When you look down absent-mindedly at the list of client renewals you hastily scribbled several days back and now keep reading "dom. reg." (abbreviation for domain registration) as "down reg" and keep wondering why you've noted anything about your IVF cycle. And then snap into the present and go, "WTF? I'm not even doing IVF, why would I need to note down my down reg cycle"....
See, it never leaves. But I still amusedly chuckle. Much like remembering the scores of Number Plate Signs one gets when in the 2ww.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
But wait, there's more
The LGBB's play date was besotted with "Baby Lauryn".
Erm....Lolly doesn't give an inch, but threw Ellen a split-second smile
every so often to keep her keen.
When the ticket booker told Mummy their seatswere in a prime pozzy, Mummy could never
have imagined he was so spot on.
Justine practically flicked sweat on us twirling during "Hop Hippity Hop".
Ker-nackeredHer life is now complete
And I should not have worn mascara to the concert today. I thanked Justine for saving my life between months 7 and 12 (for her dvd and for being on Play School) and she obliged by taking Lolly and sitting her on her lap for this snap. The LGBB sat throughout the concert, stunned. Not so much that Justine was right in front of her - and when I mean right in front, we were third row centre could literally touch her on stage - but that so many other squealing kiddies were in Lolly's living room. Most unsettling for a little girl.But, oh. What a gorgeous, gorgeous person she (Justine) is. I am a complete and utter convert.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Forever Ours
I'm engrossed in a book I'll be finished in but a few hours. It's called Forever Ours, by Janis Amatuzio, MD.
It's a collection of tales from a lifetime of work by a forensic pathologist and her experiences with people who are dying/have died and their loved ones. Uncanny interesting reading. Just as with the last book, when I felt so very close to Ellanor, I was reading just before and paused at a moment where a wave washed over me. Became too close, too much, too real. And I remembered sitting with my hand on her lifeless, warm little foot as she drifted away out of my tangible reality again.
It doesn't happen often, these days usually only when I've read or watched something that makes me remember. But I realised just how much we had lost. I miss her. It hurt instantly in that familiar place in my chest. And I felt, without saying a word just now, I miss you. The cheeky li'l monkey replied gently, I miss you too. With far less emotion and no angst. Just a whole mass of love and smiley happiness behind her words.
And I nearly fell off the couch. She's never said anything like that before.
It's a collection of tales from a lifetime of work by a forensic pathologist and her experiences with people who are dying/have died and their loved ones. Uncanny interesting reading. Just as with the last book, when I felt so very close to Ellanor, I was reading just before and paused at a moment where a wave washed over me. Became too close, too much, too real. And I remembered sitting with my hand on her lifeless, warm little foot as she drifted away out of my tangible reality again.
It doesn't happen often, these days usually only when I've read or watched something that makes me remember. But I realised just how much we had lost. I miss her. It hurt instantly in that familiar place in my chest. And I felt, without saying a word just now, I miss you. The cheeky li'l monkey replied gently, I miss you too. With far less emotion and no angst. Just a whole mass of love and smiley happiness behind her words.
And I nearly fell off the couch. She's never said anything like that before.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Windmills of my mind
What does that even mean, that line? It's as bad as "blowin through the jasmine in my mind". I don't know about you, but I ain't got no jasmine (or windmills) blowing through my mind. Tornados, maybe. Tumbleweeds, often. But no fancy shit.
Now. To the reason why I was blogging today.
I'm going through the past history part of the book. For what it's worth. It may remain, in whole or part, or it could totally go and be cut off, if I am to begin the story somewhere closer to having Ella. Point is, all the tripping through how I used to feel and how Steve and I used to be together is contrasting coolly with the status quo of present time.
There is no fast-tracking "back" to happiness. It simply can't be done. And no, I wouldn't want to. But there is a despairing about lost innocence within our relationship that I can't deny. It gets me down. We've seen too much and experienced too much to ever hope to get back to where we were, but I can't seem to properly accept where we are now either. It feels like settling for less to me, when we have so much experience that it should be bloody easy to stop freaking at the little things with each other.
Work to do, people to see.
Now. To the reason why I was blogging today.
I'm going through the past history part of the book. For what it's worth. It may remain, in whole or part, or it could totally go and be cut off, if I am to begin the story somewhere closer to having Ella. Point is, all the tripping through how I used to feel and how Steve and I used to be together is contrasting coolly with the status quo of present time.
There is no fast-tracking "back" to happiness. It simply can't be done. And no, I wouldn't want to. But there is a despairing about lost innocence within our relationship that I can't deny. It gets me down. We've seen too much and experienced too much to ever hope to get back to where we were, but I can't seem to properly accept where we are now either. It feels like settling for less to me, when we have so much experience that it should be bloody easy to stop freaking at the little things with each other.
Work to do, people to see.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Micah
Just found this. God, the things I keep losing sight of.
A few months ago, I went up to Peace Space one gorgeous sunny Saturday. My wrist had just started to really really hurt. It was before I had anyone look at it for me. So writing was supremely difficult. Unfortunately for me too, it seems that a flowing right hand brings in the energy I need when I'm connected with ... well, let's just give it the blanket term of "upstairs".
In January this year, the 10th to be exact, The Guardian Friend phoned me and said matter-of-factly, "Had a dream. Think it's for you." She went on to explain a little tinkly girl's voice came to her and said happily, 'Tell her Micky is coming!' and that when she awoke the next morning, the name Micah came to her. I think a little bit of Googling may have been involved but only to let me know that all she could find about Micah was that it means "moon". Cool. We thought, new moon maybe? A baby boy called Michael?? Who knew? We didn't.
I wrote it all down, at her request, and went on my merry way.
Now, when I went to Peace Space and it must have been around early July, it was to go specifically to get a handle on this book writing. I needed to be out of Melbourne, away from me dear little sweet Bliss Bomb, head clear. The hand/wrist thing was a shit and got in the way a tad but I think I made the connection I was meant to that day.
If Steve's reading this, he'll freak. Anywho. Shall continue...
When I arrived, I sat down with Neri for a while. She was there working that Saturday too. I realised pretty early on that I needed to get outside, out of the rooms there, and just sit in the sun with pen and paper. Before going outside, I did a clearing. Before doing the clearing, Neri pointed to the deck of Angel cards on the table and said, "Why don't you take a look at them and see if any sit well with you. Bit of guidance or direction."
I'd never used Angel cards before. And thanks to a trippy and totally uncomfortable encounter with an over-zealous waxing/beautician assistant who cornered me in a booth after stripping me pits with hot wax and insisted on giving me a reading (she was waaaaaay out of line and it's bozos like that who give the entire thing such a whacky name), I was none too keen on taking a look at them now. But ever open-minded, if not sceptical, I took the deck. There was a whole stack of them and I was rather impatient, not wanting to waste time.
Well, five cards down the pile, I saw it. And a shot like a lightning bolt raced right up me. Micah. The Angel Micah. S/he (for they are androgenous, but to me the feeling is masculine) is one of the Mother's Angels. The Angel of the Divine Plan. Right.Well then.. The first line of the book description of Micah reads:
Ok. Bit of a freakin' fluke. But I read on. And everything was just shouting "Yes, yes yes!!" in me. It was utterly bizarre. And I couldn't wait to tell my friend just how spot on she'd been. Again.
So as I went over to do the protection and clearing before getting to work, and having discussed with Neri how significant I thought this Micah was, I called in the Angel Micah and also Ella to help guide me that day while I was there, if it was appropriate. I don't ever assume to just go calling on anybody, as if it's my right or my crutch. But as I stood there facing the lit candles, calling on them I all of a sudden felt (not saw) an incredibly huuuuuuuge object behind me. Huge. I admit I was a tad scared. I was all alone in the room as Neri had ducked down to get lunch. So I stood there. Facing the wall and the candles, not a little unlike that final scene from Blair Witch Project (mind you, I thought that boy was doing a wizz against the wall and I thought, "What's he weeing now for??" I am such a fool), just frozen to the spot and thinking, What or who the hell is that?
It was Micah. He must have retreated from me far enough that I moved from the spot and actually worked up the courage to turn around. Nothing. Of course. But he was in. I felt incredibly humbled. And trotted out quickly so as not to waste anyone's time. Ella was there too. It is weeeeeeeird that I can just say this. But she was.
Sat down on a bench and started writing my questions, regarding the book, questions I thought would assist me know just where to start. And then went back over them, hoping for answers. This is what I got:
How do I parent my child who has passed?
It's all at once beautiful and challenging. Never a burden. Respect them as a person.
How do I stay connected enough to fully and propoerly explain the thread of the work? (I don't even properly understand this question, but I get the answer!) How do I stay with it? On topic?
Call in Angel Micah and Ella. Come to Peace Space to do it when you need extra energy.
How do I ensure I properly honour and respect everybody's babies, journies that are similar? How do I overcome my feelings of inadequacy about "speaking for them"?
You're not. You're merely opening it up. You're speaking for you and those who want to will follow.
How do I begin? Where to from here with the writing I have?
Make a timeline of events. Intersperse/inject the facts with your feelings. Use your notes for this. The story will tell itself and you will get help along the way once you get started.
*pant pant*
Where does the story start and finish?
The story doesn't.
*Scooby Doo confused face*
Where does this book need to start and finish? (they're nothing if not particular on the details are they!)
Start: with your awareness of Ella.
Finish: You don't know this yet.
