Another ghost

I was thinking just this morning, feeding Lolly in bed, that neither of my girls have ever had formula and what a personal achievement that is... I think it has a lot to do with the fact that, at the time, it was all I could do for Ellanor so it was vitally important to me. And now, with the LGBB, she has thrived on breastmilk and I think it would have been a very different healing process if we had not been successful together on the whole breastfeeding front.

But then, as my stupid mind does, it wandered and made up imaginary conversations and retorted back that the "achievement" with Ella doesn't really count because it was only a month. I realise that it's the ghosts of comments past that cause my mind to go these ridiculous lengths to cut me down a size. And it's something I will have to watch closely.

Then I was reminiscing about that month with Ella and how it felt like a whole lifetime (and for her, it was her lifetime I suppose), was wondering how I found the time to express and be by her side all day - I'd express at the hospital round at the maternity ward each day where I had her, go back and sit by her side all day in the NICU and at night I'd go home, meet Steve home from work, don't even remember eating, then we'd both go back in and stay until shift change over around 10.30 - we'd leave before the nurse officially came on but I could never go home until I knew who was looking after her - and I was expressing twice overnight as well. That dropped back to just one express at the request of the neonatal nurses because I was bringing in more than she needed in the end, as if my body was overcompensating for all that I couldn't do for her. I recall washing and sterilising things at 1.30am and leaving them in the microwave so that I could catch just a bit more shut eye before the next 5am-ish time to express. And I'd be back in the car in peak hour, which thankfully wasn't full-on because it was school holidays still, at around 7.30am.

I know I remember thinking to myself then "Dear God, how do people do this with a baby at home" and sort of being almost thankful that Ella wasn't actually at home waking me as well, without recognising the vital point that most people don't have to drive to feed their baby. It was a strange thing to think but in my addled state it made sense - if she was home, derr of course all of the travelling much less the expressing wouldn't have been taking up a lot of my time. But all I could think was "at least I can have a relatively uninterrupted night" and thought I'd grieve later for the bizarre first months of her life and how there was a distinct "yes but you're not properly mothering your baby because she's not actually with you all the time like other mothers" feeling about it.

And the casual comments of same were scattered through conversations, even after she passed away, and I felt so devoid of anything recognisably "me" that I just allowed people to say them. They would now argue defensively that they knew no better and have never "been here" (supporting someone who's lost) before. But now I can say confidently, you do NOT say things like "Oh yeah, but you didn't really experience what it's like because your baby wasn't home with you and you weren't having to get up to her", etc. Of course that is fact, Blind Freddy can see that. But holy shit, there's a little thing called compassion, solicitude, simple kindness that prevents (thankfully) most people from having to point that out to me as if I didn't know. Human decency prevails for the most part, amen. Sometimes even that can't make up for the razor-sharp ignorance of the very few.

Of course, as it turned out, I grieved for so much more than the fact that I was able to sleep.

Phew, don't know which vault of my mind that surfaced from. Anywho, as they say, better out than in.

Not for the faint of heart

Picture this: I'm standing chopping vegies in the kitchen.

The LGBB is having nappy-free time and is blowing raspberries on the floor. Big, slobbery, loud raspberries. Then, without missing a beat, I hear something that sounds ever so close to a raspberry but with a distinctly muffled intonation. I stop chopping, listen, again with the raspberries. Again I start chopping. And the moment the knife slices through the potato, I hear it again. Much clearer this time.

Little Lolly Gobble Bliss Bomb has bliss bombed her insides out. It cannot be explained any simpler than that.

What impresses me is, the little lady is barely 6 months old and already she's learning to stealthily cover up her shifty bum-trumpeting. Now to master the no-follow-through rule of life.

That's no lady. That's my daughter.

Another year over, a new one just begun

I'm ringing in the new year with ringing in my ears.

I swear, I am about to cut off my head, at the neck actually, and be done with it. Our brilliant first "proper" night out - read: 5 hours off duty, not even the evening rollover feed to worry about - was dinner and a movie. Which was all well and good until 3.30 the following morning and a stabbing pain in my shoulder blade. My initial thought was that Steve was finally seeking vengeance and going me with a kitchen knife for all those times I nagged him about the lawn. But it turns out, it was the beginning of a nightmare weekend drugged up to the eyeballs on Panadeine which, in itself, is bloody fantastic (I feel invincible) but not necessarily my idea of healthy living. Also not great when they wear off after only a couple of hours and you're only allowed to dose up a few times a day.

Note to self: if you're going to have a migraine for the first time in, oh, EVER, don't do it over the Christmas/New Year period because no one gives a flying flexed tendon. Not until after the 3rd.

On a far more cheerful note, the universe, in its infinite way of surprising, has delivered to us a delightful gift. A babysitter. A keen-as-mustard, living in the same suburb, babysitter. And I'm not talking the kid next door (although she did offer and, despite being just 15, looked to be an appealing candidate until she was blown out of the water by the opposition). Oh no. Far more exciting than that.

I received a call out of the blue three weeks ago from Ruby (that's not her name, but I like it), the 2IC midwife at the Mother Baby Unit where the LGBB and I took respite in November. She was calling to see how we'd been getting on. What was, I guess, a fairly routine follow up call then took a turn towards trumpeting angels on high. Backlit. With sparklers. She confessed she felt we'd made a real connection and she felt she wanted to offer her services and babysit for us. Whenever we want. I had to stifle the sound of my humble jaw dropping to the (dusty) floor. I admit that at that point, even though the LGBB had been blessing us and herself with 12 luxurious hours of sleep per night, I was still not really back on the ball - and let's face it, who can really balance on top of that ball without excellent core stability which is completely lost after a baby? I hadn't got a handle on how to juggle her day napping and trying to fit in work and housekeeping in amongst these grabs of sleep and progressively longer up times she was doing.

So when Ruby offered, I cried. She told me I wasn't allowed to cry. So I cried more. HOW this happened is just so beyond me. For you see, not only is she a midwife. Her previous role was as a NICU nurse (at the very NICU where Ella was, coincidentally). She knew the nurses who cared for Ellanor back in 2004 and she herself had been there up until the month Ella was born, but she left on maternity leave. And gave birth to her daughter. Lauren. On the day Ella died. To the very hour. Now if that's not a person I was destined to meet, I don't know who is.

The afternoon of last Friday, when Ruby was due to come and scrapbook on our dining room table (the only payment she wanted was a big table to spread out on... and coffee.... both requirements I could fulfil), I started to get anxious. Really panicky. What if the LGBB wouldn't sleep for her? What if she freaked out so much that our night off had to be cancelled?

But then I smacked myself with each hand and said "Erm..... this is a NICU nurse coming to babysit a healthy 5 month old, you numbnut."

Turns out, Ruby had such a ball at our place that she's all too keen to return. So much so that I asked her if she was going to start ringing and nagging us to go out so she could come here again and scrapbook in peace (she has a decoy album on the go so that her two toddlers can "help mummy", the poor love). I don't know what the joy is about scrapbooking, though friends know I've tried to love it, but far be it from me to stand in the way of a gorgeous, big hearted soul if she wants to do it at our place.

Now I can intersperse her with offers from other friends and family. Aaaaah, the world has suddenly opened right back up again. Gee. What a chore: I have to get around to taking up everyone on their offers to babysit. What a difference to a few months back when I couldn't even entertain the thought of preparing to go out - it felt like such a huge task that it was easier to stay home.

Does anyone get that?

Café chic chicks

Mummy: Whaddaya reckon looks good, Lolly?
The LGBB: Mmmmmm.... Let. Me. Seeeee.

*scoffs* $13.95 for a burger? I don't THINK so.

Meh

If we hadn't explained their opportunity for 'umour, Christmas would have been a bust for the person who lovingly and generously sent some finger puppets across the miles.

We were not amused after the initial unwrapping. But, dang, if an elephant head wiggling on Daddy's finger isn't amusement-face-worthy.

What gives with the unwanted assvice?

I know this is a crime the world over. I have already taken my solemn vow never to be one to do it. And maybe this maternal enthusiasm for others' child rearing practices is just a "gift" I don't have. Or a sport. Perhaps it's a sport and I didn't sign up for it so I don't know how to play the game properly.

I speak of assvice given by other parents to parents when they're NOT asking for an opinion, merely stating (for conversation purposes) things that are happening with their baby in their situation.

Goddamn!

If there is ever any doubt in my mind, you can bet your sweet tootin' behind that it's due to someone casting a back-handed "Are you sure you ought to be doing xyz yet?" in my direction.

It was as simple as saying "The LGBB is starting on solids" and what I received were several opinions and a bit o' assvice that I never asked for. Hell, I know babies her age who have been on solids for weeks already. She's over 5 months old, yes she's mouthing at us when we eat, yes she is leaning in and taking more than a general interest. Add to this that my MCHN advised me to start *by*, people, by six months. I realise the current medical recommendation in this new millennium is now 6 months to start solids. I realise that in the '30s, the recommended age to begin solids was 9 months. I also know from my own health centre book, I myself was started on solids when I was 14 weeks old. Shit, maybe that's what's wrong with me?? In the '90s, it was 4 months and that's only 10 years ago.

