Mums day off

It’s always puzzled me why people assume all mummies want to go to day spas? I mean… I get poked, prodded, touched, pulled and rubbed all day every day. I get mysterious sticky and gooey substances rubbed on my skin, clothes and body regularly… so why I would take my precious time off to go pay other people to do these exact same things I am desperate to escape from is beyond me…

I know some people love it, but for me, it’s an exercise in ridiculousness I could easily have my children inflict on me, for free, in the non-judgy comfort of my own home…

Having said that… the greater significance is not lost on me when the man folk offer such a rare “treat” all shiny eyed and full of such loving intention… that no matter your feelings… you go. You say oh my god, thank you and you race out of there. At break neck speed. before any minds can be changed…

Thus it was my dear fellow mummy girlfriend and I sauntered up, stained in cheeseburger sauce, for our day spa experience…

Now, I must confess…. despite the absolute love and affection with which this much coveted mummies afternoon out was planned, on arrival to learn we were to have a three hour incarceration of face prodding and being smeared in unknown stickiness and even bound, like an egyptian mummy, in a cocoon… we may have pulled some mumma bear rank and made changes to compromise on a remedial massage instead…

and so it was as I teetered out the back, in my little undersized Asian slippers, hoping my eyes would adjust quick enough to the low level “ cave lighting” that I didn’t crash into something, following apprehensively the little Thai massage warrior whom spoke no English  that I prepared myself mentally, physically and emotionally for a mummy “treat”…

“Take clothes off” I was demanded… ( who needs small talk anyways)

“Lie on bed. Head in hole”…

And thus, naked Barr my “mumdies” ( mum undies for those in the know… I’ll discuss them and all their functional sexiness some other time) I submitted myself to the fates of the massage ninja master.

And it occurred to me as I lay there, regretting not shaving my legs this winter, that this precious little lady has me rendered entirely powerless and at her utter disposal…. please don’t let her be as reckless and feral as my usual captors, my loving children…

Slop. The first squirt of oil hits my body like what I imagine hot candle wax must feel like in those seedy porn-esque love scenes and I brace for impact.

Her hands are firm but soft and she begins by grabbing handfuls of my fat and jiggling them about. I am sure this is for her own amusement and that she has mastered the art of silent laughter as she watches the jelly flobble of the white lady be wiggled and jiggled at her sadistic pleasure…

Then it begins. The poking, probing, throbbing, jarring. The finding of the stress knots and niggling them until my eyes are wet with tears… and just when I think I might actually cry out in pain she changes tact and starts thumping me with the energy of an aggressive 6 year old boy. She then body slams her elbow into the top of my spine, and straddling me, thrusts her full body weight down as she drags that elbow right down my back, resting finally in the most painful spot she can find… and repeat.

I realise as I lie there. Rendered speechless, that if I were ever to find myself in a street fight, facing off some muggers, I would be doomed as I can not even stand the gentle touches of this teeny tiny 4ft nothing harmless masseuse…

This hammering continues for an unknown period of time until she stops body slamming and punching me and instead deftly lifts my arm out and twists it like a pretzel across and up my back. I am not sure if my arm has ever reached this spot on my back ever before. Perhaps my bones are so broken by her pounding I can now get a gig as a double jointed contortionist… but I confess… being a pretzel felt good…

So just as I sighed in the relief that my mugging had stopped and submitted to the tingling thrill of pretzeling I hear the pitter patter of little slippered feet and soft Thai whispering in the room.

My thigh is gently patted and out she floats… still naked and defenceless I am told I am being handed over to the veteran ninja warrior… and with another, now familiar slurp of massage oil, distinctly different, dry weathered hands take over the kneading of my back dough and my other side… and then it happens… or, doesn’t happen… NO PRETZEL!!! I am now uneven… completely and utterly lopsided.

Less jiggling, more punching and a lot of elbow stabbing later, my bruised defenceless corpse is unceremoniously rolled over…

and just when I think I couldn’t get any more beaten… it happens… rolled over into what can only be described as the recovery position and she punches me in the arse. At first I thought I imagined it. But now, kapow. There it is again. And before I know it, my arse is being beaten like a punching bag in the local gymnasium… why is she punching my bum???

And thus it is, 24 hours later, as I sit on the softest cushion I can find that I am still unconvinced why the world thinks mummies all need and want this kind of torture in their down time… but all the same, bruised bum and all, I’m grateful that I got it…

Yours in agony,

L

Swamp monster’s revenge

Imagine, if you will…

The Herculean effort to get three kids and a nutbag dog rugged for the cold winter afternoon and assembled onto their various bikes and prams ready to venture forth for an afternoon meandering…

So imagine then… the overwhelming desire to throttle mr five when we arrive at the park, unbuckle, unharness and unleash all necessary bodily parts and start enjoying some great playing and his little voice states, nonchalantly… muuuuuuum. I’ve got to go poop.

Frantic look around confirms the worst…

No toilets.

Like seriously.

Who builds a freaking park and doesn’t think that small children with their teeny tiny bladders and their need to poop at the most inappropriate times will need a freaking toilet!!!

Quick calculation of our surroundings confirms my worst fear….

The nearest toilet is over 1km away…

Little legs and small bicycle wheels don’t travel 1km all that fast, let me assure you…

Frantically round up all bodies and attempt to leash and strap everyone back in… muttering profanities under breath as you go…

Realise that the escape artist baby has managed to Houdini out of the pram straps (again) and scale the highest ladder and precarious looking slide in the time it takes you to fumble with the skin biting clip of death on the bike helmet…

Retrieve said baby and endure feral cat like scratches as she performs the spectacular “I will not go in this pram” back arch for which small people are particularly adept and famous for…

Order the travelling circus to get moving…

100 metres later…

Little voice…

Muuuuuuuum. I’ve got some bad news.

I’m not going to make it all the way home…

( mutter more profanities all whilst conjuring sweet and in control smile) 

Locate nearest shrubby bushes…

Bearing in mind, we are on a high traffic volume cycle path, next to a much visited duck pond…

Wheel pram off verge, apply brakes.

Clip dog to pram.

Instruct miss four that NO, MR 5 does not need or want audience and continually chase her away from him…

Turn a fabulous shade of crimson as he decides he needs to completely strip off all clothes to be able to effectively poop…

Jacket is flown at your head, chippendales style…as you watch the telltale white flesh of a frozen child sneaking away to go crouching in a bush…

Then wait…

And wait…

And wait.

( seriously, why do guys take so long to poop?)

Smile politely at the people walking past.

Hold the dog’s lead tight to stop moron dog from pulling pram towards the dogs walking past…

Muuuuuuuuuuum…. you can wipe my bum now ( he yells as the group of fitness fanatics glide easily by) start fumbling way into bushes… oooops, no wait…. I’m doing more…”ugh!”

Notice dog getting more excited by oncoming group of dogs and watch helplessly as pram is pulled to the point of tipping… unclip dog and hold him with you as you stand like some seedy person next to the naked child in the bushes…

Attempt to do the socially polite thing and collect poop in doggy poop bag ( note to self… screw everyone else… next time, avoid this step)

Realise that poop is located in most hard to reach shrubbery, despite it being fully visible to all who walk by… emerge with hair full of sticks and leaves with bag of poop…

Instruct child to step forward so you may better access his bum for the wipe…

Watch helplessly with horror as child steps forward, then backwards, then stumbles and lands square in last remaining pile of poop that first retrieval mission had failed to gather…

Sigh…

Frantically wipe cold white tooshy and legs and hands and torso… trying desperately to de-poopafy…

Realise you are now standing in full view of entire world with butt naked poo covered frozen child when miss four laughs and shrieks at the dog…

As he emerges from the lake like a swamp monster.

Oh shit! The dog! When did I let him go??

Instruct frozen child to pull up pants and put on clothing as you wrestle with poop bag, trying to tie it shut!! Stomp on dog’s lead and deal with him shaking swamp water on you… 

and then it happened… the dog saw another dog… a big dog… a dog that looked fun to play with…. and it turns out that wet dog leads don’t stick very well under foot… so standing there, with my naked child, bag full of human faeces the damned dog breaks free and bounds over… Labrador responds with a playful nip… suddenly, it’s on… fur and teeth every which way.

I’m not sticking my hand in their to retrieve him.

I yell helplessly… as does naked frozen five year old…

As does shrieking miss four and mini miss…

Dog is having the time of his life and pulls away eventually, pleased as punch, covered in blood and swamp water… His or the other dogs? Who knows.

At that point, standing there with my bag of poop, naked poop covered child, ridiculous dog and two other children, with a hair full of sticks and most likely poop stained jacket bless the stranger who took pity on me… made no fuss of the ruckus caused by my negligence to restrain the dog… and happily tottered off on his way home…

Needless to say it was a loooong, cold, silent walk home…

No parenting awards in this house today…

At least there is always tomorrow!!!

Hugs to you all, however “shitty” your day and wherever you may be!!!

Gratuitous whinging post ahead

Sorry folks, maybe I will come back later and add my usual humour and wit… but for now…

one hangry woman having nothing more than a pity party…

hopefully will resume to our normal programming shortly…

 

**WARNING**
Rant / pity party / long moping whinge ahead…
Feel free to scroll by and carry on with your daily activity…

But for those of you up for today’s tale of woe…
Let’s start with the backstory of this week to set the mood for just how volatile I am today….
Wednesday – forked out the dosh to go see a new urologist to have confirmed what I indeed feared… rocky lives on. Yes, after four general anaesthetics, the torture of stents and reassurances by my last numpty of a urologist…. rocky is still living large at 1cm and is well and truly along for the ride… effectively this means at any moment should he decide to fly the coop I could go back into sepsis and endure the hell of 2016 all over again… BUT seeing as I have had so many general anaesthetics in such a short space of time they are reluctant to go in for another while yet to do anything about my resident stone… give my body time to “recover” and all that Jazz… to make matters worse… if the next attempt doesn’t work, then we are looking at cutting a hole in my back to then hack through the kidney and forcibly remove rocky once and for all… on top of that, my colitis is back in full active swing, has been for some time, so I am zombie-ing around on some pretty bad iron levels due to blood loss, but the game plan there involves a colonoscopy ( yay, butt camera!) this Friday to then present a case to the powers that Be to allow me to go on the hard core biological drugs, to be administered by I.V in hospital every 8 weeks to kill off my gut immune system once and for all in the hopes that I can live a semi normal life without fear of pooping my pants in public – yes, this disease does cause that… this is the voice of experience talking… of course, colonoscopies come complete with two day starvation torture… yesterday I was on the “white diet” only allowed white rice, white pasta, white bread and boiled chicken, which for the record is the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten and resulted In me spewing my guts up for an hour last night… and today we are down to the “liquid only” diet… so… jelly for dinner anyone?

Thus, a little emotionally drained and f-ing HANGRY I was then faced with having to endure Centrelink this afternoon..After five big moves in five years, due to following hubby’s career trajectory, making my career pretty much a thing of the past and not to mention I have popped out three children and developed to chronic illnesses in that time, we have landed in C-town for a while… which means ACT schooling cut off dates. Thus, While my miss z is soooooo ready for preschool she misses the cut off by two weeks and is subjected to another year of mummy care… thus, in my infinite wisdom, and acknowledging that she is sooo ready for more stimulation than I could provide, not to mention the importance of socialisation ( which we are learning she really needs now that her wing man is in school) not to mention recognising that I needed a mental reprieve, I used all my powers of persuasion to convince the budget master that we should enrol her in one day a week of care – yay! Winning!
…. until we got our first invoice…
See, I never expected to be entitled to the means based rebate, we live well enough, but was led to believe that all families can get the other government rebate to help offset the extortionate cost of childcare… thus, when my first invoice arrived rebate free, I went and asked the question. The day care had no answers, all the paperwork was filed correctly, go see Centrelink and find out what’s the story…

So imagine now, hangry, stressed laurie, with three disgruntled tired children survive the twenty minute wait ( not a bad wait time by Centrelink standards) to be told outright, nope, you are not eligible for the rebate because you don’t work. What if we enrol z under hubby’s name and his Centrelink number? Nope, they will look at me as the determining factor. To be eligible for CCR I would need to work a minimum 15 hours a week. Not much, except that z is only in care 6 hours a week, I have the little one at home full time, hubs is out of the house 12 hours day and often works weekends and goes away, I have a chronic illness that causes me to poop my pants without warning, not to mention the weekly dr and pathology appointments… yup sure, I could put the chloconut in care too and return to work… except that paying two sets of daycare fees, even after rebate, is effectively paying more than I would earn.
So really…
Centrelink, and Aussie government. Your system is quite frankly F*$#ed!
Now, who wants to tell miss z that we have to pull her back out of school because we simply can’t afford it?

gah! Just gah!

 

The First day of school.

Starting school is hard ( for mum)…

So today my little micRo man pulled on his clean shirt, shiny shoes, oversized backpack and walked into “ big school “ for the first time in what will now be a 13 year odyssey ahead of him… he had slight nerves, only visible to those that know him as it kept him quieter than his usual exuberant human megaphone self… a new building, a sea of new faces, the unknown. Where is the toilet? What are the rules? but mostly he was excited…. a whole world of opportunity. New friends to play with, new toys, new activities and a break away from his well meaning but demanding little sisters… he knew it was big deal… but his little four year old self has no idea how big…

And that’s because the truth is… this is bigger for me!
So while my hubby took great delight in slamming me and poking fun at my overwhelming nerves, mumma guilt and usual first day jitters I had to ask myself, why do I feel like this? Why did my bottom lip quiver just a little when he reassured me he was fine and I could go? And thats when it hit me…
This is the start of him not needing me. The start of him being too embarrassed for a cuddle and kiss from his dithering old mum, the start of him only calling my name to ask for food, ask for money, to borrow the car keys… no longer will my name be the name he hollers because he wants a friend and I am his most favourite person to play with from today onwards I am now just mum. Not best friend, superwoman, magician and centre of his universe. As of today I am now the buyer of food and provider of clothes. And frankly. That sucks.