Who am I doing this for, ultimately?
You and other mums like you in this experience.
And then I sat for a moment and also got this:
The purpose of the book is simply to tell Ella's story. The whole thing. From my perspective/experience.
Her coming into existence/my awareness.
Her physical story.
The impact of her life and death from a mother's point of view.
The challenges presented by living with a child's death.
(What is the interconnecting theme?) The existence between life and death. The task of the mother to insure the continuum of the soul after death amongst those still living.
That last interconnecting theme bit has me a bit skeered. Going to have to really be well focused and ready for that one.
So. I'd just like to point out that I have only today looked at this again. I'll bet now my editing posse are just so pleased... *inject sarcasm here* because I've thrust a few things on them already. After the first round of files I put out, in a different categorization, they actually came back and unanimously said that they thought it needed to be a timeline. Hmmm. Ooops. Wish I had remembered this bunch of questions I received answers to before I'd even bloody well started. Would've saved everyone an awful lot of hoo-har. Only late last week, I put events into chronological order. Then promptly opened a new Word document and then BAM, couldn't stop hitting the damn keys. It's been too easy. And I can already see why it's reading the way it is now - it seems rather cold to me, me writing about me and who I was. But I see where it's going. Other interesting thing I've noted is that I have started quite a way before my awareness of Ella.... I wonder if the back story will stay in the book or change?
There you have it. 'Tis all but a part of the process, I am fully aware. And guess what: now that I've changed tactics (to what they said all along I ought to be doing), this thing is writing itself!
A few months ago, I went up to Peace Space one gorgeous sunny Saturday. My wrist had just started to really really hurt. It was before I had anyone look at it for me. So writing was supremely difficult. Unfortunately for me too, it seems that a flowing right hand brings in the energy I need when I'm connected with ... well, let's just give it the blanket term of "upstairs".
In January this year, the 10th to be exact, The Guardian Friend phoned me and said matter-of-factly, "Had a dream. Think it's for you." She went on to explain a little tinkly girl's voice came to her and said happily, 'Tell her Micky is coming!' and that when she awoke the next morning, the name Micah came to her. I think a little bit of Googling may have been involved but only to let me know that all she could find about Micah was that it means "moon". Cool. We thought, new moon maybe? A baby boy called Michael?? Who knew? We didn't.
I wrote it all down, at her request, and went on my merry way.
Now, when I went to Peace Space and it must have been around early July, it was to go specifically to get a handle on this book writing. I needed to be out of Melbourne, away from me dear little sweet Bliss Bomb, head clear. The hand/wrist thing was a shit and got in the way a tad but I think I made the connection I was meant to that day.
If Steve's reading this, he'll freak. Anywho. Shall continue...
When I arrived, I sat down with Neri for a while. She was there working that Saturday too. I realised pretty early on that I needed to get outside, out of the rooms there, and just sit in the sun with pen and paper. Before going outside, I did a clearing. Before doing the clearing, Neri pointed to the deck of Angel cards on the table and said, "Why don't you take a look at them and see if any sit well with you. Bit of guidance or direction."
I'd never used Angel cards before. And thanks to a trippy and totally uncomfortable encounter with an over-zealous waxing/beautician assistant who cornered me in a booth after stripping me pits with hot wax and insisted on giving me a reading (she was waaaaaay out of line and it's bozos like that who give the entire thing such a whacky name), I was none too keen on taking a look at them now. But ever open-minded, if not sceptical, I took the deck. There was a whole stack of them and I was rather impatient, not wanting to waste time.
Well, five cards down the pile, I saw it. And a shot like a lightning bolt raced right up me. Micah. The Angel Micah. S/he (for they are androgenous, but to me the feeling is masculine) is one of the Mother's Angels. The Angel of the Divine Plan. Right.Well then.. The first line of the book description of Micah reads:
"Micah watches over spiritual evolution, seeking every opportunity to reveal the next steps of your life purpose. This lifetime represents only a small part of your Divine Plan, which directs you through many specific experiences to become everything you were intended to be. When at last you release enough emotional baggage to feel your purpose, you realise that it is what you wanted all along."
Ok. Bit of a freakin' fluke. But I read on. And everything was just shouting "Yes, yes yes!!" in me. It was utterly bizarre. And I couldn't wait to tell my friend just how spot on she'd been. Again.
So as I went over to do the protection and clearing before getting to work, and having discussed with Neri how significant I thought this Micah was, I called in the Angel Micah and also Ella to help guide me that day while I was there, if it was appropriate. I don't ever assume to just go calling on anybody, as if it's my right or my crutch. But as I stood there facing the lit candles, calling on them I all of a sudden felt (not saw) an incredibly huuuuuuuge object behind me. Huge. I admit I was a tad scared. I was all alone in the room as Neri had ducked down to get lunch. So I stood there. Facing the wall and the candles, not a little unlike that final scene from Blair Witch Project (mind you, I thought that boy was doing a wizz against the wall and I thought, "What's he weeing now for??" I am such a fool), just frozen to the spot and thinking, What or who the hell is that?
It was Micah. He must have retreated from me far enough that I moved from the spot and actually worked up the courage to turn around. Nothing. Of course. But he was in. I felt incredibly humbled. And trotted out quickly so as not to waste anyone's time. Ella was there too. It is weeeeeeeird that I can just say this. But she was.
Sat down on a bench and started writing my questions, regarding the book, questions I thought would assist me know just where to start. And then went back over them, hoping for answers. This is what I got:
How do I parent my child who has passed?
It's all at once beautiful and challenging. Never a burden. Respect them as a person.
How do I stay connected enough to fully and propoerly explain the thread of the work? (I don't even properly understand this question, but I get the answer!) How do I stay with it? On topic?
Call in Angel Micah and Ella. Come to Peace Space to do it when you need extra energy.
How do I ensure I properly honour and respect everybody's babies, journies that are similar? How do I overcome my feelings of inadequacy about "speaking for them"?
You're not. You're merely opening it up. You're speaking for you and those who want to will follow.
How do I begin? Where to from here with the writing I have?
Make a timeline of events. Intersperse/inject the facts with your feelings. Use your notes for this. The story will tell itself and you will get help along the way once you get started.
*pant pant*
Where does the story start and finish?
The story doesn't.
*Scooby Doo confused face*
Where does this book need to start and finish? (they're nothing if not particular on the details are they!)
Start: with your awareness of Ella.
Finish: You don't know this yet.
Who am I doing this for, ultimately?
You and other mums like you in this experience.
And then I sat for a moment and also got this:
The purpose of the book is simply to tell Ella's story. The whole thing. From my perspective/experience.
Her coming into existence/my awareness.
Her physical story.
The impact of her life and death from a mother's point of view.
The challenges presented by living with a child's death.
(What is the interconnecting theme?) The existence between life and death. The task of the mother to insure the continuum of the soul after death amongst those still living.
That last interconnecting theme bit has me a bit skeered. Going to have to really be well focused and ready for that one.
So. I'd just like to point out that I have only today looked at this again. I'll bet now my editing posse are just so pleased... *inject sarcasm here* because I've thrust a few things on them already. After the first round of files I put out, in a different categorization, they actually came back and unanimously said that they thought it needed to be a timeline. Hmmm. Ooops. Wish I had remembered this bunch of questions I received answers to before I'd even bloody well started. Would've saved everyone an awful lot of hoo-har. Only late last week, I put events into chronological order. Then promptly opened a new Word document and then BAM, couldn't stop hitting the damn keys. It's been too easy. And I can already see why it's reading the way it is now - it seems rather cold to me, me writing about me and who I was. But I see where it's going. Other interesting thing I've noted is that I have started quite a way before my awareness of Ella.... I wonder if the back story will stay in the book or change?
There you have it. 'Tis all but a part of the process, I am fully aware. And guess what: now that I've changed tactics (to what they said all along I ought to be doing), this thing is writing itself!
Miss Mena's Focusyn
We've gone back to basics somewhat. And we've found that if ever there was a simple way to effectively tame the indoor whirlwind that is our 28kg Lab/Kelpie (she's a little from column A, a little from column B), it's our new friend Halti. See Figure A.
Quite simply, this is Jazz's Focusyn - or more commonly known in the wider, non-Simpsons world as Ritalin, to you and me, Russ - and I had to stroke it and ask it where it's been all our Jazz-filled lives.
Ok, so it's kind of weird to have her behave ever so perfectly - we know she has it in her but it takes a lot of time and patience (a little more urgency to listen the first time is required these days of Jazz too and she still hasn't got that part) - but man, does this thing work. Just for indoors and walks and whenever a bit of decorum is required. It's soft and gentle and my best friend. It means I can have her inside and enjoyably so.
And here is Figure A. Behold the Halti! who goes there?
She hasn't been drugged. Really. Promise.
She would just like me to know that whatever she did,
she won't do it anymore as long as I take this thing the hell off her face.
(That's not likely)
Quite simply, this is Jazz's Focusyn - or more commonly known in the wider, non-Simpsons world as Ritalin, to you and me, Russ - and I had to stroke it and ask it where it's been all our Jazz-filled lives.
Ok, so it's kind of weird to have her behave ever so perfectly - we know she has it in her but it takes a lot of time and patience (a little more urgency to listen the first time is required these days of Jazz too and she still hasn't got that part) - but man, does this thing work. Just for indoors and walks and whenever a bit of decorum is required. It's soft and gentle and my best friend. It means I can have her inside and enjoyably so.
