Nothing music can't fix

The wheels fell off my little red wagon yesterday.

With the wise words of some friends I am still overwhelmed at being blessed to have, a phone call to Dad and some teasing of Pepper and Jazz (photo evidence below), I felt much better by the time Steve came home.

Issues surrounding the inability of people in my life to just leave me be, to have these moments without having to justify why. Of assuming that my growing Lollybelly does not signal the end of my grief.... but rather, in some bizarre respects, enhances or spotlights it.

I am so exhausted from trying to point these things out to too many people who should know how to support us better, but who don't. I'm tired of excusing them when they're so seemingly intent on not letting me go at my own pace. Steve and I discussed last night that I'm allowing the actions of so few overshadow the good, decent, easy relationships we have with so many more. Our dinner guests on Saturday night, for a perfect example. Wonderful and easy to be around. At the end of the night when we'd all dispersed to different areas of the house to chill out, one of them leaned in to me and in a rare moment of seriousness (because he's a blessed dag) enquired "Now.... are we going to need to watch out for you, all hormones and jokes aside?" I nearly collapsed on him there and then and said "Take it all away now! In a tip truck. Please!" Instead, composed, I thanked him profusely and said "Yes please, all three of us." It's such a relief to know that, as he and his wife said, we don't have to do or explain anything. We simply have to see them. They'll take care of the rest. I know that. And it's such a relief, I can't even explain how much.

Back to yesterday, though, I was also starting to be gripped from the inside out with fear that something may well go wrong this time too, which has been pointed out to me on several occasions is the fear of "all expectant mothers". But, see, it's that last little three letter word which widens the chasm between me (and grieving mothers like me) and other expectant mothers - not "all" of us at all. That little word... "too"... it changes everything. It means as well. It means what if something happens this time AS WELL. And it hurts to have it said to me that I am going through what any other mother goes through. I'm not trying to be precious here. I'm stating a fact, how I feel. It's akin to when I was told that "all mothers are sad on their child's first birthday, particularly their first child." Erm.... except I didn't think I needed to point out to this person the blatantly obvious fact that, uh, my child wasn't here for her first birthday. I was infuriated that I was so invalidated by that one flippant, off-the-cuff remark and found it very difficult to find something within myself to forgive the person for being so way off the mark.

After talking to Dad, I felt much better. Dad's a very logical man. He's a Doctor of Civil Engineering, a title which means little to me in terms of understanding what he does but makes me burst with pride that he's someone who's made a huge dint in his industry and is known in his field worldwide. Not necessarily liked by all, but respected for his intelligence and ability to put forth a point nonetheless. I inherited from him my deep sense of moral justice. Unfortunately, I also inherited from the other side of the family a crazy self-victimisation technique. I like to call it chatterbox brain.

My chatterbox brain just would not SHUT UP yesterday until Dad rationalised away my proclamations. He didn't patronise, he never once said I was being unreasonable or silly. Quite the contrary, he masterfully Jedi-mind-tricked me to calmness and laughter by agreeing with me and saying lots of "yes of courses" and "mmm I can't imagines" in the most tender tone. And he talked me through what we DO know: that by now with all the monitoring I've been having, an unbalanced translocation of mystery is off the cards - 99.5% certainty of that - the heart makeup appears to be perfect, growth rates are above par...... and that all these other things I'm conjuring up that "could" happen, well, as he said "Why would you want to add in more risk factors when you've dodged the ones that are most likely for you?"

He's right. It was as if I dropped the heavy cloak I'd been struggling to keep up round my shoulders. I immediately felt lighter. And cried huge sobs of relief that I have these intelligent people in my life to carry me this last little part.

So I celebrate this morning with a good dose of loud iTunes random plays from our extensive and diverse mix. I just finished I Go To Rio and am now rawkin' to Trick Me by Kelis. Is that wrong? Oh, next we have Everyone Deserves Music by dear young Michael Franti. Gotta go. Jig to dance.

