onetiredmama: I Love Being Me

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I'm a weirdo. Really. Strange things happen to me.

I've had hives most of my life. The folks at Calamine lotion sent me a thank you note for my support over the years. In my twenties I began experiencing debilitating vertigo. (Think hyper speed merry-go-round on a boat. In a hurricane). I've always suffered from motion sickness, even though my Dad told me it was in my head. I have rare reactions to prescription medication; a few that have sent me to the ER. (I once asked a friend if they saw the troll sitting by the stairs). I've never been able to figure out what causes these symptoms. I've seen numerous doctors, tried elimination diets and herbal remedies. I can live with it, but sometimes it knocks me out of commission for a bit. Try calling in "dizzy" to work and tell me how lame you feel.

I certainly feel like a flawed person for all of these weird things. I've been crossing my fingers that I do not pass on whatever inherent flaw or immune problem I have to my children. So that's why my heart plopped into my stomach when I changed Riley out of her jammies this morning. She had bright splotches on her legs, pebbled with little hives.

Hopefully not exactly like mommy.

I already know the kids get carsick. Lots of people do. But I really, really don't want them to deal with all this other junk. I can't think of anything new Riley ate or came in contact with that could account for the hives. Is she going to be bothered by this kind of "stuff" all her life? Will she feel like a freak, too, if these things happen to her? When I changed her, I noticed her jammie shirt says "I love being me" (Emblazoned with a kitty cat, too, of course). And I do think Riley "loves being me." But will she always? Will a physical oddity like hives make her feel odd? Will her lusty love of life be dampened by the physical imperfections women always obsess over, like the thick calves or fine hair I have?

No sign of image problems yet!

The bubbling up of these hives happened at a strange time for me. I just had 1009 laser shots fired at my back to remove a birthmark that's bothered me for, well, my whole life. It was a port wine birthmark that covered about 1/4 of my back and wrapped around my rib cage. It wasn't dark red; it was a light purplish pink. It looked like maybe I had been burned years ago or dragged along a road and suffered faded, but permanent road rash. Most people never saw it. I couldn't wear evening gowns that dipped too low, or bikinis without exposing it. Of course it seemed traumatic in high school when I tried to dash into my gym clothes in the locker room before someone could spot it and say, "Ewww, what happened to you?" If I was smart like a friend of mine in college who had a birthmark on her arm, I would have made up a great story. "I got bit by a shark," she'd tell nosy people. And they'd believe her! But I would just blush and quietly explain it was a birthmark. Why was I ashamed? It wasn't my fault. I did secretly wonder if it was branded on me when my mother was in a car accident while pregnant. But I've been told that's not possible. However, I just added it to the mental list of "one more thing that's wrong with me."