And here is Figure A. Behold the Halti! who goes there?
She hasn't been drugged. Really. Promise.
She would just like me to know that whatever she did,she won't do it anymore as long as I take this thing the hell off her face.
(That's not likely)
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Do not read if remotely queasy - you've been warned
I have a lurgy. No... wait. Let me clarify. I have THE Lurgy. By some miracle, the LGBB has not caught it from me. Yet.
My voice is gone *cue Steve praising to the heavens* and I feel like shit. I couldn't even be tempted out of the house with him and the LGBB on this gorgeous sunny day for a fave bev at my friend Gloria's place.
I've been hacking up stuff that would frighten Hazmat scientists. Yesterday, I started hoarsely grating to Steve that somehow I was finding tennis balls from deep within my lungs. Today, he contributed to the metaphor by responding to my haugh-ing and haw-king by calling out from another room, "Ball boy!" I laughed razorblades.
My voice is gone *cue Steve praising to the heavens* and I feel like shit. I couldn't even be tempted out of the house with him and the LGBB on this gorgeous sunny day for a fave bev at my friend Gloria's place.
I've been hacking up stuff that would frighten Hazmat scientists. Yesterday, I started hoarsely grating to Steve that somehow I was finding tennis balls from deep within my lungs. Today, he contributed to the metaphor by responding to my haugh-ing and haw-king by calling out from another room, "Ball boy!" I laughed razorblades.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Is this clever?
I seriously have no idea, but I found this fascinating.
Today, Steve called me in and said, "Watch this." He proceeded to ask the LGBB where his watch was. She (this is the unremarkable bit) pulled his watch from the couch where he had placed it and then (this is the bit I found gobsmacking) placed it over her wrist and hung it there. Over and over, she took it off and put it back on - not doing it up, mind, just draping it over her wrist.
I think it may have been the incredibly, almost grown-up, way she let it hang there, holding her forearm as if she were swanning about with a fancy handbag. Even her facial expression was mock-nonchalant.
Unnerved, I was! She just suddenly.... grew up. Are they supposed to do stuff like this at 14 months?? I honestly have no clue.
So is this:
A) cute but unremarkable
B) MENSA-inspired
C) something every kid you've ever heard of has done by the time they're 10 months; or
D) none of the above and just a blaring warning for her mother to get over herself?
Discuss.
Today, Steve called me in and said, "Watch this." He proceeded to ask the LGBB where his watch was. She (this is the unremarkable bit) pulled his watch from the couch where he had placed it and then (this is the bit I found gobsmacking) placed it over her wrist and hung it there. Over and over, she took it off and put it back on - not doing it up, mind, just draping it over her wrist.
I think it may have been the incredibly, almost grown-up, way she let it hang there, holding her forearm as if she were swanning about with a fancy handbag. Even her facial expression was mock-nonchalant.
Unnerved, I was! She just suddenly.... grew up. Are they supposed to do stuff like this at 14 months?? I honestly have no clue.
So is this:
A) cute but unremarkable
B) MENSA-inspired
C) something every kid you've ever heard of has done by the time they're 10 months; or
D) none of the above and just a blaring warning for her mother to get over herself?
Discuss.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Poppy! NOOOOOOOO!
You know that delight when you read something from an old journal you'd forgotten had ever happened?
I was just flicking back through my fateful England trip of '03 journal and came across an entry I had completely erased from the memory banks. It reads:
How. Hilarious. Mr Crapper and his little yappy dog, Poopy. Had forgotten they even existed.
I was just flicking back through my fateful England trip of '03 journal and came across an entry I had completely erased from the memory banks. It reads:
31.8 Sun. - 10 weeks 3 days pregnant (with Ella):
Going down to breakfast at 8:30am. The couple running this guesthouse are Mr and Mrs Cupper.... they are quite fastidious about things, very correct and terribly polite - totally unrelaxed. They have a tiny white yappy ankle-biter dog with a tie in its hair right on top of its head. So it looks like it's got a white fountain coming out its scone. Its name is Poppy.
Last night, Dad was carrying my bread up the stairs - it is a particularly heavy, solid dark rye - and he dropped it! It fell from the second floor and bounced off the stairs, through the gap in the banister railing. Just missed Poppy who was standing way below in the foyer. The yapping started as soon as we heard the heavy 'thud' of the bread on the floor. Dad was hilarious. He said nothing, cupping his hand over his mouth but with a real evil twinkle in his eye. We stifled our laughs in our sleeves. I went back down to collect it and there was Mr. Cupper with a fist on one hip and his other hand effeminately over his mouth, next to the still yapping Poppy. They were both looking at me. I made some bad joke that received no response. From either of them. Whoops. And then I said goodnight and went back upstairs....
How. Hilarious. Mr Crapper and his little yappy dog, Poopy. Had forgotten they even existed.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
I've got this friend...
My friend's hubby has a cough. His tickly throat has turned into a beast, spanning the past almost three months. It's affecting his social life (can't talk), he's getting rather down about it.
But the evil simple people we are, many guffaws were to be had at the visual of Greg (not his real name.... he's a dentist.... or something), unable to begin speaking without making that sound - you know when you have an irritated throat and you go to speak and it sounds like you're laughing? - trying to conduct business as a serious senior accountant at a happenin' firm.
He told her that all he imagines when he starts talking to important clients is that they are picturing a jolly fat accountant who laughs as he's delivering them the bad news, Dr. Hibbard style ... "You owe (heh-heh-heh) $34,000 and if you don't pay up (heh-heh-heh) we'll have to (heh) susp-heh-nd your acc-heh-ount." And he hears them sort of start to try and join in the chortles but they don't understand what's funny.
That had me in stitches for a good 10 minutes.
But the evil simple people we are, many guffaws were to be had at the visual of Greg (not his real name.... he's a dentist.... or something), unable to begin speaking without making that sound - you know when you have an irritated throat and you go to speak and it sounds like you're laughing? - trying to conduct business as a serious senior accountant at a happenin' firm.
He told her that all he imagines when he starts talking to important clients is that they are picturing a jolly fat accountant who laughs as he's delivering them the bad news, Dr. Hibbard style ... "You owe (heh-heh-heh) $34,000 and if you don't pay up (heh-heh-heh) we'll have to (heh) susp-heh-nd your acc-heh-ount." And he hears them sort of start to try and join in the chortles but they don't understand what's funny.
That had me in stitches for a good 10 minutes.
And I shall name it... Warren
Jazz's second (fluid-filled) head is growing back. I think we'll have to christen it soon.
It's not just my imagination, is it? Her belly is growing a deformed appendage...
And to think she did this most likely by ramming her body against a pole or some similar immovable object while tearing around outside.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Earth to earwig
If you ever wanted to know whether earwigs carry an electrical charge but have never been bothered to find out, never fear. I have carried out the experiment unwittingly for you!
Rang Steve today.
Him: Yello
Me: *starting sentence midstream* Yeah hi, Lenny, ummmm you know how some plugs have two prongs and the bottom one isn't used?
Him: *cogs whirring into high-speed "She's doing that thing* again" mode* Uhhhh... yyyyuh...
Me: Well, what if there's an earwig in the bottom one?
Him: That's ok, the bottom outlet of an electrical socket is earthed. It won't do anything.
Me: It won't kill him? He won't short anything out?
Him: No. But stand back, though, so when he comes flying out - burning - he won't land on you.
Me: WHAT???
Him: It's. Fine. What's an earwig doing in there anyway?
Me: *beats me tone* I dunno. *then defensively* I didn't put it there. He just decided to crawl in I guess.
Him: *making the painstaking decision to tear himself away from this riveting phone call* Is that all?
See what he has to put up with? But I don't think he minds. I make his life so interesting.
* That Thing: where one Lenny of the duo - that's me - speaks as if the other Lenny - that's him - knows what she's on about and the other Lenny is forced to fill in blanks faster than an Enigma machine during the Blitzkrieg, in order to keep up with the conversation and decipher what the hell she's on about.
Rang Steve today.
Him: Yello
Me: *starting sentence midstream* Yeah hi, Lenny, ummmm you know how some plugs have two prongs and the bottom one isn't used?
Him: *cogs whirring into high-speed "She's doing that thing* again" mode* Uhhhh... yyyyuh...
Me: Well, what if there's an earwig in the bottom one?
Him: That's ok, the bottom outlet of an electrical socket is earthed. It won't do anything.
Me: It won't kill him? He won't short anything out?
Him: No. But stand back, though, so when he comes flying out - burning - he won't land on you.
Me: WHAT???
Him: It's. Fine. What's an earwig doing in there anyway?
Me: *beats me tone* I dunno. *then defensively* I didn't put it there. He just decided to crawl in I guess.
Him: *making the painstaking decision to tear himself away from this riveting phone call* Is that all?
See what he has to put up with? But I don't think he minds. I make his life so interesting.
* That Thing: where one Lenny of the duo - that's me - speaks as if the other Lenny - that's him - knows what she's on about and the other Lenny is forced to fill in blanks faster than an Enigma machine during the Blitzkrieg, in order to keep up with the conversation and decipher what the hell she's on about.
Monday, September 17, 2007
It's not a toomah
Miss Mena had a dash to the vet today with me and the LGBB.