Mere milliseconds before the nuclear bomb hit

Steve looks around for the blame hound.

The Barter System

K: I want a cheese slice

S: *trudges off and returns triumphantly*

S: *hands cheese slice over between index and middle finger with an air of 'breadwinner doling out money to the trophy wife'* Git yourself something nice.

K: Ta... D'you think in the history of time, they ever paid for goods or services with cheese?

S: Yeah, and what if they didn't have change? "I'm sorry, do you have anything smaller?" *nibbles cheese slice down to smaller denomination to pay for invisible item*

Yep our pets' heads definitely fell off today

Every so often, usually the third time in a day when the shit hits the fan / straw breaks the camel's back / dumb stuff happens, Steve and I will turn to each other and quote that piss-funny line from Dumb And Dumber - Jim Carrey's character turns to his friend, at the end of a rather arduous day and few moments when they don't know which way is up, and he says in a tension-filled voice barely holding it together, "Our pets' heads are falling off!!!!" and points in the direction of the cage containing their budgie, whose head has indeed "fallen off" (cos it was ripped off by the Gas Man... oh... have I watched it too many times?).

So. Today. This happened to me:

• At around 11.30 this morning, after I worked on Easter Monday to catch up on some work and finally feeling all caught up and in control today for the first time in months, the power went out.
The guy who came to mow the public reserve in our court mowed over the electrical box at the top of the street. Why? Because he "thought it wasn't connected up". Well, Dick'ead, it doesn't mean you need to go near it, let alone mow right the fuck over it!!!!!

• Decided I should get out of the house and go get some refunds from little Johnnie, c/o Medicare. So when I get there, why is it so packed? The carpark, I mean. I saw one of those Parents With Prams spaces, empty, going begging. But gee, I know there are some angry young "ladies" out there who would be haughty enough - even in my bedraggled, lazy-limp, hobbling state - who would take issue with me, and I was in no mood to foight to the death. Or maybe I was..... *pauses with finger on chin*
So instead, I parked in, oh, just the FURTHEST PARK from the door!

• I had to get petrol at the most expensive I have ever seen it in my State: $1.39L, people! I mean, WTF??

• When I pulled up at the pump, I stopped the car, did my usual new "thing" which was slide the seat back and manouver myself out the door with both legs together to try and minimise contributing to this stupid hip and symphisis pubis dickis idiotis dysplasia I've got happening. I did all this with a fair bit of effort, and in wind gusts of bloody a bazillion knots (ok, I'm getting silly now), only to find that I had parked at the opposite side to the petrol tank. RAAAAAAHHHH!

• I was gone for two hours and came back to be told by a neighbour that we shouldn't "expect power to be returned til sometime this afternoon."
And so I rested. I slept. I pruned. I baked a cake. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Except, it was vewy vewy qwiet all day. I had a lot of things I needed to do that involved electricity. But I am proud of myself - my idle mind didn't eat ONE square of that chocolate, sitting over there.

• Power only came back on at 5.30. That's 5.30 PM, dear reader.

So, once again, we usually claim heads-off-pets when several shitty things happen in a minimal time frame. I believe I can declare our pets' heads are indeed falling off. For sure.

Sing along!

"One of these paws is not like the oth-errr..."

Steve's pipe dream venture

"If I started a dog grooming salon, I'd call it Ruffcuts."
"Would you?"
"Yeah. And I'd make everyone say it like this - *gravelly Muttley-type voice* Rrrrrruffcuts."
"And you would make the staff say it like that when they answered the phone?"
"Yeah."
"And customers?"
"Yeah. If they say it they get 10% off."

He's reeeeeeeally thought alot about this....

Music and light

I've chosen The Music I'm going to say was "current" the day/year Lolly was born (you know that section in the obligatory Birth Book/First Year diary thing) and will buy the album to give to Lolly.

