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Hidden steroid trap

I haven’t posted for a while. Too much going on. But recently something happened to me that I feel is really important to share in the hope of preventing someone else falling into the same trap.

Let me start by making my excuses and a bit of background. I am very, very health conscious, particularly where my daughter is concerned. I didn’t used to be but a few years ago I was diagnosed with Crohn’s-colitis and I immediately overhauled my diet and haven’t touched processed food, most grains especially gluten, refined sugar or caffeine since. And I approach my daughter’s diet in as clean a way as possible, without giving her a weird obsession over food through complete denial. I also think very carefully about what I put on her skin. Which brings me to the point of this post. A few months ago my daughter developed on her pristine, pre-schooler skin, a red patch of what looked like eczema, which she has not previously had a problem with. I tried my usual chemical free, baby creams that have sorted out any minor skin irritations in the past. None of them worked. I bought others; they didn’t work. Her skin then started to break out in spots that looked just like adult pimples. When nothing worked I resorted to a 1% hydrocortisone cream from the GP. It sort of worked, but not completely. Back to the GP where I was given fucidin, an antibiotic cream, which worked well on the spots but not the original red patch. After 3 weeks, I stopped, the blemishes started to come back. I again began using all sorts of natural and organic creams and thought I’d started to see a difference with Child’s Farm’s very cheap moisturiser for babies with eczema.

So far so normal. At this stage a friend turned up with some ‘all natural’ cream she uses on her son’s eczema and ‘is the only thing that ever works! Now his skin is beautiful!’, she assured me. This is when my brain seems to have gone on strike. Grateful for her help, I started using it. It worked really well and I kept using it for about 2 months. I was a little worried because the cream contained petroleum jelly but I gave myself a talking to and told myself just for once to stop interrogating everything.

A week ago I stopped using it. Overnight my daughter’s skin flared up with three big spots. More appeared the next day. At this point I became suspicious and started researching the cream. To my horror, I found out quite a lot about it.

The cream is called Abido and is sold as an alternative, all natural cream from Ghana. A few years ago it was investigated – along with a load of other similar ‘natural’ creams – and was found to contain an undisclosed and potent blend of steroids, we’re talking adult-sized doses. It is being illegally marketed as perfectly safe and must appeal to people like me, who are trying to seek an alternative to steroids!! I cannot believe I fell into this trap and all because I took it unquestioningly from another mum who was trying to help.

I am very worried that it might have caused systemic damage via absorption through the skin. I am worried that I have damaged her skin and that her skin is now addicted to the potent steroids and nothing else will calm her sore looking spots and bumps. If you come across this stuff, please stay clear. This particular pot was bought in an alternative health shop in Brixton.

In hindsight, nothing could have fixed her skin as quickly as steroids and I should have become suspicious earlier. Now I am on a quest to get to the root of the problem and find another way to return her skin to baby-smooth.

The wrong kind of nursery school…

So I’m trying to find a nursery for my daughter. She’ll be three this year and I’m finally starting to feel as though she’ll get something out of going there, although it will break my heart to let go of her just a little bit. It didn’t suit me to send her at a very young age but that means I still have to go through the wrench of leaving her in the care of nursery teachers. Terrifying. I didn’t know what I wanted out of a nursery but I’m starting to get a strong feeling of what I DON’T want as I visit and shortlist or rule out schools. Here’s my list of don’t wants so far…

1. I don’t want my daughter to wear a school uniform at the age of freakin’ 3!!
2. I don’t want my daughter to be fed the kind of shit I’ve spent the last 27 months carefully avoiding
3. I don’t want my daughter to be cooped up all day in a windowless room
4. I don’t want my daughter to be cooped up all day in a 1m x 1m box
5. I don’t want my daughter to be left to ‘cope with her own feelings’ of sadness/loneliness/hurt, etc at the age of freakin’ 3!!
6. I don’t want my daughter to be ‘selected’ for primary school. I mean, c’mon, how much pressure do you want to heap on these kids ffs?!