I had no room for the pram, so had to strap the Lolster on to my front with the good ole Ergo (fantastic carrier, it protects my back like nothing else). We kept butting heads, moreso because she's so tall now and I haven't worked out how to put her on my back on my own, and I was tickled by that baby-fine hair for the hour we were hanging around.
What happened was, I was outside introducing the dogs to the new gardeners (we got new gardeners, the last guy just PFFT up and vanished - my SIL and I have since conjured up all these exotic stories about what could have befallen him: a Congan love interest, a Lotto win, dying alone Bridget Jones-style and being eaten by his Alsatian... most likely verdict is he simply went belly-up like so many garden/horticulture folk this past dry season). I like these people. They're a husband and wife team, look every bit like they'd fit right in at The Seekers comeback concert, it's like having me mum and dad doing the garden for me *one-two-three, awwww*
But I digress.
The woman noticed Jazzus had a rather sizeable lump hanging off the side of her body. It protruded so exaggeratedly I gathered I would have noticed (we saw the dogs last night - we almost have to pencil them in these days, the poor patient ladies - and there was certainly no second doggie growing off her belly then). This thing was the size of a tennis ball and seemed to be just under her skin. Not wanting to take any risks, but hopeful it was a benign growth of some sort because it felt moveable and fluidy, I made a last minute appointment for this afternoon. Lolly's first trip to the vet!
I explained what was going on to the LGBB. She seemed suitably pleased that I was ramming Jazz into the back of the Tardis and was positively hyperventilating by the time we three had wandered across from the supermarket carpark to the vet. Jazz was equally ecstatic to be out and socialising - she really is such a lovely dog - and lapped up (bwahaha) the attention. All the vet nurses go gah-gah for Jazz because she's silly. She joins in to the conversation by standing on hind legs and putting front paws on the counter - last time, it was when the receptionist asked me if I'd like a complementary sweet from the basket. Before I could reply (no), Miss Boofhead had her big clod-hoppers up on the (very high, mind you, but that doesn't stop her) counter, helping herself. She actually got her nose in. I was mortified. The woman behind the desk thought it was hilarious.
So we go in to see the vet. Jazz is so beside herself at the prospect of meeting another new friend (she graciously welcomes people and their animals into the waiting room whenever we're there, as if they're being invited in to her home and she's about to socialise and put canapés on for starters) that she bashes her tail against every solid surface. He checks her over quickly then says he'll go out the back, get a nurse and they'll pierce the lump and drain it *hold onto your dinner, now*
While they were gone, with Lolly looking with a very concerned face at the door through which they left, I explained to her a few times that Jazzy has a bump. She is sore. So she had to come to the doggy doctor ("that's a vet to you and me, Lol") with mummy and Lolly to have a checkup. She listened earnestly. I had no idea if she understood or was just humouring me with her concentratedness.
They came back - we heard Jazz bashing her way down the corridor - she got another dog treat (what are those putrid bits of treats they give them? what part of the animal... no wait, don't tell me, I DON'T wanna know*)
The verdict was, Jazz managed to whack her ribs so hard - which isn't so difficult to imagine, given that the freight train prefers to use her body to stop her when she's running at, well, anything really, full pelt - that she tore a muscle. Ouchies. The resultant fluid was filling in a pocket on her side. They drained it (it's filling up tonight again a little, unfortunately) and said that it should go down over the next few weeks.
Crisis averted. And it only cost $47 this time. I don't think I've ever paid that little at the vet's ever. For any of our dearly beloveds.
The best part of this story, though, was this afternoon when I was trying to distract and amuse (you know, that time of day). I was telling the LGBB that when "Dad gets home, we'll have to tell him we took Jazz to see the vet". And you know what she said? With the most earnest look of understanding on her face? "Cah!" That's right, in the car.
And tonight, I was saying to Steve that the gardeners were telling me about their grandson, same age as the LGBB, running around everywhere and how the woman spent so long giving me advice and tips on how to encourage Lolly to crawl....... then she asked if she was saying any words. As I reeled them off ("go", "cah" for car, "dat doo" for thank you, "Ja-sss" or "Bazz" for Jazz, etc.), she looked surprised and said "Well that's very good then, all our grandson says is mama and dada". Swings and roundabouts then, hey?
And Steve said "Yeah, but I don't think she says clear words. She doesn't understand anything, only in her mutterings does she sometimes say stuff." So with a "You wanna bet?", I said to him that today I had been explaining to her that we had to tell him when he got home what we did with Jazzy today. Without missing a beat, the LGBB (who was being carried to the bath by Steve) turns to him and says "Cah!" and then went on with oh, the most meltingly cute regaling of the days events. She even put on a very "ohhh poor Bazz" expression, looking towards outside. She was SO telling him what happened today. And now Daddy's a believer.
Excitement aplenty.
* I took Lolly to the market on Saturday and was mindlessly wandering over to a stall that had a sign "Kangaroo Paws" - funny, they're usually not called the plural "paws" and .. I don't see any foliage ... oh good LORD, they've cut and dried our national emblem for their pets!!!! Poor Skip.
I had no room for the pram, so had to strap the Lolster on to my front with the good ole Ergo (fantastic carrier, it protects my back like nothing else). We kept butting heads, moreso because she's so tall now and I haven't worked out how to put her on my back on my own, and I was tickled by that baby-fine hair for the hour we were hanging around.
What happened was, I was outside introducing the dogs to the new gardeners (we got new gardeners, the last guy just PFFT up and vanished - my SIL and I have since conjured up all these exotic stories about what could have befallen him: a Congan love interest, a Lotto win, dying alone Bridget Jones-style and being eaten by his Alsatian... most likely verdict is he simply went belly-up like so many garden/horticulture folk this past dry season). I like these people. They're a husband and wife team, look every bit like they'd fit right in at The Seekers comeback concert, it's like having me mum and dad doing the garden for me *one-two-three, awwww*
But I digress.
The woman noticed Jazzus had a rather sizeable lump hanging off the side of her body. It protruded so exaggeratedly I gathered I would have noticed (we saw the dogs last night - we almost have to pencil them in these days, the poor patient ladies - and there was certainly no second doggie growing off her belly then). This thing was the size of a tennis ball and seemed to be just under her skin. Not wanting to take any risks, but hopeful it was a benign growth of some sort because it felt moveable and fluidy, I made a last minute appointment for this afternoon. Lolly's first trip to the vet!
I explained what was going on to the LGBB. She seemed suitably pleased that I was ramming Jazz into the back of the Tardis and was positively hyperventilating by the time we three had wandered across from the supermarket carpark to the vet. Jazz was equally ecstatic to be out and socialising - she really is such a lovely dog - and lapped up (bwahaha) the attention. All the vet nurses go gah-gah for Jazz because she's silly. She joins in to the conversation by standing on hind legs and putting front paws on the counter - last time, it was when the receptionist asked me if I'd like a complementary sweet from the basket. Before I could reply (no), Miss Boofhead had her big clod-hoppers up on the (very high, mind you, but that doesn't stop her) counter, helping herself. She actually got her nose in. I was mortified. The woman behind the desk thought it was hilarious.
So we go in to see the vet. Jazz is so beside herself at the prospect of meeting another new friend (she graciously welcomes people and their animals into the waiting room whenever we're there, as if they're being invited in to her home and she's about to socialise and put canapés on for starters) that she bashes her tail against every solid surface. He checks her over quickly then says he'll go out the back, get a nurse and they'll pierce the lump and drain it *hold onto your dinner, now*
While they were gone, with Lolly looking with a very concerned face at the door through which they left, I explained to her a few times that Jazzy has a bump. She is sore. So she had to come to the doggy doctor ("that's a vet to you and me, Lol") with mummy and Lolly to have a checkup. She listened earnestly. I had no idea if she understood or was just humouring me with her concentratedness.
They came back - we heard Jazz bashing her way down the corridor - she got another dog treat (what are those putrid bits of treats they give them? what part of the animal... no wait, don't tell me, I DON'T wanna know*)
The verdict was, Jazz managed to whack her ribs so hard - which isn't so difficult to imagine, given that the freight train prefers to use her body to stop her when she's running at, well, anything really, full pelt - that she tore a muscle. Ouchies. The resultant fluid was filling in a pocket on her side. They drained it (it's filling up tonight again a little, unfortunately) and said that it should go down over the next few weeks.
Crisis averted. And it only cost $47 this time. I don't think I've ever paid that little at the vet's ever. For any of our dearly beloveds.
The best part of this story, though, was this afternoon when I was trying to distract and amuse (you know, that time of day). I was telling the LGBB that when "Dad gets home, we'll have to tell him we took Jazz to see the vet". And you know what she said? With the most earnest look of understanding on her face? "Cah!" That's right, in the car.
And tonight, I was saying to Steve that the gardeners were telling me about their grandson, same age as the LGBB, running around everywhere and how the woman spent so long giving me advice and tips on how to encourage Lolly to crawl....... then she asked if she was saying any words. As I reeled them off ("go", "cah" for car, "dat doo" for thank you, "Ja-sss" or "Bazz" for Jazz, etc.), she looked surprised and said "Well that's very good then, all our grandson says is mama and dada". Swings and roundabouts then, hey?
And Steve said "Yeah, but I don't think she says clear words. She doesn't understand anything, only in her mutterings does she sometimes say stuff." So with a "You wanna bet?", I said to him that today I had been explaining to her that we had to tell him when he got home what we did with Jazzy today. Without missing a beat, the LGBB (who was being carried to the bath by Steve) turns to him and says "Cah!" and then went on with oh, the most meltingly cute regaling of the days events. She even put on a very "ohhh poor Bazz" expression, looking towards outside. She was SO telling him what happened today. And now Daddy's a believer.
