It's five a.m. and little Herny has woken me up. Right on schedule, too. In fact, last night, husband and I joked I have a five a.m. wake-up call from pain. And pain doesn't have a snooze button. (ha! I think I need a Clint Eastwood voice over.)
The upside to this reliable pain train is I have time to write while I let whatever self soothing experiment take its course. Today it is three Advil and a heating pad on the spasm filled thigh.
As I lay in bed, pillow under my knees, feeling somewhat soothed by the warmth of the heating pad, Rosie's emergency visit springs to mind.
Specifically, my arrival to the hospital. I came straight from bowling wearing bowling shoes, a bowling shirt with "beastie bowlers" printed in graffiti font across the front and beastie boy song titles altered with bowling themes in the back. For example, "you gotta fight, for your right to bowl."
In top of that, the sweatshirt I had was bright green, and says "Get Lucky" across the front. Even worse, I had beer on my breath.
None of this dawned on me until a doctor looked at me with confusion. Then he looked at mike, and again me. After thirty seconds of deliberation, he spoke only to mike, and implied I was an aunt, perhaps. A Pca?
Mike immediately clarified my role as the mom. The doctor's eyes showed he struggled to believe it. As did other hospital staff.
I looked down at my attire and totally understood why. I was pretty sure I'd wind up on a worst mom list for coming to a hospital smelling of beer and looking like a college student. In my mind, I could see a wall of shame with my mug shot on it, giving the "rock on" gesture, of course.
I didn't let my paranoia stop me from standing up for and demanding what I felt Rose needed. When I found that voice the confusion amongst the hospital staff disappeared.
I was calm, concise, passionate, and articulate. I didn't ask for what I wanted, I politely demanded it. The staff responded well to my demeanor, and suddenly my clothes weren't an issue. I was her mom.
As I drove home exhausted the next morning, I smiled imagining the janitor. played by the Breakfast Club janitor, taking my picture off the imaginary wall of shame and handing it to me.
I'd ask he keep it there to help other new adoptive moms remember to keep speaking up, keep advocating, no matter how many strange looks they encounter.
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