For four years and eleven months I have been there. For every single moment. I have been the person who sees him more for his every waking hour than any other soul on this planet… I am the person who knows him better than he knows himself… as of today that changes.
As of today his teacher will see him for more of his awake hours than I will. And I have to have blind faith that she will love him even a fraction of what I do…
That she will notice all the amazing things about him that fill every single one of my days with meaning… and frankly, that’s a lot to ask of anyone… because when it comes to her cubs, this mumma bear has a LOT of pride, love and overwhelming emotion…

So to stand there and wave goodbye. To be told “you can go now mum” is like standing on the edge of a cliff and jumping. Like having your heart ripped from your chest while it’s still beating, Jumping away from this tiny little baby who rocked my world so uncontrollably just a few short years ago that is am still shell shocked and trying to recover and adapt… jumping into the next stage of the unknown. It’s like entering a battlefield, expected to fight the army after you’ve only just stepped off the last battle arena… and to be asked to do that with a smile on your face, so that your little miracle doesn’t see your heart shattering into a thousand tiny little pieces… or so that your partner, who doesn’t necessarily experience the full spectrum of emotions that colour your every day, doesn’t go to town on ridiculing and teasing you over your slightly quivering lip… well, that my friends is the equivalent to an emotional boxing match with Muhammad Ali…

But it doesn’t stop there…
Just when you think your banged up, bruised and beaten heart can’t possibly take another hit you get bowled over with the surge of pride. The tidal wave of excitement… because no matter what you’re grieving, you are also filled to overflowing with excitement. With hope. Today, today marks the first step in your little person’s journey to independence. Today they are on their way to a lifetime of endless possibility. They are forging their very first steps in their own individual journey and to know the possibilities for them are limitless is simply too much to fathom. They need this. This is great. This is exciting and this is the road to their amazing future. Of course I’m happy for him. So happy and so excited I could literally just cry. Of course though, if I do I will be picked on, laughed at, torn apart…
So instead, my bottom lip quivers…

But, as Tim Shaw, the Demtel man, once said “but wait folks; there’s more” because fighting that inner circus of emotion isn’t enough… we must remember to throw in the final insult… the piece de resistance, the bane of my every day. The mumma guilt. Have I done enough for him? Is he really ready? Should I have held him back? Will he make friends? Am I doing right? And on and on the voice in my head yells at me. Abuses me. Questions me…

So when people ask how did day one go? For him, it went “ok” ( in his own words) for me? It was like running a marathon with my shoe laces tied together.

And the next time you see a parent, standing with a quivering lower lip on day one of school, waving goodbye and walking away… just remember there may be a heck of a lot more going on under the surface than what that little tremble gives away…

Happy school year kiddos and huge hugs to all of us out there just barely holding it together!

 

This was two minutes ago… how did we go from this

To this?

 

Prize worthy poop

Amidst the medical melancholy, amidst the one woman pity party… I bring you… the great poop debacle of 2016…

See now, one of the demoralising things about ulcerative colitis is just how much you have to be aware of, talk about, write about and quantify your poop.
It’s kind of like being a first time mum, when out of nowhere, and for no explicable reason, poop becomes your very life. Your daily activities are planned around poop. Health is measured by poop. Diet is determined by poop. Poop consumes you every living, breathing and waking thought. You never realised poop could vary so significantly and just how much those variations could reveal.
So in retrospect, I am probably quite lucky, that this illness has struck me down after my initial poop baptism of fire and the birth of my first two little terrors/treasures…

But here I am, enduring the latter stages of pregnancy three when this awful disease appears to have returned just to mock me…
Toilet hours have dramatically increased.
CSI worthy toilet bowls that beg for me to photograph them.
Extreme fatigue and loss of appetite.
Blurry spots and eye issues.
Dizziness and faint spells.
To the doctors we go.
And Poop we discuss.
And naturally, a poop sample is requested.

It alarms me just how many of these I have had to do now.. and the mind boggles to think of how many different little scientists in their fancy white lab coats ( and I hope protective mouth masks) have peered through microscopes examining the very ins and outs of my outs!
So I didn’t even flinch at this request…

BUT
new country, new system… and what is handed to me is a CLEAR poop jar… yes clear. Like see through, transparent…
No modesty, no pretending like it could just be a little pot of butter.
Not a handy little tub to hold those beads you make friendship bracelets with.
Oh no…
A no hiding what you’ve got there,
Here, poop into this teeny tiny little jar ( seriously, what’s with the crazy small sizes of the pathology jars over here in general) and then wave your poop in the air for the whole world to see.
March it proudly, like a diva, through the streets of town for everyone to witness its marvel! Sit it blatantly in the pathology basket on the front reception desk for all to come in and admire your masterpiece.
Clear goddamit! Clear!

But with this window display comes the inevitable… performance anxiety.
I mean, let’s be honest…
When you do a urine sample… you drink that extra glass of water before hand, just so you can high five yourself for being “hydrated” and producing a little golden pot in the right hue ( I am not the only one who does this, surely?)
So how on earth was I going to produce a clear jar worthy poop sample??
Should I eat a bucket of blueberries or blue smarties and go for the all out? Do I have to keep collecting my poops and choose the best looking one? what if they laugh at my poop and dismiss it even before the little lab coats get to harvest it??!!

Thus, with much anxiety and fear, I had to just take the plunge and fill my little window display masterpiece.
And I did in fact stroll with it in hand through town where I in turn had to stand, holding it in all its glory waiting for my turn at reception and place it in its pride of place at the front of the collection basket.
Heck, if you’re going to make me poop into a clear jar, then expect me to “own that shit”…
But here’s hoping they don’t lose my pathology sample this time…

May your performances be worthy of display, wherever and whatever you may be doing.

Always and ever.
Super pooper.

Medical melancholy strikes again…

Hey all…
I was hoping my next verbal purge would be another exciting misadventure through these fine foreign lands I am blessed enough to be currently calling home, and in fairness, we have been getting out and about to a few wee little villages which are simply breathtaking and entirely postcard worthy, but alas,
The return of the medical melancholy sees me writing a few notes today on the rapid down hill slide of the old bod… again…
And this time, I must truly confess, I actually am scared… so I guess for once, this blog is more a record of sorts. A record for future me, when I am fit and healthy again, to see just how hard I fought to get out of this awful slump and back into the land of the living.
A record for my amazing, long-suffering husband, who I am sure is at his wits end with how to support me, but is more amazing and more loved than he could ever realise… and for my two little beams of sunshine who fill my day, my world, with laughter, meaning and purpose…
So here I am…
on the other side of the world… a land with so much promise and opportunity… but a medical system that if you’re not born into it, is somewhat impossible to navigate, fighting off the demons of my three pronged medical monster…
Firstly, let’s face it… I am 31 weeks pregnant.
For anyone who has ever made it this far into pregnancy, or known someone who has, you would be aware that growing tiny humans is exhausting and takes great tolls on your body. As such, I come to you pre- exhausted and hormonally certifiably insane.
Let’s just put that out there. I am nuts. My head is not actually under my control, but is being savagely driven by some great hormonal emperor with its own agenda…
Thus, any melt downs I have wherein should be specifically addressed to the chief of hormones and not in fact my sane, rational self…
The second prong of this devil’s health fork is the kidneys and the roller coaster ride from hell earlier this pregnancy that saw me hospitalised twice… unbeknownst to me at the time, pretty severely ill… it is only now, in retrospect and with research I am beginning to get an inkling of just how sick I was… and articles on my Facebook newsfeed about the 44,000 people who died from sepsis ( that my dear kidneys nicely gave me) last year here in the u.k really do bring home the message.
The aftermath of this kidney show down is the stent. Gah! The God awful piece of plastic between my kidney and my bladder. The little straw that was brutally thrust inside me whilst I was still semi awake… that makes me wee like a champion ( because you know, you don’t wee enough during pregnancy already and all that), that despite the daily excruciation that comes with every wee, despite the blood each time… well, this bastard little blue piece of plastic effectively saved my life and is what keeps me alive. It’s job is to stop further kidney mishaps and prevent further bouts of sepsis…
so hate it and complain about it as much as I might… and let’s face it, I am a whinger and I do, that God awful curly blue plastic is in fact a legend. I am still standing because of it… and the amazing dr who knew to put it in there. ( thus again, moving far away from said amazing Dr has indeed brought some drawbacks… as this new medical system has fobbed me off and laughed off the intended medical plan that was meant to be taking place…) but, that’s just one hurdle. We can mope, but we can cope with one hurdle. The fact remains… if I endure the pain through to the end of this pregnancy, at some point they still have to remove the darn thing, even in this new system that’s still going to happen. And god forbid I lapse back into sepsis and the kidneys give way again… without a small person growing within, surely they can act quicker and more aggressively to patch me up and get to the actual ( and as yet unknown) root cause of the problem…
But the reason for my whoa is me attitude today is the return of the third thorn in my side, the ulcerative colitis, which came from nowhere last year, flattened me and sent me to hospital and on the crazy roller coaster ride of insane medications…
this bastard of a disease is insane. It is an auto immune disease that struck me down out of nowhere, causing my own guts to turn warrior on themselves and attack themselves. With it comes severe abdominal pain, hours trapped in the bathroom and my least favourite symptom, the one that has returned this weekend, toilet bowls that could easily feature on the most gory episode of CSI.
This level of blood loss in turn makes the iron levels plummet at an alarming rate… ( alas, they’re already low thanks to baby and stent) and with the steep descent of the iron comes the return of the God awful anaemia… the dizzy spells, the buzzy lights in front of my eyes and consequential blurred vision, the crazy tiredness, the crankiness and my least favourite, the passing out. This third kick to the guts in my health trifecta really has pushed my optimism out the door and brought with it the return of whinging, sulking and desperately feeling sorry for myself. Like seriously… what on earth have I done to my body for it to hate me quite this much?? And amidst it all, all I can do is put eyes on the prize… the ten week goal post and just trying to muddle through until this small person within comes to meet us… I just need to maintain enough strength to make it to the finish line. To protect this precious life and make the best decisions in a crap situation to keep both me and the jellybean as safe as I can… but with that, the drawing realisation… I have to survive labor!! Cue freaked out nightmares…
thus, today, armed only with fear and frustration, I am back to the GP to plea my case. To demand that they start to take this seriously before it becomes a disaster… the system here works on politeneness and letter writing… but today it is up to me to convince the GP that the time for politeness has passed and now is the time for immediate action. Who knows what these next few weeks will throw at us… I have a hunch I am in for one heck of a ride…
thanks for enduring my vent. Here’s hoping my campaign today is met with success and indeed the next verbal purging is to regale more crazy misadventures… or possibly introduce to the next member of our little family. I am trying to remain positive… although, right now, I think the doom and gloom attitude may serve me well in my quest to get taken serious for medical intervention? Love and hugs all round!
You’re all amazing!
L

Out to dinner…

We stop and glance into the restaurant.
Gone are the days of glancing the menu to make the decision…
Yep, there are other kids… We are good.
We go in.
But wait.
Those kids are SITTING.
WTF? Are they like plastic decoys or something.
It’s too late though, we have shuffled in…
I continue scanning.
Nope, definitely all sitting.
What kind of trick is this??!!
How is it possible that these children are sitting, are they glued to their seats? Is this witchcraft?
For I have Learnt, if sitting even successfully happens in the first place…
That somewhere between “can I take your order” and “Bon appetite” restaurant chairs clearly evolve to grow red hot spikes, like electrified cactuses, the force my band of ferals to raise, possessed, from their seats and start running around, screaming, wailing, lashing manically like a cat in heat…
Never have I had one of these mythical glue chairs I can clearly see scattered throughout this restaurant that enables a child to remain stuck, seated, in one position for the duration of the meal… Foolishly, I look around at the delightfully seated children, and wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time we will get a glue chair.

And thus it was, as my little family shuffled into the cute little alfresco dining, with the perfectly postcard street umbrellas shading the well laid out little tables, and the hanging baskets dripping, raining, with a rainbow of healthy blossoms, on the sunny streets of Brussels after a day of ” enjoying each other’s company on a pleasant family holiday” ( read, trying not to kill each other whilst sending “death eyes” across the room whilst muttering evil curses towards the other under our breath and eventually cracking the utter sh*ts and simply taking off walking a foreign city alone with two wayward ferals and an expanding baby bump whilst his “lordshit” had a nap…)

Now…
Gone are the days of pouring over a menu tantalisingly…
Laughing, joking… Smiling…
Heck… Long gone are the days where conversation is so freely flowing and warm that the menu isn’t even opened before the first eager waiter appears at your table… Causing you to let out that obnoxious laugh of young people in love… With no kids.

No, menu reading today is now an exercise in speed reading. It is a contest to scan the entire volumes of food quicker than humanly possible to admit defeat that no, Vegemite sandwiches are not in offer darling, is there ANYTHING, F’ing anything, that you might eat…
It is now a talented skill to be able to scan the kids section, plus the adults section, plus the drinks, all whilst watching to make sure a little hand has not shot out at the speed of light to grab the flower vase, or salt, or knives, or anything not utterly nailed down and used it in an assault launch on their sibling… Or other diners.
It is trickier than a game of twister, the skill of juggling turning pages of a menu at lightning speed, intercepting any table missiles launched through slow detection of before mentioned hand all whilst hurling your whole body in a “go go gadget” manoeuvre to capture any escaping child via their collars before they disappear entirely.
And then somehow, when the waiter appears, not smiling as he glares at the dishevelled terrors before him and the inevitable “salt art” being created on the nice clean table, you order something that you may or may not have seen on the menu, cosy in the knowledge that neither of the kids will eat any bloody thing you choose for them, your meal will be cold before you get to touch it, if you get to touch it, and despite looking pleadingly, the waiter will still insist on bringing the kids fancy glassware for their juices and steak knives for their meal. Knives god dammit!!?? Does this guy have a death wish! No, for the love of good, don’t give my child the knife! Too late… Which will then become a further assault launch option available to them on the table.

By now… The cactus spikes in the kids seats must be searing hot and radioactive, for both of them are jumping out as if their little arses are on fire from the bites of a million bull ants. Screaming, whinging, carrying on. Extending the table items warfare past each other and now inflicting mass destruction on the tables of surrounding diners.

Our most stern hisses and reprimands falling on deaf ears, drowned out by the raucous giggles as one causes the other to run full tilt into an umbrella stand…
Our yelling gets louder. More insistent… More desperate begging, pleading.
We have past the stage where bribery works…
We are past the point of return.
The food arrives.
It looks delicious.
We salivate in anticipation, like pavlov’s dogs, only to accept that this will be another meal untouched… As one has taken off their shoes and is performing a “punch and Judy style puppet foot play” on the table ( causing some almighty looks of disproval from surrounding diners who clearly did not wish to be entertained by the sight of ten filthy toes whilst eating their dinner) while the other has started crying. That long, low, I am not planning to stop anytime soon, nothing you can do to placate me cry…

I attempt to eat dinner with the screaming banshee thrashing on my lap. A further skill is the ability to pick menu items that can be eaten one handed. Cutlery is an opulent luxury these days, one I have not enjoyed in some time…
While hubby’s dinner turns cold as he has drags the puppeteer up the street for a stern talking to, and likely a deserved butt slapping, out of ear and eye sight of our fellow diners.
They return.
We try to bribe them again. It is to no avail.
We make the theatrical song and dance of how amazing their food looks, and truly it does… We have even managed to select a variety of foods which both have eaten within the last week…
But are met with the defiant cries of “no it’s disgusting” ( where the F did they learn that word?!)
We attempt the oldest parenting tricks in the book – quick eat it before I do or I give it to your brother / sister.
Nope, their resolve is dead fast. Damn it. Stubborn little bastards truly are my children.

And thus, another 60 euros well spent, as we admit defeat, pay for our cold, untouched meals and drag the little terrors out of there, under the disproving eyes of our fellow diners and their picture perfect, glued on children ( seriously, how the F are they doing that?!)

Two steps up the street and cue the tantrum…
Waaaaaaaaaah, ( it sounds like a bomb alarm, diners nearly drop to the floor) passers by jump out of the way higher and farther than Olympic champions…
Waaaaaaaah.
I want to go back.
I want my dinner…
Oh, and my favourite,..
I want ice cream.