Excitement aplenty.
* I took Lolly to the market on Saturday and was mindlessly wandering over to a stall that had a sign "Kangaroo Paws" - funny, they're usually not called the plural "paws" and .. I don't see any foliage ... oh good LORD, they've cut and dried our national emblem for their pets!!!! Poor Skip.
An Australian Story
Watched Australian Story the other night. On a reminder tip-off from The Guardian Friend.
Faaaar OUT. I coulda written that woman's script. And had to stop myself from punching the air when she verbalised what so many of "us" feel: that the arrival of Number 2 Special Baby does not right or fix or make us "happy now" - she said there's still a sadness and then said "And so as time goes on, people think, "Well, you've got a new baby now, you know, get on with it, you'll be right". But you're not. You're living with the other child. The other child doesn't just go away. You live with the ghost of the child that should have been".
I nearly fell off the couch, was floored that she said it, and so grateful that she was able to say it publicly because she said it for me too, perhaps many other bereaved parents (she beat me to it, y'know, because that's what my writing is ultimately about I guess) and people have heard her. And good on her. You know what, though, I didn't cry. I certainly swallowed a big lump after hearing that statement, true, but I didn't cry. I take this as a good sign. I guess it's the difference between someone who's never experienced it (premature baby and the death of that baby), hearing a first hand heartfelt account, and someone who's lived it. I wouldn't have even watched this show a year ago, let alone been a mess if I saw it. Sometimes stories like Jane's do still give me a physical sickness or ache. But I'd like to think that's how far I've come, that I can not only watch or read these stories, but not get so caught in them that it tears me wide open for days all over again. I guess I have my own special little Blissbomb to thank in big part for that. And the fact that I have a pretty good protection mechanism, oiled and working like a beaut, which kept me from surrounding myself with similar stories to my own til I was good and ready to separate myself somewhat and be strong enough to do it.
I found the transcript of the show (PETA take a look in case I can't record it onto tape for you!), thankfully, as I knew there were a few things she said that were stand-outs to me that I wanted to go back over, my memory's not that perfect that I could remember verbatim. Take a look before it gets dropped off the page with newer stories! (or do they archive them?).
I remember her from television - what bastards they were (her son died, she was off work and had gone back five months after her son died and when she returned, nobody said a word, treated her like it hadn't happened and expected business as usual from her), what a prick place to work that'd have to be - and I had no idea what had happened to her (or where she'd gone).
Faaaar OUT. I coulda written that woman's script. And had to stop myself from punching the air when she verbalised what so many of "us" feel: that the arrival of Number 2 Special Baby does not right or fix or make us "happy now" - she said there's still a sadness and then said "And so as time goes on, people think, "Well, you've got a new baby now, you know, get on with it, you'll be right". But you're not. You're living with the other child. The other child doesn't just go away. You live with the ghost of the child that should have been".
I nearly fell off the couch, was floored that she said it, and so grateful that she was able to say it publicly because she said it for me too, perhaps many other bereaved parents (she beat me to it, y'know, because that's what my writing is ultimately about I guess) and people have heard her. And good on her. You know what, though, I didn't cry. I certainly swallowed a big lump after hearing that statement, true, but I didn't cry. I take this as a good sign. I guess it's the difference between someone who's never experienced it (premature baby and the death of that baby), hearing a first hand heartfelt account, and someone who's lived it. I wouldn't have even watched this show a year ago, let alone been a mess if I saw it. Sometimes stories like Jane's do still give me a physical sickness or ache. But I'd like to think that's how far I've come, that I can not only watch or read these stories, but not get so caught in them that it tears me wide open for days all over again. I guess I have my own special little Blissbomb to thank in big part for that. And the fact that I have a pretty good protection mechanism, oiled and working like a beaut, which kept me from surrounding myself with similar stories to my own til I was good and ready to separate myself somewhat and be strong enough to do it.
I found the transcript of the show (PETA take a look in case I can't record it onto tape for you!), thankfully, as I knew there were a few things she said that were stand-outs to me that I wanted to go back over, my memory's not that perfect that I could remember verbatim. Take a look before it gets dropped off the page with newer stories! (or do they archive them?).
I remember her from television - what bastards they were (her son died, she was off work and had gone back five months after her son died and when she returned, nobody said a word, treated her like it hadn't happened and expected business as usual from her), what a prick place to work that'd have to be - and I had no idea what had happened to her (or where she'd gone).
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Butterfly
Each time I close in and get all responsible again, going back to the foundations I have struggled and strived to strengthen, I get a clear sign.
Each and every time my conscious thinking opens up and I start supporting or surrounding someone (from however afar) who is facing a life threatening challenge with their baby.... a stranger from somewhere in the world posts on Ella's guestbook. Such an external cue is now undeniable to me and I am learning how this works more and more after each time someone makes a thread - I feel like an anchor or some sort of conduit between these mothers.
I could have predicted, then, that after turning my attention to a cyber friend going through the trial of her life, I would get home today to a message in the Inbox:
Could it merely be coincidence? Of course it could. Am I going to take it as a fluke? Not on your life.
Each and every time my conscious thinking opens up and I start supporting or surrounding someone (from however afar) who is facing a life threatening challenge with their baby.... a stranger from somewhere in the world posts on Ella's guestbook. Such an external cue is now undeniable to me and I am learning how this works more and more after each time someone makes a thread - I feel like an anchor or some sort of conduit between these mothers.
I could have predicted, then, that after turning my attention to a cyber friend going through the trial of her life, I would get home today to a message in the Inbox:
Thank you for your wonderful site I read it all with a box of tissues.
Today I needed to make contact with someone or something to connect me to other parents who have lost a child.
My child died in an incident 12 years ago at 12 years old it feels different today to think I had (name) for as long as I've been without him. It has given me great comfort to especially read your poem section I'm off to find others now on google - I need days like this thank you
Could it merely be coincidence? Of course it could. Am I going to take it as a fluke? Not on your life.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Don pom-poms
You would be forgiven for thinking Don pom-poms is the new head of The Family.
But no! I am asking you to don your pom-poms.
See, I have become rather hopelessly lost in my book. One of the strangest things (though shouldn't be so surprising, really) about stopping the breastfeeding is my lift in mood. Oh. My. GOD! Who knew? WHO KNEW those little pesky hormones were just so powerful? I'm not out of the woods yet - sorreeeee, Stevie if you're reading - but I'm certainly on my way back to My Brand of Normal.
So. I'm sifting through these chapters, which are not chapters so much as themes (and which will be reshuffled, which is the process I am currently going through), and I'm getting more and more clear about how I need it to look, how it's going to pan out in the first real proper draft.
But why is it that at the point of being the closest I've been to seeing the big picture, it feels so much further away despite all the work I've already done?
I'm also looking at a lot of it now - interestingly, quite a lot of the stuff I've written/transcribed this year, since my wrist went AWOL - and thinking "Man, nup, don't need that. Or that. Ewww definitely don't think that's got anything to do with what I need to say" and I really do believe it's because I've sort of discovered the purpose of the book and at the same time had this lift in mood because of the waning hormones.
But oh dear, so incredibly.... what's the word? Taxing? Mmmm nah it's not taxing on me anymore. I am actually full of energy about it at the moment (this week, today), but it's bloody difficult to keep the momentum and focus up on the level I need so I can keep going. First I have to sort everything into chronological order. Think I am going to have to get a printout of the entire lot (oooh! I know where there's one already done! Hmmmmm may have to make a trip to collect, to save on the trees 'n all that) and just sit one weekend with it all spread out before me on the floor. Oh, won't the LGBB loooove that.
So, yes, that's it. It's encouragement to keep up the momentum that I need.
Need some rah-rah's. Please? *meekly paws at screen*
But no! I am asking you to don your pom-poms.
See, I have become rather hopelessly lost in my book. One of the strangest things (though shouldn't be so surprising, really) about stopping the breastfeeding is my lift in mood. Oh. My. GOD! Who knew? WHO KNEW those little pesky hormones were just so powerful? I'm not out of the woods yet - sorreeeee, Stevie if you're reading - but I'm certainly on my way back to My Brand of Normal.
So. I'm sifting through these chapters, which are not chapters so much as themes (and which will be reshuffled, which is the process I am currently going through), and I'm getting more and more clear about how I need it to look, how it's going to pan out in the first real proper draft.
But why is it that at the point of being the closest I've been to seeing the big picture, it feels so much further away despite all the work I've already done?
I'm also looking at a lot of it now - interestingly, quite a lot of the stuff I've written/transcribed this year, since my wrist went AWOL - and thinking "Man, nup, don't need that. Or that. Ewww definitely don't think that's got anything to do with what I need to say" and I really do believe it's because I've sort of discovered the purpose of the book and at the same time had this lift in mood because of the waning hormones.
But oh dear, so incredibly.... what's the word? Taxing? Mmmm nah it's not taxing on me anymore. I am actually full of energy about it at the moment (this week, today), but it's bloody difficult to keep the momentum and focus up on the level I need so I can keep going. First I have to sort everything into chronological order. Think I am going to have to get a printout of the entire lot (oooh! I know where there's one already done! Hmmmmm may have to make a trip to collect, to save on the trees 'n all that) and just sit one weekend with it all spread out before me on the floor. Oh, won't the LGBB loooove that.
