The Steel-Toed Boots of Motherhood

One of the joys of raising children is dealing with medical issues. Snotty noses, vomit and explosive poops visit every kid with no exceptions. Add a dash of childhood communicable diseases like chicken pox or the measles, a touch of the flu and a pinch of ear infections and at one point if you have decided to raise smalls you are going to find yourself sitting in a germ infested doctor's office, surrounded by contagious curtain climbers.

It's all part and parcel of the parenting package. My grandmother used to tell me I haven't met motherhood until I found myself in an emergency room, worrying myself sick over a broken bone or stitches or worse.

Oh Grandma. I've met motherhood. We were introduced and then she hit me over the head with a wooden bat, bent me over and repeatedly crammed her steel toe boots up my arse. We are on intimate terms now, motherhood and I, by your definition.

Between the normal health concerns of my eldest children, followed by the medical crises of my youngest children, I'm pretty sure my tax dollars have paid for more than one doctor's college education fund. If I were given frequent flyer points for all the times I've sat bedside next to one of my children as they were poked and prodded in a hospital or doctors office I'm fairly certain I'd have earned several round the world tickets by now.

Yesterday, in my quest to spend as much time in the local children's hospital as possible, I took Jumby in for a small medical procedure.

I was having the kid shot full of Botox. Because nothing quite says love like injecting a large amount of the botulism toxin into your child.

Jumby is now wrinkle free. I, however, am not.

The stress of raising a medically challenged child has started to catch up with me.

I keep telling myself parenting is supposed to be hard, whether it's done in a hospital or at home.

My head knows this, but my heart is a little weary at the moment.

Self-doubt plagues me and every milestone Jumby doesn't reach makes me question my effectiveness at being his best advocate. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, love simply isn't enough, as any parent who has lost a child can attest to.

With Jumby's development, both physical and mental, there hasn't been a huge growth. My son will be seven soon and there are babies less than a year old more functional than my child.

It's hard not to hold anger in my heart at his biological parents for dooming my son to this life of pain and delay.

My child is irrevocably broken and all the love and botox in the world will never make him into the man he should have been.

The injustice of this weighs heavily on my soul and I'll spend the remainder of my days trying to make his life better even if it means bending over for motherhood to cram her pointy boots up my bum over and over again.

Because that is motherhood. Putting ourselves out there for our kids even when it hurts.

And today, it hurts a lot.