I’m sure I will be adding to this list over the coming weeks. Right now, home schooling is starting to look like a more attractive option! Sigh…

Exceeding my expectations

Last Sunday I underestimated my daughter in the swimming pool. We have recently changed groups and jumped a few stages so that my two-year-old is now the youngest in a class of three and four-year-olds. The lesson was going along nicely, as usual, when the teacher suddenly asked the parents to line up and form a tunnel – by arching the ‘woggles’ (long floats shaped a bit like a pencil) – of about 2m long. It dawned on me as I was wobbling into position that the kids were going to be asked to swim with their woggles, from the teacher at one end to the parent at the other. My toddler had never performed a feat of such independence in the water and I was anxious.

When it came to our turn I conspiratorially eyed the teacher and whispered that I didn’t think my daughter could achieve this task as she’d never done it before. The teacher shrugged and urged me to give it a go. I placed an eager child into her arms and walked to the other end of the tunnel, nervous and doubtful.

As I looked at my little girl she was beaming. The teacher let go of her and I called at her to ‘kick, kick, kick!’ I needn’t have said anything. She came bobbing towards me, kicking her little legs and paddling her little hands as fast as they would go, cheered on by the line of mums. Seconds later she was in my arms, begging to do it again.

I learned so much about how well and quickly she absorbs information and how her little brain is soaking up more than I’d ever imagined. I’ll try very hard not to underestimate her again. On the other hand, there are few feelings so wondrous as being surprised by my daughter’s eagerness and confidence to try new things. Already, at twenty-six months, she could teach me a thing or two.

Baby/toddler-friendly places to have coffee in Stroud Green

THE PARK THEATRE

Not just a great theatre, this is a great space to hang out. Grab a coffee (with food or snacks as required) and head upstairs (don’t worry, there’s a lift for buggies) where there is lots of room and, basically, a wall of glass looking down onto the passing buses and people outside. My nearly-1-year-old entertained herself for ages standing against these massive windows and watching the outside world, while I actually had time to talk to my dad.

VAGABOND

Small but little-people-friendly and with an excellent selection of herbal teas for caffeine-dodgers like me. They have a cute suitcase filled with books and toddler-sized toys that should keep your little one entertained for at least the length of one coffee and chat.

THE OLD DAIRY

A family-friendly pub with lots of space inside for your little one to crawl or run around during the day, when the pub is not full of people having alcohol-infused fun. It’s easy to have lunch here with your baby or toddler too. They have plenty of high chairs and a simple kids menu. The portions are actually huge, though, so I usually regret not just sharing some of my own!

Half the mother I want to be

So… where do I go from here? I bit the bullet and decided to shell out for a private doctor. I live in London so I am fortunate to have a huge choice. I don’t have heaps of money but I do have a need to get back to work and so get diagnosed and treated asap. Sooner than the NHS will allow.

To cut a long story short the lovely urologist has all but confirmed my fears. He thinks it’s likely I have interstitial cystitis. I’ll be going for more tests next Monday but it seems a formality. But he was very positive and optimistic that he could help me so… fingers crossed, I guess.

As a mum – which is the focus of this blog, not illness – how does this make me feel?

First-of-all, overwhelming guilt. All I want now is to be the mother that my amazing daughter deserves. I want to go on adventures with her. Match her energy. Infuse her with positivity, confidence and joy. Right now I wake up every morning with a heavy heart. I’m not sleeping as well because I can’t make it through without going to the loo. So I feel guilt from the moment I look into her excited eyes in the morning. Because I can pretend most of these things but I cannot feel them right now.

I can’t travel further than the local park – because at least there are toilets there. I am struggling to feel optimistic because I have spent too much time scouring the internet about this condition and do not see many happy outcomes.

I feel regret; for the beautiful, carefree times with her that I am worried I have lost forever. Regret that my excitement for our future is being suffocated by almost overwhelming anxiety.

Because at the root of all this is one defining question: will this ever go away? Will I spend every day feeling as though my bladder is at bursting point; a physical feeling that distracts me from my daughter and intrudes on our time together? I have an image of a mother I never wanted to be. Always suffering. Always sad. Excluded from adventures and mayhem.

I hope, hope, hope that my consultant’s optimism is well-founded. That, despite the horrors filling the internet, he can return me to how I was before. That he can give me my life back as it was. It has only been gone for two-and-a-half weeks but, facing a diagnosis of a chronic condition, I am so afraid my life will never come back now and my beautiful daughter will lose out on the mother she was supposed to have.

