Is it "medical trends" or "medical developments"? I could get on board developments, but trends? We're not talking short skirts here.
Doctors no longer bleed their victims so that evil humours can escape, not because it's so last century, but because they learned a thing or two. On the other hand Doctors don't currently circumcise our baby boys and this is despite what they've learned.
It is fact that uncircumcised boys are more likely to suffer penile cancer and infect a female partner with human papiloma virus and other STD's including AIDS. If a boy's foreskin cannot fully retract by the time he's 5, they'll need a circumcision. As the skin brittles in middle age, they can get painful infections that often require circumcision - I've met three of said men - no sex for 6 months for these poor blokes.
If they can retract and be kept clean and dry, there shouldn't be a problem, but we are talking males after all.
They say circumcision diminshes pleasure. I've never heard that complaint and I'm not sure how they could tell unless foreskins grow back.
Some say that; because so many boys are uncircumcised these days, the more attractive penis will feel alienated in the locker room. I think they'll all feel a little alienated if they're checking out eachother's penises.
Many husband's/boyfriend's of our generation are circumcised. Is a ittle boy more likely to learn about penises from Dad, or from his teenaged friends in said locker room? How will circumcised Dad teach his boy to clean a foreskin if he doesn't have one? I gave my husband a cloth and window cleaner once - he didn't know what to do with it despite clear instructions from someone who does.
My son cannot even touch his penis at nearly two years old. How will he retract his foreskin? Why couldn't they circumcise him when he was 7 days old like we used to - when the blood coagulates faster than at any other time and there is very little evidence of pain. Will he now have to wait for infections and a circumcision in his teens? When involuntary erections will make things extremely awkward?
Is the foreskin a design flaw? Maybe it's like the appendix - we needed it once when we ate alot of nuts. Maybe we all needed the foreskin, when we were born in deserts, to keep the sand out of the urinary tract? Fact is, that little bit of skin can be a huge menace and I'm pissed off that doctors have treated it like a fashion statement.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Shoes made for walking.
Smoking nazis, fashionistas, doctors, naturopaths, trying-hard-to-do-gooders and anyone else who sees the world down the peak of their nose...walk a mile in my shoes and you'll quickly note that I've run a mile in stillettos and meaner judgements than yours have fallen prey to the heels.
Friday, 30 September 2011
"Superman" = onesie buttoned on the outside of the pants.
"Peter-pan" = pants tucked into socks.
"Butt-sprout" = small pooh.
"Poonami" = enough pooh to destroy a small village, requiring a full change for both mother and child and wiping down of furniture.
"Throwing a party" = child wakes in the middle of the night, happy as a birthday boy and ready to start the day.
"Doing the Dishes" = child is so upset that bottom lip protrudes like a dish drawer. The dishes are truly done when crying ensues, revealing the porcelin.
Please feel free to add your own family jargon.
"Peter-pan" = pants tucked into socks.
"Butt-sprout" = small pooh.
"Poonami" = enough pooh to destroy a small village, requiring a full change for both mother and child and wiping down of furniture.
"Throwing a party" = child wakes in the middle of the night, happy as a birthday boy and ready to start the day.
"Doing the Dishes" = child is so upset that bottom lip protrudes like a dish drawer. The dishes are truly done when crying ensues, revealing the porcelin.
Please feel free to add your own family jargon.
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Welcome me to motherhood...I'm well and truly yours.
For the past month, I have been busy becoming a cliche.
I visit the mall for coffee, with other baby-bound girlfriends, twice a week. We debrief on men, monotony and other unpleasantries of motherhood. Mall coffee is shit, but the conversation is orgasmic...mainly because it's conversation.
We meet twice a week because we actually have enough to bitch about to warrant this? Tick! Add that to the ciche making characteristics.
I bitch about my weight. All three of said friends have given birth in the past 4 months and yet the only thing on their bodies that competes with my fat collection is their milk-laden breasts. They claim I have body dismorphic disorder. I think they do. Who could miss this stomach!? The jowels? The upper thighs that I now call "labia mega majora"?