So, yes, that's it. It's encouragement to keep up the momentum that I need.
Need some rah-rah's. Please? *meekly paws at screen*
Putty
This morning was a typical morning in our household.
The LGBB likes to partake of the first breakfast course on the floor of the living room here, listening to ABC classic (nuthin' but Klass with a capital Kuh here). She shimmies and jiggles along to the morning music - it's usually lighter at this time of day and therefore more appealing to her - while I get her cereal.
Now, cereal for this current box at least is Cheerios. Dry Cheerios. No milk. Poured into a bowl. The bowl usually has either a froggy or a horse on the bottom of it. So what does any kid urgent to see their animal friend do? Why, stick a hand in and violently shake all the round circles of wheaty cerealy goodness so they go flying and land within a half metre radius around your body, of course. It's far more fun to pick your brekkie off the floor.
So this morning, I sat the LGBB on the couch (I saw the remotes sitting there, why didn't I move them?) while I vacuumed - gotta be on top of this vacuuming gig if your child thinks all the world's walking surfaces are a plate - and when I walked past her to get her cereal from the kitchen, I noticed the Carol-Anne fuzz on the telly. She'd managed to turn it on. The way her head almost guiltily whipped around to look at me, with that blank-Lolly-gaze she does so well when she's being cheeky and knows it, confirmed she knew she'd touched what she knew she oughtn't. We looked at the screen and back at each other silently. I said "Ummmm...." and she interrupted with "Uh-uhow". Yes, uh-oh's right. I had to go into the kitchen to 'busy myself' so she wouldn't see me chuckle.
Then, back on the floor, telly now off, radio now on, I gave her her bowl of cereal. As soon as it hit the floor, she'd shaken it everywhere. I try. I do try to stop her. I removed the bowl, said "Uh-uh-uh" (the requisite three-staccato parent's alternative to an outright "NO!") and began to put them back in. "Uh... UH-UH!" she repeated, looking at me with a look like, "I know, but I can't help it, they make me do it to them." Then she started doing the "No, Jazzy, No!" version of the Quit ad that we've been teaching her - arms up at the ready, she started wagging her finger at herself ("No, Gary, no! No, Gary, no! Nooooo, GARY" style). Muttering along with the finger-wagging (which was more like broad sweeping arm movements than anything accurate), "Uh-uh-uh blblblbmuttah, Bazz", with the Bazz accented by a gruff growl. Poor Jazz sounded like she was getting a right proper telling off. Thing is, Jazz was nowhere in sight. Have we honestly scolded that dog so often that the LGBB thinks that now anytime there's a correction of behaviour to be had, it's gotta be Jazz's fault? Methinks, yes.
I am such a push-over for slapstick. Especially baby slapstick.
The LGBB likes to partake of the first breakfast course on the floor of the living room here, listening to ABC classic (nuthin' but Klass with a capital Kuh here). She shimmies and jiggles along to the morning music - it's usually lighter at this time of day and therefore more appealing to her - while I get her cereal.
Now, cereal for this current box at least is Cheerios. Dry Cheerios. No milk. Poured into a bowl. The bowl usually has either a froggy or a horse on the bottom of it. So what does any kid urgent to see their animal friend do? Why, stick a hand in and violently shake all the round circles of wheaty cerealy goodness so they go flying and land within a half metre radius around your body, of course. It's far more fun to pick your brekkie off the floor.
So this morning, I sat the LGBB on the couch (I saw the remotes sitting there, why didn't I move them?) while I vacuumed - gotta be on top of this vacuuming gig if your child thinks all the world's walking surfaces are a plate - and when I walked past her to get her cereal from the kitchen, I noticed the Carol-Anne fuzz on the telly. She'd managed to turn it on. The way her head almost guiltily whipped around to look at me, with that blank-Lolly-gaze she does so well when she's being cheeky and knows it, confirmed she knew she'd touched what she knew she oughtn't. We looked at the screen and back at each other silently. I said "Ummmm...." and she interrupted with "Uh-uhow". Yes, uh-oh's right. I had to go into the kitchen to 'busy myself' so she wouldn't see me chuckle.
Then, back on the floor, telly now off, radio now on, I gave her her bowl of cereal. As soon as it hit the floor, she'd shaken it everywhere. I try. I do try to stop her. I removed the bowl, said "Uh-uh-uh" (the requisite three-staccato parent's alternative to an outright "NO!") and began to put them back in. "Uh... UH-UH!" she repeated, looking at me with a look like, "I know, but I can't help it, they make me do it to them." Then she started doing the "No, Jazzy, No!" version of the Quit ad that we've been teaching her - arms up at the ready, she started wagging her finger at herself ("No, Gary, no! No, Gary, no! Nooooo, GARY" style). Muttering along with the finger-wagging (which was more like broad sweeping arm movements than anything accurate), "Uh-uh-uh blblblbmuttah, Bazz", with the Bazz accented by a gruff growl. Poor Jazz sounded like she was getting a right proper telling off. Thing is, Jazz was nowhere in sight. Have we honestly scolded that dog so often that the LGBB thinks that now anytime there's a correction of behaviour to be had, it's gotta be Jazz's fault? Methinks, yes.
I am such a push-over for slapstick. Especially baby slapstick.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The catch-up post
So, uh..... I've been leaving a few things out. I'll just do them in point form I think.
• At the LGBB's osteo appointment a fortnight ago, I asked the lovely practitioner if she wouldn't mind looking at my dodgy wrist/forearm/elbow ("just cut it off at the shoulder"), being a week or so after I had to take myself to the hospital (thanks, SPAZZ.. I mean, JAZZ). She took a look and said, "Honestly? Save your money, I don't think any treatment will do much good I'm afraid. I hate to say, but time, rest - which we don't have the luxury 0f - and stopping breastfeeding are the only things that will improve it." My ears pricked up at stopping breastfeeding. I quizzed her further on it and she said that basically, the same hormones and fluid-retention that enabled the LGBB to have her solitary morning feed were also contributing to the ongoing aggravated state of my wrist joint.
I hadn't wanted to stop feeding for, oh say, five more years? No, really, I had a bit of a mental brick wall about it, given that the last time I stopped feeding was marred with such utter devastation (failed dry-up tablets that were like putting a tampon in a crack at the Hoover Dam, causing a very nearly nasty onset of mastitis - I'd gone from expressing about 5 times a day to zilch, or just very lightly in the shower after Ella died so unexpectedly - lucky I was coached through by the midwives and avoided getting sick full-blown), I hadn't thought it would be so difficult mentally to stop that last feed.
Turns out, the decision was pretty much taken off me and I gave Lolly her final feed not even realising there would be no more. I made the decision there and then in her office, as the fuse on my temper guage (because of the pain, I'd become like a snappy wounded animal) was sooooo perilously lacking in any more thread that I had to do something.
• Two-ish weeks later, I barely get a niggle from the old tenosyniv-oosiwatsit. The tip to stop breastfeeding (well, she didn't say 'stop', she said it'd get better when...) was a godsend as it's turned out.
• Jazz has decided recently that she's not taking full advantage of her title of Libby yet. So has begun stealing, in that most (endearing, shhhh don't tell her it's actually really funny) Labrador-esque of stealthy moves: the food-grab off the table, bench, anything. Nothing is safe. Not even fruit.
• *cough* That book arrived in the mail today. A complimentary signed copy from the author. I don't think I've ever divulged here, but we were one of the ones that made it to publication stage. Well blow me down with a feather, we're chapter one. Sheet. *cough* Erm..... *shifting feet nervously* It's weird seeing our story in print. And that's not even the half of it. It's more the Readers' Digest version of what's happened to us. But. Uh, yeah... Sheet again.
• I've had a falling out with my latest obsession: the extra strong coffee milk. Turns out, 2 gallons a day and me don't mix. So I stopped cold turkey. But ya think I can stop the cravings?
• Also gone back on the apple cake wagon. Fell off earlier this week and had two.
• Which reminds me, my new love(r) ... ewwww, that word really makes my skin crawl (except when Carrie says it when she's window shopping, looking at shoes) ... is beckoning me from the pantry. Coming, Heaven truffle chockies! Cominnnng!
• At the LGBB's osteo appointment a fortnight ago, I asked the lovely practitioner if she wouldn't mind looking at my dodgy wrist/forearm/elbow ("just cut it off at the shoulder"), being a week or so after I had to take myself to the hospital (thanks, SPAZZ.. I mean, JAZZ). She took a look and said, "Honestly? Save your money, I don't think any treatment will do much good I'm afraid. I hate to say, but time, rest - which we don't have the luxury 0f - and stopping breastfeeding are the only things that will improve it." My ears pricked up at stopping breastfeeding. I quizzed her further on it and she said that basically, the same hormones and fluid-retention that enabled the LGBB to have her solitary morning feed were also contributing to the ongoing aggravated state of my wrist joint.
I hadn't wanted to stop feeding for, oh say, five more years? No, really, I had a bit of a mental brick wall about it, given that the last time I stopped feeding was marred with such utter devastation (failed dry-up tablets that were like putting a tampon in a crack at the Hoover Dam, causing a very nearly nasty onset of mastitis - I'd gone from expressing about 5 times a day to zilch, or just very lightly in the shower after Ella died so unexpectedly - lucky I was coached through by the midwives and avoided getting sick full-blown), I hadn't thought it would be so difficult mentally to stop that last feed.
