame street, which used to hold his gnat-like attention span for 5-10 WHOLE MINUTES, lost its sheen, so Cameron changed the channel and discovered it. The Holy Land.
The Holy Land. Run by Himself. The Honorable. In Charge of Him. The Fantastical. Oh yes, every parent of every little boy knows who I am speaking of. Thomas. AND his friends. Oh yes, that’s right. THOMAS HAS FRIENDS. There’s 2. There’s 4. There’s 6. THERE’S 8! 8 GLORIOUS TRAIN FRIENDS. And New Year’s Eve, when Cameron was up EVERY 2 HOURS due to the two monster teeth he decided to grow, THAT DAY? Well, that night, as John and I were discussing a blood sworn oath of lifetime celibacy to prevent the possibility of ever creating another one of the teething monsters currently sucking the lifeblood out of us, I would have sold crack on the street for a Thomas Video.
Luckily Target was open. And they had a combo pack of Thomas DVDs. Three DVDs. A total of 345 minutes of The Island of Sodor, an island so fantastical I hardly dare utter it’s name for fear it might disappear. The cost was amazing. It averaged out to 3 cents a minute. 3 cents! I would have paid far, far more. Like his college savings. Which don’t actually exist yet. But you get the point.
An even after all that. 13 months of growing the first two teeth, followed by 24 hours growing the second, the screaming, crying, the fevers, the endless nights and days without sleep. He smiles. And laughs. And I have to resist the urge to have ten more like him.
I was a child of stuffed animals. No dolls. O.k., I had two cabbage patch kids and I LOVED them, but generally no dolls. Only stuffed animals. Stuffed animals that would make a toy store jealous. Every breed of animal, plus some, were represented, often multiple times. I had a chubble. I had a furskin. I had any and everything.
It would therefore only follow that one of my secret (or not so secret desires) was that my son would follow in my footsteps. And not just for the sheer fun of having MORE stuffed animals in our house. I also loved the security I had with my blanket and teddy bear, creatively named, Blankie and Teddy.
The one responsible for the 98% of my stuffed animal collection was my father. Always a sucker for a cute stuffed animal and a little blond girl with huge brown eyes, which turned out to be a wicked combination leading to the animal zoo in my bedroom.
Right after my dad died, my mom and Cameron and I were out shopping at a well known southern food store, when we came upon a basket of stuffed animals tucked away to the side. We stopped to look at the giant stuffed pig. I told her that the baton had been passed and now she, the anti-stuffed animal giver, would have to supply my son with his own zoo of stuffed animals. There was an eye roll and a groan and as we were walking away, due to the impractically of bringing a giant stuffed pig with us and maybe slight guilt on my part about shamelessly using my dad’s recent death, she stopped, dug to the bottom of the basket, and pulled out a small stuffed pig.
She handed it to Cameron, who snatched it up immediately with a sound (very much like what The Chubble used to do) and wouldn’t let it go. The tags were cut off in line and out we went. And so began the love affair with Snuggle Pig.
Snuggle Pig, who holds the highest rank in the house, far above mom or dad or even the beloved pets. Snuggle Pig, whose name was recognized before anyone else’s. Snuggle Pig who can de-escalate a child in the midst of a thermonuclear meltdown. Snuggle Pig, who we’re pretty sure qualifies as a health hazard due to grime he sustains on a daily basis. Snuggle Pig who takes secret baths because the trauma of being without him for JUST TEN MINUTES could be too much to handle.
Snuggle Pig, who is the very best friend a little boy could ask for.
Cameron’s butt. His bootie. His bum. Perhaps one of my favorite parts of Cameron as it is this little compact bit of cuteness that fits in my palm. Definitely pulling this post out for his first date. Maybe the prom. Perhaps I can wait until his wedding. And I want people to recognize the restraint I am showing by not actually posting a picture of naked Cameron.
On Monday, I changed Cameron’s diaper to discover an angry fiery red diaper rash. Immediately quelling the pediatric nurse part of me, I decided to wait 24 hours, at which point he still had a fiery red diaper rash. Called the MD, an outrageously expensive medicated cream was ordered. Luckily a kind Walgreens’ pharmacist didn’t fill the prescription instead offering to show us how to make our own version for literally a tenth of the cost.
And it was sometime during, or maybe after the mixing of the various creams on our table, that I realized we are fully ensconced in parenthood.
A place where medicated cream cocktails have replaced the alcoholic ones at a time when the alcoholic ones are most needed.
Cameron was ready for Halloween. Months ago. Practically the day halloween costumes were put on the shelves (you know, in July) Cameron’s Granny Annie bought him a Tigger costume.
Unfortunately for Tigger costumes everywhere, there will never be a baby to do them better justice.
Then, there is Cameron’s Aunt Amy and Jen. And they found a dinosaur costume that they couldn’t pass up.
And after seeing him parade around in it, we couldn’t agree more.
The entire span of costume wearing time was approximately one action packed hour, followed by complete collapse in bed. Not sure it was even dark yet.
Next year perhaps he’ll make it to a house. Or at least stay awake long enough to see the Halloween sun set.
It is really impossible to know where to begin. Because we now have a one year old.
And there is no way that we have a one year old. Because we have a baby. A baby. A little, tiny baby. A baby who only uses sippy cups now, laughing at others who still choose to use bottles. Really? bottles? Seriously mom, how baby is that?!
A baby, who incredibly, has a tooth.
And walks.
About three weeks before his birthday, he decided there were a lot of things he needed to accomplish before the big 1-0, because really, it is downhill from there. So he grew a tooth. A process that for his father and I, was definitely more painful than if we had one of our own extracted.
Then came the decision to walk. Literally, one day while his Auntie Reed was visiting he picked up Snuggle Pig (who definitely deserves a post all his own), stood up, and started walking around the living room. He’d fall down periodically, but that was it. That was when he decided to start walking. No trial and error for a few weeks, just one decisive action. He’s been walking ever since.
He has never once held anyone’s hand to walk and he continues to refuse. Because seriously, Mom? Big Kids Do Not Need Assistance. This is not the only area of his life that he is steadfast in his ways. I often marvel at how someone so little could have such firm opinions on things. His father does not marvel. He has his own ideas.
He isn’t talking much, he says Mama and Daddy, and to be honest, his first word was actually Dodger, much to the chagrin of John. It is more of a Bober or Doder, so for awhile we could pretend it was gibberish, but then he started going up to the grey cat and saying Bober!
Following in his mother’s footsteps the animals are one of his most favorite parts of life. He routinely goes up to Serena to give her kisses on her nose, pat her on the back, or lean against her. Remarkably she is quite tolerant of him. Perhaps it is the pounds of rawhides she gets when he is near.
He spends as much time as possible outside, already entering into battles with his parents when they make him go inside due to darkness or cold.
There are dozens more fun things he does, each day surprising us with a new sound or face or interesting article he read in the New York Times that he’d like to discuss over breakfast…
And while my heart breaks as I watch over my shoulder as babyhood slowly fades away, it is immediately repaired by the promise of all the amazing things that lie ahead.
I haven’t abandoned the blog, promise. working on some updates and upgrades. If i could put under construction I would. Look for a shiny new Cameron is one year post later this weekend!
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