No way are you having ice cream.
Ice cream is a special treat, only if you’re good.
Were you good at dinner? “Yes”
WHAT THE ACTUAL F+*^
What do you mean yes? Did you stay sitting “yes” were you quiet? “Yes” did you listen to mummy and daddy? “Yes” did you eat your dinner “yes”
Whaaaaaat? What crazy parallel universe did this kid just spend the last thirty mins in??

The tantrum grows.
We are now full scale meltdown on the grubby dirt, possessed by the devil, arms and legs flailing, demanding ice cream.
Each no is met with a volume increase I wouldn’t have deemed possible.
Walking away results in a rugby tackle at my feet and further display of just how epic a tantrum can be.
I scoop the writhing beast up and fling him over my shoulder like a sack of spuds in a display of my super human strength, inherited as a mother.
Good god this kid weighs a ton. I don’t know how. He doesn’t eat.
He lashes out like a many limbed mythological beast.
I feel my face getting scratched. I wince as a filthy, grubby hand, covered in street dirt and litter is thrust into my mouth, my hair is pulled.
I am now as equally dishevelled as him… But slowly, calmly, I continue walking back to the hotel.
Repeating the same clear directions.
Ice cream is a special treat.
We only get ice cream when we are good.
We were not good at dinner.
I no longer even notice the stares of onlookers as I carry my heavy sack of disobedience home and enjoy a further 15 minutes of the ice cream tantrum.
I admire my core body strength that I am still able to lug him up the four flights of stairs… Although I do ponder what happens as he gets bigger as he is nearing three quarters of my height already… And I do give a moments thought to the growing human inside who just received ( not their first) sibling pummelling…

We fill the bath and toss them in.
Wash off the street dirt,
Drown out their continued moaning.
Discuss calmly the expectations of what being good at dinner looks like.
We ask if they want ice cream tomorrow.
Of course they do.
We tell them we can try again tomorrow and all they need to do is be good.
I swear they laughed.

It is bed time.
I don’t know who is more exhausted. Them or us?
Another fun family day finished with a delightful meal in a most adorable little street side restaurant.. Overlooking the grand beguiling buildings of Brussels.
Roll on tomorrow…

May your food be warm and tasty, wherever this finds you!
Love and hugs world.

 

“Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths” …

Keeping up with the Jones’

Keeping up with the jones’

Benchmarks.
Benchmarks are dangerous, fictitious, unachievable standards, set by an alien race whom are trying to bring us undone and take over our planet.
I am sure of it.

And while bench marks are evil in so many parts of our life…
The pure horrendous, soul shattering, life destroying benchmarks are those we fire at babies… Or even more so, their weak, vulnerable mothers ( and fathers!)

The fact that it is often other mummies doing the dirty work to bring down the defeated, sleep deprived parent… Like a lion pouncing on the slowest, limpest member of the deer pack, just makes benchmarks all the more an ugly, torrid affair. And further indicates that they have been the brain child of afore mentioned alien race whom clearly is trying to wipe us out from The roots up… Stop the care takers and plunder any hope for population growth… It will leave the remainder as easy pickings… Bahahahahaha… In fact… It will also scar those that survive because their entire life will now be etched out on an impossible map of the unachievable.

And thus it is…
As my teeeeny tiny baby boy is approaching his third birthday I sit back and review the countless hours I have spent wasted… worrying about stupid bench marks. The funds given to unnecessary doctors appointments, the lotions, potions and medicines, the grey hairs, the wrinkles and the stomach ulcers, the squillion late nights spent basking in the flickering radiation of my computer screen as I desperately read pages grappling for some sense that he has reached some bench mark or another… All this pain, all this stress, all this waste… all a side effect of the benchmark. Time wasted worrying he isn’t up to scratch when in reality I should have just been enjoying his company because somehow, I will wake up next week and he will be THREE! 3!! Seriously… Not that tiny, helpless, wriggling little bundle I brought home three seconds ago… But a sassy, confident, egocentric, talkaholic with the most whacky imagination…
He can climb into his own car seat…
Occasionally use his own cutlery ( if and when he is choosing to eat today)
Climb in and sleep in his own big bed… Without guidance rails!
Laugh at my attempts to sit him on the potty and correct me that no, poop goes in a nappy and can he have a fresh bum please.
He can demand ice cream for three meals a day and throw an epic tantrum, publicly, if said request is denied.
My tiny, helpless, crying, screaming, wriggly little baby is suddenly an independent headstrong, self righteous threenager.

A three year old who DID NOT meet his growth bench marks from the day one…
Did not meet his feeding benchmarks.
Nor his sleeping bench marks.
Did not crawl until far too late and thought walking was for suckers… So gave that benchmark a miss also.
Did not have baby soft skin
Did not like to throw and catch balls
Did not hug teddy bears
Decided the clapping benchmark was over rated… As was the pincer grip and waving.
Clearly the benchmark of singing songs was also best avoided
And the big one. Talking.
Oh that’s right.
My mr chatterbox,.. Who does not ever shut up, did not talk until well after the age of two,
Twenty words at 24 months. I think not.
And while he happily smiled internally knowing he was driving his mum slowly and inevitably more bat shit crazy I fell down the whirl pool of bench mark envy…

What, your child is 6 weeks old and speaks 7 languages already? Oh no! I am clearly a failure!!! ( insert countless days of. Mummy self loathing and hating myself and beating myself up for clearly not spending enough time developing his language skills)

Your child was potty trained before you left hospital?? Good god! What am I doing wrong!
( insert hours of self hate and self doubt and nights thinking he may be better off without me as clearly I am flawed as his mentor)

Your child eats every single vegetable and asks for Brussel sprouts as a snack??
Ok… Your kid is a freak!

Seriously.
I fell for it.
I wasted days, nights, weeks… Stressing about my tiny little micro man.
I spent hours blaming myself, hating myself. Wondering what was wrong with me that somehow, he hadn’t “bench marked” and wasn’t perfect.
Stressing he wasn’t perfect and all because some moron at some point put a number in some book.

But do you know what….
That tiny little baby, who had the community nurse on our door stop every day for nearly the first month of life now stands at over a metre tall and breached the WHO growth charts before he was aged one… ( but now am I to worry that he is in fact a freakish giant because he has superseded the bench mark?!)
That roly, poly little chubba chunka who never wanted to even crawl… Well, now could be an Olympic sprinter because I sure as poop can’t keep up with him…
Forget me struggling to reach my 10,000 steps a day on my bench mark prison bracelet… I reckon if I chucked that fit bit on him we would be tracking well over 20 000 fast paced action steps.
That lazy little bubba who stared blankly at months of valiant attempts to wave and clap… Now walks into a room, claps his hands, to get people’s attention and with a melodramatic wave for effect announces to the world and anyone who’s listening… “Hello people, (micro man) has arrived.”
And words!
Words that would not come…
That were buried under a bench mark of steel weight proportions.
Words that sprouted more grey hairs with bench mark worry than their are even words in the dictionary…
Well… Those words are coming.
They are coming fast and flowing and in a beautiful, nonsensical three year old imaginative way.

I have wasted so long chasing benchmarks that weighed me down with fear.
I have questioned my sanity
I have questioned my ability
I have questioned my perfect little micro man.

The only failure in all the benchmarks unreached was that I listened. That I sat there and listened to the daggers, often thrust by other mummies, and I believed them. I hung my head in shame, I called doctors I researched like a kid before an exam… I didn’t stand up and say screw your bench mark. My kid is perfect. Perfectly him and developing at the perfect rate for him.
He might not meet the number in the book but he is doing everything he is supposed to do at exactly when he is supposed to do it. He is perfect at being himself.
And as there has never been a him before him, then of course there will never be a book with the right “bench marks” for him.
I am the only failure here. I failed my micro man for not being his voice to declare his perfection against the tyranny of bench mark nay Sayers.

Well it’s time to stop.
It’s time for this mumma to learn to shun the benchmark world and instead to listen to the crazy ramblings of her three year old.
Her three year old who thinks food is purely for sculpting onto one’s finger and performing shadow puppet plays.
And you know what. I reckon he may be right.
( if you’ve ever been brave enough to have my cooking, you also would probably agree)

It’s time for this mumma to focus on the real bench marks… The ones that say hey… I might be a late walker, I might be a late talker but I am perfectly normal and I am perfectly me.

My micro man DID throw epic tantrums not only on cue of the benchmarks… But he is so flipping advanced he threw them early. I can therefore only conclude that he is “emotionally advanced”.

He discovered self expression light years before the famous artists… Even if his choice of medium ( poop) was thoroughly questionable. I can therefore declare that he is “creatively gifted”.

He developed insanely advanced gross motor skills and can climb to the top of the craziest places. Ergo we are certain he is “physically ingenious”.

And his body awareness is amazing… Primarily due to the injuries sustained to nearly every body part during his efforts to jump or climb down. From afore mentioned heights. Thus he is “personally sagacious”

Yup…
Screw benchmarks.
My little micro man is perfect.
Some days he acts 3 years old, some days 33 and some days three minutes old… But every day he fills my world with sunshine, laughter and new experiences and I know I wouldn’t want him any other way.
And don’t even start me on the glowing perfection that is miss z… That’s a whole other blog…

It’s taken me three years,
But maybe my clever little guy is teaching me far more every day than I could ever hope to teach him.

May the benches in your world be unmarked and purely for sitting on…
Wherever this finds you.
Hugs.

What mess?

 

 

breastfeeding… the evil mistress

i looked at the poster in the waiting room of that special moment, that bond as gorgeous baby snuggles close to mum, feeding with ease.. then i looked at my screaming, blotchy parasite leaving hickeys on my sore cracked and bleeding nipples. WTF went wrong!?

seriously, how is ANY of this natural??

I, like most new mummies, glowed in the sacred anticipation of breastfeeding. that magic moment between you and bub. That ancient, age old, natural time shared between mother and child. the dream of the happy mother as she sits quietly, calmly, passing her milk, her healing powers, her love into the perfect little bundle, who responds with that heart melting cooo, looking up lovingly, holding her gaze…

the serene-ness, the simplicity, the magic…

the BULLSHIT!

the OMG, who forgot to give my baby the manual, because they sure as hell didnt put this moment into the antenatal class pamphlets…

so I survived labour. A story in itself.

Shattered, broken, confused, overwhelmed, tired, afraid, delirious, ecstatic and lying there, frozen as this strange alien being, whom had just erupted from my very self is placed on my chest… wriggling, he instinctively finds his way to my breasts for that first magical feed… and that’s when it stopped being magic..

now, in those early days, it is so hard to know whats going to happen. no way to anticipate… will you flood rivers of milk, perpetually drowning your baby and ruining yet another shirt… will you struggle to even squeeze out a drop and be forced to go onto the treadmill of milk cookies and motillium and stinky natural herbal remedies…

will day three and the pure hell of the hormones that consume you as your “milk comes in” be the final straw to your sanity or the overjoyful relief?

whatever your journey… lets just establish the facts..

holy crap breast feeding hurts!!!!!

so as i sat there, in those early days, struggling to produce enough milk to even feed an ant… it occurred to me, my small alien, while not in possession of teeth, has gums of steel! who knew it!!! that a little gummy shark could cause such excruciating agony… that even without incisors, my poor, delicate, soft nipple flesh could be unceremoniously torn to shreds, like the half chewed remains of stinky bait on a fishing hook. my baby must in fact be part beast, for the animalistic savaging occuring each feed borders on demonic. i have in fact given birth to a zombie piranha.

and as if having the most delicate skin on your body gnawed and ripped and cracked and bleeding and stinging with a pain that tingles through to your spine and back out the other side isnt bad enough… then there is the medical staff…

keep trying

stop crying

the latch is fine (how the F%^$ is this fine if i am in this much pain!!???)

he has tongue tie, oh no, maybe he doesnt, just try this.. (HOLY CRAP THAT HURTS EVEN MORE)

oh you must have really delicate nipples (ummm, yes? i wasnt aware i needed to tan them like bits of old leather for 18 years preceeding the concept of having a baby)

dont give up.

its ok to bottle feed

its not ok to bottle feed

its ok to express.

dont express it will stop your milk from coming in

and on it went!!!

in those first few days of sleep deprivation as i bawled in untold agony over the bald little head of my demonic piranha as he lovingly stripped away the first few layers of my skin leaving me bleeding and vulnerable to infection i was flooded with an overwhelming barrage of advice and information. i was judged, criticised and made to feel a failure, before i had even begun.

and i was so tired, so overwhelmed, so sore that i didnt have the strength left to fight, to ignore and to hold my head up high and instead i just let it consume me and slipped further and further into the dark abyss of misery with every feed.

how can i ever be a mother when i cant even provide feed for my baby. this most basic natural thing and i cant do it. i am broken. i am worthless.i am a failure…

looking back now, from the other side, i want to take new mummy me’s hand and shake it. shake it for even trying to feed! go me! i am freaking amazing…

i want to hug new mummy me and tell her that it is ok.

that i dont have to put up with that pain.

i want to stand up and SCREAM at the people who pushed me, pulled me, judged me and made me feel like it was something i was doing wrong..

i want to scream at the community health nurse who showed up on my door step every day for two weeks tsk tsk tsking at my poor feeding posture, his poor latch, my lack of milk, my use of shields and the fact i clearly wasnt feeding often enough and how little my piranha was as a result.. i want to scream at her and say GIVE ME A BREAK! i am exhausted, tired, afraid and i am doing my best.

i want to march up to her now with mr off the charts with height and weight and say “breastfeed this you judgmental cow!” how dare you make me feel guilty for doing everything i physically could possibly do

i want to let new mummy me have a break, a nap in those wee small hours and take away the pain and the exhaustion.

i want to take a permanent marker and draw a moustache and devil horns on every perfect baby in every breastfeeding poster and pamphlet in every doctor’s waiting room…

how dare they make us feel bad for trying.

the fact is…

breastfeeding CAN hurt some women.

and for some women it can simply be too hard. AND THATS OK.

for me, my journey…

was feeding every three hours (at 45 mins to 1.5 hours per feed) 24 hours a day around the clock.

it was sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion

it was never wearing a shirt and not wanting visitors or to leave the house

it was all sorts of medication to stimulate milk supply,

it was accepting that to nourish my baby i needed to top up with formula and learning to get over the societal mummy guilt associated with that,

it was hating myself for crying onto my new baby’s beautiful soft head with every feed and accepting that i NEEDED the nipple shields before my nipples suffered irreversible damage and it as accepting that despite the judgements and negative glares that that choice was ok

it was the small victories of a feed without crying, a feed without bleeding, a feed without nipple shields, a positive weight gain on the growth charts,

it was my own personal journey and my own right to feed my baby as was best and healthiest for both he and i.

for some women, feeding does come naturally. it comes on on cue. it looks just like the posters. i congratulate those women… but then they too have to walk the fine line of public scrutiny of when, where, how to feed.

and for some women, feeding doesnt happen at all. and i congratulate those women too. for having the strength to navigate the barrage of society’s critics, to stand up, do what is right for them and at the end of the day be able to say. “screw you, my child is getting fed”

so whatever your journey,

be it the easy or the hard road, the painful or the blissful, whether you breast feed,bottle feed, express,use shields, feed while co sleeping, feed covered up, feed au naturale, go through 75 tubes of lanisoh nipple relief cream, buy your local farmer out of cabbage leaves, leak like a dripping tap, experience the untold agony of mastitis or pose for the perfect breastfeeding pamhlet i say congratulations.