What? Are babies these days new and improved versions of the ones that were being produced only a decade back? Is Babygut v466.0 a better model? Is that why it's so important that I listen to everyone and what they're saying to me because they know my baby better? I must have been a fool to think I'd know when (and why) I would start the LGBB on a bee's dick of rice cereal. My biggest factor, and maybe it's a no-no, is that I am going partly with my instinct and partly with the guidance of the health nurse, who said she should be on solids well before Christmas.... I thought that was a bit advanced, but given that most other babies in my mothers group are on solids (and all but three, LGBB included, have been weaned already), I think I've done a cracking job on getting my fully breastfed thriving girl to this mark. Why all of a sudden am I unsure because of a few people's comments to the contrary (as if they live here and see what she needs better than I)?

Honestly, I wish traps were kept firmly shut sometimes. If someone is already uncertain because they are new at a job or task, in the workplace you'd be left alone to get on with your job - no one would offer help (or fair few people, anyway), they'd all be busy doing their own work. But nooooooo, have a baby and suddenly everyone right down to the woman on the street corner giving it a bit of "current research suggests..." will give you her opinion. What would be more helpful than "Don't do..." or "Make sure you..." would be if people started their replies with "Hey good luck with that and if she doesn't take to it or appears not to be ready, you can always try again soon". When I do attempt to introduce something new to the LGBB, I'm sure there'll be times where I'm guided by her (who am I kidding, that'll be most of the time, surely) - but the point is, we'll work it out together. Having people already stamp their opinions all over what I'm doing, I feel too proud and not a little uncomfortable to go back and say "Hnnngh, we did xyz too soon so we're trying again next month". The fact is, I just want support, not suggestions or the feeling that I'm being told what to do. It's a strange ambiguity that I can be told what an amazing job I'm obviously doing, yet in the next breath have a bunch of instructions laid before me that I didn't ask for. Surely if I'm doing a good job, I can get by without that assvice... or at least, my sources are already taken care of if you think I might be cheating on the job and passing off LGBB's thriving as my own hard work.

I love my job. I'm good at my job and I'm proud of it. If I want help with my job, I'll seek it (and not necessarily from an assvice giver). I've always been like that. In my paid and unpaid work.

Look, I know. It's an age-old complaint and if I had a yawn-face smiley, I'd bung it right *here*. But it's my turn to complain about it. So please.... keep the lids closed. And step aside while I just get off this incredibly high horse, there's a dear.

She's not foolin' anyone

I picked this Portrait Place "complimentary" photo up yesterday. One of those deals where you pay $15, get the professional sitting but the first photo print is free - then they take shot after shot and invite you into a little room for a slide show and you ooh and ahh about how cute your baby is and end up walking out $600 poorer for it.

Well our Lolly decided to smile on the first shot (for Daddy) and then the rest of the time prettty much pursed her lips and looked at us all like we were crazy. Needless to say, none of the others were any better than candid shots we can take at home, so we ended up with just this one professional sitting pose. And I HEART it so much, I cried when I saw it.

MOVE IT!

AAAAARGHHHHH.

That's me. Just walking in the Christmas throng.

Seriously, is everyone walking deliberately slow? Three abreast? Far out. I'm going to invent pedestrian rear view mirrors. Shits me to tears.

Something akin to a bear slasher movie

I was thinking last night about what would/will happen the day something befalls the LGBB's prize toy - a stoned-looking pup named Marley (after Bob, of course) - if it happens before I can hunt down a back-up Marley. Kind of like when Peter Brady used his "twin" as a stand-in so he can date two girls on the one night, it will be a lesson in morals I'm sure.

I recalled the time when, as a child, my teddy had to go to the teddy hospital. I pictured a hospital with teddies and their legs in plaster, laying back on hospital beds with gauze wrapped round their fuzzy teddy heads and sipping water brought in by teddy nurses. In reality, it was probably some guy's garage.

I think Parby (hey, I couldn't say Pooh Bear, orright?) had lost an eye, or was seriously close to it. I was distraught, I remember that. And mum arranged for him to go to hospital and he was there for what seemed like months. Again, in reality, what's the bet it was just the time in between being picked up from school and picking him up... no it was longer than that. But it felt like an eternity.

We dropped Parby off and I said a teary farewell. Probably waved a white hanky as his train left the station and all that. And then I waited. What news of Parby? What of his eye? I think I must have nagged mum to within an inch of her tolerance about when he was coming home (from the wars).

And then the day arrived. A thick white package arrived. Oh the indignities.

"GET HIM OUT OF THERE, he probably can't breeeeathe!" I was desperate for her to cut the bag open and rescue my dear bear.

She took the "good" scissors and cut. Right before my eyes, I witnessed something a child never wants to ever see. Stuffing. Piles and piles of stuffing oozing out of the white tough-bag. I shrieked. I was horrified. Mum had gutted Parby on the kitchen bench. I think I swooned and smelling salts may have been involved.

Turns out, what mum was digging her hands through (had she sterilised, was she wearing a gown and mask, is what I want to know) was not the entrails of my beloved Parby, but the stuffing his "doctor" had used to pad the bag and keep him safe on his trip. Must have been like being back inside his mother's womb, all woolly and stuffingy and warm like that. Bwahaha.

I still have that bear today. I still cannot have him dishevelled or sitting uncomfortably. He was my first true love.

And if that dog Marley knows what's good for him, he'll keep out of mischief and keep himself good and clean. At least until I can find his doppelganger.

First kiss

It happened. Right out o' the blue.

There I was, walking her to bed. We were just about to stop at a big picture of Ella sleeping on her tummy (it's one of my favourites) - this is a bedtime ritual we follow now, we have to stop and say "Baby Ella is asleep, it's time for bed" and now she looks for the baby *sniff*, it makes my heart swell and burst - and she did it.

The LGBB turned her face in to my cheek, grabbed my hair on one side and my neck on the other and gave me a big wide-mouthed slobbery kiss. No smacking sound. Just that babyish awkward "I'm sure I do something like...this..." kiss.

Going to go and savour the moment now.

Message in a bottle

To whom it may concern.

This is a letter that will never be sent. I see no way how. Not at this time, anyway. Best to just leave this *out there* and you will come across it if you are meant to and, indeed, you know where to find it if you are supposed to read it. I won't hear mention of my sullying anyone's name. None have been mentioned. If it may sit uncomfortably with you, you can choose not to read it. But I have to get it out. And here is where I choose to. You remain anonymous, unless you respond, and only I can be judged by this letter I am writing out to the unknown cyberspace into which I'm sending it.

What a shame you didn't hold on just one more year to hear me say "I get you more now than I ever could have before." What a shame you didn't have more patience. With me, with yourself.

Things have been striking me like blows out of the dark these past months. I've stood on the brink of full blown depression and something keeps spitting me back out. But it's a cruel half-life to be living, one of immense ingrained sadness (melancholia) littered with days of feeling just so-so. Never completely, wholly joyous. It's come as a nasty shock to me, as I hoped I could just be left alone to enjoy this time with our baby. But life has had other plans.

I'm afraid to just contact you and say "Hey! I remember you saying this, I get what you mean now", because there is the inevitable point-scoring to be had by you. There always was. If it wasn't "Just wait until...", it was "I told you so" and I don't want to hear that. Who does?

I wish nothing even had to be said. I dream of a life with you where we just look at each other and we know. We just shake our heads and one says "It's just..." and the other says "I know". And we both know that we both know. But that won't happen. It never could have. Before, my struggle to conceive, which clouded my empathy, prevented it. Now, your lack of natural empathy does. Some people have this. Some people don't. Some people's hearts bleed so much for others it's hard to stem the flow. Others have hearts that are boundless but they don't give out wisely, yet they probably always feel like they are giving and they feel spent and wonder why, why did they not see how much I was doing for them.... I'm sorry if I never saw you were giving so much of yourself to me. I suppose what you gave wasn't what I required. I know I felt like what I gave you wasn't enough, but unless you were lying, you would always tell me how much I meant to you and that I was your "rock". It seems sometimes some people give a little of themselves and it's like receiving a flood, whereas others feel like they are giving an ocean's worth and it's only a drop at the receiving end. Is that a fault of the giver or the receiver? My answer to that would be "Neither". It's simply a case of poor pairing of energy exchange. One person's trash is another person's treasure - and maybe one person's drop in the ocean is another person's Atlantic.

