Momma Said Knock You Out

Though it doesn't happen often, there have been a handful of times in my short Motherhood where I've felt like a complete and total failure as a protector of my children from this harsh and ugly world.

It's the worst feeling in the world; to suddenly realize that I have let something transpire, right before my blood-shot and mascaraed eyes, that could negatively impact my child's well-being.  Sickening.  Nauseating.  Infuriating.  Worse than baby rage, in my mind.

Here's an example that happened to me just today:  I took my darlings and myself off to the store to get some things we so desperately needed.  Okay we didn't need anything, but because this is "reading week" and my son doesn't have preschool I needed to get out of the house and I wanted to look at bed-in-a-bags for our guest room.  Anyway.

Upon entering the store we were greeted by an overly-makeuped elderly woman who looked like she went straight from the salon and into her blue smock, so perfect were the pin curls upon her frosted head.  She wheeled a shopping cart in my general direction and asked if the kids would like a smiley faced sticker.  Naturally, I said of course they would!

She approached Joshua first, and he obliged this woman, obediently holding still while she stuck the yellow label to his hand.  Unfazed, he toddled off to look at the Easter display nearby.  Next, she turned to my daughter.

Now Claire is 20 months old, and even in the best of moods, is beginning to make strange with new people.  Claire is suffering from an awful cold which is disrupting her sleep all this week, so to say the least she is not in a "good mood" today.  Let alone in a mood for becoming soul mates with the scary greeter-lady.  So as the witchy-woman approached, my girl quietly ducked her head and leaned into my chest from her seat in the cart.  Natural response, I thought, and reached out to take the sticker for her as I stroked her curly fever-warm head.

That old hag then put the sticker BACK onto her roll of 33,000 stickers, as if every one counted, frowned deeply into her layers of powder, rouge and wrinkles, shook her head and said disapprovingly, "Fussy little girl, isn't she?" and stalked off to "greet" another customer.

I opened my mouth to argue with her and say that she was just tired, but by then the moment had passed.  I had frozen a moment too long, and it was too late to disagree with what she had said.  As I took a few steps in the general bed-in-a-bag direction, I became aware of how ANGRY I was that someone had judged my daughter like that.  How dare she?  She has no idea what the last few days or weeks or months have been like for my baby.  The teething, the sicknesses, the fatigue, the moods.  The fun, the joy, the giggles, the laughter.  The learning, the milestones, the growing, the LIVING that she has done, just to get her to the point of sitting quietly in a dirty blue cart only to then be judged by the likes of HER?  Well.  Well now.  This is where I start to fume.

I wasn't angry at the woman.  I was furious with myself (okay, and really angry at the woman, too).  I let a complete stranger totally judge one of my children and I just stood there like an idiot, probably smiling, and didn't say a word.

If this was the first time it had happened, perhaps I'd be giving myself a break right now, but it's not. No.

The first time it happened I was a young mother and my baby was mere hours old.  Joshua was having trouble feeding and I was having trouble with, well, everything.  I felt like I had been hit by a garbage truck, I was in shock, I was confused, I was overjoyed, I was everything.  So the fact that my baby wasn't feeding was tragic to me, and I just could not get the hang of breastfeeding (especially with no one really even trying to help me and a giant IV in my arm preventing me from really giving it a go myself without serious vein-pain).

A random nurse came and told me they had to take a bit of his blood but that she'd bring him "right back".  So off she wheeled my newborn son.  A few minutes passed.  Then a few more.  And some more.  I remember looking at my husband thinking "Where the hell did she take him?" and then I'm pretty sure I said those same words aloud and encouraged* (*told him) to go look for him.  Shortly after he returned saying the nurse was on her way back with him.  She told me that they had done some blood work on him, strictly routine, but that his blood sugar was a little low so she had given him some formula.

Now.  This immediately angered me.  Not only had she taken him for the better part of an hour when she said she'd be a moment or two, she GAVE HIM FORMULA.  Don't get me wrong.  I think formula is fine and dandy, but as a newbie mother I was hell-bent on getting the whole breastfeeding business down and here was this 20-something nurse parading my newborn son around the hospital and feeding him FORMULA?!  And, best of all, without our consent!?  I was so upset.  I lost sleep over this one.  Seriously.  But did I raise my voice on behalf of my baby, who hadn't one of his own, to tell her what an insult it was that she had done that without asking me, his mother?  How negligent?  Nope.  I didn't even flinch.  In fact, I think I may have even thanked her.  Oh dear.