Turns out, the decision was pretty much taken off me and I gave Lolly her final feed not even realising there would be no more. I made the decision there and then in her office, as the fuse on my temper guage (because of the pain, I'd become like a snappy wounded animal) was sooooo perilously lacking in any more thread that I had to do something.
• Two-ish weeks later, I barely get a niggle from the old tenosyniv-oosiwatsit. The tip to stop breastfeeding (well, she didn't say 'stop', she said it'd get better when...) was a godsend as it's turned out.
• Jazz has decided recently that she's not taking full advantage of her title of Libby yet. So has begun stealing, in that most (endearing, shhhh don't tell her it's actually really funny) Labrador-esque of stealthy moves: the food-grab off the table, bench, anything. Nothing is safe. Not even fruit.
• *cough* That book arrived in the mail today. A complimentary signed copy from the author. I don't think I've ever divulged here, but we were one of the ones that made it to publication stage. Well blow me down with a feather, we're chapter one. Sheet. *cough* Erm..... *shifting feet nervously* It's weird seeing our story in print. And that's not even the half of it. It's more the Readers' Digest version of what's happened to us. But. Uh, yeah... Sheet again.
• I've had a falling out with my latest obsession: the extra strong coffee milk. Turns out, 2 gallons a day and me don't mix. So I stopped cold turkey. But ya think I can stop the cravings?
• Also gone back on the apple cake wagon. Fell off earlier this week and had two.
• Which reminds me, my new love(r) ... ewwww, that word really makes my skin crawl (except when Carrie says it when she's window shopping, looking at shoes) ... is beckoning me from the pantry. Coming, Heaven truffle chockies! Cominnnng!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Working Woman's great household tips
Margaret Fulton's way:
Stuff miniature marshmallow in the bottom of a sugar cone to prevent ice-cream drips.
The Working Woman's way:
Just suck the ice-cream out of the bottom of the cone for Pete's sake. You are probably lying on the couch with your feet up eating it anyway!!
Margaret Fulton's:
When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking tin, use a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any white mess on the outside of the cake.
Working Woman's:
Woolworths sell cakes. They even do decorated versions.
Margaret Fulton's:
If you accidentally over salt a dish while it's still cooking, drop in a potato slice.
Working Woman's:
If you over salt a dish while you are cooking, tough! Recite the working Woman's motto: "I made it and you will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes!"
Margaret Fulton's:
Wrap celery in aluminium foil when putting it in the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.
Working Woman's:
It could keep forever. Who eats it??
Margaret Fulton's:
Cure for headaches. Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.
Working Woman's:
Cure for headaches. Take a lime, cut it in half and drop it in a double vodka. Drink the vodka. You might still have the headache, but you won't care!
AND FINALLY, THE MOST IMPORTANT TIP..
Margaret Fulton's:
Freeze leftover wine into ice cubes for future use in casseroles and sauces..
Working Woman's:
Left over wine??? HELLOOO!!!????
Stuff miniature marshmallow in the bottom of a sugar cone to prevent ice-cream drips.
The Working Woman's way:
Just suck the ice-cream out of the bottom of the cone for Pete's sake. You are probably lying on the couch with your feet up eating it anyway!!
Margaret Fulton's:
When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking tin, use a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any white mess on the outside of the cake.
Working Woman's:
Woolworths sell cakes. They even do decorated versions.
Margaret Fulton's:
If you accidentally over salt a dish while it's still cooking, drop in a potato slice.
Working Woman's:
If you over salt a dish while you are cooking, tough! Recite the working Woman's motto: "I made it and you will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes!"
Margaret Fulton's:
Wrap celery in aluminium foil when putting it in the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.
Working Woman's:
It could keep forever. Who eats it??
Margaret Fulton's:
Cure for headaches. Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.
Working Woman's:
Cure for headaches. Take a lime, cut it in half and drop it in a double vodka. Drink the vodka. You might still have the headache, but you won't care!
AND FINALLY, THE MOST IMPORTANT TIP..
Margaret Fulton's:
Freeze leftover wine into ice cubes for future use in casseroles and sauces..
Working Woman's:
Left over wine??? HELLOOO!!!????
Monday, September 10, 2007
And we're GO for second word
Me: Here you go, more toast.
LGBB: Dusssst.Me: Mmmm, toast.
LGBB: Dusssst.
Me: That's right! Toast!
LGBB: DUSSST!
I wanted so much to continue in my best Marjorie Dawes voice, "Dust. Anybody? No? High in fat, low in fat? Dust. Anybody? No? Dust. Anybody? No? Dust. It's actually very low in fat. You can have as much dust as you like."
So I did.
LGBB: Dusssst.Me: Mmmm, toast.
LGBB: Dusssst.
Me: That's right! Toast!
LGBB: DUSSST!
I wanted so much to continue in my best Marjorie Dawes voice, "Dust. Anybody? No? High in fat, low in fat? Dust. Anybody? No? Dust. Anybody? No? Dust. It's actually very low in fat. You can have as much dust as you like."
So I did.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
'ere! Why didn't anyone tell me?!
Male reader(s), look away now...
I am talking, ladies, about the bust minimiser bra. Call me clueless and out of touch, but I had no idea such a thing existing in your mainstream, everyday dime-a-dozen store - Triumph brand, no less - and was something that wasn't going to cost me an arm, leg and sobering fitting room experience with an older lady looking over her bifocals at me and making comment about how my baby fat* isn't technically baby fat after my baby isn't a baby anymore.
Decided to go and get me some new braziers to hold the boosies in place last week. What do I expect I will opt for? Oh, just another tshirt bra, probably poorly fitted but somehow still comfortable. Sick of feeling like I am walking with a stack of pillows around my chest and underarms. But equally accepting that this was from breastfeeding. So now that breastfeeding is behind me (oh yes, I must divulge about the split decision in a separate post), for over a week now, I figured it was time to retire the almost two-year-old maternity numbers - for this is how suddenly hormones affect my bust; apparently they are my own personal barometric devices, requiring reinforcements early on - and go for broke on a few newies.
Can I just say, on the advice of a cute li'l dumpling I found rummaging around zealously amongst her clothing racks, sorting and sifting, checking and tagging, I was so hopeful as I took in the bras on her self-proclaimed must-have list and tried them on, LGBB in tow. I was nervous that when the LGBB saw Harry and Larry (they don't have names, but for want of two better ones...) she'd think lunch was served, but she only did a double take and kept bopping in her trolley to the instore music. Good start.
Tried on the first one. God, it looked putrid. Lolly thought it was hilarious. I tended to agree. But, as it was so very different to any bra I'd ever tried on, I gave it the benefit of the doubt and shoved my top back over to see if it minimised, as it so eagerly exclaimed on its tag. SHIT! I have a waist! I also had two attentive-looking little numbers stuffed under there, as opposed to my now signature chesty-rack of heftiness. Couldn't believe the shape. Oprah's bra expert was right.
I dunno what helped me remember, but my life (and my wardrobe) changed the day I asked "Which way to the bras that will help me with .... THESE??"
*Ie. fat resulting from a baby as opposed to puppy a.k.a. baby fat I only just lost before ttc so the two fats have sorta blended into one big ... fat
I am talking, ladies, about the bust minimiser bra. Call me clueless and out of touch, but I had no idea such a thing existing in your mainstream, everyday dime-a-dozen store - Triumph brand, no less - and was something that wasn't going to cost me an arm, leg and sobering fitting room experience with an older lady looking over her bifocals at me and making comment about how my baby fat* isn't technically baby fat after my baby isn't a baby anymore.
Decided to go and get me some new braziers to hold the boosies in place last week. What do I expect I will opt for? Oh, just another tshirt bra, probably poorly fitted but somehow still comfortable. Sick of feeling like I am walking with a stack of pillows around my chest and underarms. But equally accepting that this was from breastfeeding. So now that breastfeeding is behind me (oh yes, I must divulge about the split decision in a separate post), for over a week now, I figured it was time to retire the almost two-year-old maternity numbers - for this is how suddenly hormones affect my bust; apparently they are my own personal barometric devices, requiring reinforcements early on - and go for broke on a few newies.
Can I just say, on the advice of a cute li'l dumpling I found rummaging around zealously amongst her clothing racks, sorting and sifting, checking and tagging, I was so hopeful as I took in the bras on her self-proclaimed must-have list and tried them on, LGBB in tow. I was nervous that when the LGBB saw Harry and Larry (they don't have names, but for want of two better ones...) she'd think lunch was served, but she only did a double take and kept bopping in her trolley to the instore music. Good start.
Tried on the first one. God, it looked putrid. Lolly thought it was hilarious. I tended to agree. But, as it was so very different to any bra I'd ever tried on, I gave it the benefit of the doubt and shoved my top back over to see if it minimised, as it so eagerly exclaimed on its tag. SHIT! I have a waist! I also had two attentive-looking little numbers stuffed under there, as opposed to my now signature chesty-rack of heftiness. Couldn't believe the shape. Oprah's bra expert was right.
I dunno what helped me remember, but my life (and my wardrobe) changed the day I asked "Which way to the bras that will help me with .... THESE??"