I feel I protected you and those close to you from yourself and some of those now-recognisable harmful ways as much as I could. I'm coming at it from a new perspective now. Not one of "Why don't you just clam up and be thankful you even HAVE children", but of truly understanding what it is like to live the dream day upon day upon day. And herein is my latest challenge, which I know you would (at best) only attempt to understand for a brief moment but never really experience; that of the mother still aching from loss, wanting to make good this opportunity she's been handed to mother again - hating herself for not being happy (as if she's never satisfied, even now that her primitive instinct has been fulfilled, fretting that something in her is still preventing the joy and she's allowing it to be so), still not buying clothes too far outside of her baby's current size for fear of them not being required, beating herself up for not being "happier" but caught between worlds that leave her wishing she could just settle in and be joyous.

It should be noted that none of this is admission that I would do or say the same as you. We are different people and I express and give of myself far differently to you. It's what makes the world interesting, that difference. No, I am merely saying I understand where you have been coming from when I have witnessed what I have when it comes to you. And I am sorry if you ever felt judged. It was never my intention to appear to be judging you. I was more trying to understand (albeit defunctly) why you would do and say certain things, squirrelling away Notes To Self at the same time that I must remember never to "do this" or "say that". But it's far easier to stand on the outside and look, no? Now I am where you have been before me and I can say, it's bloody hard not to do the same as I've seen you do! And why we shall forever stand apart, because you can't possibly, conversely, experience what I have and put yourself in my shoes, step around in them and feel what it's like to walk around each day amongst people who appear to you to be squandering their "luck" at conceiving easily and having healthy, living children.

You once claimed I was "like this" (I assume that means rotten, evil, no good, mean, never nice to you?) even before Ella. Well, yes, our conception and miscarriage issues have been going on for years as you well know. Before that, I was a young adult learning my way in the world and figuring out who I was. As were you before me. Funny that all those past errors in you were always overlooked by me and absorbed into our relationship, yet mine were dragged out years after the fact to be used by you to (once again) point-score. It's sad. You'll never see. Never ever see what you are like, because you admit no fault. I admit too much fault! See? We're incompatible. Please don't think you have all bases covered where I am concerned and your knowledge of who I am and what I stand for. You don't.

There is still work to be done. I'm doing it. I'm walking it. I get it now. I get you more now. How utterly sad then, that you may never know. Sadder still that your pride will probably prevent you, even if you do find this and read it, from just allowing me to be who I am with this new experience - I sometimes wonder what it would be like to still have you in my life (as you have long since removed yourself from it) and think that by now, I would be caught in a web of deceit again, not allowing myself to be honest around you and tell you that your words sting and smart like cold sharp slaps across my face. But no, I was never allowed to tell you that - you labelled me "too sensitive" a long time ago, justifying yourself against my feeble protests and continuing on with your assaults unchecked. Your whole character goes unchecked, by everyone around you. People give knowing glances - I've seen them, not instigated them - and I am still told to forgive as you know not the damage that you do (to yourself, mainly). It's a stark contrast to the proclamations you have made of yourself that you are "nice".

Nice is not about setting yourself up in someone's life so they can be your punching bag, simply because they never disagree with you - perhaps to disagree was to receive more pain than they wanted to cope with so they simply let you go on. That is a fault of mine, I know. But your inability to accept the person you are, and not just the "nice" side of yourself (and you are nice, sure, I don't disagree), is what prevents us from being friends. It probably always did prevent it. You never really knew all of me. You assumed much of me, that's all. I was always too afraid to let you all the way in, you messed about enough with the parts of myself I did let you in on and only a fool will open their hearts all the way to someone they don't trust with it.

I just want to be with kindred people. And that's why I can't be with you at this time. It's not that I'm not allowing it. I think the universe (or a collective something/someone in it) is protecting me from you. If the doorway ever opens, it is because the time is right for me to move forward with this ongoing lesson you are presenting me with. I can only trust you are learning too so we can cross paths somewhere down the track and say "Yeah, I remember you. So... who are you now?"

Signs that your gardener may be gay..

..or at least in touch with his feminine side:

• There is a definite swagger
• He has a dog whom he claims is under 10kg (if its name is Precious, I am not going to be surprised, although I shall endeavour to lose this last bit of baby weight lest he lure me into his van, stick me down a well in his house and send me lotion in a basket to rub on "its" skin to make his tailored skin suit - Jame Gumm only chose the fleshy ones)
• He is exceedingly polite and non-macho (no "yeah g'day, no wuckas" from this one, despite his trade)
• He is very handsome in a non-rugged-gardener kind of way
• He is very softly spoken
• He is agile in the bush (this goes against the theory a tad)

But the clincher...

• He rinses out his coffee mug so as not to leave a stain when the dregs dry.... not even I do that. And they're my mugs.

Officially sad

Q: Ok, so what would be classed more sad than claiming to have had a celebrity sighting in your local shopping centre?

A: Confessing that the "celebrity" was none other than Harold from Neighbours.

And more seriously sad than that?

I didn't even see him, I just overheard two shop attendants having a giggle that they'd had a "celebrity sighting" in the Telstra shop next door.

Can we go lower? Make it officially sad? Why yes, we can, dear reader.

I actually craned my neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Harold from my seated possie and almost woke the LGBB in the process by knocking the pram.

The one song that complemented your formative teen years

For me, it has to be We Built This City.

Ok so I didn't like the way the guy and girl singers had matching mullet frizzes. And I couldn't stand the way she she sings "Cor-pur-ashunnn-games". Ugh.

But come on, with lines like "Who controls the wreckin' ball, into our guita-ARS", how could it not be an anthem of its time (approx. August through to November of '87, granted)?

I recall being morally offended (much like when I had to accept that ABBA was singing about snorting coke) when people started parodying the song and singing "We built this ciddeh on al-co-hol, built this ciddeh...". God I was a prude.

Identity crisis in the making?

I think it's a family thing, but I am unsure if there is another 16 week-old out there with as many names as our girl. If I could just do a quick brainstorm for counting purposes, so far we have:

Lolly
Little Lolly XX (surname tacked on the end there)
Guy Smiley (a personal fave, Steve calls her this when she's very smiley...which is pretty often)
Sweet Sweet
Tweet Tweet
or the mind-boggling variation, Sweet Sweet the Tweet Tweet
Little Girl
Sweetpea
and then any naming word that matches the action she's currently doing, and just adding a y (like, Stampy - Bart Simpson's elephant, just a bit o' trivia for you - when she stamps her foot, or Whingey when she's... well, whinging obviously)

Is it wrong? Is it bad? Is it confusing? Probably.
Is it fun? Is it accidental? Is it insane? Hell yeah!

First footwear

*swoons with giddy glee at sheer cuteness of it all, picks self up,
remembers those feet belong to her baby, faints again*

Sleep! Lashings of sleep...

I have a book full of theory only because I haven't had to settle L overnight since the night before we went to the MBU.

What I did learn was that my dear girl not feeding, therefore not sleeping properly, was almost solely directly related to my working and getting stressed and rushing, etc. Not to mention ridiculous other issues. The entire week I was there, I don't think I sped up much more than a saunter, we had 3 full meals a day and snacks in between (and I lost another 1kg despite of this, gosh darn), and Lolly certainly showed me up in terms of how worked up I obviously was. The nurses even said to me that I was already doing what they teach in there, so that leaves me with very few reasons as to why it wasn't working (namely, I wasn't feeding her enough during the day - oops! - and I was doing a bad job of hiding my anxiety about family/work). And to think I thought I could sidle on past the LGBB with a plastered-on smile and an over-rambunctious "Gooooooood mornin', Lolleeeeee!"

They now call it "responsive settling", by the way. I have my own method. I know what her full blown cry is. I also know how long it takes her to get there, having accidentally not been within earshot once or twice and come back to find the grizzles I'd walked away from had become "I'M MELTING, I'M MELTING! WHADDA WORLD, WHADDA WORLD" kind of horror-wailings.

All of this is not to say it's not all my "fault" of course, this previous pattern of night waking. Ho, no, I shan't be taking on all the blame thank-ewe very much *hair flick* But we really have ironed things out. I now have a flexible yet definite routine, which is working much better for me than the peace, love and tie-dyed harmony method of demand feeding (Lolly's not too good at counting how many hours are in a day and I mistakenly thought I should just be lopping them out on every whim of hers.... but she also can't count how many feeds she has in any given day and it turns out, given that I wasn't counting them either and had no idea, the wee sprite was not having enough). She actually lost 2oog between first and second weigh-ins, between lunchtime first day and breakfast next morning, dear Lord.... She thankfully recorded small gains every day after that. But just quietly *she says, checking behind her* I'm hopeful this is indicative of her father's speedy metabolism. So she can eat cake, mmm love a bit o' cake, and not feel too guilty.

So we've added one more feed to her day (which equates to a whole extra day over a week) and I'm massaging her nightly now which I'd become slack about. She's almost unconscious by the time we get her into bed. And we try to aim for 7pm bedtime since we came home but so far she only makes it to about 6.45pm. I then do her rollover/dream feed just before I go to bed (a very respectable 9.30 as opposed to the 10.30pm I was stupidly waiting up for every night) and we don't hear from her til after 7am every morning. This has now been her pattern for a whole week I'm relieved to say.