Next up?  Joshua's 2-year-old checkup.  It was at our previous GP's office.  I had had nothing but bland or normal experiences with our doctor before, and even the ones involving Joshua had been uneventful to date.  He had been a pretty easy going kid up until this point, so no reason to really comment on anything.

At this checkup however, he was beginning to make strange, and was beginning to pick up on the "vibes" of a place.  Clearly, there was something about a doctor's office that was making him wary.  So when it came time for the doctor to check him out, he wasn't going to participate.  Nope.  Not this time.

I remember I managed to sit him up on the table and encourage him to allow her to check his reflexes, look in his ears and eyes, that sort of thing, but the trouble came when it was time to look in his mouth.  He was TERRIFIED.  He started to cry.  I tried to soothe him as best I could but he was just shaking.  I can't imagine what he thought she was going to do, but clearly it was horrifying.  I tried promising things to him to see if that would lure him to just open up for a second.  But nothing worked.

She asked me if I could hold him down.  Puzzled, I asked her what she meant, and she demonstrated.  I was horrified watching her pin my son down with her arms, holding him tightly - too tightly - against the table, and felt sick.  She told me to hold him in my lap, pin his arms back, and use one of my legs to keep his legs from kicking her.  I'm not sure what class my husband must have missed in Medical School, but NEVER have I heard about this toddler-restraining method before.

I gave it a shot, but not wanting to hurt or scare my boy, he easily freed himself and ran to the door, pulling on the knob trying desperately to get out.  I tried again.  And failed.  One last shot I whispered in his ear "Joshua, honey, just open up for the doctor and I'll give you some num-nums when we get home, okay?", num-nums being those fruit flavoured gummies that he was addicted to at the time.  The doctor asked me what they were, I told her, and she briefly lectured me on the importance of brushing his teeth EVERY time he ate those - as I stood in disbelief at her choice of opportunity to lecture me on such a random topic, and then she looked at my sweet, terrified, sobbing boy and said "Besides, a naughty boy like you doesn't deserve num-nums do you?".  The last straw had been broken.  I swept him up in my arms and left.

We've never been back.  Dr. Margaret Churcher, in case you're wondering.  Beware.

But did I ever actually SAY anything to her about it?  Did I stick up for my son, or myself?  Did I ask her what the hell she thought she was doing back there, physically restraining a young boy over a routine checkup, not even because of a worry over a throat infection or something more serious that may or may not warrant such actions?  No.

I'm not sure why I allow these things to happen.  Is it because I'm Canadian, or Catholic, or female, that encourages me to take this nonsense from others and not retaliate when really something should be said or done?  Why is my first reaction to be passive and submissive, and not strong and aggressive?

I want my children to look at me in these situations and say "Wow.  That's my Mom and she stood up for me!  I am special!  I am important!"  I don't want their feelings to be hurt in these situations and wonder why I didn't say anything at the time.

As a kid I was on the receiving end of this kind of thing many times.  A close family member would comment on my weight, or my habits, or something, and I'd be left feeling hurt and embarrassed and, well, alone.  So you'd think, having borne the brunt of it time and time again, I'd be the first one to lash out against it, right? Unfortunately I'm beginning to realize that in these situations I freeze, deer in headlights style, and allow the very same to happen to my children.

Well, hopefully now that I've blogged it, I can become even more aware and more present in times like those.  I can say something like "Excuse me, she is NOT a fussy child.  She's just afraid of really old  and really rude people."  That sort of thing.  Something snappy and mildly offensive and to the point.  Sure I've taken steps in the right direction (switched family doctors - our new one is awesome, we love you Dr. Kristine Bertsch!) but I still haven't truly demonstrated to my children that I will not allow that kind of crap to happen while I'm around.  Bullying is still bullying, whether it comes from a snotty grade-four kid or a bent and twisted GP.  I want to be a champion for my kids.  A hero against emotional pain, discrimination, and taunting.  I want to knock those sonsabitches out.

Because to me, they're perfect.  Not everyone has to agree, but everyone has to respect.

I still didn't buy a damn bed-in-a-bag.

-TDW