One sick mutha

I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, although I wouldn’t admit this to my husband. And over the last couple of years I’ve had a bit of bad luck, being diagnosed with indeterminate colitis a couple of years ago. To be fair, after agonizing with Dr Google over the bleak future ahead of me, things have, so far, not been too bad.

Recently, I was struck with a bout of cystitis, something I suffer with fairly regularly. However, something is different this time. The antibiotics seemed to kick in immediately, as usual. But this time when I finished my course, I was still left with some symptoms and, one week later, they are still there.

So, having consulted Dr Google again, I have convinced myself I will be suffering these symptoms every day for the rest of my life. Everything I read online seems to back this up. The fact that I have IBD is apparently a risk factor. I have bought all the alternative remedies that are recommended by all and sundry and used them, so far to no avail. So now I’m terrified. But it’s for a different reason than it once would have been. Instead of just feeling self-pity, it’s the unbearable thought of being a sick and sub-par mother. I was afraid that colitis would do this to me and spent the first six months anticipating a terrible flare but it didn’t happen. Now, I imagine how I will give my daughter the attention, energy and play she needs if I spend every day with immense pressure in my bladder, feeling as though I have to pee every half hour. How will I take her places and give her experiences if I’m tied to the toilet?? I want to give her the best of me. I want her childhood to be full of happiness and laughter, not misery and depression. And now every unexplainable illness is a bit more terrifying than it was before, when it was just me.

Mummy’s special drink…

Mostly, when I was pregnant and since becoming a mum, I’ve ignored the reams of advice given to me by well-meaning friends, family and strangers. But some pearls of wisdom stuck. I remember one friend telling me to find myself a treat drink. Something that, in rare moments of rest, I could sit and drink and feel soothed. Obviously, wine was off the menu so I opted for hot chocolate. However, shortly before I fell pregnant I was diagnosed with what has variously been called indeterminate colitis, Crohns-colitis or ulcerative colitis and I had embarked on a complete diet overhaul. I started with the extremely restrictive SCD and progressed to paleo, the way-of-eating I was following when I became pregnant (I now follow many paleo principles but do eat what I believe are healthy, gluten-free grains, such as oats and brown rice). So I concocted my own hot chocolate treat… coconut or almond milk, 2 teaspoons of raw cacao and one teaspoon of honey and that was honestly one of the things that got me through those early months. And it’s still getting me through. When I’m not working, I sit down after the toddler has gone for her afternoon nap and quietly drink my almost healthy hot chocolate and I feel boosted or soothed. Of course, wine is now back on the agenda so it’s no longer my only treat.

Will you be having another one?

For years I thought I didn’t want children. The usual stuff – didn’t want to stop partying. Couldn’t imagine having to get up early EVERY FREAKING DAY. Didn’t want to compromise my toned stomach, or my favourite hobbies, or my bank account, or my career, etc, etc… But late in my thirties, having met the right person, I started to think it might be a good idea. With a bit of gentle persuasion from him indoors it happened.

As all mothers will understand, when my daughter was born it was a game changer. That word ‘love’ just doesn’t cut it. She is my world. And, suddenly, I understand why people have kids younger. I can’t regret my decision because, under any other unique set of circumstances, I wouldn’t have my amazing girl, just as she is. But I worry a lot about what it’s going to be like for her having an old mum. When she’s in her teens I will be in my fifties. Will she think I am SO out of touch? Will I still be fit and healthy enough to be useful? And will I ever see her children if she decides to have babies?

I take comfort from the fact that I’m surrounded by women who have children late. I work in telly which is filled with women who prioritise their careers over having children because it’s the best way to get on… or who delay it until their 40s for the same reason (just to be clear, I’m not talking here about women who decide they don’t want kids full stop). That’s what I did. I always suspected that might not be the best thing for me but I ignored that niggling thought as well as I could.

Now that my daughter is 21 months old and I have returned to some semblance of normality I find myself wondering about child number 2 (who knew that when you have a child people don’t ease off on the will you or won’t you questions… they just swap ‘a’ for ‘another’). Now I have my grandma (who I adore) saying things to me like ‘oh don’t have another… I don’t think it’s fair on the children to have ‘old’ parents’. Rationally I know the world is different to when she was young but she’s planted a seed of doubt in my head. If I have another child I will be ‘even older’. I will have two youngsters who have an ‘old’ mum. And another thing – I don’t have long to make my mind up. If I was ten years younger I could take my time deciding but now time is running out.