I got no more sleep than what I had been over the past few months in hospital though, despite this (woke every couple of hours and so did poor Steve here at home, such was his body clock remembering). But now we've both settled into much better nights' sleeps since Saturday.

I have to say, my biggest fears of having to a) lose the dummy and b) leaving her to cry (which she did do on occasion, about 3 to be exact - I can't believe I can count all the resettling we did on one hand, oh my GOD!) were not realised, as the nurses really worked with me and more importantly, within what I felt comfortable with. There were no holds barred, don't get me wrong, but I was given the straightest-shooting nurses with hard-hitting questions that got right to the heart of matters and left nothing to hide behind. It was soul food.

You know what I had the biggest issue with? After the first night, I realised it was the first time I hadn't seen her - breathing, alive, ok while she slept - on our video monitor. The parents' cheat tool! And I needed a lot of support opening that door on the first morning, I tell you. My knees were shaky, I just felt sick at the thought of (whatever, I won't go into it). But of course she was fine.

The new routine has been sorely tested today and on Saturday (when she didn't sleep for over 6hrs because we went out to a friends' 40th) but we followed the routine set by the MBU to a T - amongst which is the wise "don't worry about the past, just keep planning for the future" - and then today I was very tetchy because it was soooo hot. She snacked all day and didn't have more than 2 hours all up. But we kept heading for that 7pm bedtime even though she missed her arvo sleep and was up from 4pm and gripey. And like clockwork, she was ready to go down at 6.45pm again and has been asleep ever since. I struggled at first and started to panic, but then reasoned that she's survived lack of sleep before so I relaxed into it and let the tension go. Seemed to work because she wasn't unsettled at all going down to bed (which she sometimes can be at night).

I picked up some great tips (which all you experienced mummies probably already know and all you future mummies might like to bookmark somehow) like:

• don't give false hope - if you go to resettle and discover you need to change a nappy, do it in the cot.
• when you go in to resettle, look her in the eye (my MCHN told me to avoid eye contact at 'all costs' and to whisper/keep words to a minimum, or don't talk at all!!!) and use a flat, monotone voice - instead of doing a mental checklist, say it out loud, like "You're awake, it's not time to get up, it's time for sleep." Then you could check for wet through and say "you don't need changing" or "you have your dummy", etc. etc. (I think this is far more comforting for her and me than the MCHN's method!)
(I did this the first night we were home - the LGBB decided 5am was wake up time and I was up and down the hall before I woke up, was sleeping so soundly.... when I got there I put all my theory to the test and I swear, that kid dropped her wide grin so fast when I said "It's not time to get up", it was priceless. I fought the urge to squeeze those cheeks and grin right back, but it worked, dagnabbit, it darn-tootin' worked and I had to wake her at 7.30... how convincing was I?!)
• new ideas for inexpensive toys - part of Lolly's method is to be "played with hard" now. She needs to be more stimulated a few times a day so I went out on Saturday and bought some supplies for making things. She's using her feet to discover them too now as well as her hands, it's so amazing to watch.

Our dear little girl also learned how to blow raspberries on her big trip away last week, awwww! OH, and she rolled last night on her own from front to back!! And she now "helps" me put her dummy in too. If only she'd learn to let go before flinging her arms out because she takes the dummy with her more often than not.

And for anyone reading who's wondering about going now or in the future.... I've heard varying reports about different places so I really do think it must depend on the MBU/sleep school you're going to go to and how it's run. This one was very strict about "best practice" care and always within the limits or capabilities of the mother. As they put it, it's "mother-led". There were 6 of us and we were all on varied routines for various reasons. Much of my week was spent in one-on-one's with people (nurses and counsellors) while L caught up on 2 months' worth of lost sleep! Half her luck...

The freakiest thing about the entire week? *clearing throat* Bear with me. A nurse called Jenny, who I think was the 2IC and who booked me in so we'd had some dialogue over the phone, came on shift mid-week and introduced herself to me. After chatting for a bit, she said she had been working in the same NICU where Ella was when Ella was there. Not that she knew her because she went on Maternity Leave. Had her daughter, Lauren, on the day Ella passed away, within the same hour. After dicovering this about each other, we just blinked back tears and shook our heads at how lovely the symmetry was.

Howzat!?!

Well, this young man isn't getting the Dowry

"Hey, pretty laydeh" *shimmy-shimmy*

The LGBB decides this gentleman caller is not taking her fancy.
(and my God, does she look like her mummy when she cries.....
must dig out photo evidence to prove the claim)

Ok, kids, who wants to see the trip-dick

WTF does that mean anyway? A trip dick? Have I got this quote from National Lampoons Vacation very very wrong?

Aaaaanyhoo, Monday marks the first day of our stay at the Mother and Baby Unit. Me and the LGBB.

I oscillate between thinking I am taking the place of someone more "worthy" and then wishing I was there right now getting anything in terms of new tips/education. I am determined to view it as a week of enlightening tips and facts and whatever I'm not already doing and think may help us, I will take on. Whatever doesn't work I simply won't do when I get home.

At this point in time, I am going to MAKE someone write on my chart that, at least initially, I refuse to be told not to attend to my baby if she is crying. I don't do that at home and I won't do it to her in a strange place. I don't believe at 4 months a baby is learning to be "spoiled" if it cries out in the middle of the night for some reassurance if nothing else.... then again, I don't know what the alternative might be. But I'll be interested to see what other suggestions they have for someone as stalwart as me.

Me and Lolly, we're a team already. I am nervous. Nervous about "breaking" her, about taking her out of an environment she's familiar with here at home, about possibly leaving behind the ONE comfort object which might soothe her.... so many to choose from, so little suitcase space.

Mustn't forget my Women's Weeklies (I have four that were delivered here over recent months, still in their plastic, such is my leisurely life) or my hair straightener. Oh and don't forget the mail and did I put the timer on the living room lights? And and and..... BYE!!

Catch up for an update after the 18th. Oh, and Lolly's photo pages have been updated! She is growing soooooo fast.

Up next...

A word from our sponsor

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Who is responsible for this?

I've been thinking lately about teaching the LGBB how to spell. And when the time comes, I can't for the life of me figure out how I logically explain to her that certain rules apply for certain words.

Sure, you've got your clear-cut "i after e except before c" and how to add "ly" on the end of words, etc. But there are so many pronounciations that don't follow logic - one of these words is not like the other....

Think about it:

bough
plough
but then there's...
trough
cough

And how about:

cow
now
but we also have...
bow (as in tie)

The English language is a veritable minefield of potential slip-ups. And I thought learning Japanese must be hard because of their 23 (or is it 26?) alphabets. Nu-uh, I am sure learning English would be so much more complicated. Hats off to anyone who has to.

And that includes all the bright-eyed little kiddies out there just waiting to be swallowed up by our education system.

Lolly Days

Everything's funny when you're learning how to talk and bat your toys.

Same old, same old

"Excuse me, Stewardess, I speak Jive."

I sat feeding the LGBB last night. A "dream feed" before bed, in her makeshift overnight room (our study) where she sleeps in her bassinett under the watchful gaze of a huge wall framed collage of Ella. Every photo we ever took of her, to be exact.

All the shit that goes on in daylight hours and here I was, feeding a most perfect miracle of life, looking up at my other little miracle who I'd almost lost sight of. Then over my shoulder I saw the email I received just weeks after Ella died from a client. I had hung it on the side of my filing cabinet drawer (and I also mention it in my writing about Ella on her web pages), it was so damn important to me for quite a while. I clung to the hope in that email, once upon a time.

Here I am after a weekend of what can only be described as typical crap, writing to her grandparents about LGBB as I attached some recent photos... and despite myself, I called her Ella. "Here is Ella enjoying a bath", I wrote, without a second thought. I don't even know how I had the presence of mind to look at it and think "No, that name looks wrong." It's still there, it's always going to be there, the sudden shock back to reality that one of my girls isn't here.

And all the while, the same old grey shit piles up because nobody wants to remember what we're dealing with here. Damn them for making it so unimportant that when they're dealing with me, they don't have more softness. A bit more empathy, if not understanding. I feel like a fish out of water at the moment, grasping for something (I don't know what), and all I want is some courtesy for my position. The shitful thing about it is, it's the usual suspects who, if they can't find it in them naturally, won't ever see the light. And the same wonderful (majority of, thank God for them) people who have to listen to bleats like this, confused as to how anyone can't remember something so goddamn important to a parent and have a little bit more compassion.

But then I think, my, how far we've come since 2004. And how much I've forgotten. So if I have moved on so much, I must find a way to forgive others for losing the depth of their reasoning about just how hard things might be here right now.

Signs you haven't posted to your Blog for an age

(and secondary sign that you've been hanging with the kiddies too long)

• You wonder why, when you type in the URL, you're thoroughly confused that booger.com doesn't take you to your usual control panel. Ah, that's because it be BLOGGER.com, dimwit.

