Cutting myself some slack

I've had a thought occur to me.

I think this has been forming for some weeks/months now, but I've not been able to quite lay a finger on what was going on for me.

In recent discussion with another friend who is also pregnant after losing her first child soon after birth (full term), I started to think about all the innocence lost for me on this journey, and for Steve no doubt although I haven't talked with him specifically about this that I recall.

Babies have always enraptured me. Children have always enthralled me. How they play, how they learn, interact, concentrate.... all of it. I find it so completely intriguing and I have in the past been able to sit and just absorb them - I thought that working in child care centres after school from the age of 15, and then as a first full time job, would be my perfect career. I found though that, as with so many organisations, there was always red tape, always a monkey on the back so to speak, and the more responsibility that was given me in these positions the more I wasn't actually able to sit back and watch them for the pure enjoyment of being in their presence. I had kind of hoped it'd be more than washing out bottles of clag and wiping down floors and tables..... before anyone weighs in here and says "Ahhh but that's what a mother does, they're forevvvver cleaning up after their children", I beg you to stop and give me some credit that I do know that is part of it. Part. It's one thing to clean up after your own child, though, and quite another to clean up after 30-odd children who are not your own.

Anyway, that career path wasn't meant to be. And I'm glad of it. But the point is, it didn't happen and I spent the next several years (after leaving the last centre I worked at in 1994) saying it was the for the best because it could have ruined this love I have of children.

What I have recently come to realise though, is that I think my love of children - while not lost - may be very well hidden after all these years of heartbreak, losing so many babies and of course losing Ellanor. So while it didn't happen by way of breaking my spirit and passion for learning from/being around children and babies in child care where I was worked to my bare knuckles, I think it may have happened inadvertently just by living with all this surrounding us.

I was trying to think back to when I had my last moment/s of pure joy at experiencing a baby or child simply "being", not tinged with sadness or lost hope or anything, and recall it must have been around my nephew's first birthday in February 2000. I suffered my first miscarriage less than two months later, but had been nervously waiting to test and having an inkling that I was pregnant the day I was celebrating the first year of life of a baby boy who I adored. The first year I spent watching him grow, actively involved virtually every weekend in playing with him, watching him with his parents, discovering new things... I loved it. I was overcome with the feeling that this was a new little being - I hadn't really seen it that way before. That here was this perfect, clean slate, waiting to grow his knowledge and character and experience in everything life had to offer. It was really overwhelming to me.

Of course, that first miscarriage hit the worst. It was in April 2000. At my birthday in June, I remember sort of jollying over the subject when Dad gave me one of his big Dad-bear-hugs and he profoundly said to me, very softly, "Don't laugh it away, you have been through something huge". I broke down then. For the first of many times. It was as if I had been given permission.

Permission that I didn't have to pretend it hadn't mattered, pretend that words that I know were attempting to offer me comfort from people close to me sometimes missed the mark so badly that it just added to the pile of rubble that had become my dreams. It hurt. In massive amounts. So much so that we didn't even try to conceive again for the next two years.

The start of 2002 brought with it new hope and new options. In January, the very first month we tried - don't you hate me, I'm so sorry - I became pregnant. We lost it sooner than we had lost the first (under 5 weeks) and I thought then that something wasn't right. I was born to be a mother! Destined to be around children, so eager to experience the phenomenal development of a baby of my own. It sounds very sappy, so Little House On The Prairie, of me to say but it really was/is in my bones, in my makeup. So I couldn't figure out why the map had gotten me so terribly lost. The irony that my chosen partner in life, my very right limb of a husband and my bestestest friend (for real, no shit), has a condition that prevents "easy" conception is not lost on either of us. We believe it makes our relationship even more special than it would have been if we'd simply met up and had a very smooth sail through our lives together.

The third miscarriage came quite soon after the second. So by March 2002 I was pregnant again. We lost that one at around 5 weeks - just in time to greet our niece who came into the world the following month. I've since been told, and almost accusatorily, that I was different with her than I was the first time a new member of the family was born. Hmmmmm *taps chin* you know, I wonder why???