Will the questions never end….?!

Do I or Don’t I?

Before I had a baby I never appreciated one of the internal battles that you face when you go back to work. I’m not talking about the division between the ‘yay! I’m back at work! I CAN still do my job’ and the ‘oh God. I’m a terrible mother. I can’t believe I’m leaving my amazing toddler with somebody else’ bit of your brain. I’m talking about the weirdness surrounding admitting you’re a mother in the workplace.

In my trade, after the age of 35, women leave in droves. There’s a sort of accepted view that you can’t be a mother AND do my job. But I decided to give it a try and see how it goes because I kind of like my job. I also decided quite quickly that I wouldn’t give in to the pressure to deny the existence of my child because that would make me resentful. Why does having a child mean you’re no longer able to do your job well? Ok, I may not be able to automatically work illegal hours anymore but I’m a hell of a lot more efficient than I used to be. Anyway, I’ll illustrate the internal battle using a conversation I had with a guy who I think might be a bit of a wanker…

I met him for the first time at a work brainstorm. He asked me what I’d been up to and I said I’d just returned from maternity leave after having a daughter. He asked me how old she was and I told him – 14.5 months. He then looked me in the eye and waited. There was an awkward silence during which time I thought, ‘errr… say something then. I don’t want to tell you anything else about my daughter. We’re at work. I don’t know you. This isn’t baby talk time’. But the silence remained and I finally caved in and filled it with, ‘yeah. She’s great… but I shouldn’t go on’. His response? ‘I’m not really interested to be honest.’ I mean. What a twat. I wasn’t really interested in telling him. He was absolutely not my target audience for tales of my daughter’s brilliance. I wasn’t about to wax lyrical about her latest new words and hilarious personality. His response was like a slap in the face though. It really made me mull over this weird work conundrum. People should feel able to talk about their kids like they’re not dirty little secrets but I’m finding myself almost ashamed when I dare to utter her name. Are all work environments like this or is mine stuck shamefully in the past?

Milestones

My daughter was born capable of lifting her head. She started crawling around 4.5 months (commando crawling at first and really fast!). My take on this? She was 2.5 weeks overdue, 9Ib in weight and off-the-charts long (literally). Physically, she had a head start on your average newborn. Give it a few months and the rest will catch up and then it’s anyone’s guess. It’s too early to sign her up to MENSA.

I had never anticipated the curious feelings that your baby’s development arouses in you and, especially, other baby-mothers and fathers. I rarely comment (to anyone outside my family and close friends) on my daughter’s latest achievements. In stark contrast, I’ve lost count of how many comments I’ve fielded on how ‘advanced’ she is from other mums at a similar stage in their parenting career. I’ve found this weirdly difficult to handle. If I just say ‘thanks’, will I sound like one of those awful competitive mums who anticipates and then broadcasts every milestone? What I ended up doing was churlishly drawing attention to the skills she hadn’t yet mastered. Other mum: ‘Wow! She’s standing up already?!’ Me: ‘errr, yeah, but she can’t clap yet’. Idiot.

I remember visiting another couple’s house for a baby get-together (these sorts of occasions were possibly my least favourite part of Year One). My daughter commando-crawled at great speed towards this other dad: ‘Wow! She’s crawling already. You must be SO proud of her’. Well, yes… but no more than if she weren’t crawling yet. I’m proud of her unconditionally. As long as she’s well and happy, I don’t care when she hits her ‘milestones’ and I don’t have an accurate idea of when they’re supposed to be anyway. I have found the milestone obsession to be a creepy and uncomfortable part of new motherhood. Something I knew nothing about in my former life as a normal adult.

From the moment my daughter crawled almost every conversation I had about her with other parents and family members inevitably involved the question, ‘has she started walking yet?’ I mean, hang on! Can I just enjoy this crawling, giggly, curious baby for what she is? Who cares when she starts walking – again – as long as she’s fit and well?! I’m willing to bet that even her first ever CV for her first ever part-time job won’t list under ‘other skills’ – 01.09.15 Learned to walk, aged 11 months.

It was around 11 months when I took my daughter to a wedding and sat next to an old family friend who, as a fighter pilot, is literally a high flyer. He didn’t start walking until – I shit you not – he was 18 months old. I’m pretty sure his mum has finally dealt with the disappointment…