*buck-toothed lazy-eyed sheepish grin*

*Pumps air with triumphant fist*

It took me two hours to make the 40 minute trip home from lunch with a friend yesterday.

Why?

Oh, because the shitty grizzle tones from the back seat turned into full blown "I can't believe it's not booby time" in .00949 seconds... I masterfully found a park, inner city no less, under a shady tree on a hot day, just before joining the main arterial to get us home. Jumped in the back seat next to LGBB, pulled her out of her seat and fed her. Then, I even managed to change her nappy while sitting there - our car is G.R.O.U.S.E. - by pulling down the seat next to me and laying her on the flattened back of that seat.

Amazing how feeding and cleaning up your child all of a sudden makes the stress of rushing home in heavy traffic melt away. She cooed and giggled for rest of the trip. Oh... except that moment where I thought she was choking. Thank God for our maze of mirrors setup, where I can see her from the communication mirror in the front, reflecting into her Lamaze mirror in the back. I'd have screeched across three lanes of traffic to pull over and javeline my body into the back seat if we didn't have it set up like that.

Still, a fun day was had by all. Even if the brilliant hair vanished into a puff of defiance as soon as I stepped out into the wind.

It's a great day

Putting my hair back into my now signature twist and clip (a. because it's the easiest and b. I can hide all the scariness of my thick mane in that style), the front bits of my fringe fell out of my grip. I was in a rush. Bugger, I thought, as I worked with hands behind head, Now I'll have to pin all that somehow at the sides.

But when I lifted my head to look at the damage in the mirror.... it was perfect. It had fallen around my face perfectly. So I did what any girl would do: I kept my head and neck level and edged ever so delicately towards the hairspray, using my eyes to guide my outstretched arm. Popped the lid off the can gently so as not to disturb a perfect hair.

And sprayed the shit out of it.

Ah haaaa. The perfect fall-about-face-fringe bits. Captured!

It's alright, it's ok, you're gonna pump my gas someday

We're cheerleaders! Cheer! Cheer! Cheerleaders! WOO!

When it's all going to shit, there's nothing like footage of people hurting themselves whilst taking their craft so seriously to make your life seem better.

Is that a banana or are you just happy to see me?

I should really get a Freudian analysis done on my brain before I give credit to the illustrator of this book for having a tongue-in-cheek joke with parents.

Ouch

I swear.

I wasn't trying to make her look ergly. It's just where I paused.

I like Tyra Banks! I think she's ..... harmless. But maybe, going by this photo, she ought to practice what she preaches on that America's Next Top Model show. I do believe, when I paused this frame, she was reiterating to the contestants how important it was to carry themselves properly at all times and not risk being snapped at a bad or unfortunate angle.

How unfortunate.

The Farcuwindow

Our new car has a special feature I was previously not aware of. It's not in any of the manuals. And you won't find it under the hood. Steve has been privy to this feature for a while now and as he explained to me the other week, it's quite a handy little device to have. Apparently, the car has a Farcuwindow. And the manufacturers weren't aware of what they'd included when they designed it because it's not any manual.

To see the Farcuwindow in use impressed me because I never knew it was there and here I'd been driving the Renault now for months. I can't say I'll be using it though. But Steve uses it a fair bit.

It's put to best use on occasions when he's been driving along with someone close behind. If that driver tailgates and then darts out to pass on our driver side, the Farcuwindow (which is a little triangular window near the driver side mirror) gets activated and magically, Steve's middle finger is raised in it. Amazing! It has varying occasions for use, including hoons flying past breaking the speed limit, but the output is consistent. No other fingers are used. No fists shaking. Just the flipping of the bird.

Perhaps the most ingenious thing about this Farcuwindow though is that it's so discreet. Nobody knows Steve's using it! He can subtlely centre all his road rage into the Farcuwindow and it takes care of the rest. So it's safe as well as fun!

The High Folutin







The Casual "Oh yeah?"








The "Take THAT, tool"

Does my bum look big in this?

A question on Geography

Watching America's Next Top Model tonight. There was a discussion about a photographer who said he was born in Sri Lanka and was half Sri Lankan, half English. Then his mother came on and she said was born and had lived in Bombay, now called Mumbai all her life, etc.

Cue a puzzled look from yours truly, Geographer Extraordinnaire. I don't know why I think Steve has all the answers. Like he was there.

"Isn't Bombay in India? He said he was Sri Lankan. How can he be Sri Lankan if his mum's Indian?"
"No, she said she was born in Bombay."
*forgetting the bit about Mumbai* "But Bombay's in India.... isn't it? Is Sri Lanka in India now?"
"No. Sri Lanka's a country. Maybe there's a Bombay in Sri Lanka too."
"So.... what? They just renamed it?"
"Yeah. *donning shocking accent and holding two-way conversation between imaginary characters of Indian descent* 'Hey! I live in Bombay!' ('You live in Bombay? I live in Bombay!') 'Yeah, Main Street, Bombay.' ('I live in Main Street Bombay too!') 'Number 7.' ('You number 7, Main Street, Bombay? Me too!')
"And that's... why they changed it, is it?"
*decisively* "Yuh-huh."

So apparently to save confusion over the two people who lived at 7 Main Street, Bombay, that's why the Sri Lankan Bombay is now called Mumbai.

Throwing down my hanky as a challenge

I love to sing. Sing, sing, sing. Sometimes I boldly sing completely the wrong words. Your mission, dear reader, if you choose to accept it, is to:

a) Name the song title
b) Provide the correct lyrics to the line/s I have misheard (sometimes for years, oh the shame of it all).

Should be pretty darn easy, I've given the artist already. Ok, here we go:

"Lima beans, I promise I will eat..." - Sheryl Crow
(this one's actually Steve's misheard lyric but it's funny so I thought I'd chuck it in)

"Nino's little son's a wanker" - Oasis
(seriously. In fact, I still don't believe he's singing anything else. I was shocked but not surprised the Gallagher brothers would come up with such a song but thought 'there goes the youth of today' when I heard them play it on the radio in the 90's...)

"I know a place where we can dance the whole night away underneath electric stars, Just come with me and we can shake your boobs right away, You'll be doin fine once the music starts...Oh!" - De Barge
(one of the two first ever record singles - yes, record, as in vinyl - I ever owned. But I was intrigued by what these older people did underneath electric stars... did they really shake their boobs? Were they bare-chested when they shook them? I'd seen Countdown, I knew there was some pretty wild shimmying to be had in the 80's, and it was all a little bit naughty and titillating so as far as I knew, a bluelight disco was where bawdy, nekid, teenage debauchery took place - teenagers who seemed soooo much older to me when I was 11)

"Listen to some music, maybe just cocaine, I'd love to know you better" - ABBA
(I confess, as a child, to thinking this lyric might very well have to force me to stop listening to ABBA, such was my moral standard of the time. I was very disappointed in my beloved ABBA for singing about drugs and didn't want to believe Agnetha was snorting lines - how I knew what cocaine was at age 9 or 10 is another question)

"Well I flufter every under-confidence I have and hit my ball into the water" - Teddy Geiger
(I supposed a 'flufter' was a new word meaning "to fudge/stuff up" - so someone who stuffs up their under-confidence has got to be one sad, sorry loser)


There have been so many more. I might have to make this a To Be Continued... post so I can add more if I remember them later. It should also be said that once I discovered the actual words to these songs, they didn't come quickly to me as I was singing along, so ingrained were the ones I'd been incorrectly singing. So usually it led me to pretend to see a piece of lint on my sleeve that needed picking, thereby causing a distracted-sounding trail-off, or choosing that moment to take a sip of a drink, or otherwise looking deep in concentration about something else - anything to avoid the gap in the song that was now there.

So. Who's up for the challenge?

.....But seriously....

I don't think I can play with you anymore, Mummeh. I'm out of your league now I'm three months old.














Damn, I'm funny! See what I did there? Co-ma-dy! I love to laugh, especially when you have no idea what the joke is.

These are a few of my favourite things

My version:

• Foccaccia rolls, fresh, ready to be stuffed with cream cheese, sundried tomatoes and zucchini
• Baby breath, the milkier the better
• Hot chocolates with ice cream melting on the top
• Sitting under a tree on lush grass
• Making that appointment with my chiropractor to reassemble my pelvis (the thigh bone's connected to my ... wristwatch ... UH oh)
• Opening a magazine that hasn't been opened yet
• Ditto to a newspaper
• Good hard back massages and trigger point therapy
• An indulgent big bath (or the dream of one)
• Candles lit around the room
• Sleeeeeeeeeeeep
(I'd add chocklit but it's so cliché, and besides, everyone knows it's a given)


Her version (together!):*

• One bone, no two bones and Simon the squeaky-toy
• Ropey and Bluey and a sandwich to enjoy...
• A couple of fat cigars, what joy they bring

These are a few of her favourite things.