I have developed an eating disorder. I can't stop myself. My definition of one peppermint tim tam is one packet! So comfort eating finds its place on the cliche checklist.
I spent $190 on herbal remedies, so my pantry now looks like a 50 year old divorced woman's chasing youth and a rich 90 year old. Multi-vitamins for the husband; to cure his persitent man-flu. Central Nervous System tonic
to cure baby's cerebral palsy...it contains catnip??? Dubious. Magical seaweed and berry mix to cure my food addiction. Eutherol throat elixir to cure effects of smoking addiction. Emphysemol Lung elixir for the same. I'm pretty sure I bought cigarettes on the same shopping expedition. Flax seed oil and spirulina, because they apparently cure everything.
Ridiculous spending habits - another tick for the list. Although I can see why this finds its way on to every mother's list as we get no self-gratification from work and shop assistants always thank us for what we've just done for their business.
Boredom and worthlessness - tick! - I've taken on an unpaid, part time job for charity.
Depression...although I have to say that the black dog wouldn't have come in if I hadn't opened the door and teased it with biscuits, but I just had to see if I could get to that place despite the anti-depressants. However, the black dog swiftly left after discovering the biscuit was the last one left in the packet.
Bitching at my husband about quitting his job because it doesn't make enough money, keeps him away weekends and has just demolished the one thing I had to look forward to all year - our end of year holiday.
Creating distractions. Some women plan facials, I had this one holiday plan and now it's obliterated. Hence the depression.
The things about my life that spit in the face of the cliche:
1 I am just about to receive a disability parking sticker, so my carpark will kick arse on all your 4-wheel drive mummy machines!
2 I never compete at mothers' coffee groups - I know my child already lost.
3 My baby now reaches out for me and only me. It makes me feel like a million dollars and not just because every mother feels that way, but because we were told he would never know who we are.
My love and admiration to all the mothers out there, every shape, size and situation. xx
I visit the mall for coffee, with other baby-bound girlfriends, twice a week. We debrief on men, monotony and other unpleasantries of motherhood. Mall coffee is shit, but the conversation is orgasmic...mainly because it's conversation.
We meet twice a week because we actually have enough to bitch about to warrant this? Tick! Add that to the ciche making characteristics.
I bitch about my weight. All three of said friends have given birth in the past 4 months and yet the only thing on their bodies that competes with my fat collection is their milk-laden breasts. They claim I have body dismorphic disorder. I think they do. Who could miss this stomach!? The jowels? The upper thighs that I now call "labia mega majora"?
I have developed an eating disorder. I can't stop myself. My definition of one peppermint tim tam is one packet! So comfort eating finds its place on the cliche checklist.
I spent $190 on herbal remedies, so my pantry now looks like a 50 year old divorced woman's chasing youth and a rich 90 year old. Multi-vitamins for the husband; to cure his persitent man-flu. Central Nervous System tonic
to cure baby's cerebral palsy...it contains catnip??? Dubious. Magical seaweed and berry mix to cure my food addiction. Eutherol throat elixir to cure effects of smoking addiction. Emphysemol Lung elixir for the same. I'm pretty sure I bought cigarettes on the same shopping expedition. Flax seed oil and spirulina, because they apparently cure everything.
Ridiculous spending habits - another tick for the list. Although I can see why this finds its way on to every mother's list as we get no self-gratification from work and shop assistants always thank us for what we've just done for their business.
Boredom and worthlessness - tick! - I've taken on an unpaid, part time job for charity.
Depression...although I have to say that the black dog wouldn't have come in if I hadn't opened the door and teased it with biscuits, but I just had to see if I could get to that place despite the anti-depressants. However, the black dog swiftly left after discovering the biscuit was the last one left in the packet.
Bitching at my husband about quitting his job because it doesn't make enough money, keeps him away weekends and has just demolished the one thing I had to look forward to all year - our end of year holiday.
Creating distractions. Some women plan facials, I had this one holiday plan and now it's obliterated. Hence the depression.
The things about my life that spit in the face of the cliche:
1 I am just about to receive a disability parking sticker, so my carpark will kick arse on all your 4-wheel drive mummy machines!