*Ie. fat resulting from a baby as opposed to puppy a.k.a. baby fat I only just lost before ttc so the two fats have sorta blended into one big ... fat
Friday, September 07, 2007
Floating
I found myself reading (lurking) in an online group where I would have once belonged. Just about everything these women are expressing is how I have felt (still feel, oddly) for so many years. I wanted so much to meekly come out and stick my hand up and say "I hear you, and you! AND YOU, up the back there" because I really felt the need (for myself mainly, I guess) to make that connection with them.
It's like being in limbo land. I don't mean to stay in this place, where efforts to conceive an elusive baby brought no end month after month (with miscarriages littered throughout the years). And anyone who knows me knows I don't begrudge or regret (god no!) or not appreciate our little LGBB. But I do still feel rather stuck between worlds.
On the one hand, I'm now a mum, involved in playgroups and chats and days/nights out with them (they're a great bunch of girls). I do all the 'mum' things, but I sometimes feel like a bit of a phoney doing it. I almost defy the overwhelming stereotype (perhaps built up somewhat more in my mind, having been given so long to idealise the role?), not willingly joining in on a lot of the conversations here and there - at occasional care or playgroup or at the park - when someone will inevitably start up with how 'annoying' something is that their child does. Or talking about 'the next one', now that topic just leaves me bristling.
On the other hand, I am still that person striving to create and nurture life. I have settled down. We are not planning another baby. We never will, ever again. It's this side of the coin that has me stumped. If I am not planning on being pregnant anytime soon (and a recent scare - which actually turned up the faintest hint of a line, only to herald the arrival of the good witch - assured me I am not in any kind of state to be toying with the fantasy of welcoming baby #3), why am I still envious of those girls who are pregnant and who look to be doing it like those magnificent men in their flying trapeze (....doing it with the greatest of ease, come on, keep up!). Why am I still so much more comfortable finding kindred people who are yet to have that one child? And not only that, but who are struggling? Do I relate more to them than I do to being a mum? Have I not focused enough effort on being comfortable in my new role? Perhaps.
I'd like to think it's more than just about me, me, me still. I don't need further understanding - after all, I've lived it long enough to have about as much experience and understanding as the universal teacher could ever hope to load on a pupil. I am looking on this latest realisation that I'm still feeling the struggle, the pull, the yearning and the striving because I am somehow going to be working with women like this. Maybe. Eventually. Who knows? I have to embrace the fact that these feelings are still surrounding me, it's where I am comfortable (it doesn't drain me, and not nearly as much as supporting mums who have lost a baby - that takes infinitely more energy, is also completely different playing field with different tools and gifts to focus on). And I think there is a reason for it. I have to trust there's a bloody reason, otherwise hell just call me Harper and tell me I'm harping more than a choir with harps in it. On Harp Street. In Harpville...
Each time I attempt to just ease in to focusing on "the mum thing", there are painful memories, flippant comments that I just don't like hearing. The added curveball of not just taking so long to conceive a baby but losing our first born, plus having all those miscarriages, prevents me just relaxing into it I think. It almost feels like when I read the comments of these women who are still trying to cope and doing an admiral effort, I would rather join them than fit in to this new, perhaps less understanding role (I am so glad they have each other, I did not have such comeradery for the first five years of my journey and it sucked, in hindsight - perhaps I would have been more critical and angry, though, come to think of it, of people around us and their comments, had I been more aware of what others too were going through).
Something somewhere unhinged the trapdoor on the box marked "Warning! Your opinions and feelings enclosed, DO NOT OPEN" when I found this community and realised that, hell, if others could say what they felt and how much it hurt, then so could I. But I did so by relating myself to them. It's left me pretty open to being slayed sometimes but I can't help it, it's who I am and how I do it. I noticed the other night as we were chatting (only some of the girls from mothers group could make a post-dinner impromptu dessert.... last-minute cake! the best kind) that I had been possibly too honest all the time, with this and other groups. I've scaled back a lot. I'm learning and I'm practicing not putting so much of me "out there". It's pretty hard, because I often read things that compel me to go in and ensure the writer that, yes!, I get them and I feel their pain. And I really. Do. Feel. Their pain.
It's this that I must learn to properly harness if I'm ever going to get anywhere. With moving forward more/faster than I am currently, with this book, with my relationships with people. With all of it.
It's like being in limbo land. I don't mean to stay in this place, where efforts to conceive an elusive baby brought no end month after month (with miscarriages littered throughout the years). And anyone who knows me knows I don't begrudge or regret (god no!) or not appreciate our little LGBB. But I do still feel rather stuck between worlds.
On the one hand, I'm now a mum, involved in playgroups and chats and days/nights out with them (they're a great bunch of girls). I do all the 'mum' things, but I sometimes feel like a bit of a phoney doing it. I almost defy the overwhelming stereotype (perhaps built up somewhat more in my mind, having been given so long to idealise the role?), not willingly joining in on a lot of the conversations here and there - at occasional care or playgroup or at the park - when someone will inevitably start up with how 'annoying' something is that their child does. Or talking about 'the next one', now that topic just leaves me bristling.
On the other hand, I am still that person striving to create and nurture life. I have settled down. We are not planning another baby. We never will, ever again. It's this side of the coin that has me stumped. If I am not planning on being pregnant anytime soon (and a recent scare - which actually turned up the faintest hint of a line, only to herald the arrival of the good witch - assured me I am not in any kind of state to be toying with the fantasy of welcoming baby #3), why am I still envious of those girls who are pregnant and who look to be doing it like those magnificent men in their flying trapeze (....doing it with the greatest of ease, come on, keep up!). Why am I still so much more comfortable finding kindred people who are yet to have that one child? And not only that, but who are struggling? Do I relate more to them than I do to being a mum? Have I not focused enough effort on being comfortable in my new role? Perhaps.
I'd like to think it's more than just about me, me, me still. I don't need further understanding - after all, I've lived it long enough to have about as much experience and understanding as the universal teacher could ever hope to load on a pupil. I am looking on this latest realisation that I'm still feeling the struggle, the pull, the yearning and the striving because I am somehow going to be working with women like this. Maybe. Eventually. Who knows? I have to embrace the fact that these feelings are still surrounding me, it's where I am comfortable (it doesn't drain me, and not nearly as much as supporting mums who have lost a baby - that takes infinitely more energy, is also completely different playing field with different tools and gifts to focus on). And I think there is a reason for it. I have to trust there's a bloody reason, otherwise hell just call me Harper and tell me I'm harping more than a choir with harps in it. On Harp Street. In Harpville...
Each time I attempt to just ease in to focusing on "the mum thing", there are painful memories, flippant comments that I just don't like hearing. The added curveball of not just taking so long to conceive a baby but losing our first born, plus having all those miscarriages, prevents me just relaxing into it I think. It almost feels like when I read the comments of these women who are still trying to cope and doing an admiral effort, I would rather join them than fit in to this new, perhaps less understanding role (I am so glad they have each other, I did not have such comeradery for the first five years of my journey and it sucked, in hindsight - perhaps I would have been more critical and angry, though, come to think of it, of people around us and their comments, had I been more aware of what others too were going through).
Something somewhere unhinged the trapdoor on the box marked "Warning! Your opinions and feelings enclosed, DO NOT OPEN" when I found this community and realised that, hell, if others could say what they felt and how much it hurt, then so could I. But I did so by relating myself to them. It's left me pretty open to being slayed sometimes but I can't help it, it's who I am and how I do it. I noticed the other night as we were chatting (only some of the girls from mothers group could make a post-dinner impromptu dessert.... last-minute cake! the best kind) that I had been possibly too honest all the time, with this and other groups. I've scaled back a lot. I'm learning and I'm practicing not putting so much of me "out there". It's pretty hard, because I often read things that compel me to go in and ensure the writer that, yes!, I get them and I feel their pain. And I really. Do. Feel. Their pain.
It's this that I must learn to properly harness if I'm ever going to get anywhere. With moving forward more/faster than I am currently, with this book, with my relationships with people. With all of it.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
It's official: I am the person you love to loathe
Yes, that's right. I'm the bidder on Ebay who gets two browser windows going, opens the item they have their beady little eyes on in both windows, uses one to bid and the other to refresh.... bids for the first time at 40 seconds with their second highest bid....
....and stings you in the butt with the final highest bid at 9 seconds to go before auction end.
Poor, poor suckers on dial-up and/or not using the two-window rule. They never stood a chance.
....and stings you in the butt with the final highest bid at 9 seconds to go before auction end.
Poor, poor suckers on dial-up and/or not using the two-window rule. They never stood a chance.
Monday, September 03, 2007
How to have a cracker of a Fathers Day
By Little Miss Bliss Bomb.
Step 1. Eat your breakfast. A hearty brekkie should be tucked into thus: take a fistful and shove it in, swivel on your bum, place your feet on your plate and mush 'em in good. Do a poo in this position.
Step 2. Give Dad his present. From you. For him. But make it something for you. A good story book is best. Don't forget to eat the crayons when you're drawing in the card.
Step 3. Go swimmin'. Give the olds something to tear up about and puff out their chest, such as, say, be the first in your class to swim on your own with no one holding you. See how that grabs them. Watch your teacher, too, she'll be really surprised you can kick so well without stopping ('specially how you're holding out on the crawling and all that too). They'll be so proud and excited. Pretend you don't know why.
Step 4. Screw your face up in excitement at a toy you've had for nearly two months. You can pretend you've never heard that "High and low" (Mummy: goddamn bloody repetitive catchy) song before and bop til you drop.
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