My birthday and my youngest son’s birthday are about a week apart. That means that his bris (the lovely, Jewish, baby penis mutilation ceremony) fell on my big 3-2. It was . . . uh . . . memorable. Especially the part about how he chose to pee at exactly the same time as he was cut, spewing blood and baby urine all over, including directly in the mohel’s (the cutter’s) face.
Yeah. Memorable, like I said.
It was also about the time that I couldn’t walk. Without limping. Without tremendous pain. Often with the assistance of a really attractive, hospital grade cane. That my older son totally dug, by the way.
Shortly after I turned 32, I was diagnosed with Third Trimester Osteoporosis of the Hip. Ever heard of it? No? (Please note that my facial expression is one of total shock and disbelief.) That’s because nobody gets this disease. Literally no one GETS it. Ok. Like a few women a year get it. With their first pregnancy. Because their estrogen didn’t get the preggers memo about the need to kick it up a notch. Because their adorable bundles of joy were happily leeching the calcium away from their left hip bone. Because being pregnant isn’t complicated e-fucking-nough.
Well, I was one of the lucky ones. With a poorly breastfeeding newborn, a rambunctious two year old, and a year’s worth of appointments with endocrinologists, orthopedic surgeons, ob/gyns, internists, rheumatologists, psychotherapists, lactation consultants, infectious disease doctors (well, just one, and not formally because she’s my doctor friend who you can read more about here and here.) and dentists (unrelated).
It was a veritable shit storm of MRI’s, x-rays, and perplexed medical professionals telling me, “so sorry, dude. There’s no information on this condition. It’ll probably go away within the next two years and it may or may not mean that you should stop breastfeeding. It also may or may not mean that physical therapy would help. Oh, and try not to fall. There’s a good chance you might fracture that shit.”
Side note: According to the few case studies that exist, 3-6 months of bed rest seem to help.
For me, this idiotic condition hung around for about 13 months. I was a stay at home mom for the first six months of it. I was a working mom for the last 7 months of it. And I was in a really. bad. mood. For all of it.
I’m feeling much better now.
Tomorrow, I turn 34. I can shred with the best of ‘em. I can climb multiple flights of stairs, quickly. I can easily race my four year old uphill (thank you, Jillian Michaels). I can carry my two year old around on either hip. I can be the Mommy Camel I was born to be (see this post on pack animal momming).
I can enjoy my birthday, pain-free, for the first time in two years.
So, bottoms up, guys! Happy birthday to me!