*Without a word of a lie, this is how I found Jazz's favourite things just now. And yes. Those are what you think they are laying alongside Exhibit C: Bone #1. I may be sick, but I think this is majorly cute, this little haul. I wonder what LGBB's will look like, in years to come. I hope to high heaven it doesn't include "cigars".

Major design flaw

Dear Manufacturer,

I wish to bring to your attention a design fault which has been existent for some years now, but has not bothered me before now.

Whilst your product is virtually faultless in its function, there is a persistent clicking noise which now prevents me from performing my job functions effectively. I do not believe there is a way to rectify this issue. Therefore, I am seeking alternative compensation.

This click occurs when it is imperative that it does not. Usually on first lift of the leg. I have noticed this for some years, as mentioned. However now, what once was simply an audible sound has become the difference between stealth and discovery.

Being that the problem with these clicking knees cannot be solved, I ask instead that you simply negate the need for me to have knees that operate covertly; make it so. Will the precious little person who has taken up residence in our home to sleep longer than half an hour at a time so I don't then have to stand by the cot, settling. The tired components making up my weary legs then will not settle into their aforementioned pre-aged, crackle-boned stance and rendering a clean get-away impossible.

I look forward to your prompt action.

With regards,

Kneecrack Paddywhack

Remember the fun we had?

Well, no, I hadn't actually. Not until the most thoughtful gift our girls have ever received arrived for them in the post from K77.

At first, I thought it was a package I was waiting on for LGBB - a set of bath toys - and to be honest, when I pulled the first plastic "bath toy" out, I thought "Dear God, has my judgement clouded over THAT badly that I would buy something that looks like a turd with eyes for my daughter to play with in the bath like that scene from Caddyshack?" (when the Pollywaffle falls in the pool....)

Turns out, it was one the cutest squeaky toys for Jazzmena and Pep. A sandwich and a .... piece of poo with eyes?? I still don't know what it's trying to be. But they loves it all the same. In fact, they squabbled over it. Over both of them.

It was like watching an episode of a bad daytime soap. Here's how it went down:


Jazz chooses the dainty sandwich triangle, Pepper takes on the frightened turd (whom we have nicknamed Simon, after Mr Hanky's son)







Then, as usual, Miss I Wannit All decides she neeeeeds to take Pepper's toy away from her and continues to go forth and do so, hamming it up for the camera and literally rubbing it in Pep's face that she now has BOTH the toys.



So I suggest to Peppy that she might like the toy that Jazz has put aside (the sandwich). Pep siezes her moment and makes a dash to get it.







And Jazz is mortified at Pepper's assumption that she's finished with it.








So she takes it back off Pep.










Who is now very sad.




And I have to convince my big brave old dog once again to stand up for her rights and get her toy back. Or at least one of them.

So she does. Ever so apologetic-like, as if to say "I'm so sorry about all the fuss, poor me, poor me" - a bit like Eeyore would. Or Neil from The Young Ones.


So then Jazz gets the sads.








And the episode ends with Jazz watching on as Pep soaks up the glory and satisfaction of getting her turd-man back.









So. A fun afternoon was had by all. Most of the days now, at any given time of the day, you can find both the new prized possessions on the bed that used to be Pepper's but is now Jazz's. And Jazz sitting guard with them. But see, they're only of true importance to Jazz when Pepper wants them. Without that, their currency is quite low-grade.

A HEEEEUGE doggy-wag thank you to our avid dog-lover friend K77 for being so kind as to think of the dogs. And an even bigger one for sending only the cutest and brightest pocket nappy and home made wipes now in our stash. I'm all inspired to get my hands back on the overlocker now, which I gave back to my friend way too soon..... Spotlight, here I cooooooome....

So now even Blogger thinks I'm talking crap

Is this for real? My blog was locked for almost two days and I couldn't post during that time (read by Blogger: I couldn't inflict indless banter on my tiny viewing audience one more second). Among other things in their description, Blogger cites:

... As with many powerful tools, blogging services can be both used and abused ... Blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text ... Spam blogs cause various problems, beyond simply wasting a few seconds of your time when you happen to come across one. They can clog up search engines, making it difficult to find real content on the subjects that interest you. They may scrape content from other sites on the web, using other people's writing to make it look as though they have useful information of their own.

Ah, so it was a case of "stop talking shite and wasting these people's time!" A community service conducted by the site administrators on behalf of my audience. Now, I could get shirty (the Slightly Aggresive Bear for those of you who recall The Late Show) at this point and say "Fiends! You dare to mock me by locking my blog for its content which you deem pointless?" But in reality, after I wrote my heart out about my losses, I guess the content has been less helpful. I even had one or two readers deliberately seek out my writings to tell me it was all self-promoting crap... and that was way before I'd resorted to talking of my puppy's penchant for fashioning her dried turds into delectable cigars.

So I see Blogger's point. I do speak jive. But I am giving the readers what they want, no? Mindless banter. Pointless irrelevant words *crestfallen* Way to make a girl's confidence plummet.

I need topic ideas. I've said it before... This blog needs to get to Rampart ..... STAT!

A measure of wealth

Various toys and books lying around play mat: $150

Monthly Foxtel Digital: $75

Seeing Lolly's face light up and actually grinning ear to ear at the opening credits of The Simpsons: PRICELESS

Come on, don't tell me you've never done it

Anyone with a dog has done this. I am SURE I'm not the only lunatic *thinks long and hard and considers taking that statement out*

Last night, I was walking down to our bedroom and went past Jazz, who has decided to claim one of the couches in our lounge ever since I left a doona there from the last heady days of pregnancy when I needed to find the easiest thing to roll off after "sleeping". She has always been a puppy who's non-fussed by her non-ladylike demeanour and dozes off on her back, back legs splayed to all and sundry and front legs up in the begging position. Her head arches back, exposing her neck and she is quite obviously very comfortable and fears nothing.

Aaaanyway, when I went past I didn't know she was there in the darkened room until I heard her having a doggy-dream. I couldn't resist. I went up to her and started flicking her paws up. Nothing. They simply bobbed back to their resting position. So I tickled her nose, the bit between her nostrils and cute little doggy mouth. Nothing. Hmmm, she must really be asleep, I thought, amused. So I did it. The thing I have done to just about every dog we've ever owned, right back from when I was a kid.

I shoved two fingerpads against her nostrils. Just to plug them up and see what happened. And it worked beautifully. She started breathing out of her mouth instead, without waking. Bwahahaha! O to be THAT asleep. When she did wake, very shortly after that, she didn't stir. Simply opened her eyes, her head and body still in that luxurious position. Such a funny, placid, gorgeous natured dog. I'm starting to suspect more and more that it was part of the Master Plan to get her, train her up, have her here waiting by the time Lolly came along.

They are going to get along famously. I can tell.

Also known as A.K.A.

Jazz, aka Libby the Liberty Taker is now aka The Turd Burglar.

If you're picturing a dog on its hind legs, hunched over and tip toeing stealthily and looking shiftily left and right with front paws up in true Scooby Doo style, you're close.

Libby has always had a penchant for selecting only the ripest turds from the backyard menu and serving them up at the back doormat. She stopped for a time - we thought it was just a growing phase for our pup - and now it's started up again in earnest. Along with small stones. A leaf maybe. And sometimes a stray little twig. These other items I have no problems with. It's the finely crafted bits of dried shit that, er, I'm not so keen on as offerings.

Cigar, anyone?

Top of the pops

Note to self:

If you're changing a nappy and you hear a sound come from the rear end of the baby, this is the usual cue to both close your mouth and move your head out of direct firing line because you are going to smell something. Failure to do so will end in watery eyes and/or mouthful of Parfum de Baby Guts.

I am going at such a slow pace at the moment that not even hearing a fart is enough to spur me into high-speed mode. What next? I mean, this time two weeks ago I was hearing those noises and literally jumping back and to the side *just in case* Now, I think the dear girl could projectile just about anything my way and I'd be just too darn tired to even side-step.

A story for a very looooong rainy day

Lauryn’s birth story

Diary entry 18.7.06
“We’ve made it! Past every obstacle, milestone, date we set to assure us we are “getting close”!

I had so hoped Lolly was going to choose her own birth date. But we’ve made it to the 18th and I will be induced tomorrow. We go in at 4pm.

I’m so excited. Very wired. Unsure how I’ll sleep, actually. I can’t wait to lay eyes on our little girl! So many people are waiting to hear of her safe arrival, but I don’t know if I want to burst the bubble too soon. I oscillate between expecting I’ll want to show her to everyone before the cord’s even been cut, to wanting her all to ourselves – just her dad and me.

We have waited so, so, so long. The anticipation is palpable! I have so much to give as a mother, I just know it will come flooding in. It was cut so short with Ella, but I knew in an instant (all of a sudden, some days after her birth) what I was like as a mum.

Lolly, I cannot wait to call you Lauryn!”