you are AMAZING

you are a mum.

and you are doing whatever it takes to feed your baby, so i therefore know you are a GREAT mum.

keep fighting the good fight.

tell the nay sayers to bugger off.

ignore the annoying night nurse and her pressure filled ways and do what your body tells you to!!!

i wanted to write this blog as a comedic look on the plight of our boobs, but instead i am clearly still carrying the battle scars of being judged, down trodden and made to feel worthless for my first foray into the world of feeding… a second baby, and a successful feeding story later and i still stand by it… it is your body, your story and you are amazing! dont believe the posters.

ignore the advice and be kind to yourself!!!

hugs and cabbage leaves wherever you are!

omg!

part two of this week’s flashback Friday

consumer warning…this is an excessively long email….sorry!!!!!!

hey again all…

i know twice in as many weeks… you’re all still recovering from the last great epic… but after the traumatic start to this year’s great darwin adventure… i figured i’d better not leave it tooooo long till part 2!!!

again… a big welcome to those of you new to the series (the misdaventures of laurie) and may you all find a comfy chair…..

so when i last left you, i was recovering on a 4 and a half hour flight after a traumatic near failed expeditition to the airport that apparently (according to the responses i have since recieved) only i could pull off… you will recall my complete and utter panic at the fear of missing this flight and the mad desperate taxi scene as i raced to the airport tv style…

and you all breathed your collective sighs of relief when the world’s best qantas man (who still needs a hug) found me a space on the plane… you laughed with me as i ran through the terminal belt and boots in hand like a crazy woman… but then did you ever stop to consider…what happened next?…

well darwin…

what can i say???

i love it…and each visit brings me back to the age old question…why the heck don’t i just move up there…which i assure you is sincerely on the cards….

wet season… warm, tropical storms, lush vegetation…

dry season…. warm, temperate breezes, mad live through anything vegetation….

seriously folks?? what’s not to love…

so arriving in darwin & greeting my long lost pal we embarked straight away on a compulsary trip to litchfield…the best national park in all of australia (and i can say that with some conviction seeing as i have now visited most of them)…. the usual joy of getting dumped under the surging waters of a waterfall, of swimming in your own little private oasis, to haul your butt out of the water only then to discover the “do not swim” crocodile warning sign… to be chased by the menacing water monitors…whom appear to be on steroids & perculiarly take a liking to my ankles… but best of all just to feel free, to have sunshine beating down on soft pasty white skin, to breathe the fresh air & feel life coarse through your veins once more….

if you have not done so yet i recommend a visit to this place…

allow me to add some photographic inspiration to this…  (see i’m even getting technical in my old age) of the infamous buley rockholes and the gorgeous wangi falls.

but the real laurie adventure????

well…that all started on saturday…

like true bush explorers kimmy and i set off down the red dusty track to the wee fishing village of dundee (far north west for those of you following on your maps)…

starting with a tour of kim’s new block of land a gorgeous jungle of trees, gullies, boulders and general scrub…

of course, being the complete toughies that we are (read bonafide girly wouses) we jumped at every rustle and thump that we passed (most of which resulted in us jumping at our own footsteps)… but that didn’t prevent us from our quest of looking for the illusive braham bull that alledgedly roams the property…fabled to be 2 and a half metres high with red demon eyes and hooves of pure steel… nor did it prevent us from expertly tracking the “pig diggings” in search of the family of menacing wild boar that terrorise the unsuspecting and chase the fearful up trees…. and most notoriously… we were hunting the mighty king brown.. the most powerful & allusive predator of the aussie snake family….

after finding none of the above… but suffering mild heat stroke in the process we decided to retire to “the lodge” dundee’s “5 star” (if by star ratings you refer to the amount of sand flies & wee beasties) resort (aka camp ground)…

while true adventurers may have stayed on at the block and pursued said beats, we quickly realised there would be no sleep due to severe jumpiness and scaredy cat nature of our heroes…

so…at the lodge we battled the elements and in true (2 blondes at work) style managed to assemble the taj mahal of all tents in as little as 7 attempts!!!!!

so with this victory under our belts we settled in with our stunning “essence de rid” perfume & polished off a bottle of vodka…

feeling merry we braved the scrub down to the beach.. stumbled gracefully along the shoreline watched a magical sunset…. and started into just a few more drinks…

as it turns out.. we picked the largest night of the dundee year..

there were at least 50 people in town…and a band!!!!

never to be outdone by the professionals… it wasn’t long before we seized control of the microphone (and the entire dance floor) and tore up the social scene….

it emerges at this point (between shimmies, pirouettes & grapevines) that of the 4 other women there that night, we were accused of being 17 years old!!!!! but more significanly were quite the talking point of every male converstaion in the place…and thus it was…

2 simple girls, burning it up on the dance floor, cutting loose & singing completely off key to old favourites such as “dancing queen” managed to escalate tomorrows rock fishing plans to invites on 3 seperate fishing charters & an exclusive beach party….

needless to say… the night rolled on… there are stories to tell.. but ones that require serious hand & facial actions….

as the band packed up…but the dancing and singing continued..progressively more off key… it emerged that out sense of direction had evaded us…

not only could we not follow the noise to find said beach party…but where the heck did we leave our tent???

stumbling, faltering, tripping rustling through the bush (and accidently falling into a barra pond) for the life of us someone seriously moved the tent!!!! and then it happened… the giant thumping sounds… the grunts… the deafening roar… AAAAGGGHHH!!!!! unimaginable bush beasties… running through the scrub like women possessed being chased by unimaginable foes until at least (in spite of waking up every other camper at the site) we found our haven… where through some evil twist of fate the air had escaped our trusty air mattress.

but sleep eventually came…

come the morning.. heads a little rough…backs bruised & battered & memories a little foggy we made our way to breakfast… had we dreamt those fishing offers???

but no… light of day…

and our dancing powers reign supreme…

some new friends to the rescue and a spot on a deep sea fishing charter awaits…

a good feed of cholesterol later and off into the azure blue we whisk… dolphins frollicing, sun shining and diamonds sparking on the endless blue..

out to secret fishing holes in the great wide ocean….and laurie’s first real fishing adventure….

the thrill of the bight…

the battle as a giant from the deep pulls your line from underneath you and the epic quest as you fight to surface the monster…

again at this point… many a story…as each fish quickly became my “biggest ever catch”… but rest assured i fought hard and have impressive circular bruises on my stomach….battle wounds from my weapon of choice (a fishing rod) which ploughed into my tummy in the sheer desperation not to be sucked into the great blue deep…as i surfaced the beasts of below…

amongst the haul, some impressive boggly eyed fish (technical name of course), snapper, blue bone & a coral trout (which i am told is good eating…bummer i refuse to eat anything that swims in it’s own pee)…but best of all… my first ever shark…

thrashing like a demon possessed it took control of the boat’s floor.. it’s teeth snapping like wild machete’s!!! convinced it was going to consume my toes (because in all honesty that is about all it could fit in it’s mouth) i did what all brave heroes do…climb to a safe point & let the captain of the boat deal with it…

yes… my reputation as your fearless warrior remains in tact…

but as the day wore on… the combination of last night’s excesses, sunburn, and burly from a new friend… an early end to our extraordinary adventure… at this point…Kudos to me for not chucking my guts up!!!!!!!

anyways… as always…there are more stories to tell… but i think perhaps i have waffled way too long as it is…

sorry it’s not a classic… but am still trying to unclog the writers block..

for those in the know the gypsy within is looking for a without & i hope to hit the road again next year!!!!

hugs to all

& a favour to ask… if you have any copies of my old tales ( as bless hotmail for deleting them) i’d love a copy!!!!!

am sure i will be out doing something embarrassing in a corner of the world near you soon!!!!

always.

laurie…. fearless warrior.

Flash Back Friday – stepping back in time

Hey gang…

sorry i didnt manage to keep up my incredible new years writing spree!!! and sadly with a few other projects on the go it looks like it may be a little while yet… but when a long time follower ( Hi Mrs H!!!!) suggested i upload my even older “blogs” i figured… why not!!!??

now… these babies are coming to you from the days even before blogs!!! thats right… for those of you (un)lucky enough to have been following these misadventures for sometime now you used to receive an email /novel recapping my antics! and bless my mumma who kept them all!!!

having said that… i am trowling my emails and struggling to locate messages prior to 2007… so while we are going back in time it looks like we are starting with the later chronicles and i will then see what prehistoric pearls of wisdom i can uncover!

so sit back, relax… and come on an adventure laurie style (circa 2006 / 2007 – after a pretty significant career change and life altering break up…) 😉

p.s – i am aware how full circle life is that i find myself back in the “motherland”… being a mother…

love and hugs and all that stuff.

 

“L”

 

“on the road again”… in an oh so bumpy fashion…

 

hello my fearless followers!!! from a warm and sunny darwin..
hope this finds you all well & healthy wherever in this grand world you may 
be...
it appears the travel bug finally nibbled too hard and in addition to an 
oversized attempt at bankrupcy inducing travel planned for next year i 
decided to hit the road early for a quick visit up to darwin...
for those of you new to the misadventures of laurie... welcome... and a 
quick update... darwin is my little getaway spot when getting away needs to 
happen...
one of my nearest and dearest jumped ship 2 years ago to move up here and 
has been subjected to random visits and moments of craziness by me ever 
since (recall such infamous moments as the crocodile skinny dipping 
extravaganza)... thus it was..with a much needed school holiday in progress 
i hatched the plan for a visit...
of course, travel never runs smooth when you are a drama queen like me...

so... ridiculously overpacked.... road testing a new backpack (not bad, it 
does have a wheel option... but not convinced as nothing could replace old 
faithful!!) i set out from the new abode
(yes, as an aside, those behind the times... i have finally decided to move 
"forward" and have moved house... an email event in itself due in part to 
the torrential floods that nearly washed away my entire mountain of wordly 
possessions...and more so for the first ever experiences i have had living 
with a cat... starnge smelly cheeky creatures that they are...but that's 
another story for another time...)

of course new address means a natural minor miscalculation of transit time 
from door to station... and so unbeknownst to me as i strutted down 
parramatta's main st laughing inwardly at the speculative glances of curious 
passers by as i trundled along with monster bag... i was walking into a 
perilous fate against time..

arriving at the station.. oblivious to the panic awaitng me, i purchased my 
ticket headed for platform & delighted in my luck at getting the "fast 
train".

headphones in... belting out some pretty impressive train karaoke (fit to 
frighten my fellow passengers) i settled in.day dreaming of the adventures 
that awaited... sending texts to friends to make them envious....

then it happened.. a shudder, a thump. a stop.
a complete train stop..
sure, it's city rail.. we're all used to that!!! but as seconds passed to 
minutes and disgruntled peak hour passnegers started to turn to mighty 
cheesed off people desperate to get home...the fateful announcement crackled 
over the p.a...
"sorry for the delay.. there has been an accident ahead of us, and a car has 
landed on the tracks.. please stay in the carriage!!!!" aaaarrrrggghhhh!!!
simulataneously, the radio still blaring in my ears announces a delay on the 
airport line... crap crap crap!!!!
so i dutifully get out my ticket information to calculate the damage and 
that's when it all comes undone...
in a twist of laurie ingenuity..i had of course managed to misread my 
times.and on top of the delay confronting me.. i actually had an hour less 
time than anticipated!! aaarrrgghhhh!!!!!
panic panic stress stress
(for those of you not quite up to speed, i may have a SLIGHT tendency to 
panic - read HUGE tendency to have complee and utter nervous 
breakdown!!)....
trapped in a claustrophobic carriage with disgruntled commuters staring out 
into the night sky desperately planning my escape..
i pounced the unsuspecting carriage guard on his rounds.. begged, pleaded 
for an escape.. to be met with an obstinate no.. i was trapped.. doomed to 
miss my flight...
moments passed.. each minute ticking my like a heartless ogre, teasing me, 
tormenting me, allowing me to experience the full range of stress and it's 
side effects..
calling qantas in sheer panic mode, relaying my story i got a 2 second 
reprieve when i found my plane was delayed by half an hour (breath laurie 
breath)... but then, like the icy breath of doom this was followed with, so 
you have about half an hour to get here before check in closes... 
AAAARRRGGGHHHH!!!! and to make it better... no flights later tonight and 
tomorrow is booked out...
so pacing the carriage like a crazy woman... and scaring the passengers more 
than with my previous karaoke efforts... sweat dripping down my temples.. 
face set to serious scowl.. heart rate a flutter and the clouds of doom and 
gloom floating menacingly through my head.. i turned my thoughts to the 
various deities that may help me (at this point, some acknowledgement and 
thanks to god, allah & buddah for their patience)... what seemed an eternity 
later.. a screech, a thud and the sow melodious sound of a train engine 
starting up.. hurrah!!!!! the plan.. to get out at strathfield, the next 
station and jump one of the cabs that are always on hand..
spying a man similarly stressed to myself and also lugging luggage i struck 
a deal to share a cab & we prepared to embark on our race through the 
station in search of our chariot to freedom...
running through the tunnels of strathfield.. bowling over innocent old 
ladies in doiley hats... panic stricken and coursed with adrenalin i hit the 
biggest slap to the face when i surfaced at the end of the biggest taxi 
queue in history and not a cab in sight... aarrghhh!!!!!
stranded with each minute ticking...
calling for reinforcement..
muttering intense profanities.
with a back up on the way (bless him & thank you!!!!!) a cab rolls into the 
queue...
and like all those people you hate i try my best to push in the line...
you can imagine the uproar of stranded passengers that have been waiting for 
hours... bt believe me.,.. by this stage i was NOT missing that flight...
wrestling back the masses my new acquaintance and i jumped in and screamed 
at the cab (amazing race style) go go go!!!!!!
looking at the clock i calculated i had rougly 10 minutes left to get to the 
airport... calling qantas and pleading my case once more i got met with a 
get here in 10 or miss it...bad luck...
(the taxi driver at this stage telling me we are lucky to be half an hour 
away if he speeds...)
jumping around in the back seat like a cat on a hot tin roof...the traffic 
jam ahead of us near killed me with hypertension... bless the cab driver for 
some impresive screeches and a near 2-wheeled corner..... and bless the 
random guy from the train who when we got there chivalrously offered to pay 
the cab fare... remind me that i owe karma and shall endeavour to be nice 
next time i see a panic stricken woman in flight... pulling up at the 
airport, jumping out at 7.50 pm. plane due to depart at 8.05 i jumped all 
queues all boundary ropes, fought my way to the desk...
crossed every crossable part of my anatomy as the desk jockey made... the 
call... too late. check in closed.
you missed it.
go to sales for are-booking.
my heart sinks, my face crumples.. the adrenalin that has been keeping me 
upright this last hour pours from me...
i slink over, panic stricken and distraught to sales...
i wait in queue...
and then it happens.. the miracle of mirales...
the qantas man that to this day will remain my saviour and deservig of a 
zillion laurie hugs realises i will not get to darwin if i do not get this 
flight ... god knows how... but here;s your ticket... run woman run!!!!
through the beepy scanny check point.. of course i beep...
taking off shoes and belt to get clearance i then run through the terminal 
half dressed carrying my clothes with me... arriving breathless at the gate 
in time to join the back of the queue and board....
breathe.

and after that.. even the turbulance couldn't distress me.. i was at peace 
with the world... and celebrated by helping write an science communications 
essay on pragmatism for my plane neighbour....

so there's the start of my holidays...
god only knows what is in store next... but be assured i'll keep you posted.
love and hugs to all.
laurie (drama queen)
 

     

The truth about nappies… It’s a crappy job… But someone’s got to do it.

yes yes, you already know you will have to change nappies and of course there is no positive spin to that… but what you dont realise is that from the second you go into labour your entire existence. your every day. now revolves solely around poop…

Change me… Change me NOW!!!

