Turns out, yes. Because those tiny cognitive blackouts are a marker for an oncoming migraine. Momentary inability to recall my last name, to shift my car, to turn a knob in the right direction....all small sparks from the miswiring in my head that causes the scourge of migraine.
It hit hard today at work, made far worse by another incredibly useless painfully dull training session this afternoon, for a protocol I don't know, will never use, don't even know what the letters stand for, and on test equipment for which I didn't have the software on my computer anyway. I'm not sure which torture was worse: the headache or the boredom. Mostly, I web-surfed, horrified by this story about an Austrian man who incarcerated his daughter for 24 years and fathered 7 children by her.
I really looked forward to being home with my dear children, despite the daunting drive and pickups, made all the worse by the looming pain and pressure. Katrina was adorable playing outside at Melissa's....until I had to remove her from a dirtpile. OH MY. I had to carry her, kicking and flailing and screaming and deposit her unceremoniously into the car, where she fought hard not to get strapped in. Thank goodness she's really not very strong or coordinated.
Then she screamed and cried most of the way to get Gabriel. The screaming went right to my tortured nerve center, making me feel like I was going to have a seizure. I blasted the radio as loud as it would go, also painful, but not as bad. Usually that stops her screaming, but all it did this time was somewhat drown it out. The screaming didn't cease until I carried her in to get Gabriel. Thank goodness, finally a brea....
...hmm, why is my arm wet? And Katrina's back? And her bottom ....and.... Holy crap! It's ALL over my sweater, shirt, arm, hands; her shirt, sweatshirt, pants, outside the pants, EVERYTHING. WHAT a mess!!
I grabbed a paper towel to try to get the worst of it off, but this set off a full-on firestorm tantrum -- rolling on the floor, screaming, trying to crawl away, attracting the attention of the entire CDC. I didn't know what to do -- she was much too much of a mess to leave while I scrounged up what I'd need to change her. Besides, this would take a full box of wipes and a bath for both of us. Someone gave me a plastic bag, where I put my sweater. I put her sweatshirt around her waist to cover the worst of it, starting more fits afresh, then grabbed a long strip of paper towels, held them on her back, braced her against me in the tightest hold I could manage, and rushed out to the car with Gabriel trotting behind me to keep up.
I called Dave to ask him to get Julian, but couldn't hear him above the screaming, so I amended my question to an order: "GET JULIAN!" Katrina was going full-bore by now. She didn't let up through bringing her inside, trying to strip her as she flung herself on the floor, and trying to get her filthy diaper off as she kicked and flailed and screamed and twisted and grabbed my hands and did everything in her power to make this already difficult job impossible. GEEZ I was only trying to clean her up! A brief bath didn't calm her either; all she did was stand up and try to climb out and very nearly slip and bash her chin.
Clean, diapered and with a sippy-cup of milk, she still stood screaming and crying, almost convulsing, face covered in tears and snot, but this was the best opportunity I had to run upstairs and strip my own clothes right in front of the washing machine and get us both some clean clothes.
It didn't end there. Now prepared to give her tantrum my full attention, I did everything I could think of to break her out of it, but she was in full swing. Food, no. Reading, no. Music, no. Counting, no. Pretending to ignore her while I danced around, no. Leaving her alone for a few minutes, no. Food again, no. Sippy-cup, no. She was going on an hour now, riding on major momentum. Even if she wanted to, she didn't know how to get out of it.
Visions of Gabriel flashed through my throbbing head. I've done this before! I know how bad it is! But I know I can get through it too. Parental amnesia is strong, but I know this never happened with Julian. Unfortunately, parental amnesia isn't strong enough to forget the horror of these tantrums with Gabriel.
Finally, finally, finally, I tried once again to pick her up, and this time, she didn't take swings at me. I slowly and carefully offered her a bite of spaghetti, and slowly and carefully, she took it. Thank GOD! Another bite. And another. Sip of milk. Reaches for the spoon....finally, I could set her down in her chair. And so it passed. The sigh of relief from me could have knocked down a redwood.
Still shaking from the trauma and reeling from the intense headache, I called Dave and said -- not asked -- "take the boys out to dinner, I am NOT cooking tonight!"
This was a very, very long and painful hour. It'd be easier to handle it if she could just tell me ahead of time how long it'll take to pass, so I can look forward to the angelic fresh clear happy toddler that emerges afterward. Once the food kicked in, Katrina was charming and playful and adorable. Forgiveness comes easy.
(Katrina has some chub on her now, but she still has skinny ankles!)
I finally found out why Gabriel isn't drinking the milk boxes I pack him for lunch, after drinking them every day at first: "Because they're not the Clover ones, Mom!" Brand recognition, silly me, why didn't I guess that?!
4/29/08
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