I struggled for weeks and weeks at the end of my pregnancy, with my emotions about becoming a mum again. I asked questions of people who have been down the road before me – women who became mothers again after losing their first-born child – I soul searched, I tried to connect with my baby. I was painfully aware our little family of three was about to become +1. And I was so worried I wouldn’t be up to scratch for her in terms of accepting her, of letting Ella go just that little bit more, and feeling so damn guilty about knowing I would have to focus wholly and solely on our new baby, thereby not giving much headspace to our angel Ella.

The day before Lauryn was born, I had to check in to the hospital for induction. I had been looking forward to the day for so long, it felt like the heady anticipation of a long-awaited holiday on a big international flight – I have similar butterflies when I look forward to and then dread a big plane trip on the eve of the flight.

I really had secretly hoped Lolly would take matters into her own hands as she had done throughout the entire pregnancy and each hoop I jumped through, and choose her own birthday, but when dawn came (following another night of around 4 hours sleep), I knew I would be in for a bit of a challenge with the labour. She had proven herself to be a sure but steady girl as she grew and each time I came across a scare (bleeding at 6 weeks, then 15 weeks, and threatened labour at 24 weeks causing hospitalisation until contractions subsided), I continually had this solid straightforward feeling from her – the only feeling I had from her! – and I knew she would just keep on coming. Slow and steady wins the race…

We went around that morning doing some last-minute house-keeping, I distracted myself by doing a few edits for a client, we watched a couple of funny TV shows and the mood was good. Even. A little incredulous that we would be seeing our little girl as soon as the next day and in good spirits despite the slight but building apprehension.

At around 1pm (about 2 hours before we had to get ready to leave), I started to get quite emotional. Scared about how I would feel about seeing her and whether I would do right by her if my feelings were mixed, immense guilt at inducing a perfectly happy baby instead of waiting for the day she chose to come, sadness that I felt so alone and that I had to go through yet another process emotionally isolated from most people who know me and haven’t experienced the birth of their next child after losing their first.

I have to admit to feeling very nervous and even leaving it a bit late to get ready to leave. I think perhaps I was so excited and so looking forward to seeing Lauryn that I lost my nerve at the last minute because I couldn’t believe the time had actually come. Until we got to not only the day, but the time to leave, I never quite believed it would happen and I guess it was all of that that started coming down on me that afternoon.

I pretty much spent my whole pregnancy like that. It probably made real emotional attachment a bit of a hurdle, although overall there was no denying my sheer joy nor could I overlook the sense that I was growing a wonderful, content, strong little girl with a big and definite energy (the nature of which, aside from knowing she was ‘happy’, she kept from me!).

We arrived at the Admissions desk and the clerk made small-talk, asking us if this was our first baby. My reply, of course, was “No, we have another little girl”. She excitedly said they would have fun being sisters and I had to then tell her that big sister Ella died as a baby. Without missing a beat, this woman said “Oh so this is your first really, then”. I HAD to correct her!

I felt very safe and supported at the maternity ward, as it was the same one where I had Ella. We were taken around to Foetal Monitoring and I was hooked up for one last time to listen to Lauryn’s heart, which was fine. Then by 5.30pm the gel had been inserted and I was told to have a rest and then go for a walk. DH went home and I was left to “wait and see”.

As it happened, a fellow EB member was admitted in the public ward and we had met the previous week. I decided to go around and sit with her and while we were chatting I got very uncomfortable. She had a twinkle in her eye and tried to tell me I was in early labour, but I waved the pains off and said “Nahhh!” while trying to get comfy in the visitor chair.

I ended up coming back to the ward at around 9pm and the pains were quite strong already but I was told it was probably just the effects of the gel and that sometimes, it mimicked labour but was not necessarily the start of anything. So I was given pain relief and sleeping tablets and tried to catch some sleep. When I woke, I still had contraction type pain and timed them 5 minutes apart for 40 minutes then called in the nurse again. She said to try and get more sleep, that it could still be nothing. I could have told her differently! But miraculously, I caught another hour and a half of much needed sleep and woke again in great agony around 1.30am. Calling the nurse in again, she told me to get up and come sit with her for a while so she could time the contractions and guage what was going on. They were understaffed that night and while I sat in the ward nursery, I timed my own contractions and they were now 3 minutes apart. Very strong and almost unbearable already, I tried to collect my thoughts and keep my wits about me. I didn’t recall them being quite so acute during my labour with Ella and I was surprised at my inability to even effectively breathe my way through them. They were over a minute long and coming 3 minutes apart, so there wasn’t much of a rest by this time.

There was another midwife tending to the babies in the nursery, who decided to step up the pace of getting me to Delivery, and I was told to go and grab that shower I wanted before going to the Labour Ward because it was highly unlikely I’d be getting any more sleep that night. I was relieved to hear someone say the pain hadn’t been for nothing!

It took me over half an hour to have a quick 1 minute shower and hobble back to the nursery which was only paces from my room. I could hardly walk, even between contractions, and still couldn’t understand why I was in such agony. It seemed that even as the contraction subsided, I was left with residual all-over-body intense pain and I was constantly very uncomfortable. It was around 3am and I silently started hoping they were going to tell me I wasn’t far from having this baby because I felt at the end of my endurance already and I was only 5 hours into it.

In Delivery, I was taken to a lovely quiet room at the end of the ward somewhere and the most lovely calm midwife was there to assist me. It felt like I hadn’t been in there long with her when, after being attached to the foetal monitor, she suggested I might like to call “hubby” and get him in. It was almost 4am.

By the time DH arrived, within half an hour, I really wasn’t in the mood for any more of the small talk the midwife had been using to very effectively distract me through a little more of the labour. It took everything in me to get through each contraction and I was not getting a break in between to catch my breath. They were still about 2 minutes apart but my mind was not overcoming my physical pain, something I had not been prepared for. I was absolutely exhausted by shift change-over at 7.30am (the midwives’ shift, not mine unfortunately!) as I farewelled the gorgeous angel of a midwife who had seen me through the middle of the night.

By this stage, I was asking for pain relief. Despite myself, my beliefs, my experience of being able to cope positively with the effort of labour and child birth last time, this time I felt different. It was intense, as intense as last time, I knew I was certainly in a different place emotionally now too. But even when I had the grave fears of delivering a baby 10 weeks prem (with Ella), I was able at that time to push those fears out of my mind and remain very stoic, positive and focused. This time, my labour felt out of control, I couldn’t think straight because there was no let-up of the pain, but I only realised this after the fact – during the process, all I could do was endure. I recall trying to rationalise with myself, that the pain I felt wasn’t anything I hadn’t felt before. But yes it was! I started arguing in my own mind, some part of me trying to reason with the other pained part of me – at this point I felt like I literally separated myself in two: the mind and the body weren’t working together anymore. I think my body wanted to sack my brain for being a poor advocate up to that point and I guess that’s what it did!

This next part I was unclear about until it was pieced together with the help of DH and my obstetrician. I do remember pleading with anyone who would listen that I needed pain relief. I wanted an epidural (words I never thought I’d utter – I very naively just expected that I would be able to ‘wing it’ this time as I had done so well last time and never even thought I’d need to ask for pain relief). I didn’t want to try and do this on my own. But despite asking for help, all I was offered was the gas. I declined it because last time, I used it for about 15 minutes at the very end of the second stage and all it did was make me delirious and start to vomit. There was no relief from pain at all.

Seeing as it didn’t seem worth having the gas and possibly feeling worse, and with my pleas for the epidural going ignored for some reason by the midwife, I felt so alone. I literally felt like I was just left there to tough it out and I started to feel quite desperate. I was begging to my husband, to the midwife, to another midwife who came in at one point, but all I was told was that my doctor would be in to check on me soon.

Dr R arrived sometime after 8am and I even asked him for an epidural! “Hello, how are you doing?” “GIVE ME AN EPIDURAL”, I think the conversation went…. Anyway, he performed an internal, the pain of which I was bracing for (“Great, more pain, I can’t stand this!” I was screaming in my mind), but I didn’t feel a thing. I was 4cm dilated. Dr R then advised that they weren’t picking up a consistent trace on Lolly’s heart beat and I had seen it on the monitor wavering around the 90-135bpm mark. But because of my moving around, it couldn’t be relied on as being accurate. So, as my waters hadn’t broken, he informed me he would break them and put a monitor on Lolly’s head to give a steady accurate reading. Then he told me he would be back at lunchtime to check on my progress and wished me luck. I sobbed that lunchtime was at least three hours away and where the hell was my epidural??! But he never answered.

So sometime after 9am, close to 9.30, I was checked to see how far along I was and the midwife kindly warned me that she would have to get another m/w to confirm her internal because she was “new at this”. I wasn’t very obliging with my reply I don’t think. I certainly didn’t need the added fear that I had an inexperienced midwife with me. Now, no offence to trainee midwives but I was not in a very fit state to have someone who was unsure, least of all tell me she was new to the whole caper. I was fearful enough of getting the baby out safely as it was, let alone knowing she might not have all the skill she required if something was going wrong.