I am not ashamed to say I am thoroughly besotted with Corinne Bailey Rae. Girl, put your records on. Indeed. Her whole album is just lovely. Call Me When You Get This, Like A Star, Butterfly.... what gorgeous, gorgeous songs! And of course, the aforementioned Put Your Records On, well... we rock out to that daily, me and Lolly (cos Lolly has no choice). I don't think I could ever tire of it (or crying happily to it, well maybe once the hormones settle I won't cry anymore... hnnngh).

Hey, it's better than comemmorating the occasion with one of the real popular current songs... hmmm, let's seeee, we've got Wasabi by Lee Harding (erm, let me think, NOPE), an insipid Delta Goodrem song (ahhh, no) or anything by The Sugababez or Pussycat Dolls (are they still pumping them out?).

Melancholy reflective day

I just read of a mum who lost her baby girl in her womb at 36 weeks 4 days. My heart is bleeding for this young woman who I'll never lay eyes on and my eyes are crying tears I don't want to share with her.

I recall my heart being soooooooo, so, so heavy it physically hurt. If I had ONE wish, and I mean this, it would be that no mother, no father, would ever have to experience that sheer unbelievable tragedy - incomprehensible grief.

She wrote so beautifully, so honestly, and her words echoed how I have felt.... A mother-daughter relationship cut short. A life beginning and all the preparations you make within yourself to save a place in your home and in your heart for your little girl. Everything I started to open myself up to - I've never been particularly girly. I was a kick-around kind of kid, not delicate or fragile either in spirit or physique. But I softened. I softened so, so much. I started wearing pink even when I was carrying Ellanor (unheard of for me) because I found it comforted me and I felt so nurtured. I felt like I was already nurturing her. I wanted to continue developing my newfound softness - I always had it, I've always been gentle, but hid it so far down for fear of being hurt or pointed and laughed at or considered weak.... Ella catalysed the awakening of those innate feelings.

And then I couldn't grow them. Because she was suddenly not here. And I was left wiiiide open, newly soft and gracious and gentle. And so bereft.

This girl's story has really affected me. I've seen her thread sitting there and to be honest, I haven't been able to go in and read it. I have said before and will say here again: mothers who deliver their children born still have lived my nightmare. It leaves me cold. And they are left to tread with their arms empty and their hearts in shreds. Slowly as everything shifts and lifts, some lucky ones find focus and meaning and reason - I am one of the very lucky ones, my daughter not only had a purpose but she almost went so far as to leave written instructions, literally (I mean, have any of you read the Earth Angel story on her website? That's no accident, that story).... cheeky little angel - but I wonder how the others cope. The ones who for years are desperate for peace, just searching. But nothing, NOTHING, anything anyone says will ever give them that. Especially not in the beginning.

So I sit here with a contented little new life doing Richard Simmons exercises in my belly. I think of that mother who recently had the worst realisation of her life: in one swift moment, her life was forever changed, she was forever changed - even when she's happy in months and years to come, there's not anything, not another child, not all the material riches in the world, can quite fill the void. A mother who had borne a stillborn baby boy at 39 weeks told me, the day Ella died (she was my midwife and I was shocked to discover this person I had been drawn to all along since Ella's birth and in the month before she died, had been carrying this secret, and why would she divulge it of course... and she worked with babies for a calling, no less), that I was never going to be the same again. It stuck in my gut like I'd been knifed with a dagger. Along with everything else we had just lost, we had also lost ourselves as we knew "us". The grieving for who you were is something no one really realises is also happening for the parents, as it is overshadowed by the overwhelming impact of the baby's death.

It goes without saying, then, that even when things settle and the first months/years are lived through and coping goes back to being second nature rather than the thing that gets you through hour by hour til you can just sleep again and make it all go away, it astounds me that there are still some people who are of the belief that new life dissolves what has gone before. That the baby I grieved for and the me I grieved for are now "behind me". I vehemently refute this projected assumption, it is such a crime of compassion (can you tell this is a current hot topic in our house due to recent circumstances?).