What ensued was a trip to a Genetics Counsellor in May of 2002, where we learned of Steve's balanced translocation. You can bore/educate yourselves on that here. Armed with the knowledge that we not only had more chance than anyone to experience more miscarriages than successful, healthy pregnancies (we're so lucky, ner ner nee ner ner to all of you), we also had to brace ourselves for some pretty heavy duty abnormalities and a child who most likely wouldn't reach adulthood if by some freak of nature we managed to conceive a baby that had juuuust enough correct genetic information to prevent it from spontaneously aborting.

My fourth miscarriage was the third I'd had in a year (2002 was a bumper year for us) and it saw us deflated but not defeated. Those around us started to sit up and take a bit more notice, I think, that this was going to be tough for us. And all throughout this time, albeit less than before, I made absolutely sure we were making a dent in the lives of the little people around us - as much as I could emotionally give, and I gave a lot quite frankly.

The one and only pregnancy of 2003 was our miracle, Ella. Nary a warped chromosome in sight, nor an abnormality that could be put down to the translocation, she was taken from us as well anyway. You all know that story.

But it wasn't until after Ella died that it really became quite impossible for me to be around children and babies as freely as I had done before. My armour had that many chinks in it by then, it was too much to even get in the car somedays. Three babies were born to family or friends that same year, and we also managed to fit in two more failed pregnancies in May (at 6 weeks) and again in December (at 10 weeks). What was so horrific about the arrival of the first baby after we lost Ella was that we, Steve and I both, were still grappling with the fact that our daughter was gone. I could still feel her scratchy fingernails exploring my bare chest when I lay in bed at night. I physically felt her little body weighing down on my breast and would wake to find it was just my enormously heavy heart. Amongst this, we knew the love affair that we had with our child did not diminish that same love that other new parents were experiencing around us. And honouring that, we did try. Have tried. To encourage and congratulate.

But only five months after Ella died and two months after my 5th miscarriage, I had another new mother on the phone sympathetically telling me she understood (not having lost a pregnancy or baby, I wondered how she could) and that she thought that by the 12 month mark of her baby's life, we should be pretty much all better and able to be "normal" around the baby at that point. I was astounded as I then listened to her go on about how I was also very different after my niece was born. I knew in an instant that this person had never witnessed my relationship/interactions with my niece and it was apparent that conjecture by someone else had led them both to conclusions about me and where I was "at" at both those times in my life that I felt they were unqualified to make. I'm afraid I saw red (but stupidly didn't advocate my feelings at the time, which apparently means it's quite ok to say all those things if you say them with enough empathy in your voice or intention) and it still makes my skin heat up to recall how I felt in that instant. I knew exactly what had happened - that not only had two women in my family got together and talked about me and my mental state without ever having experienced loss anywhere near what we had, but that now, on top of all that they had concluded, my feelings about her newborn after losing my Ella was being compared to when I had had that third miscarriage two years before and found it challenging to cope with seeing a newborn only weeks later.

After this, those close to me went in one of three directions - carry on as normal as possible and don't talk about "the taboo daughter" (what, because by the off-chance I'm not thinking about her in that moment you don't want to be the one who reminds me that, oh yeah, I had a baby and, oh yeah, she died? Get over yourself!); or talk about yourself even more than before so that I can get my mind off my 'woes' for 5 minutes; or come and be with me in whatever state you find me, with your child/baby and sometimes without, but come hell or high water stay by me and trudge through the mud and the meadows of flowers and change your moods alongside me, as often as the Melbourne weather, so that when I get out the other side, you've still got me like I've still got you.

And that last lot, that blessed last lot (the majority of our friends and family), are the only ones around us now. Even people we've met and befriended since losing Ella, perhaps not surprisingly as I believe it's all we attract now, do that last step with us. Over and over, repeat as necessary. I thank all of them and all their cotton socks for it.