BC – before children, I never realised how much of life revolved around poop.
Seriously, from the moment you go into labour poo will become the epicentre of your universe…
Is that a contraction or constipation??!! NO YOU CANT GO TO THE TOILET! PUSHHH!!! ( but I don’t want to poop my pants… And seriously… I just have to go.. Let me go.. Please let me go.) and ta da.. Out baby comes… Delivered amidst the confusion of your bowels and into a world of modern vs traditional cloth vs synthetic nappies.

And so it begins… The importance of poop.
Is baby ok?? I don’t know? What is that disgusting black, sticky bowel evacuation? Is that normal?? Oh god that’s gross??!! That can’t be normal??!! NNNUUURRSSEEE!!!!!! Yup, that’s normal. Oh ok..

Oh my god!!! What is that!!!! It’s yellow cottage cheese!!! That’s not that normal black stuff… NNUUURRRSSSEEEE!!!!! Oh, that’s normal too. Ok.

Is baby feeding ok??
I don’t know! I am new to this? How would I know?! Ah – have they pooped??!! Yes, well then they are feeding…
Is my baby sick?? I don’t know, check their poop
Is baby healthy? I don’t know. Check their poop.
Is the sun passing through Gemini and increasing my psychic ability

What mess?

? I don’t know! Check bub’s poop!!!

Seriously, at some point, before you even leave the hospital and go off into the scary real world you will not only be asked ( often) but be expected to know and recite, maybe even describe or categorise your baby’s daily poo diary ( oh and of course.. Have you pooped yet too?! That’s a whole other experience… Best not discuss that one now… )
How often, what colour, what smell, what texture!!?? Hey – that one looks like a butterfly! ( did my baby eat a butterfly?!) oooooh, I see, this one is part of the psychological rorshach ink blot tests! That poo just moved!! It is a living organism!! It’s flubber!!! Seriously! It just sat up and talked to me!! Oh, I am sleep deprived.. Ok, maybe it didn’t then..
Who knew poo could reveal so much!!??
And then when you have ticked all the poo boxes on the nurses chart you are free to go home and the fun really begins…

Oh… So you want to go out?
Has bub pooped yet?
No? You best wait…
Ewwww!!! Yup there it is…
Remove nappy… Oh god that’s gross… Stop wriggling bub.. What’s wrong AAARRRGGHHHHHHH!!!! Poonami!! As a tidal wave of poop comes flowing like an unstoppable force…
Right, there can’t possibly be anything left. Bub, you have pooped more in volume than your entire body.. Let’s get dressed and go…
Aw, aren’t you cute! And look, I even brushed my hair and have fresh clothes on,!!
Oh look, a smile!!! You’re the cutest baby in the whole wide HOLY CRAP!!!!! Poosplosion!!! Eeeeek!!! It’s escaping!!! Omg omg omg!!! What do I do what do I do??? Did you swallow a fire extinguisher kid??!! What the hell!!?? You just painted the wall… Three metres away!!!! How is this even possible.

You made it out??
Well done.
What’s that smell??
Oh god.. Not here!
No, don’t touch it! Get your hands out of it! NOOOOO!!!! Don’t eat it, stop!!, put your hand out of it! Bugger.
It’s ok, I have a nappy bag and a change of clothes.
A change of clothes…
What the hell do you mean you have leaked again???
A pee through??!! Are you freaking kidding me?!
Screw this kid, I am out of spare clothes.
You can now wear this designer outfit I have crafted out of mcdonalds serviettes.

New restaurant opening in town??!! Sweeeeeet! Must to check it out. No baby change table??!! Screw that! I am Eating At our local food court.

Been on hold to centrelink for 45 minutes… The call drops in…. Pppfffft! Oh crap. Now??! Really??!! NOW!!!?? Wwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! Its ok… I’ve got this. Can’t be that hard right?  I can nestle the phone between shoulder and chin while I change you… Stop squirming. Stays still you screaming, wriggling son of a *^%#\… Oh christ that smells! No, don’t put your hands in the nappy rash cream… Oh bugger… As the phone slips out inevitably landing in the biggest pile of fresh steam it can find. Magnetically drawn to it I am sure…  Hello, hello centrelink… I’ll call you back.

 

Awwww… Look at you all relaxed and smiley in the bath!! OH!!! You are THAT relaxed??!! Don’t eat it!! Don’t eat it!! don’t… Oh god that’s gross!!!

And as they get older the fun just grows along with the size of the output until eventually you hit the stage that I firmly do believe is the reason behind the term “shitfight”. Envisage chimps hurling their faeces at each other in the simplest terms possible and you’re getting close to the mark…
You know this stage… That time when bubs is strong enough to wriggle and roll and wrestle in protest to getting their nappy changed… The time when scratches to your face, eye gouges and kicks to the chest are just another part of your day… And that time when no matter how much brute force you use in pinning your unruly pooper down, they will somehow Houdini their way free, inevitably rolling through the crappiest part of the nappy smearing it on their arms, legs, the change mat and any object within a three km radius… I note, this instance is almost always followed by one of those endearing moments where they reach their little hands out and gently caress your face. whilst their hands are smeared in steaming god forsaken poop…
Yes, that nappy smell is not your imagination nor is it merely the burnt olfactory nerve which will repeat that fragrance all day… No, you do actually have poo smeared on your face, and under your nails.
You just ate lunch with those hands didn’t you… You forgot to wash, didn’t you.

Then there is the toilet training.
Mine haven’t reached that age yet.
I live in fear.

Baby wipes and patience to all!

 

 

 

 

the journey – the truth behind the poster

ah, you’re pregnant. congratulations! you have the pregnant “glow”…

aka get me the friggin’ mylanta my heartburn is causing me to become a fire breathing dragon and if you dont turn the f%^$ing air conditioner on right now i swear to god i will incubate the devil himself to come and take you into hell, shortly after he removes your fingernails one by one with a pair of blunt rusty pliers…

 

but seriously, lets look at the journey that leads us to acquire that magical “glow”… and dont get me wrong, i know it’s a freaking hard slog and could soooo easily go wrong. i know there are women out there trying every possible variation of heart wrenching crazy just to get a glimpse of the dream whilst young teenagers seem to just sneeze and say oops… i could go down that tangent. but i wont. that is one road of heartache that requires a more sensitive approach than mine…

instead lets look at the broader path.

you are a woman. more particularly, you are a woman of a certain age… society feels the need to ask the question… sooooooo when are you having babies?

god forbid you are a woman of a certain age in any sort of relationship… or more sinfully, married… society therefore dictates you MUST have kids and of course if you dont, for whatever reason… there must be something seriously, very wrong…

so eventually, you cave… clearly i must have a baby… miracles occur and suddenly there is a second little heart beat echoing your own… awwww… how sweet…

then it’s that slowly growing gorgeous bump, that magical “glow” and all the excitement of setting up that postcard perfect nursery, right??

wroooooong (**bleeeeuuurrghhhh she says as she hocks up the dry cracker she has just eaten into the freshly disinfected toilet bowl for the fifteenth time that day, growing dizzy due to her heightened sense of smell accordingly going bananas at said disinfectant and therefore cracking her skull open as she head butts the toilet bowl in a particularly violent dry wretch that ensues..**)

ok, sure sure, so “morning sickness” isnt a secret…

but lets face it… its more than a quaint little folly that comes on like clockwork and leaves at the 12 week mark…

no… it is that constant on again, off again, could strike anywhere, anytime, all day nausea that prevents any sort of normal daily routines… or worse.. it doesn’t come… which of course means there must be something wrong, right!!?? yes, seriously… in a saddistic twist, the lack of feeling like death warmed up is even more evil than the constant throbbing head and unsaid desire to upchuck anything you have eaten because it of course opens the mind to the very scary, very real, very for the rest of your life “what if” merry go round…

what if something is wrong, what if the baby is sick, what if that champagne toast at last month’s wedding has destroyed the baby’s brain cells… oh god… i think i ate a ham sandwich in 1984, i m sure i have damaged the baby. what if what if what if… and yes folks… the little what if voice that starts as a whisper in those early days gains momentum, gains volume and becomes a screaming unstoppable demon by labour!! and in my experience, only gets angrier, louder and all the more insistent since birth…

so somewhere between omg i can’t eat anything and omg feed me, feed me now!!!! that cute little bump (and it’s accompanying “what if” voice, becomes a screaming, raging, uncontrollable beast… a beast that starts to consume your body like the parasite from the movie “Aliens”… in fact, i am more convinced than ever that that scene where the alien erupts from the chest cavity, oozing goo and in a chorus of gut wrenching screams is in fact just your average labour video…  (why the hell do people video record their labour anyways?? future torture plans perhaps? they want to see what they look like in excruciating pain so as to gauge how they may look at their moment of death?? blackmail material? future contraceptive??  no, i wont go into that debate right now either…)

then there is the waddle, the cankles, the sweating, the profuse sweating, the really gross omg i cant believe i sweated THERE crazy profuse sweating, the need to pee, the effort to go to the toilet only to relieve two drops and need to pee again in another 17 minutes, the no sleeping, the omg i am so tired i may never wake up again need to sleep, the can’t sleep this side, cant sleep that side, oh screw this i just cant get comfy i might go eat something, the oh crap i shouldnt have eaten that its repeating on me, the i have NOTHING to wear, the where are my feet?? seriously, where are they… i havent seen them for weeks… are they still there… the… i better tidy up downstairs – the oh crap, i cant even see downstairs let alone reach it… – ouch! oh crap oh crap oh crap…

yup… of course you’re glowing…

there is no greater journey…

enjoy the ride kids! 😉

 

the glamorous glow just gets better with every passing week…

 

motherhood. the reality behind the poster…

so i have had a few mates become first time mums lately. the most exciting of times, highest of highs and all that stuff… and i truly, honestly, genuinely coudnt possibly feel any happier for them… and yet despite this, i find the thing i discuss most with mummies, especially during those “graveyard shift” feeds, isn’t just how rosy and wonderful and complete life is now but how to deal with and accept the new reality that is the end of life as you know it. am i a guru in this stuff? am i an expert? hell no. and my advice, like all others, should be taken with a bloody huge grain of salt… motherhood is a solo journey and you can try all the advice in the world, but at the end of the day, each decision is yours alone, to make based on whats best for you and whats best for your baby… 2 individuals to factor in whose needs and beliefs are different from every other 2 individuals in this world..

what i do have, however, is honesty. and sadly, especially when it comes to the enormously scary world of mummyhood   that is something a lot of us seem to forgo…

so do i have kids? yes

do i love my kids? yes. with every breath that i take i love them even more… and just when i think i couldnt possibly fill with any more pride or love or happiness at their simple achievements they smile at me and somehow that love just swells

but did i always feel like this? hell no.

do i have those crashing moments of utter self doubt? hell yes

do i beat myself up inside on a daily basis over every “wrong” decision i make regarding their welfare? of course i do!

some days do i feel like leaving them on the doorstep of the local church… even for a few hours… just so i can sleep.. or because clearly someone else could look after them better than me or because if someone doesnt take this annoying, crying, insolent delinquent away from me i swear to god i may harm them, which f course means i must clearly be an unfit mum. of course some days i feel like that.

and here is the thing.

EVERY MUM FEELS LIKE THAT

maybe not all the time, hell, maybe not even often… but somewhere, at some point of your mummyhood journey, the beautiful poster of the perfect mummy, smiling at her perfect baby in the ethereal moment of happiness is such utter bullshit it is the biggest slap in the face and makes you feel like you need a one way ticket to the mental home. yes there is love. yes there is happiness… yes there are a zillion photos of baby smiling, sleeping, looking cute, doing all those things that make us swell with pride… but in between those public moments there is he truth. the reality… and sadly, the often unspoken.

do i believe i suffered post natal depression? no, i dont. would i be upset if people think that? no, i wont. i have had friends ride that rollercoaster ride and i do honestly believe them to be among  the most amazing, powerful and honest mothers that i have ever known… but no, i dont think my experience was pnd. i think my experience is normal. is reality. but is the unspoken truth. and that by denying its existence we continue to subject new mums to the self defeating cycle of mumma guilt and fear and anguish and loneliness. by covering up the reality that some days suck. that sometimes you dont feel the glow of love that sometimes you are so freaking tired you swear you cant even remember your own name we subject the next batch of mummies into the void of trying to achieve the unacheivable bliss that the posters portray.

so over the next few blogs… i hope to open your eyes to the other side of mummyhood… the side they dont hang up on the waiting room walls… the side that isnt discussed.

i hope that maybe, somewhere out there, some mummy sitting alone in the dark, crying onto her new born baby’s head in desperation and fear and loneliness and guilt and numbness realises that they are not alone. that what they are feeling is not unusual. that the mummy ride has as many crazy lows as it does dizzying highs…

and why do i think so few women are willing to open up about this thing if, as i suspect, we all experience it??

for a number of reasons…

1- who wants to be judged? really?? and lets face it… from the moment you announce you are pregnant you are public property. everyone has advice and observes your every move. you are judged every day. dont eat this, dont do that… blah blah blah… and if you think it is going to stop when bubs finally arrives?? omg no!! and from the minute they are conceived your baby is your report card. are you a good mum?? well lets base it on that baby of yours… ooooh, she crawled a week later than mine.. you mustnt have been giving her enough tummy time, oooooh, she has milk rash, you must be washing him in the cheap shampoo. babies are the ultimate tool by which we are judged… so of course we dont openly reveal our flaws… we already know we are failing enough without advertising it right?!