And now I look forward while constantly casting a despairing glance back. At opportunities lost, at experiences I had to leave behind two years ago, but that are all converging in one big heap now; the closer we get to happiness in this never-ending quest to nurture our healthy, growing family, the alternately further I get from her. My girl.

She's not lost. But sometimes I am.

Urrgh. Do you STILL live here?

Despite Pepper trying hard to imagine Jazz away (like my try-as-I-might imagining into existence of the chunky kit-kat, which didn't work by the way, so Dr Phil is WRONG), she is still here. She is still begging for a play, morning, evening, dead of night, just about anytime when little old lady doggies want their naps. For extreme close-up, click on the photos to view maximum pissed-off effect....

You want my ball, you know you want iiiiit.....

I don't want your frigging ball *paw smackdown*

Oh. Yes. Ok, you got me. I do want it. Grrr, grrr, big pointy teeth...
I'm biting your leg. I mean it *yawn*

See? You do want it!!! Ha-ha, but I have it.... I said.... you DO want it *poke poke*
Has she gone yet? I'm not looking at her so therefore she doesn't exist. Right?

Urp, nope, there she is.
Ha-haaaa, you can't resist me. I am Jazzeeee!!!

Listen here, you little shit, you think you're cute enough to compete with that bump she's got growing there? There's nothing can outdo or outcute that. So sleep tight, buttercup, and lap it up because when she pops, you're going to be not-so-cute Jazzy and banned from any inside craziness. They'll probably ban you from inside altogether because you're too loud and erratic.

I am such a well-behaved, good inside girl.... or...
maybe if I practice at least......

My work here is done.

Happy Birthday to Steeeeve!

Insolence!

See what we have to put up with? If you don't play ball on command, you get barked at.

Lolly Takes A Trip To The Hospital

I'm still not convinced that it's not wind (which, when it eventually comes to the light of day, will flutter those flags in Belgium again), but I have had a night full of regular, scarily intense contractions.

I noticed discomfort when talking to a friend on the phone - we both got distracted because we heard The Biggest Loser coming on....... - and as soon as I finished talking with her, BANG! the first one hit. Then like clockwork, the next just 2 minutes later. Steve and I discussed, rather wearily, what to do and decided to ride it out for another half hour before paging Dr Luffley.

And for the next half hour, along they came, every 2-3 minutes.

When I paged him, my doctor rang back and didn't even let me finish telling him that I thought it might be Simon (if anyone knows South Park, they'll get the reference to Simon, Mr and Mrs Hanky's son....born with a nut in his head....). He told me to get straight to the Delivery Ward. Dammit, I was on day 2 of my hair washing "regime" as well, so old greasy-ball me was taken to spend an uncomfortable night in hospital being poked, prodded, observed and mostly basically left to cope through pretty intense and erractically timed contractions.

To cut a long story short, everything is still closed/in its right place/stored in overhead lockers and in fact, our little Lolly goes to the top of the class once again for measuring a none-too-shabby 25 weeks 3 days today (by my dates, I'm only 24 weeks 4 days) and an impressive "portly" 800g. Apparently a 28 weeker is around 1kg, so we're more than ahead of target. This kid will be a Grade 1 equivalent and doing long division by the time T-Zero comes around.

I cannot believe I dodged this bullet. I vowed when I was lying in there overnight that if I got out of this one unscathed and got to come home, both of us all intact and still attached to each other, that I would be making some changes in my thoughts. This episode has come off the back of some news that yesterday rocked my world, more due to the audacity of the person who divulged and the way in which it was handled (I believe the term is "divide and conquer"?), as is the pattern of this person to make me privy to information that I don't need to know and always without the safety net of telling me when I am with my husband - which, given the family connection, would make far more sense.