So, back to my point (if I can find it). This loss of innocence and wonder about children, ah yes. I do still love children and babies, I know I do. But I can't allow myself to dive right in and collect them up and lavish attention and joy on them as I did before. They are not my children. I know now the difference between watching other children and marvelling at my own. No parent would surely ever know more love for anothers' child than the love they have for their own and I believe it's quite absurd that anyone even expects grieving parents to give anything more than they are able to a child that is not of their own creation. I think some have taken offence to this, still others have taken offence from a distance without even allowing me to show that I can somedays have everything to do with their precious young charges (the assumption here is, I gather, that I have a "problem" with those children simply existing but this is just not the case, not that I have been afforded the opportunity to simply "be" and co-exist in any sort of meaningful relationship with them at my own comfort level). And the rest aren't insecure enough to need me or Steve to dote on their babies. Because they get that our needs in this moment in time are greater than theirs, especially when the needs of "those others" really boils down to them wanting recognition from us for creating their miracle, the same as that which we created and held for that fleeting month in 2004.

I need to give myself a break. I have lived through beating myself up for apparently not having as much of myself to give the second baby of the new generation of our family after we'd suffered the loss of three of our own at that stage. I have lived through now losing several people I have loved and willingly devoted a lot of time and energy to over the years, as well as a few more who were never really there for me or Steve in the first place. And so we wonder... have we really lost at all? Well, yes and no, there's no definitive answer. But I can say one thing for sure: I am still growing and thriving, thanks to a gorgeous little angel who chose me to be her mum and begin the path to finding my true, stand-alone self. I couldn't have done it following the same family-bred pattern over and over. And I wouldn't have even attempted to start that path without the strength she's given me.

So now all we need to do is hibernate for a time. I feel like I'm readying to rediscover that mystery of children, the awe I have had in the past... it's been so buried by sadness and fear of being rejected by yet another baby that I would be forgiven for thinking I've lost the sense completely. But I think deep down, I know it's there. Just waiting to savour every blessed moment with this little.............. boy or girl?

Battle Weary

This is Jazz's much-loved Tiddy Beer.

He's a lot like me, thick round the middle and obviously retaining fluid - check out those bloated cankles.

But I still have both my eyes and ears.

Ads by Goooooogle

Ok, who wants to see some outlandish ads on the side there? I've noticed with amusement that they pick out key words in whatever the most recent post mentions. Back when I reminisced about my bike being my first "horse" (remember the red bike seat with sparkles for Christmas? *sniff* gee that was a loyal horse), I think it was ads about ponies and My Little Ponies and all sorts of enticing pony ads - way to rub it in, by the way Google, that my bike was actually not a pony at all. Ya bastards.

At present, they're pretty keen on (I won't repeat the condition again because it might spoil the experiment) what Dad has been diagnosed with which I wrote about here - who knew there were popular key words when simply talking about hearts? And, the bigger question is, will we knock the AF ads off the side bar with anything I've used here?? Have I used any higher-rated key words? Is "key words" a key word? These are the questions that amuse me for about as long as a hamster is amused by his wheel - ie. potentially forever, if left uninterrupted.

So I have been meaning for a while now to submit a post with the most crazy irrelevant words thrown in. Just to see what kind of *circus midget freaks* ads we can get to come up *car crash lawyers*. So bear with me, humour me if you will, whilst I make some shit up *fuzzy squirrel knickers* and chuck in some words and we'll see what we get, hey?

It's been such beautiful weather here in Melbourne for the Commonwealth Games, I think we really showed antique furniture makers what our weather is really made of. For all these years, doppelganger nipple swings in Sydney have been picking on their cousins in the south about our weather. We-he-hell, I think we can now firmly put the Adidas ball back in their court and advise them we won't be bullied in the playground any longer. You couldn't have asked for finer sunny, warm days! In fact, maybe that's what the politicians in their pinstripe double breasted suits did... I still don't get that whole boy-and-duck thing though. Could have done without that catastrophe in the opening and closing ceremonies. Brochure printing at crazy prices couldn't have convinced me that the closing ceremony was any better, by the way. AND did anyone hear John Farnham's phenomenal stuff-up of, oh, just his anthem song!!!!? He sang the first verse of You're The Voice twice, mwahahahahaha. Not even Hong Lim could get him out of that gargantuan mess. It was Dom Perignon champagne television, I tell you.