2- human survival. seriously. humans are amazing at survival. and how do we do it? we erase the bad memories. we lose a loved one… we grieve and in time we learn to move forward… by erasing the pain of grief and hanging on to the memories of happy times. we end a relationship. we know we did the right thing… but inevitably, at some point, the intensity of our hate and loathing and the pain that led us to make that break subsides and we will at some point ask did i make the right choice. hopefully, we still accept that yes, we made the right choice… but usually the loathing or pain that got us there numbs and decreases in intensity to the point we can no longer remember that moment of the break up… Or tht time you did something embarrassing… Like really really embarrassing. Punch to the guts curl up and die embarrassing… Haven’t you ever noticed a few weeks later you can actually laugh at it… And somehow, a few months later when someone asks you what your most embarrassing moment was you actually have to stop and think. I mean really stop and think… Where did that memory go??. It was soooo painful at the time… How come I can’t recall it now??. we give birth and experience a pain beyond any words in the english language..and yet, in time, the explicit memory of that pain subsides enough that we feel strong enough to go through it again. however you look at it. the human survival mechanism is to erase those negative memories and allow us to hold onto the happy ones.

so do i believe it when my own mum and her peers swear there was no such thing as pnd and that they were so happy to be mothers 100% of the time. no i don’t. i believe they think that’s how they felt. as any of the negative stuff, by now has been washed away, allowing them to bask in the radiant memory of happiness…

an i believe that one day i will be there too…

and that, i believe is the prime reason that mums, especially first timers, are thrown into the deep end of trying to achieve an unreachable reality and experience such uneccesary fear, loathing and mumma guilt. if only we could be more honest and more open about the down times…then maybe fewer of us would feel so alone.

so to my pregnant friends, next time someone tells you to enjoy your sleep before bubs comes, i give you permission to poke them in the eye with a blunt pencil, because no, you are not enjoying your sleep. you feel like a bloated whale and it is freaking uncomfortable and you need to pee every three minutes and it sucks and some alien being, whose very existence scares the crap out of you is pressing on your lungs, ribs, bladder, kidneys…

and my new mummy mates…

you are not alone.

to my old mummy mates, congratulations on coming out the other side

and to my non mummy mates, if by choice or life’s adventure i wish you happiness in coming to know yourself in whatever life throws at you…

we have to stick together girls! 🙂

love and hugs to you all..

and further rants too come (sorry folks) 😉

sleeping like a baby…

Ramblings from a sleep deprived woman on a plane…

Time has flown again… Whoosh… And here I find myself, Christmas holidays, on a plane to Singapore with a 7 month old asleep in my lap and my 21 month old curled up on daddy…
When did this wayward wanderer, master of misadventure and unbridled free spirit hang up the reins?
Somehow, somewhere, in the last blink of an eye a few years past and I find myself living in this parallel universe… One I never dared dream of, one not even my verbal barrage of words can describe. A life of “normal” of routine of day to day and of utter bliss.
When I look in the mirror at the new “giggle grooves” etched on my face and I warily count the new ” wisdom hig

Cutest when they’re asleep!

hlights” sprouting in my un-dyed, un styled and usually un brushed hair… Some days I scarce recognise this face looking back at me…

In my dreams I still carry my worldly goods, my dreams and my passions in a small rucksack, throwing caution to the wind and climbing every mountain my feet dare bring me to…. And yet, despite my thoroughly nuclear new existence some days I am blown away at how wrong dreams are and how much more amazing, thrilling and awe inspiring the real deal is… Other days I am simply exhausted at chasing after the small folk. Overwhelmed with the tedium or furious at these shackles that tie me, no matter how deep my love for them is….

What a strange binary existence my life is right now… As I forge forward into the new frontiers of family hood yet grapple to hold onto those long lost elements of free and independent me.

A whirlpool of emotion gets stirred up by this constant tug of war as I search to understand and accept my new identity… Emotion amplified by the hormones of childbirth…. Emotions that are larger than words and often much larger than me…

But as always, while this makes the sad times horrific, the happy highs and blissful love I feel for this little family, our triumphs and our home is the greatest tidal wave of overwhelming pride and contentment that this wanderlusty mummy could ever believe existed.

What these next few years have to offer? Who knows?… But I am sure as I start to accept and understand this new existence and new version of “me” that everything will just keep changing, as it always does and somehow… No matter the package it’s dressed in or the new ways it operates… This Laurie seems to ride it out the other side… And still find room for an adventure… In all it’s forms…

Happy travels through life and hugs to you all…
L

Hand, foot, mouth and insanity

So, it’s been a while… Oops, sorry to those poor souls out there who actually endure my regular ramblings…

somewhere between driving 5000km, a train derailment delaying our move in, an expanding bump, a suicidal dog and the birth of the new one, six months managed to slip by! Nuts huh?

so let’s just jump forward to today… And worry about the in between later…

and by today, I mean two days ago…

because that’s when it all started.

spots.

let’s face it… Toddlers get spots, like ALL. THE. TIME!

So when my ( now very busy, very active – yeah, I need to update all of that too) microman was sporting a delightfully spotty bum a few days ago I thought nothing of it!!

He was still as mental as ever and let’s face it, if I wrapped your bum up with pee absorbing freaky chemical filled materials and made you run about in the 35 degree heat and high humidity the fair chance is you would get a case of spotty bot too…

but alas, the spots began to spread… So of course, this morning, as the usual morning pandemonium started to unfold I uncover that spotty bot now encompasses arms, legs, back, face and well… Child in general…

Still active, still loud, still able to produce more poop than your average gastroenterologist would know what to do with… But mysteriously spotty… And most notably… Off his food. Micro no food? Macro problem!

Of course today is day care day… My little sliver of sunshine in a frantic week… Where miss mango gets some much needed mummy time without micro biting her head, gouging her eyes or generally loving her a little too vigorously… A day where mummy gets a chance to see other mummies and hold conversations where she doesn’t have to refer to herself in the third person… So yes… If there are going to be spots…

there will be spots today…

none one the less, my morning started like any other morning.

wake up at ridiculous o clock, feed baby

try to snatch remaining few hours of sleep before onslaught of baby mayhem takes hold…

awake to hollers from micro

wrestle micro to access nappy for morning change.

get deliberately sprayed by milk from milk bottle bribe

discover nappy full of stench, get arm full of stench as micro flips over and nappy flies through the air, landing messy side down on the floor, of course,

wrestle micro back onto his back,

get bitten,

get kicked by foot that got covered in mess during kicking and flailing spree.

bundle micro into the bath tub.

hose down…

try to call out to calm mango who is now screaming for milk, a fresh nappy, attention or just for the heck of it, who knows?

fish wet wriggly micro out of the bathtub and transfer to the baby cage.

Attempt to dry and nappy. Fail.

Abandon mission and go console now hysterically frantic mango… Who sees me and giggles… Bless her.

resume mission to nappy micro.

Discover pee on the floor. Mental note to clean that later…

Wrangle now nappied micro into high chair… All the while being kicked and eye gouged. Recieve yet another scratch to the face and on my nose.

Offer breakfast and duck as it is thrown with surprising strength and accuracy at my head.

console crying baby.

discover that spots have spread. Debate dressing him in long clothes and taking him to day care anyways…

call medical centre. … Doctors all booked out till late next week ( must remember to schedule intention to be sick or injured at least a week in advance…

call alternate medical centre, closed till next week.. ( they’ve all taken holidays!)

call day care to confirm spot policy and be advised that there are cases of hand foot and mouth going around. Advised to take him to hospital for diagnosis.

Panic a little and stress whilst removing toast from hair… Call hospital to see if I should bring him into emergency as advised by day care… Little other choice…

wrestle to get micro out of high chair and into clothing

console screaming, frantic, hungry baby.

bundle two children into car and drive to town…

discover that boob is sticking out of shirt after a frantic breast feed by mango… Tuck it away grateful that discovery was made before arriving at hospital…

realise that i have not brushed my hair or teeth and have a poopy foot print on my shirt and a scratched nose. Shrug it off…

we have made it to emergency, join the queue. It’s going to be a while… And rightly so… With no doctors at all available in town it’s the only option… So of course this is when mango decides she is now ready for her feed. Survey waiting room full of sick, injured,impaled and dodgy looking characters… Decide it is in their and my best interest to take the travelling circus into adjacent, empty waiting room.

bless micro… Because, one must understand… He is a “free range” child… And as such… DOES NOT like being caged or fenced in by anything!!! This includes frequent temper tantrums at being taken to the park and outright meltdowns at the fact out yard has a gate… So looking at his sad, spotty, snotty face as he was clipped in to the pram as I wrestled to feed the mango I knew we were going to be in for a rough one… I tried a toy, I tried a car, I tried the iPad ( all whilst being munched on) but as inevitable as the fall of the Roman Empire, the hissy fit came…. GET ME OUT OF THIS PRAM!!!!! What choice did I have?? So ( somewhat foolishly) I rescued my little micro from his shackles and let him roam free…

at first it was great.

smiles. Giggles.

hospitals are fun places to explore.

he even came back when called… The first two times…

but slowly… As time ticked on more and more… He stopped coming when called… And started discovering that there was more fun in. The ” staff only” rooms…

Abandoning my pram ( and wallet and phone and keys – safety first Laurie!) and my now crying baby in the capsule, I raced ( whilst tucking my boob away, again) into the staff room to retrieve my now giggling micro.

Alarmingly, even in this condition, the staff actually thought I was a dr for a split second!

Retrieved child. Carry him back to pram, kicking and screaming…

at this time, the worlds friendliest cleaner, who had swept the same patch of corridor at least five times whilst I had been sitting there decided I was safe to approach and came to tell me all about her puppy… Oblivious to the fact I was chasing one ( now manic) toddler who had discovered the automatic doors and was laughing like a mad man as he made a dash for the car park and trying to fit now screaming, frantic baby out of capsule and into the bjorn so that I could chase said toddler…

worlds friendliest cleaner then showed me photos of her new puppy, which in fairness, was very cute… And advised me that there was a kiddy section around a further corner. Brilliant. Let’s try it!

a colouring table. Sweet. Better than nothing. I assume when they see my pram, wallet, phone, keys and empty capsule they will realise I haven’t gone home and i won’t miss my turn to see the doctor.

but alas, with a colouring table comes crayons… Tasty, tasty crayons… Crayons that fly like projectile missiles if launched by a 17 month old… So as I bend down to pick up projectile crayons, each time causing baby in bjorn to cry frantically, worlds friendliest cleaner continues to chase me around to show me the puppy photos!

And in the midst of all this… A text. A red texta no less. And if I thought crayons tasted good, textas are like dessert. In less time that it took to say texta it was in the gob and being sucked on by one delighted toddler. As as the amount of drool to ink ratio got out of whack I was now faced with one completely red faced, red mouthed, red shirted toddler laughing like a mad man!!! ( meanwhile, I am still bouncing whilst trying to console crying baby in bjorn!)

with much effort, scoop up micro man to remove texta only then to discover… The little bugger has done a sneaky second poo!!! Not now micro! Seriously, not now!!!

overly friendly cleaner advises me there is a baby change table around the corner. Thank god for a win!!! And then she looks on as I wrestle to hold micro under one arm, whilst trying to stop him swatting at his sisters head, bounce to keep the baby calm and try to get the nappies, wipes etc etc out of the pram…

Head into disabled toilet with change table. Attempt to change micro.

recieve several kicks. Realise that baby strapped to chest is recieving most kicks. Watch helplessly as wriggling toddler falls off change table towards floor and catch like a true acrobat with my foot. ( all whilst still bouncing) conclude that attempt one is a fail.

scoop up micro and assorted change stuff and head back to pram.. ( get giggles from men in waiting room)

grab capsule, throw change gear in capsule and return to change table. Lock toilet door.

place micro down whilst extracting mango to put her into capsule. Micro of course discovers the toilet. Helpless sigh.

pick him up, man handle him and endure the shrieks and screams of the boy who does not want his bottom wiped ( oh and of course it was ENORMOUS and extra stinky!)  eventually win out, bum is changed. Nappy and subsequent poop is on floor. Dammit!

Place him down… Away from said poop… Try to clean up damages. Realise that mango needs changing too. Listen to micro playing in toilet water whilst halfway through nappy change. Accept that this is inevitable and pray he doesn’t fall in.

meanwhile, micro discovers awesome bathroom acoustics and screams and squeals at top volume to enjoy the echo… ( god only knows what the folks I the waiting room thought I  was doing to him. )

attempt hand washing and collection of baby, changing goods and toddler before re entry into the toilet all to the sounds of the bathroom symphony squealy orchestra.

Emerge, slightly frazzled.

place toddler down to get better grip on baby… Look up to see toddler racing out auto doors. Again. Retrieve toddler… Wrestle him back into pram. Screaming and crying now at maximum volume and intensity. The doctor will see me now.

take texta, dirt and most likely poop covered, screaming, crying, snotty child through to consultation room. Doctor is at first freaked out by incredible redness of mouth… Until I explain it is from the texta he ate…

use several wipes to get through the dirt layers to show rash spots on feet…

Phage to take nappy off again to show spotty bot… And consequently go through extreme drama of getting nappy and pants back on… Much to doctors complete bemusement! ( seriously, there was nothing else for it but to laugh) try to hold micro in strangler hold to look in mouth and ears… And don’t even start me on how hard it was to get a temperature.

the conclusion.

viral rash.

not necessarily hand foot and mouth because there are no blisters… But still could be.

And there is NOTHING we can take for it… Just needs to run its course and we just need to be quarantined… Yes, I might get it and yes, most likely, miss cranky, off her food, crying baby is probably miserable because she is coming down with it… The fact that she has a slight fever would support this…

none the less just over two hours after we first arrived… Pack the travelling circus back into the car and head home.

no day care for us today!!! But hey… They good news is, now that it was lunchtime, I got myself a frozen coke and the machine was even working! Wooohoooo!!! Mummy for the win!!!

hoping to be spot free and ready to tackle the world again in no time!!

sorry for the break in writing… Will try to backdate our adventures soon!!!

may your spots be innocuous wherever they may be!!!

hugs!

Always.

L

The now mobile micro man… Now with added cheekiness! 😉

and we’re off… in a cloud of dust… just down the road

now, don’t get me wrong…

i am NOT a good packer. I am victim of the tardis effect… where all bags are in fact bigger on the inside and therefore are capable of carrying any manner of junk… in fact, the bigger the bag you give me, the more junk i will suddenly find that i absolutely, positively just have to take (i will need it all, of course) so a road trip with a rather sizeable boot was tempting fate to begin with…. then you add the trailer and we are bound to have some hilarity! and thus… as plans were hatched to undertake the grand trek across Australia’s deserts into the great outback the sense of packing forboding began to tingle and what few remaining senses i have left…

add to this, husband the buyer of random junk… and as the umbrella hats and bulk baby foods started to appear in the mail i knew we were in for some packing dramas… but contention reached fever pitch on the spare tyres… 8 of them to be precise… EIGHT! and my how they were discussed (read divorce worthy argued about) and discussed and discussed…

but amidst the trauma of moving, these 8 “little” circles of rubber found their way wedged into the back of the trailer… with a mountain of other crap… and driven up the coast to my parents for a quick christmas stopover…

what we didnt know however, was that this was the start of the great unravelling…

as it turns out however, when you add the extra weight of 8 spare tyres plus bundles of useless crap (that in hindsight, maybe didnt need packing…) onto an untested wee trailer… mechanical faults can and will happen…

so, in the usual flurry of frustration as our junk was unceremoniously tossed into the already overloaded, car and tralier, amidst the inevitable tears goodbye and well wishes, we waved bravely, turned the key and rolled down the driveway… pulled out onto the street and made it at least 100 metres before the phone rang…

“wind down your windows”

“why?”

“can you hear that grinding noise?”

“what grinding noise?”