2 I never compete at mothers' coffee groups - I know my child already lost.
3 My baby now reaches out for me and only me. It makes me feel like a million dollars and not just because every mother feels that way, but because we were told he would never know who we are.
My love and admiration to all the mothers out there, every shape, size and situation. xx
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Say "yes" to drugs
I've been rather absent to say the least. Over a month ago I booked into a motel. I packed my computer and little else. I didn't think I'd need much, just a word processor for my farewells.
It was saying goodbye to my son that made me realise I needed help.
Bring on the FLUOX!
I used to talk my friends out of anti-depressants since it turns men into dickless zombies. Women, however seem to be normal but better, except that you'll find them working alot harder in the bedroom for that already elusive orgasm.
Other than that, anti-d's are amazing when you're in need. Edges smoothed, not fuzzied and I'm actually feeling happy, god forbid.
It was saying goodbye to my son that made me realise I needed help.
Bring on the FLUOX!
I used to talk my friends out of anti-depressants since it turns men into dickless zombies. Women, however seem to be normal but better, except that you'll find them working alot harder in the bedroom for that already elusive orgasm.
Other than that, anti-d's are amazing when you're in need. Edges smoothed, not fuzzied and I'm actually feeling happy, god forbid.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Fears
I have been taking stock of my fears lately and, if not totally irradicating them, certainly hiding them in the dark depths of the monsters' closet.
Children inherit the fears of the mother. I know I inherited some of my mother's. Her fear of heights was never a problem for my skydiving self until I got engaged. Weird, but as soon as that ring was on my finger, my sense of responsibility kicked in and I became pathologically afraid of anything that goes up, plummeting down. Her fear of losing control...definitely with me to a degree. Her hypochondria...a well set stain on my genes until last year.
My fear of flying - gone, my fear of heights - gone, my fear of dying - been there, done that, my fear of my son dying - been there, done that and if he wants to do it again, he will in his own time. Don't misunderstand, I would be devastated. I adore him to the core of his being. To fear or not to fear a death can't diminish the sadness of it, but it also can't save you in the end. I feared his dying for the first 3 months of his life and it stopped me from bonding with him. If fear can do this to mother and child, what does it do to every aspect of our lives?
After 12 minutes of death, he moved his arm. He decided to live for now and maybe that's all any of us can do.
Children inherit the fears of the mother. I know I inherited some of my mother's. Her fear of heights was never a problem for my skydiving self until I got engaged. Weird, but as soon as that ring was on my finger, my sense of responsibility kicked in and I became pathologically afraid of anything that goes up, plummeting down. Her fear of losing control...definitely with me to a degree. Her hypochondria...a well set stain on my genes until last year.
My fear of flying - gone, my fear of heights - gone, my fear of dying - been there, done that, my fear of my son dying - been there, done that and if he wants to do it again, he will in his own time. Don't misunderstand, I would be devastated. I adore him to the core of his being. To fear or not to fear a death can't diminish the sadness of it, but it also can't save you in the end. I feared his dying for the first 3 months of his life and it stopped me from bonding with him. If fear can do this to mother and child, what does it do to every aspect of our lives?
After 12 minutes of death, he moved his arm. He decided to live for now and maybe that's all any of us can do.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
yesterday
If you don't know how lucky you are, then think about it. It was all around me yesterday, drinking, laughing, crying and feeding me sausage rolls. It's made all the difference to my frame of my mind, not to mention my complexion.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Drinks with the devil.
Strangest dream last night. My husband and I were at a bar...and wait...that wasn't the strange part.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P. She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money. Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such. We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies. The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits. He's only of average height by the way.
The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way. I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated. He counselled my husband and I on our relationship. Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared. Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs." In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied; "Lung cancer right?" He nodded with pseudo-sympathy. Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?" My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P. She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money. Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such. We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies. The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits. He's only of average height by the way.
The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way. I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated. He counselled my husband and I on our relationship. Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared. Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs." In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied; "Lung cancer right?" He nodded with pseudo-sympathy. Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?" My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
The anniversary of birth and death.