Ok. Let's see what we get! Better be good *darting angry eyes to right of screen*

Shhhhh, don't tell Peppy, but....

I think you have to be just about the cutest little dog I've ever seen. I mean.... who couldn't love this face?

And I call this master portrait...

"Eight teeth between us"

Because there are. How the hell did we chew anything during this period??!

This is one of my prized photos. It's of me and my little bro. I remember it being taken. We'd had our individual shots done and then all the kiddies whose parents wanted group portraits got called back. I was in Grade 2. At the ripe age of seven, I distinctly recall feeling soooo much older than him because he was only in Prep and he was a bit scared (whether he was or not I didn't know but I thought he should be so I "protected" him, which mainly involved telling him to sit right by me and using the unique mid-class moment to boss him around some).

And see aaall that brain trying to push its way out of my forehead? It shrunk. My brain, not my forehead. Damn!

Naughty beans!

I love when people get a word wrong. Or.... do I dislike it immensely? It gives me such a giggle, but annoys me all at once.

Example: I just read about a woman who was complaining about burnt coffee she sent back twice at a café, so she had to finally tell the Barista
how to make it without scolding the beans.

Poor beans. It wasn't their fault. Surely it was the Barrister's incompetence.

You had me at Grilled Cheese

Behold! Cheese.

Is there no mood it can't fix? I ask you.

Current lunchtime addiction:
Grill one side of 3 slices multigrain, the big fatty slab variety.
Turn over and spread liberally with avocado, thin sliced red onion rings, roma tomato slices, sundried tomatoes if you've gottem ("smoke if you gottem") and then vigorously shake sea salt and pepper all over them.
And then...... the cheeeeeese. Vintage old & bitey (named after Grandma??) tasty cheddar slices are the best.
Grill it til it nearly burrrrns, baby.

And oh my. I do believe I would serve them for dinner, if we were so inclined to have you over. It almost beats Steve's Toasted Cheese Sandwiches (for which capitals are a respectful must).

Peggyshaddow can attest: Steve grills the best cheese sandwich you've ever had in your life. Doesn't matter how many times I've tried to emulate the exact perfection. But I never have. He seems to balance the right amount of cheese with the right amount of butter on the outside with the right amount of time face down in the pan with the right amount of onion salt. I get too zealous and stuff it up and end up burning the salt or being too generous with the cheese.

That's it then. I can never leave him.

Clear as mud

Dad acquired an arrhythmia after a heart virus he had some years ago. It's technically called “atrial flutter”, a form of fibrillation in which the upper chambers of the heart sort of vibrate and do not much else apparently. He was fixed for a while by getting zapped with those paddles you see on tv when someone is about to flatline. This is called “cardioversion”, or reversion of an uneven heartbeat. When the flutter returned, they did the ablation trick on him and that worked.

Last November, Dad awoke realising that he was out of sync again, and it took until February to get an appointment with some hotshot who then shunted him off to get another dose of cardioversion, which is what he had done last week. Dad was actually saying that people with cases of atrial flutter are quoted as saying "Oh that episode was nasty, it didn't go back into rhythm for about 8 minutes that time!" and here's me old man walking around with it for months non-stop!

The procedure last week involved a 5 minute general anaesthetic and application of the pads. They did it three times, increasing it up to the maximum they could safely try - is anyone else picturing Rick Moranis insisting on going to "waaaarp speeeeed"? Apparently Dad saw the printout from the ecg later: the hiccups caused when they applied the shock (the heart stops) was followed immediately by a return to the uneven rhythm. It didn’t even look like reverting to “normal” and was heard to have said, "Computer says no". Ok, so I made that last bit up.

There are no immediate reasonable alternative options. Ablation for AF is risky, has lower success than for flutter, and may leave him dependent on a pacemaker (with all that that entails). But Dad reckons there is good news: his pseudo-pulse rate is around 80, which is relatively slow for AF (being, atrial flutter, my Dad doesn't get periods - that I know of - in case you're concerned with that acronym....). So while the rhythm is out, the pace is OK and is regularly irregular, so he doesn't need treatment for heart pace (pulse). And under those circumstances he says he can cope with the arrhythmia. This also means he only needs to keep taking the warfarin (to guard against strokes, as it keeps the blood thin) and he won’t need to take any of the more nasty pills that aim at slowing the heart down or mimicking a regular heart beat.

