Michael had his first bottle by himself today.
It was an incident borne of necessity, as I was trying to get him prepped for bed, even while starting to feel rather miserable, so that Tom could get Abby situated upstairs. We were in a bit of a time crunch because Wednesday nights are Tom's Game Nights, and he becomes unavailable to help with bedtime after 8:00 pm.
Michael started getting fussy right around the time that I needed to prepare his last bottle, so I attempted to do so one-handed while propping him on my hip. My right arm is my stronger one, so I reserved that for holding Michael against me, and used my practically useless (in terms of coordination outside of playing certain stringed instruments) left hand to do everything else. I knew instinctively that no good would come of this decision, but it was the best solution I could come up with on short notice, and ultimately, I ended up down on the kitchen floor trying to wipe up the quarter-bottle of Zantac that I spilled while trying to cap.
This last-minute flurry of activity was probably the worst thing I could have subjected myself to, feeling as I was, and predictably, as soon as I'd popped Michael's bottle in his mouth, I realized that I could not remain where I was to feed it to him. However, it seemed the pinnacle of cruelty to pry that hard-won prize from his mouth when he'd finally gotten ahold of it, so in a panic, I laid him on his back on the floor of the playroom and willed him to keep it clutched steadily in his hands as I made a mad rush to the bathroom.
I left the door open, ears targeted in his direction as I worriedly listened for choking or spluttering sounds. When I didn't hear any, I then began to worry that silence was an equally bad indicator. I know that he's not an infant anymore, and I didn't exactly leave the bottle propped, but I've never left either of my children to eat alone thus far, and I'm not quite sure when it's okay for me to do so, to be honest, even if I felt comfortable with it.
When I was finally able to step through the doorway to where I had a visual on Michael, he was just finishing up. He fussed a little as he got to the end, as has become his custom, and then began to play around with the empty bottle. I was simultaneously relieved to see him happy and okay, and so proud of him for his giant leap of independence.
I might have even grabbed a camera to capture the moment, were I not compelled to remain close to the bathroom door, and feeling a little too weak anyway to do much but lean against the doorjamb and watch him.
I'm getting so tired of feeling this way, and I know that there are things that I could be trying to do to help myself, like changing my diet, but I just haven't gotten myself there yet. I've mostly cut out obvious dairy intake at this point, though I haven't been particularly careful with things that contain it as a minor ingredient. Maybe that should be enough. Maybe it shouldn't. Probably, a few days just isn't enough time to know.
And the next step will be taking out the gluten, a prospect which terrifies me, because though I could maybe do it for a few weeks, I don't know how I would do it permanently. I know that many have, and do, but I suppose what terrifies me the most is the thought that as bad as I feel now, how much worse would it be on those occasions that I ingest it accidentally once it's clear from my system (if, indeed, elimination is the answer at all)? I don't know if I could live in fear of that happening all of the time.
Of course, there are far worse prospects to be faced with in life, and I recognize that. I recognize that I'm just being mopey, hence the title of this post.
I'll figure it out at some point, even if it takes waiting until the end of this pregnancy (which I basically have to do to get some real answers, since testing and exploratory options are limited in my condition). And until then, I'll just try to make it through.
And keep the moping to a minimum.