Today is my son's first birthday and the anniversary of his death and mine.
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed. An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt.
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
Memories tearing shreds off me right now. Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt. Speaking of...laundry! I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed. An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt.
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
Memories tearing shreds off me right now. Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt. Speaking of...laundry! I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.
My son
put death in its place.
In his heart
He lifted his tiny head
Raised his tiny arm
And said
Later
When I've lived.
When I've learned to say the word.
When I've mastered it.
Saturday, 23 April 2011
Cake and trolleys
When the baby's asleep, there's quiet, but very little peace because you always have to be one step ahead. I should be thinking of what I will feed him when he wakes and preparing syringes for his nasal gastric tube, should he decide not to eat anything. Instead, I'm planning a cake he won't get to enjoy, for a first birthday he may be too uncomfortable to celebrate.
Husband is using his small window of emotional and physical semi-freedom to brave the most depressing, lower socio-economic shopping centre in the city. He'll calculate the value of each meat pack and fresh vegetable, while obese families of 6 fill their carts with cans of coke, chips, alcohol and cigarettes. I used to feel sorry for them, now their ability to degrade the healthy bodies they were born with just pisses me off. They don't know the luxury they were born in to...she says as she sips coffee and smokes cigarettes.
Husband is using his small window of emotional and physical semi-freedom to brave the most depressing, lower socio-economic shopping centre in the city. He'll calculate the value of each meat pack and fresh vegetable, while obese families of 6 fill their carts with cans of coke, chips, alcohol and cigarettes. I used to feel sorry for them, now their ability to degrade the healthy bodies they were born with just pisses me off. They don't know the luxury they were born in to...she says as she sips coffee and smokes cigarettes.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Tidy house, tidy mind.
If one more therapist or husband tells me I'm crazy, I'll show them crazy.
I mean, among the things people need to get them through the day, is a tidy house really such an unreasonable expectation? I could be waking up to whiskey or worse, but all I require is some semblance of order and a little domestic dignity.
God save me from people who think filth and chaos is sane!
I mean, among the things people need to get them through the day, is a tidy house really such an unreasonable expectation? I could be waking up to whiskey or worse, but all I require is some semblance of order and a little domestic dignity.
God save me from people who think filth and chaos is sane!
Monday, 11 April 2011
The best of 3 nightmares.
I have a choice to make for my son. Do I:
a) Have a nasal gastric tube inserted - a non-surgical procedure that will feed him food, drugs, fluid, but destroy his enjoyment of eating.
b) Go ahead with a gastrostomy next Monday - surgical under general anaesthetic. It allows feeding, fluid and drugs while he practices eating by mouth and should put the focus on enjoying food rather than making sure he's getting the nutrition he needs. The downside being the wound can get infected and leak, plus, he's one year old and risking another death.
c) Do nothing and hope he starts eating and stops losing weight.
Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't love our children?
a) Have a nasal gastric tube inserted - a non-surgical procedure that will feed him food, drugs, fluid, but destroy his enjoyment of eating.
b) Go ahead with a gastrostomy next Monday - surgical under general anaesthetic. It allows feeding, fluid and drugs while he practices eating by mouth and should put the focus on enjoying food rather than making sure he's getting the nutrition he needs. The downside being the wound can get infected and leak, plus, he's one year old and risking another death.
c) Do nothing and hope he starts eating and stops losing weight.
Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't love our children?
Changing the subject...
Feeling a little bit the way you do when you've told a guy you love him after the first date. Thank you all so much for your beautiful comments, but please let's not forget that I'm also just a mum and a woman who wants to laugh at the absurdities of this role we find ourselves in. Sure, my genre can seem like Tragedy, but the very Chick Flick moments since have mellowed it to Black Comedy I think. Wouldn't mind a bit of Rom Com while we're at it and could certainly go some porn. It's just not easy to strap on your dirty mind when every inch of the house is dotted in baby paraphenalia.
Well would you look at me? 2 days into 35 and the whole sexual peak thing rears its eager head! I wish my husband would realise the up side of early to bed.