So I guess all this just means he'll be around a while longer yet. It's kind of like one of those "Oh good, phew" endings that are really fizzers. Can't help feeling like I've been short-changed or ripped off somehow but I'm checking my wallet and looking back at the counter and thinking "Hang on.... if I gave you a 50....".

The post for which he'll call me a bitch

Well, if you're gonna make the face, I'm gonna capture the face.

Don't be scared, Lolly, it's just your daddy. He's under there somewhere.

Where is my mind?

Ok, I've just had a hearty discussion with Steve about the Hyundai Tucson ad. The one with the girl doing the rap-jingle.

In it, I distinctly hear "nasty slut". He hears "nasty stuff". So, is he a prude or am I too "glass half empty"?

Discuss.

Bwaaa-hahaha

Don't you bloody go anywhere!

Way to sneak this one up on me, Dad!

Can't believe it, but he's going in for some procedure tomorrow to try and correct his heart arrythmia. He says don't worry.... trouble is, hormones and previously having a daughter with a heart defect kinda means I can't help but gulp back a huge lump in my throat right about now.

How can Lolly not meet this:



No guesses he's me ole Dad - can't even shut up long enough for me to take a photo (like father like daughter....):

Drink yer juice, Shelby

I just fainted at Bunnings.

We had taken a leisurely stroll there to buy some shelving for the inside of the nursery wardrobe and I suddenly came over all hot and violently ill. Made it to a seat and thought sitting would be ok while Steve paid, but I had to call him back over to help me... trying not to panic as I started to black out, everything got quiet and sounded far away and everything went dark. I did what my Obstetrician had said (just last week when I saw him and mentioned some dizzy spells I've started having, he told me to lie down when that happened or I'd faint). It's feels like the exact opposite of what you instinctively want to do - I didn't feel at that point that lying flat would help at all. But it did. Must be why he gets paid to suggest things like that to prego chicks for a living.

Picture trying to lie stretched out on a courtesy public park bench at the registers at Bunnings on a Sunday morning..... unless you're a three foot midget, that ain't happening comfortably unless your legs are detachable.

They even wheeled me out in a friggen wheelchair. I felt a right pill.

And then we get home and Steve has bunged me back here at my usual post, in front of the computer. I felt like the little kid who almost got away with doing something different. It must be like how a dog feels when they see the gate open: "Oh. My God. OHMYGOD! I'm free!! Don't wreck it, don't wreck it, be stealthy and run for your life. Sniff and pee on as many things as you can before you get caught. Ahhh shit, they're onto me. Back to the backyard then. Fuuuuuck."

He's just handed me some juice. He apparently thinks I am diabetic because he keeps insisting it will be good for me to drink it. Has my husband seen Steel Magnolias too many times? I don't recall ever making him watch it once. No, no, I think I've just recited it too often.

That'll teach me.

By the way

Here's what we look like on the outside today:

No, sorry, you don't get to say that

The conversation went like this:

Me: Ugh that freakin' dog next door. It heard the phone ring and it's barked at it. It. Barks. At. Every. Fucking. Thing.

Friend: Ugh. Fuckin' dogs, I hate 'em.

Me: *temperature rising because I knew what was coming and I've addressed this with said friend before*

Friend: Oh.... except for your dogs, I hate 'em, kill 'em all.

Me: That's.....riiiight....

Now, when we "addressed" this in the past, I likened my friend telling me she hates my dogs and just being downright rude in what she said about them and her tone while doing it, to me telling her I hate her child. She replied it was a bit different and I said "How? Pepper, in particular, is like my child. Until a child comes along who I can love and lavish attention and affection on, these are my children and just like I wouldn't say in derrogatory terms that I hate what X is doing, I get upset when I hear you talk that way about my children."