And then it ALL started falling apart. Everything felt out of control. The room felt very tense, frantic, urgent. I was being told to flip this way and then that way. I glanced at the monitor and the heart rate was 89bpm. All I could say with the little breath I had was “WHOA!” and point. I felt so, so desperate. I felt like my grip on my endurance was really slipping already and now I also felt the intense urgency that I had to get my baby out soon because I didn’t like how I was feeling (that something was going wrong).

The midwives were talking at the tops of their voices, probably to get over my primal groans! But I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. I was just calling out for someone to please help me and really started to panic. From the pain, from the reading on the monitor, from the feeling that something wasn’t right and suspecting they knew more than I did and weren’t telling me what was going on.

DH told me afterwards that at this point, the first midwife had peformed the internal and thought I was 4cm but couldn’t be sure. The second midwife checked too and confirmed this was approximately correct. They then discussed quickly the Obop in heart rate and they did explain to me that they were watching to see how well she recovered after each contraction. It was this reading that was what they were keeping their eye on. I wasn’t convinced I was going to get my baby after all.

They then called my Ob who had begun his day at his consulting rooms next to the hospital. When the midwife came back to report to the other, she said he had told her to keep watching the heart rate and to call him if it dropped any lower, but to keep him informed. As it turned out, her heart rate did start to improve with a slight change in my position and one of the midwives went out to page my Ob to let him know it was looking ok.

Next thing I knew, I saw her walk back in the room and right behind her came my Ob. The speed that he burst in and the tone of his loud voice (he’s usually like an almost comatose-calm person!) really frightened me. He said to us later when he came to see us on the maternity ward that he had never run for anyone but he had run for me – awww! But holy crap at the same time…

Lauryn’s cord was around her neck. She was flagging with each contraction and her heart rate dropped to below 70bpm at one point. My DH knew this but I was unaware what the problem was, only that it all felt very urgent. I was trying so hard to internalise my screams because I knew that the louder I was, the more energy I was expending outwards and it wouldn’t help me when I needed it most. I didn’t realise until I was told later, but my Ob prepped me with forceps and gave me an episiotomy all without any anaesthetic or pain relief whatsoever. I have never felt more “out of it” in all my life.

Then all of a sudden, it was like all the noise from everyone else stopped and it was just me. I could only hear myself. My Ob stood at my side and said that the next time I felt a contraction I could push if I “wanted to”. I answered back that I didn’t feel like pushing, I didn’t have any urge. But the look on his face and his firm tone when he then said “Ok you need to push” told me … erm, I needed to find something somewhere in me to push! It was so physically exhausting, trying to push correctly without any urge whatsoever. But soon the urge did come. I was racing the biggest marathon of my life and I sit here crying now as I remember just how desperate I felt it all was. Was I birthing her safely? Was my body stifling her? Had the induction caused this somehow? Even at that time, my mind was racing that this wasn’t right, that I had caused this and that I was all alone in it. No one else could do this but me. But I was doing it. And little by little, as I felt more and more urge to get her out, the sheer force of her bearing down and the enormity of her energy (I could really start to feel it in me now) just got me over the line. At one point, I was told to stop pushing. And I asked what was happening, very scared at the stillness in the room and knowing she wasn’t out yet. I was reassured that her head was out – DH said that my Ob simply said “Cord” at this point and that is when he cut it to free it from her neck – and then before I knew it I was told I could push again. With her shoulders clear, she came sliding out and it was all over. I went into a bit of shock after that. They placed her on my chest and I could see her colour was quite different to her sister’s. I was shocked and scared by this, as Ella had been so pink (in fact, her face was very bruised right after the birth, but her body was a very healthy fleshy colour) despite her prematurity, and here was my huge full term baby looking very wan and not making even a whimper.

They whisked her off me almost as soon as she’d had a chance to land. And as I lay dumbfounded at the sudden relief from all the pain and pressure, I kept asking over and over if my baby was ok. I still couldn’t hear her cries, because she wasn’t making a sound, and there were several people clamouring around her so I couldn’t even see her. No one was answering me or if they did, I didn’t hear them, and then my midwife told me she was beautiful. Then I saw them wheel an isolette into the room, the same kind her sister had spent her four weeks of life. I really started to panic and yelled at them to tell me if she was ok, that she could be beautiful but not ok! That’s when a few people at once did confirm that she was fine. Great. Thanks everyone for the suspense!

As it turned out, the isolette was merely to keep her warm as she was a bit cold and had needed a little bit of help with respiration right after birth. Once she was all sorted, my Ob began stitching me up. I had been only 8cm dilated when told to start pushing, hence I guess the lack of an urge to push. I had torn internally and of course he had to stitch the episiotomy point as well. It took for.ever. For those stitches to be done. In the calm quiet of the room now, it was pretty hard to make chit chat with people as I lay there thinking “You’ve just birthed a big baby without pain relief, how can you be whincing at a few stitches?!”

As for the elusive epidural, at my 6 week checkup I quizzed my Ob as to why I wasn’t given one, despite begging and pleading for some several hours. He said flippantly that they probably thought I was coping very well without it. Damn! I knew I should have started biting people and spitting in their faces. I don’t know how much clearer I could have been. But anywho…!

Lauryn Renee was born 8lb 7oz (3.84kg) and 53.5cm long with a HC of 35.5cm. She was a posterior labour. My Ob informed me later on the ward that there had been no time for a Caesarian section. He had figured, with the issue with the cord and her low heart rate, he had about 30 minutes maximum up his sleeve before brain damage or “other complications”. We knew what he was saying. We were speechless and we all sat there with rather glassy eyes, my Ob included. He delivered Ella and has said ever since that he would get me “there” safely. Well, he nearly didn’t and the choice wouldn’t have been his if I wasn’t meant to know Lauryn and bring her home. But I can’t fault his adept handling of a tricky situation.

He told me that I did in five minutes what would usually take a woman an hour to do. I had pushed my cervix out of the way, dilated enough for her to pass through and she had turned from posterior to anterior to come out the right way round. I don’t know how close I came to it all going very sour but it is this thought that gave me little panics in the first weeks and I’d wake from sleep very upset at nasty dreams reliving it in the worst possible scenario outcome. Over time, I have been slowly healing physically. Now that I have written this out in full, I know it will also help me put to rest some of the huge emotion of it all I have been carrying.

Our girl was from birth, and continues to be now, the most placid, content little person who more often than not wears a look of sheer enjoyment on her face. I can hardly believe that from her urgent, frantic, traumatic birth has come this beautiful, happy soul. I remain quite traumatised by this possible end to any ttc #3 in the foreseeable future. I’ve been quite frightened off the idea frankly and for that alone, I need to recuperate my body and my heart and mind. I’ve been pregnant 10 times and delivered two babies. We’ve ttc’d for our entire married lives (6 years to the point of conceiving Lauryn). Now is the time for us to relax and enjoy her for as many years as we all need and want. We agreed we owed this to each other and to our girl.

I felt like I birthed the world that day. And as it turned out, I did. My world.

I was wondering...

How do certain words or phrases come about? Is it because they actually happened? I mean, I've been curious for a while now about this:

"Stop piss-farting around"

Did someone actually lose control of their bodily functions while they were supposed to be getting on with something?

I overthink things waaaaaay too much. As evidenced by the above.

A car full of double-edged swords

Case in point:

• A dummy on a long journey can soothe. It can also fall out.

• A car you call The Tardis because of its uncanny ability to be so small on the outside yet so roomy on the inside makes reaching from the front into the back to replug the dummy nigh on impossible without contorting like a rubber man from a freak show.

• Each red light you stop at gives opportunity for you to twist into said position. It also takes you longer to get home.

She was there to sell makeup but the father saw more

I ask you, what kind of irresponsible single parent could possibly hire someone to nanny his children on these few flippant facts:

She had style
She had flair
She was there*

That's all! That was the extent of her resumé and the basis on which she was hired. Apparently the girl they described, was just exactly what the doctor prescribed. Really?? For serious? He should have at least asked her to say something, because I'm sure that would've changed Mr. Sheffield's mind. Suffer the little children, indeed.


*Disclaimer: I do NOT watch The Nanny. I was just flicking past. On my way to the Biography Channel. Honest injin. And I only know the father's name because it's well quoted by Nanny Fine and has become like a catch phrase. Oh, and I only know her name is Nanny Fine because..... just because. But I swear, I've never watched an episode. Ok, well I've never watched a FULL episode. I'm going now.

Hey is this some kind of joke to you, Google??!

Imagine my horror when I log on to my blog to see that the Google ads of choice down the side are promoting adult diapers, TENAS for bladder weakness..... *shifty look* I could've sworn I didn't divulge in here that I've become that most awful of continents. The "in" kind.

I'm being deliberately mysterious and wordy so that our only male reader won't catch on that I'm talking about the fact that I am not currently able to hold my water since pushing out a 3.8kg human being.....

Oh. D'oh! I just gave it away.

More Chins...

...than a Chinese phone book.

Thank you, I'm here all week.

Try the veal.