“oh crap… THAT grinding noise”…

sure enough, like the gutteral growl of some prehistoric beast sent to earth from the very bowels of hell there it was, a grinding, grumbling growl that could not be ignored…

so, a quick lap round the block and then the investigations begin… all the men of the family at first, looking at it, listening to it, kicking it for good measure… then come the neighbours, even the randoms driving by…

yup… general consensus. your trailer is stuffed.

now, i am not a mechanically minded person… but stuffed is stuffed…

and in short (due to the weight of said tyres or not remains open to debate) the trailer body had shifted so perilously low under the strain of the tow that the wheels were in fact rubbing on the mud flaps… not like an innocent little rub behind a puppy’s ears… oh no… that grating, gouge holes the size of the grand canyon, perilous tyre exploding kind of rub.

so two hours in the sun… child unloaded and put back indoors, worldly goods tipped out on the street for surveying and the decision was made… lose the tyres…

so pregnant or not, as if instructed by “the commando” himself, i rolled those tyres (near to bare foot and frumpy as i possibly could muster) up the street and across the road to their new home… my parents garage…

and thus, only 4ish hours later than intended… the caravan of crazy set sail once more up the golden highway due west…

if only it was as simple as that…

with head out the window, lie a dog in a ute, listening to the inevitable growls of chewed tyres we pressed on…

through smells unmentionable as it quickly emerged our darling micro man has a chronic case of tummy trouble, we pressed on… (thank god for the over the top packing and the numerous wardobe changes available to the microman as he averaged 2 changes an hour! not to mention the ingenious inclusion of a sealable vaccuum (biohazard) bag to store his clothes once extracted from his person…)

through searing heat and past several closed service stations (oh crap, is that the fuel light!?) we pressed on…

through the quick rest break that uncovered the ever growing tyre divet that required a complete road side trailer / car re-pack we pushed on further still

despite the “twenty minute” dinner stop from hell, where it took the local club over an hour and half to serve up some pre-cooked lasagne and a cold hamburger we pressed on..

and into the sunset we drove… allowing the every growing rumble of chewed out rubber serve as a detterent for the many wayward kangaroos whom were determined to hurl themselves forthright in front of our moving vehicle…

hour after hour we watched the sun go and relied on our uber bright lights and keen night vision to slow for each kamakaze over grown rodent that tempted fate in our path until at last, nearing 11pm we pulled into the welcome sight of our first night’s accommodation…

dust covered, nose hairs burned due to chemical violations and hands shaking from the alternating fears of hitting a kangaroo or blowing up the now severely chewed up tyre we tumbled out of the car into the stillness and quietness of the midnight sky,

prised open the back door to remove the microman to discover he had been travelling for an undisclosed period of time with an eight legged monster!! EEEEK! (hang on, it is late at night in a quiet town hotel carpark… silent eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

some incredible flicking with a shoe later and the child was safely extracted and (i choose to believe – despite it being too dark to get substantial evidence) that the unwanted passenger was very much removed from the vehicle NEVER to return again…

bags unloaded, trailer unhitched for daylight inspection and most gratefully we turned in for the eve… the quality of that nyngan hotel or the comfort i could not even tell you now… for us, it was heaven… we had made it… no roo sized dents, no divorce and the trailer, albeit very much in an undesireable condition, still attached and unexploded…

yup, day one of our adventure west (and north) was everything a road trip should be… god knows what daylight would bring!!!!

 

 

 

 

The inner workings of the female mind…

Moving.

its a stressful time.

this is documented fact.

so moving halfway across the country, away from family and friends, into the great unknown, with crazy weather, limited facilities and treacherous wee beasties is bound to cause some inner turmoil…

now… Throw into the mix trying to pack while entertaining the microman… No matter how wonderful he is, suddenly having all his toys locked away in boxes, no floor space available for playtime and general chaos and things really start getting a little tricky…

and just to take it all up yet another notch, mix this bubbling stress with a good dose of pregnancy hormones and then we have the backdrop for how our last week went…

so of course, being a **slight** control freak I approached this impending mountain of stress with a healthy dose of over the top organisation (read OCD) and had effectively “white boarded” our entire last two months… Nothing left to chance…

Step one, avoid any last minute social engagements, where my emotional cracks may be opened into emotional abysses from which the tears may flow…

step two, avoid social situations with large groups of people, except of course one dedicated event to be located and timed so as to avoid a public breakdown…

step three, have all social engagements done, finished, complete before the actual moving week so as to allow me to fret in private and do all those last minute crazy lady things I am wont to do…

now, this foolproof plan would have worked too… if you didn’t have to add one very easy going and well intentioned husband into the mix…

i mean seriously… in the build up to the move, OCD girl here commenced the grand process of sorting and sifting through every drawer and downsizing the amount of crap i own, while said husband went on a rip roaring spending spree to replace all disposed of crap with even more junk… and for every drawer or box i sorted, a new one was created simply to relocate his ever accumulating piles of paraphanalia… and thus… the age old battle begins…

but things really took a turn for rocky harbour when darling husband decided to plan to see his family on the very night our furniture was due to be shifted… i mean, eeeeeeeekkkk!!!! after a day lugging furniture and desperately trying to mop up a few years worth of dust so as to make the house presentable enough to hand back, is a dinner exactly what you would have in mind!!???? yet, then again, it is FAMILY! and we won’t be seeing them for quite some time… so other then some very subtle comments (read two weeks of outright nasty nagging and griping) the date was set for dinner…

i can work around this?

right?

sure enough… the week drew in… stress, panic, fret, grumble (all as anticipated) healthy bouts of miscommunication, as one would expect, the odd backhanded barking snipe at each other, also, only natural under the circumstances… but the boxes were packed and littered from one end of the house to the other and it was happening… regardless if we were ready or not. emotions running high, an this ostrich ready only to do some last minute prepping, packing and planning followed by sticking my head in the sand…and thus it was i found myself on wednesday afternoon, knee deep in bleach from cleaning the toilet, dust in my hair, windex in my eyes, trying to comfort one very distressed and cranky baby all while holding up a cupboard that needed drilling when the phone rings…

“shall i pick you up at your place or the hotel?” asks one of my nearest and dearest… “neither” i curse under my sweaty breath… “what the?”

and what a “what the” it turned out to be…

me head firmly ready to be in sand, in no fit state to see anyone, with no clothing accesssible and in my head a list a mile long of things that still needed to be done before tomorrow and our big furniture shifting day (not to mention i still have to contend with the dinner already planned for then)…when it transpires… darling husband has arranged for two of my girlfriends to take me out for a quick dessert to calm me down…

i of course shoot him some filthy stares and some equally vile retorts about “how could he?” when he knows i have said my good byes, made my peace and i have so much i want to do tonight… but of course, i begrudgingly figured a quiet hour out could still be worked around… besides, they have seen me stressed before, and in my dusty work clothes… i can do this…

until, as it turned out… the plot thickened… darling husband had gone well and truly outside of the whiteboard parameters and as i tried to convince my friend to push it back an hour i was met with a wall of”no” we are already late. what does one mean late? penrith isnt going anywhere…

but no… dig out some clothing… seriously anything that you can reach and get ready NOW…

by this stage of course i am particularly feral… the cracks of stress indeed starting to become chasms of despair… sanity long since gone and outright confusion like the greyest of stormclouds rolling around my head… thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening indeed… but if hubby was scared he chose not to show it… and not until i was safely tucked away in my friend’s car… cursing under my breath at the imposition of having to take even an hour out that the fateful task was left to my mate to tell me, we weren’t staying local and we would be more than an hour… in fact… it wasn’t just going to be “us”.

what is going on!!??? (insert excessive expletives into that sentence for the more accurate conversation)

alas, my darling husband… had tried so very hard to be thoroughly wonderful… by knowingly going OFF the whiteboard…

never never never leave the whiteboard of a stressed out, manic, OCD driven crazy lady during a time of intense emotional turmoil. never. seriously NEVER!

and thus it was, dust and bleached covered, scowly faced in the car park of the hotel it was revealed to me that i was expected (some time ago) at a dinner with a bundle of my nearest and dearest as planned and organised by my equally sweaty and stressed out husband…the girls in my life who have lifted me over every hurdle. seen me at my worst and picked me up again… those that i am going to miss so unbelievably  and i knew would make me cry just to see them, knowing i would be moving far away…

oh yes, how else would a girl react to a gorgeous surprise dinner with her besties??? other than to turn into a screaming, aggressive lunatic who may very well have surgically removed part of the anatomy of the planner of such an event if left unchecked with any sort of sharp (or blunt) implement…

and thus it was, poor husband, who (bless him) had tried so hard received the bollocking of a lifetime from his crazy wife who then took several hours to calm back down (and be kept safely away from all sharp – and blunt – instruments) all while desperately trying NOT to cry… and worse still??? the mood was so vile, so foul, i didnt even get to really enjoy dinner!!!!!

so to say that packing and moving was “uneventful” and “stressfree” would be a lie…

yet somehow, we survived.

somehow, husband forgave my craziness, friends accepted that i am as nuts as i always have been, baby finally went to sleep and all the boxes did get packed the truck got loaded, furniture shifted, family dinner survived, the house got cleaned and here we are.. on the road… adventure bound…

god knows how he will cope with me these next few weeks… but for today at least, we are enjoying some downtime with the family for christmas… letting go of the stresses and preparing for more…

the whiteboard is packed and tomorrow begins a new day and a new adventure…

here goes nothing!!!!!

merry christmas everyone!!!!!!

all my love and hugs,

as always,

the crazy lady!

😉

new adventures await…

so…

i had  baby.

cool.

life goes on, yes?

so when the hubby comes home and tells me that his job has demanded we hit the road again… i find myself pondering… how much has life REALLY changed with the addition of the micro man?

I mean, we have packed and moved for his job before…  and survived

i have given up my work in these moves before… and survived

i have gone gallivanting around the world, far from home… and my absolutely wonderful family and friends have always supported these misadventures and welcomed me home with open arms…

so why does this time seem to fill me with so much more fear???

where is my daredevil streak??? that rush of excited adrenalin??? that buzz at the wonder of what tomorrow holds? that longing to hit the road, explore the unknown, have a fresh start?? where is my wanderlust?? and where is my longing to live in the Territory, in the warmth and open space that has been brewing within for years??

at what point did becoming “mum” mean i suddenly lost “me”?

so of course… in this higgledy piggeldy state of confusion and all the natural stresses that come with moving… when i start to lament this sudden loss of “me” it seems only natural to shake things up and re-find that inner core by rising to a challenge..

yup.. despite all the nay-sayers, despite the fact that the route we are driving has constant closures due to extreme heat, despite the pitfalls… watch this space… as hubby and i of course think it is completely normal, sane, rational and entirely soul gratifying to attempt to traverse this great continent, some 7000 km of liberation, complete with a ten month old… and a 20 week bump!!!

adventure awaits!

and may it smile upon you, wherever in this great world you’re hiding!

always.

L

i’m growing a human

i can’t even successfully grow a plant for more than 2 weeks without killing it… how on earth is it i am growing a human and have just about reached due date!???

what a strange and frightening journey of the mind pregnancy has been…

forget the physical stuff… which in itself is a beyond words amazing testimony to the human body… the mind journey of pregnancy has been a longer, harder, wider, scarier path than i have ever dared walk before… and saddistically, i love it.

so with the impending arrival of bubs… naturally my mind has kicked it up even another notch…

a) does this thing seriously have to come out of me somehow!!?? holy crap. i dont even want to start thinking about that one

b) while it is in me.. thus far, i havent broken it or stuffed it up… really, this baby would be best kept safe on the inside! how long after it comes before they realise i am clearly not mentally fit to be anyone’s “mother” and come rescue this poor baby from growing up with my warped view of the world!?

c) perhaps i have imagined this whole thing. is it actually real?

d) OMG there are soooooooooo many things that could be wrong, have gone wrong or are going to go wrong with this baby, this pregnancy, this birth, this child… and yes, of course my evil twisted mind is visiting ALL of these possibilities, most frequently through the form of dreams (when i am indeed lucky enough to actually sleep)

the mind boggles…

and yet, here i sit… watching the icky cold rain dribbling down outside… and finding it hilarious… that I can’t even feel the cold!!!

this pregnancy caper has stuffed my whole body temperature thing up! god knows i would normally be the first in fluffy socks and a massive jumper… yet i am in one of the 4 remaining dresses that stretches over the barnyard bump.. legs bare… feet bare… blissfully ignorant that i am quite possibly catching pneumonia as i type… but it is ok… my mind is currently to full of what if’s and scattered “baby brain” nonsensical thoughts to actually register this impending health risks…

indeed, while i stop and allow the mind to cast back over these last few months what a crazy few months it has been!

poor husband copped the nesting… and was forced to spend large portions of his holidays needlessly shifting furniture… oops…

this was of course intermittent with the frequent and irrational desire to vaccuum under couches, clan the oven and in essence “lick the floor” clean…

bless the hubby for handling it..

also the poor dog… whose inside “mat” got washed to the extreme point that i may have temporarily given the poor little guys some freakish case of doggy dermatitis… i wonder if he knows what is coming… the neglect that i know awaits him breaks my heart ENTIRELY and of course just adds more for my overstretched and panicked mind to latch onto…

consequently though, we have a semi set up, mismatched, “nursery” ready to go… which i am sure i will rearrange within 5 minutes of coming home with the pumpkin pi anyways!

i have enjoyed the last month or so of extreme alien belly… which is also actually kind of saddistic when you think about it… as it kind of hurts when a little person punches you so hard from the inside that you fear they may actually escape through your belly button..and yet scarily, i found this action the most reassuring of all! but just the concept… of a living creature. INSIDE YOUR STOMACHE…. moving, wiggling punching… i mean, i get squeamish at having worms… and this is a PERSON inside of me!!! if you have not had the experience of pregnancy i just dare you to try to wrap your brain around the fact that there is a living being. an entirely seperate entity with its own free will actually cohabiting under your skin… seriously… could there be any greater mind bender!!???

but with all this alien belly action it turns out though (to no great surprise) my bub has totally got ADHD and these manic episodes of punching the crap out of “mummy” are far more violent and frequent than any of my fellow bump buddies are currently enduring! does anything about me having an active baby surprise me? heck no. but god help us when he/she (hubby still adamantly says he) does finally escape!

mind you.. it is an awesome party trick to be able to sit across the table from someone during a meal and declare “watch this spot” and have them witness first hand the alien within! again.. i challenge you… really allow your brain to mill that situation over just a little too much and see if you don’t drive yourself nutty in the process!

intermittent with all this excitement however is of course my natural and innate tendency to freak the crap out at EVERYTHING… preganancy is such a mind screw anyways but OMG! and everytime i talk myself down there is some new thing to contend with! if there is a way to think of a dramatic problem my mind has done it and then some!

and the last few ob/gyn appointments sure havent helped…

36 weeks – you’re posterior… now.. i know this is normal and totally fine… but panic mode sets in and of course latches on to the obvious meaning behind posterior… AAAAARRRRGGGHHHHHHHH this is going to HURT!!!! (fear of impending pain then dominates the next week’s thoughts) note to the wise… AVOID thinking about the actual child birth. ESPECIALLY while pregnant and if prone to over dramatising and panic attacks… (just saying)

37 weeks (Monday morning) – hmmm… looks like your placenta is starting to fail… we may have to take bubs out sooner than anticipated… wait till FRIDAY (afternoon) to get a scan and we will decide what to do…

now this one is cruel on 2 fronts…

1 – holy crap! i know i want a baby!! but am i actually ready yet!!!??? AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!!!

holy crap holy crap holy crap (this is suddenly all becoming very very real)

2 – WAIT TILL FRIDAY!????? are you flipping kidding me!

tell a fat, crazy, hormonal preggo to hang tight for 5 days while something directly affecting her baby might be actively “failing” inside of her!!! OMG!!!!!

needless to say… i had entirely cracked by Tuesday and took myself down the hospital just to check that bubs was still alive…

and no matter how nutty the midwives think i am.. the sound of that little heart beat going ballistic has been the most calming wonderful noise i have heard this week! and has been what has got me through until today…. 2 hours till i head in for scans…

of course, hubby “wagging” work as often as he could to be here has been a god send too… he is in the middle of a course in which he is not supposed to leave the base.. day or NIGHT and yet i find at my door 3 nights this week one hubby with dinner in one hand and his dirty washing in the other… couldnt love him any more if i tried! this must be hard for him too.. poor guy.

anyways… there is my crazy lady ramblings…

as i count down the hours till i go and get my scan…

so much panic and stress (which let’s face it… is guaranteed to be what has caused ADHD baby kicks for the last few months)

and in a few short hours, MAYBE the whole game will change??

my mind has extended to every possibility and of course i have talked myself into a state of complete irrational anxiety… when in all honesty… i will probably get there, find it has all been a false alarm and be told to go on baking the pi till it is ready to extract itself…

2 more days?