She apologised. I don't think she agrees. I don't think she fully gets it. But FGS, I am sick of this friend in particular, simply because she hates dogs, thinking it's okay even in gest making remarks under her breath and telling them to shut up, especially since I had it out with her and told her how important they were to me. It's disrespec', in my opinion! I mean..... who could hate them? Especially my girls? A mother's love is blind, I know, but how offended would she be if I started showing dislike towards her child? Pretty bloody lots, I think *tapping foot agitatedly*

This is not to say that my doggies don't shit me. Of course they do. Just like children occasionally, they annoy, they pester, they naaaaaag. But I wouldn't expect that this friend will ever be so vocal if my (eventual) child does something that's annoying her so much. But herein lies the question: will she actually think it's okay, seeing as she's this blatant about how she feels with, dogs or no, two creatures I love dearly? It's downright mean-spirited. Surely it wouldn't take much for her to say nothing, but it's gotten to the point when if she's visiting and they get excited that someone's here or they bark to warn me or anything, I bristle because she bristles because she hates them and I know she does!

I'm perturbed.

A nappy ISN'T a nappy by any other name

Call me crazy, call me a prude... I just can't do the whole nappies-of-a-different-polka-dot thing. The covers, yes of course. They can be jazzied up. But my nappies I prefer white... er, what the? I mean, the ones I am going to use on the baby. So you won't see my kid in rainbow-gingham-razza-mattaz nappies. It's plain white all the way, baby.

Following on from the requests here, I've taken the most exciting (apparently) photo:



Now, these are Tots Bots on the left and Sandy's unbleached on the right. And some assorted plain white PUL covers. Oh, and one blaring polka dot fleece one. I've got two TB red fleece wraps coming which are apparently *nod and thumbs up* ehhxcellent, due to an inspired Ebay win yesterday.

And just so as not to scare off the reader/s who never thought I'd get that far into nappies that I'd dedicate an entire post to them (but I have to admit..... I did swoon when I saw the terry, ashamedly), herewith is the cot. Be sure to suitably "ooh" and "ahhh" at the fitted sheet on the mattress..... cos I whipped it up last weekend. And it's got dogs on it saying Bow Wow and Woof Woof which reduces me to immature giggles every time I see it.

How much do I love thee, Reader

Apparently enough to post this during Medium.

Now, don't say I didn't warn you, these ultrasound pics show a sleeping Lolly unsocially turned away and sleeping, no less, during the 20 week scan today.

So.... we have an image of the back and head:









And one that apparently is excellent news according to our heart expert sonographer (the distribution of those colours is spot on....fantastic....*shrug* but yay!):









And last but not least, for those playing at home, here are the stats:
















Erm... if anyone knows what "BPD" means, can ya clue me up? Thanks a bunch.

What does THIS shiny button do?

Ohhhhh, it releases all the Comments. Riiiiiight.

And here I was thinking tumbleweeds were blowin' through the ghost town that is my cavernous mind on the internet.

Nay, 'tis simply an idjit at the controls who has done something to her security settings and had about 18 comments all backed up with no place to go.

Where'dya keep YOUR chewy, dude?

I warned you I'd do this!

...and you didn't believe me, did you?


If anyone needs the number of a good sanity-checker when in London.... call 155-400-R-U-OK and my second cousin will be only too glad to assist with your dilemma.

Tip: Particularly useful in familial situations or if you mash the banana that was in your bag into the lens of your husband's digital camera. Also handy to throw big cups of coffee over by accident. Answers to the name of Bonnet-wearer.

Money-back guarantee: never gets mad at you, looks long-suffering if you take it too far but has a never-fail smile and wit.

But wait, there's more. This month, you get a free set of Prét-a-Porter steak knives, the little plastic ones. He'll nick a set for you. And one of them naff teaspoons too if you ask nicely.

They're obviously not watching Bert's Family Feud

Sorry, Bert, but..... c'mon, it's either the time slot or the show. But somethin's just not workin' for ya. Is it, buddy?

Quads cracking up

I love you too, Pepsi

"It's Pepe"

I mean, Pepe.