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Once again, my inner pragmatist is
at odds with my inner hysteric. They've always been at loggerheads, frankly,
but the whole parenting thing has thrown their conflict into sharper
contrast. And, now, they are having a skirmish about toddler ears. Before the Diva, my knowledge of
exotic words like "Vantin" and "Omnicef" and "Septra"
was nonexistent, like the pre-apple Eden where everyone romped around naked
and fed the animals. Then, these combinations of letters sounded more like
Roman emperors or strange tropical diseases than like what they are, which
is, for those still in their halcyon, prelapsarian days, antibiotics for
kids. Now that I have fallen, I can spot each by smell. Omnicef is redolent
of ripe strawberries and fresh cream. Vantin is a pina colada with a
pharmaceutical note. And Septra is sugar and bitter almonds, kinds of what
I'd expect arsenic to taste like, should someone ever decide to slip it into
my morning coffee. She has turned into a drug
connoisseur, the wee Diva has. Everything but Omnicef was once a struggle to
pour down her gullet. We tried mixing these germ fighters with everything
from chocolate pudding to ice cream, without any luck. Eventually, I tapped
the hive mind of the AustinMama.com mamas and hit upon a system, suggested by
AM's editrix. The Hub and I used to have to sit on the Diva, pinning her
limbs to her sides, while we forced open her mouth and administered the
offending liquid drop by drop. There were vehement protests. We expected
visits from some child abuse watchdog agency, summoned by her wailing and
well-intentioned neighbors. Her indignation passed, eventually. Now she'll
just drink even the most vile syrups. With the Omnicef, she has been known to
ask for more. Yes, I did find that disturbing.
Now, I'm just thankful for the peace. Our whole adventure into the land of
antibiotics has stemmed from a seemingly endless series of ear infections.
The Diva's big pumpkin head, much like my big pumpkin head, seems to be
designed to not drain fluids with any sort of efficiency. Her doc and I are
holding our hope that this will change once she turns two. I'm not holding my
breath. My folks wrestled with the same stuff when I was a wee Diva. It's
just that whole genetics thing again, coming up to bite us in the bottom. I
fear what will happen when she is a teen, given that I know how crappy my
mental health became at that time. My inner hysteric is ready to get all
worked up about that issue now, well before the Diva is even potty trained.
The pragmatic is convinced that the Diva has inherited her father's relative
joie de vivre along with his metabolism. You can see why they don't get
along.
(continued at right)
I digress. Right now, we're all
about the ears. There is talk of tubes. I'm told by parents and doctors
alike that they are a blessing, most of the time. I'm still not overly
comfortable with the thought of someone cutting into her tiny eardrums, no
matter how needed. But we won't have to make this decision until the summer
really sets in and so I can continue to live in my land of denial, where
this most recent round of antibiotics will do the trick and the decision can
be put off. Still, I flop between indifference about the tubes and
jaw-clenching fear. My indifference scares the bejesus out of the hysteric,
who remains convinced that *real* mothers would wail at the idea. And the
hysteric irritates the crap out of the pragmatist who knows that it could
all be so much worse. Here's the thing, the Diva is a
*knock wood* healthy kid otherwise, so much so that we never know about the
ears until they were socked in with green pus. Given all of the horror
stories that I hear about the real and dire maladies faced by other parents
-- the cancers and the disabilities and the SIDS -- we are roundly blessed
to have such a relatively minor problem. While her ability to hear may be
damaged, her condition is far from terminal. For this, I am profoundly
thankful. The problem is mine, mostly, as it
so frequently is. So many other mamas get through such things so much easier
than I. It's not that I'm up nights gnashing and sobbing, it's just that I
feel like I should be doing more, that I should give in to the hysteric and
spend more time in a tizzy. One of the Diva's playmate's moms keeps
suggesting a panoply of natural remedies, from herbs to ear candling, and
seems concerned that I'm not frantically investigating every last option.
What stops me, I rationalize, is that her kid seems to get just as many
infections as mine. Still, there's the guilt. In my defense, however feeble,
the mental image of trying to hold the Diva down while getting fire and wax
near her head inspires both terror and amusement. The mess would be
awe-inspiring. But here, where the antibiotic
meets the bloodstream, is where my inner pragmatist and inner hysteric part
ways again. The pragmatist knows that this is but a minor bump in the
parenting road, one that is nothing to sweat about too much. The hysteric
keeps screaming about the continual infections being yet another parenting
failure, one more black mark that will be etched on some cosmic report card.
Again, I've managed to make my kid's health a reflection of my self-esteem,
which is, to put it clinically, nuts. While the pragmatist knows that not
everything is about me, somehow the hysteric always find a way to make it
so. Sometimes, I get so tired of me, yet am addicted to myself, like smack
or Planters' honey roasted peanuts. We soldier on, of course, shelling
out more cash to Glaxo-Wellcome, Abbott Labs and Pfizer. The Diva couldn't
care less, bless her, while I wonder what I'm going to be like in ten years,
in 15, in the face of a larger challenge. My hope is that the pragmatist
will hog-tie the hysteric into some small dark mental cranny, where she can
holler to her heart's content, or that Jimmy Carter can come in and broker a
truce. With him, I'd share my nuts.
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About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice massage therapist,
bookstore bookkeeper and pizza joint waitress. Eventually, someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light and a piece about
knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's
Metro Pulse and recently picked up an AAN award for feature writing. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams
knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all hours, she is mom to Maddy, and wife to Scott. Email Adrienne at: shaken@austinmama.com