2 more weeks?

who knows?

either way i am totally geared for a panic attack!!!

and worse still… the ongoing naming debate / saga that will only ramp up a level when the arrival becomes even more imminent!

may all be calm in your corners of the world… watch this space i guess as the next chapter unfolds with or without my sanity! 😉

hugs, always.

L

p.s… baby brain appears to have erased my memory on how to ensure images are not inserted sideways… oops…

a sudden realisation of the passing of time…

32 weeks.

How did that happen???

A few months ago (in what now feels like YEARS ago…) I started valiantly blogging all the perks and pitfalls of this whole pregnancy caper… The highs, the lows, my fears, feelings and doubts… a little journal to capture this precious, magical time… Of course, then, because you are supposed to keep it all hush… I did keep it all hush… thinking i”ll jam the airways once we’re public and even inundate the cyber world with weekly blissed out reports of how it is all going…

 

well…. that was 20 weeks ago… this is now…

and have I uploaded this treasury of experience in its entirety? no. have i lifted pen to paper, or finger to keyboard? no.

somehow… in 20 short (long?) weeks i have gone from my physical, emotional recognisable self to a crazy hormonal banshee, with the turning circle of a yak and the complete inability to string a sentence together…let alone sit down still for longer than 2 minutes to actually write one.

 

All kudos to my husband… who married a slender, in control, free spirited independant woman and who now shares the house with an OCD suffering, manic demon lady with a side profile the size of a barn… whom, at any given moment… may order him to relocate furniture for no apparent good reason other than an overwhelming urge that it just has to happen!

(thank you sweetheart for finally fixing the baby room)

 

so what happened???

what happened to the serene, glowing woman, with flawless skin and tear free eyes on the front of the hospital pamphlets and glossy magazines?? what happened i ask you?? LOOK AT ME! clearly i ATE HER!!!! and her lunch… and her dinner…

 

somewhere between “yay we’re pregnant” and today my entire body has been overcome by some alien lifeform who knows no relent.

it has stretched my boobs (not REALLY complaining tooooo much about that – for now) but it has also stretched my tummy, my thighs and most recently, my now suffering rib cage. who knew rib cages could stretch??!! who knew this painful stretch could occur simultaneously whilst being kicked ferociously by some little alien beast now invading my inner body cavity.

i no longer walk…

i know longer glide with the sheer glow of knowing life grows within… no… i distinctly waddle.

 

and once i sit down. that is it.. hire the fork lift to move me or your sofa will be permanently etched with an imprint of my butt cheeks.

 

then there is the tears.

oh my god.

the tears!

tears for happy, tears for sad, tears for scared, tears for tired, tears for hungry, tears for “where does that couch look best!?” tears for hot, tears for cold, tears for thirsty, tears for “why don’t we have any strawberry jam in the house dammit!” there are even tears for tears.

is this some peverse way of the universe preparing me for the barrage of tears this wee little alien will yet inflict upon us once it does emerge forth into our greater stratosphere??!! i cant even figure out why i am crying!!?? how the heck can i look after a helpless, defenseless, noisy, smelly , squishy little being!?

 

somewhere along the way, my zest and sparkle has been consumed by lethargy and a constant desire to sit. where was this in the family planning brochure i ask you!!???

 

then there is the big one…

the awakening thought (at around 28 weeks – or whenever your belly overwhelms the sight of your feet) OMG… this alien has to come out!!! sometime.. in the next 10-ish weeks… i am going to experience unforetold pain… i am going to undergo one of life’s greatest unknown and uncontrollable medical procedures and we don’t even know and cant guarantee the end result! what if i fail!? what if there really is some mutant alien in there… what if it looks like me!!???

why does our brain carry this “what if” capacity far greater than any other innate thought process… because i can assure you… if your “what if” button is highly functional to start with (and let’s face it… name me a woman that isnt good at the what if’s) add crazy lady hormones and multiply by infinity!!!!

 

and what’s weirder???

i wouldnt change a second of it for the world..

despite the ordeal of living with all types of crazy and a body that i am no longer in control of… i find myself staring constantly at this crazy expanding bump… rubbing it, talking to it, dreaming of it… and loving it.

 

8 more weeks!

will i get the energy to write about this momentus build up… capture this “once in a lifetime” period in my world, who knows… but suffice it to say… i am strapped in for the rollercoaster ride of a lifetime…

 

watch this space.

hugs (as always)

L

 

 

….the perks and the pitfalls…

(post dated… written sometime back in july or august)

 

So, it’s been about 3 weeks I have known now… 3 weeks floating around in my own little bubble of knowing, not being able to share!  but subconsciously rubbing my belly and praying that this miracle is real… that it will hold…that we will make the first hurdle of that magic 12 weeks and find that everything is just perfect!

And other than knowing..and not being able to scream it loud… in fairness… not much had changed…

Until now…

Ok.. first there is the positive… the part that hubby likes anyways…

The boobs.

Cant help but notice them.

And can i say… despite the pain that is preventing me sleeping on my belly… i LIKE them…

Nay, i LOVE THEM!!!

God knows i have been a HUGE wonderbra fan for many, many years so it is great to be able to fill out a top on my own for once! Not a bad side effect at all..

And frankly.. if boobage was all i had to worry about i would be one happy camper…

But as i sit here and continue to trawl the web pages in that new pregnancy language, seeking information for what else to expect it dawns on me what’s missing… what’s due… the sickness…

So what is morning sickness???

Well, today i found out…

When out and about, walking my dog… that growing nauseaus feeling that has been giving me the giddies for the last few weeks suddenly took quite the dramamtic turn…

Walk, walk, talk, talk, take jumper off… feel a bit hot, then, from NOWHERE… BLERRRRGH! On the side of the road.

It came like a steam train… and took both me, the dog, the hubby and the poor man walking behind us quite by surprise!

Oh dear god.

Spew-o-rama has begun!

Seriously…. 6 more weeks of this!?

The only solution… i will now be bringing a bucket both to school and work with me!!!!!

Let the fun begin!

 

The hardest part…

post dated… this was written around july 10…

Ok…

So tomorrow has been a week since i found out…

And believe me i have already experienced EVERY emotion known to man… and then some!!!!!!

But the hardest thing to deal with!??

Keeping quiet!!!!

Of course i want to shout it from the roof tops…

And yet i also know i cant..

Both hubby and i have decided to keep it quiet till we’re further along…

And what a strange custom this is… yet still it is one i feel compelled to keep!

I don’t even know where it stems from? Yes, there is far greater risk in these early weeks of losing this much wanted baby… but surely, then especially, i would want my friends and family… my support community to be by my side… though god willing we won’t need that!!!!

Yet here i am…

Enjoying the extra sleep of these school holidays (fatigue definitely being one symptom i am experiencing!) and pondering how on earth i can be going back to normal work with this uttermost excitement just growing inside me…

And to make matters worse…

Also with holidays…

Time with friends.

And lets face it.

Mine are the best in the world.

I love them all to pieces and without them i would be lost, empty and half the woman i am today.

So here i am basking in the glow of the love and support my friends give me unconditionally and i have this most awesome news and i have to pretend like i don’t know!!!!! ITS SOOOOOO HARD! I want to tell them

I want to tell them soooooooo bad.

Yet i cant.

12 weeks.

Time flies in every other aspect of my microcosmos…but this i fear will be an eternity!

I cant keep silent forever! I swear! It is bringing me undone! I am sure i have given it away. Rubbed my belly one time too many, refused “forbidden foods and drinks” a little too vehemenently, just said something too off kilter… my friends forgive me please that i didn’t tell you when i saw you today..

And forgive me also if i hide behind other vices… it is my way of dealing with this “deceit” of omission of truth!

Always and ever.

Laurie the secret keeper!

I did a HPT to check my HCG’s got a BFP and now all I can say is OMG! (The language of pregnancy…the adventure begins)

So….

By the time you read this (or, more specifically, I post this)… I’ll be another few weeks down the track from where I am now (July 2012) (and even more significantly… a heck of a lot bigger!)… so I am sure this will all be rather odd and irrelevant… but in keeping with the mysteries surrounding pregnancy I am valiantly trying to keep “mum” about the growing bulge inside my belly… a feat in itself nearly as tricky as acquiring said bump in the first place!

So rewind a touch..

Rewind to where this craziness began… with that fateful conversation that no words can describe. That awkward electric air crackling conversation that goes a little like this…

“so….. when do you think we should start trying?” “I don’t know, when do you think we should start trying?” “I don’t know! I asked you” “ but how should I know”… this banter of course lasts  a good half an hour till an uneasy status quo means I guess we’re trying…

Skip a few months (I’ll spare you the romantic details… but let’s just say PRACTICING is good fun!) and suddenly… the awkward conversation seems eons ago and the trying starts to become a looming and patronising invader who overcomes your every waking thought and your every waking hour…

Teeneagers do it all the time! I see them in their ugg boots strutting their protruding tummies…

“what’s wrong with me?”

And then it starts…

The self hating. The questioning and the downward spiral of despair…

The mental torture of what am I doing wrong!? What’s wrong with me!?

It is truly a dark and scary place…and one I found out keeps many, many women my age held hostage month after month… yes, we can be objective… yes we know rationally that it does take time… that it is a lottery and that you just have to keep trying… you know this objectively. You know this rationally, but each month as the tidal wave of hormones floods sanity and reason with overwhelming   emotional surges, reason is long since gone. And instead, in its place…after each month of “trying” the slap in the face of failure becomes so overwhelming and desperately depressing that you fall into the slump of “I must be broken” “what’s wrong with me” or “it’ll never happen”. It’s a dark, curly, downward spiral and one that many women ride alone. To those trapped in that scary, dark, lonely, self loathing merry go round I plead… break out! You are NOT alone!

But then at last…

After months of doctors removing bloods, quizzing me and my every habit and warning me to lose weight a miracle occurred…

The slap in the face didn’t come.

Could it be true?

Am I dreaming…

And then next comes the mind maze of is this real??

How soon is too soon to pee on a stick…

I’ve fallen into this trap before… where every sneeze, every hiccup in my mind is a symptom of pregnacy only to have the hormone flag wave a few days late…laughing at my crushed hopes and dreams… I’ve peed on countless sticks to have my flutters and buzz instantly smashed…

But this time I am really late.

Should I?

Could I?

Will I?

The mind spiral quickens to a dizzying speed of insanity

I will.

I pee. I wait.

Nothing.

I slump.

I wait more.

Could it be?

That faintest, slightest of lines?

I think it is?

I can’t be sure?

Am I imagining this though my sheer desperation!?

I need a second opinion.

But where do I go? He is at work. I am alone… could this really really be real!?

I shower. I check again.

I see 2 lines.

I really truly do.

I’ll go see him.

I’ll ask him if I have finally cracked to delusional imaginings…

And inevitably he freaks.

But yes…

I think it is real.

Now we both wait…

Both of us in the cloudy dream-like stupor of OMG! Is this really happening?

Both of us entering the start of that journey of HOLY CRAP life as we know it will NEVER EVER be the same and are we truly ready for this… a personal and scary mind world in itself.. one I am sure I will re visit during upcoming posts…

A strange new world where the “when will we start trying conversation seems to be a delusional memory now firmly overtaken by the OMG What have we done!?” conversation…

A few days later.

A second pee.

And this time.. an instant second line.

This is real! This is happening.

So… NOW WHAT!?

Panic.. panic.. a bit more panic…

A trip to the doctor to confirm…

And the bitter slap by the medical profession…

“You have a 1 in 5 chance of losing it between now and week 12”.

We have already travelled so far just to reach this surreal start in the road and now we have to stay quiet because there is even more that can go wrong!!?? OMG!

I want to shout it from the roof tops.

I want to tell the world.

I want to share with my friends and family and I sure as heck want their support..

And yet here I am at the mythical “3 – 4 weeks” mark looking at the endless desert of weeks laid out before me wondering just where this adventure is heading…

So yes… as I share my news through code names and stealth visits to the world of online forums I am starting to learn this whole new language of pregnancy.

I am sure I might even be fluent in it by next march… god willing and of course assuming these next 8 weeks bring with them more excitement and confirmation of the growing bulge!

So in secret excitement I am happy to say… watch this space…for a new adventure in the world of le undies metale is coming your way in march 2013!

Always and ever.

One very spun out L.

the curse of day to day living…

what’s wrong with me??

seriously.

i struggle when it comes to the day to day..

so here i am… back in suburbia.. back in reality… living the urban “dream” and longing for a dog to complete the picture… yet, when i at last get said dog.. i FREAK OUT! i mean… seriously freak out!!! i mean… sitting here thinking do i just take him back to the pound??? because i fear i am seriously sooooooooo not ready for this…

which then makes me wonder… what if  i ever get pregnant!!??? my goodness.. if i have post puppy depression pity the poor souls who live with me!!!!

but then it makes me ponder…

just how much time, effort and energy AM i supposed to be giving this poor burdened beast currently fouling my backyard?? are these feelings of inadequacy in fact feelings of guilt, that the poor old boy is outside in the cold whilst i enjoy the warmth of the inside? when in turn these feelings may be futile.

maybe it is normal to keep a dog outside and not be at his whim at every moment?

 

or maybe… just maybe i have finally officially cracked and need to finally be shipped off to the funny farm…

well folks… i guess time will tell as i wrestle with my own burden of guilt and complete fear of this new commitment that now lays before me!!!!

may your own back yards be warm and full of welcomed beasts!

sigh…