And today, strangely, I have a sense of calm and direction and focus. This news no longer concerns me. I realise I try and fit into "the norm" of the fertile/conception world, outside of my large supportive circle, and I just figured out that I don't need to. Special is good, different is better. I know what I have to do, I know what and who is important to me and to whom I am important. Another test I do believe, and we've passed I reckon.

Oh, and never one to not share a good looking happy snap, CHECK the gorgeous little button nose on this:

Just me again

Here's us at 24 weeks.

Owwwwch.... I can hear the skin stretching from here.

And now, a word from our sponsors

In yet another unashamedly lazy blog entry, I give you this and let someone else do all the work:

Store Wars Pure genius to behold.

And may the force be with you.

Happy Easter

T minus 14 weeks...

I came to a realisation a few weeks ago.

I already know how early labour goes. If it happens again, and heaven forbid it should, I know I can live through it and what to expect. I know the drill in the NICU, awful as it is, and that I will make as much of it (again) as I did before. If this is to be this baby's experience, then Lolly and no one else will choose the timing of when labour comes, according to Lolly's life map.

I've really been freed by this and look much further ahead as I begin to prepare. Once I realised that I was fearing a repeat of something I've already survived, I was able to focus more on just assuming what every other lucky expectant mother does: that her baby will be born safe, at term.

So that is my aim and my focus now. 38 weeks, that's my goal for Lolly. I won't go over that, this has already been agreed with Dr Luffley. He expects to induce me but I have other plans if we've made it that far - 'erbs, baby... 'erbs!

It's really helped calm me - I'm not being unrealistic I don't think. I am fully aware that the biggest risk for me going into preterm labour is my past history; the fact that it's happened to me before. Dr Luffley told me that. Whilst I can't control when it happens, I can control when I want to think of it happening... if you get what I mean? So I am choosing to assume that Lolly will come at term, or certainly much closer to it than Big Sister did!

And no. My doctor's surname is not Luffley.

"What we fear, we create"

Sooooo, on this theory, does this mean if I work really hard at fearing a life-size Chunky Kit Kat, it will manifest before me?

I'm working on it. Will report back later.

To Be And To Have

I have found it. The movie that explains better than I could say what I was trying to just a few days ago here.

Very basically, To Be And To Have is an English-subtitled documentary centred around a one-room school in rural France, the teacher and his young pupils ranging in age from 4-11. And.... just bliss to watch. Beautiful, beautiful film which made me laugh and cry. And cry. And cry a little bit more because it was so touching and fascinating.

If you watch it (it's been out in video stores for about a year) and you don't get it, then I'm afraid you don't "get" me.

Adrenalin rush

My (sad) version of extreme head-rush edge-of-your-seat excitement?

Watch Rove Live with the teletext function on. Oh my God, I think I'm having palpitations. They all talk. So. Fast. On there. The poor stressed out little monkey who's sitting there at the keyboard trying to keep up with the comedians all sparring with each other.... Surely that gig is THE shortest straw of the week in the Teletext Control Room. How anyone could type dictation that fast for a whole hour is beyond me. I'm literally hyperventilating over it.

Had to ask Steve to turn it off after only 10 minutes of this agony. His idea of fun is watching them stuff up and get slowly but surely further behind and really start to fuck up all the conversations, but it's just way too stressful for a sensitive little petal like me *raises eyes demurely*

Lamination of the Nation

I nagged for about a week.

"They can't just be any old chocolate stinking lamingtons. They must be pink." If it is possible to crave a colour, I am craving pink things, despite cursing them to damnation at any other time in my life.

So finally, he goes to get them late last night after coming home from another day of print-and-printer-related antics (he works at a printing/design company and heads the art and production departments). The lamington was pure bliss. Pink heaven on a spongey softbed of, well, not so much goodness as evil indulgence.

And just now, after I advised him of a minor hump in my otherwise ordinary day, he called me a "poor girl" and suggested I have a "raspberry lamination". I knew what he meant.

My poor Stevie works so hard.