It’s around 10 p.m. when I hear my four-year-old, Lily, sobbing from her room. Something isn’t right; she’s only been asleep for a couple of hours. I dash down the hallway, swing open her door, and in the soft glow of her nightlight, I see her standing there with vomit on her chin and dribbling down her cozy pajamas. The sour odor quickly fills the air.
She cries out, and suddenly, there’s a loud noise as she passes gas, and diarrhea starts to run down her legs. I scoop her up, cradling her under the arms, and rush her to the bathroom, leaving a messy trail behind us.
As I strip her clothes off and set her on the toilet, she’s cold, naked, and frightened. My mind races, screaming, “SHE’S IN DANGER. SHE MUST GO TO THE HOSPITAL. IT COULD BE SOMETHING SERIOUS.” I shout for my partner, Mark, to fetch her something to drink, convinced that every ounce of fluid has left her small body. He rushes off, cleaning up after us and changing her sheets, but I just want the juice.
Time is ticking. She’s dehydrated. I think we might need to call an ambulance.
Fast forward a week. I’m lying in the guest room with my sleepy two-year-old, Mia, my hand gently resting on her chest as I feel her breathing. She’s warm; she’s been running a fever for three days now, and while her chest feels normal to my touch, it sounds alarming: it’s loud and raspy. She coughs and stirs awake, fussing for a bit before drifting back to sleep.
Mia has croup, and in just three days, I’ve consulted a triage nurse, visited an after-hours clinic, and texted every healthcare professional I know.
During my second pregnancy, I developed pneumonia, spending weeks in and out of the hospital. This experience heightened my anxiety, especially around sickness. In two short weeks, three different viruses swept through our home, and while I felt tense, I relied on the advice of doctors and nurses. I ensured they stayed hydrated, monitored signs of dehydration, and took Mia outside for fresh air during her coughing fits. I was determined to do everything right.
It wasn’t until after they got better that I recognized the toll it had taken on me. I lost weight, and one day, while the girls were at their grandma’s, I felt a bump as I backed out of the driveway. Even after checking, I panicked, convinced I had run over one of them. A wave of anxiety crashed over me, leading to a panic attack that left me exhausted for hours.
When nurses or family members tell me to “trust my instincts,” my frustration grows. “Is your child acting like herself?” “Listen to your instincts.” “You know your child best.” I spend most of my days battling my own instincts, unable to distinguish them from my anxiety. My so-called “mother’s instinct” feels more like a cruel trick.
In both instances, my children turned out to be fine. Lily just needed some rest and a day to recover, while the doctor reassured me that Mia was experiencing a milder case of croup due to her age.
I understand where the advice comes from; for someone less anxious, it might be helpful. But honestly, I can’t rely on these mystical instincts people talk about. Instead, I’ll stick with concrete medical advice—like monitoring for stridor, observing fever duration, or checking her hydration. I’ll take these steps seriously.
With flu season approaching, I know it’s crucial for my mental health to recognize when my anxiety about illness starts to spiral. For more insights on managing your experience with home insemination, check out this post on intracervical insemination.
When considering artificial insemination, Make A Mom provides excellent resources. Additionally, for a deeper understanding of pregnancy, Healthline offers valuable information.
In summary, navigating motherhood is often about balancing the instinct to protect your child with the anxiety that can cloud those instincts. Instead of relying on vague advice, focusing on actionable medical guidance can help anxious moms find some peace of mind.