Mommy. That's my new name. It's been my role for two and a half years now, since I first held my daughter in my arms, but it's become much more than that. It is no longer foreign to my ears, or a way I refer to myself, longing to hear it repeated from my baby's mouth. It is who I am. I am Mommy - the name she calls out in the morning, excited to get out of her crib; the one who helps with frustrating tasks or soothes her in moments of anger, sadness or pain; the one whose leg she strokes as I sing her "one last" goodnight song.
This is not to say that Daddy is not equally as important to our little girl. She adores her Dad - her first question of the morning (after asking to "watch something") concerns Daddy's whereabouts: "Where is Daddy? Is he sleeping? Daddy's at work? Daddy's at Chicago?" Once secure in her knowledge of Daddy's location, she can go on with her day. Still, there's something about Mommy. For the moment, at least, I seem to get the most of everything from her. The grandest declarations of love, the most adoring gazes, and of course, the most difficult tantrums. Because I know I mean so much to her, I make sure she gets the most and the best of me every day.
There is something that keeps me from doing the best I can for my daughter. It is the constant companion I wish I could simply ignore or erase - my unrelenting obsessional thoughts and worries about vomiting. Most days, I spent two to four hours thinking about throwing up. Those are my good days. My bad days, the high anxiety days, I can't even give a good estimate of the time wasted on these phobic thoughts. And that's exactly what it is - time thrown away, used up by totally irrational thoughts.
This blog will follow my struggle with my phobia and my attempts to combat, confront and alleviate my obsessive thoughts.