Well would you look at me? 2 days into 35 and the whole sexual peak thing rears its eager head! I wish my husband would realise the up side of early to bed.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
How I died...
I'm aware of the gaps, so I'm going to fill them in. Mainly because it makes it hard to write a post daily if a huge part of my daily life is omitted. But first, I'd like to make it clear that my experience doesn't isolate me from motherhood or the mothers therein.
As you know, I died almost this time last year. The actual date was April 26th - the day my son was born.
At 37 weeks, having felt looming dread all day, I was admitted to hospital with severe abdominal pain, and I mean puking blood, sweating tanks SEVERE. Baby's heart sounded good, as did mine. They thought I had extreme colic and gave me an enema. Hilarious in hindsight.
On my return from the toilet, I was feeling better until extremely bad luck shot a white, hot poker through my spine and out through my stomach. It felt as if my blood was draining through my toes and I told my mother to call the nurse before collapsing on the floor. I came to to chaos. Baby's monitor sounded like someone beating a door down, nurses were calling out crashing stats and the words "We have to operate now!".
As they began crashing my bed through swinging doors, I thought "Fuck! I'm going to die! This is shit!". Closely followed by; "If you're there God, please forgive me for disrespecting my own life. Don't let it count against me. If the baby dies, please look after him and...if possible...please let me live for my husband's sake."
By the time the surgeon was standing over me, I was experiencing the most profound calm of my life. He told me he was going to have to perform an emergency c-section right away. In my mind I answered; "I'm in your hands, I hope you're good."
A day later, I came to in a room full of machines. They were keeping me alive and I could have kissed them for it! As it turned out, I'd suffered a splenic artery aneurysm. I'd lost my spleen, part of my pancreas and 2 and a half times my full volume of blood - a record that has only recently been surpassed by a surviving patient. I'd technically died three times on the table and yes...there does seem to be something out there.
I was supposed to be brain damaged - the jury's still out on that. Other supposed-to's include coma, unable to produce milk, in hospital for 3 months and so on. My recovery was miraculous because I didn't know for months just how sick I was. All I wanted was to see my son. I didn't for a week and when i finally got to his side, his state of health completely overshadowed mine.
He was supposed to be dead the night he was born. Then they said, he might last the week. At 4 weeks, they decided he wanted to live, but that the winter would probably kill him. He's nearly a year old now. He's absolutely gorgeous, angelic and smart, but a little bit trapped inside a body that shows signs of cerebral palsy. If I could have chosen a birth with no pain or sadness, I would have, ofcourse, but if it meant I couldn't have him, I choose him.
So that's the story. The beginning anyway. Can someone please fart now for brevity's sake?
As you know, I died almost this time last year. The actual date was April 26th - the day my son was born.
At 37 weeks, having felt looming dread all day, I was admitted to hospital with severe abdominal pain, and I mean puking blood, sweating tanks SEVERE. Baby's heart sounded good, as did mine. They thought I had extreme colic and gave me an enema. Hilarious in hindsight.
On my return from the toilet, I was feeling better until extremely bad luck shot a white, hot poker through my spine and out through my stomach. It felt as if my blood was draining through my toes and I told my mother to call the nurse before collapsing on the floor. I came to to chaos. Baby's monitor sounded like someone beating a door down, nurses were calling out crashing stats and the words "We have to operate now!".
As they began crashing my bed through swinging doors, I thought "Fuck! I'm going to die! This is shit!". Closely followed by; "If you're there God, please forgive me for disrespecting my own life. Don't let it count against me. If the baby dies, please look after him and...if possible...please let me live for my husband's sake."
By the time the surgeon was standing over me, I was experiencing the most profound calm of my life. He told me he was going to have to perform an emergency c-section right away. In my mind I answered; "I'm in your hands, I hope you're good."
A day later, I came to in a room full of machines. They were keeping me alive and I could have kissed them for it! As it turned out, I'd suffered a splenic artery aneurysm. I'd lost my spleen, part of my pancreas and 2 and a half times my full volume of blood - a record that has only recently been surpassed by a surviving patient. I'd technically died three times on the table and yes...there does seem to be something out there.
I was supposed to be brain damaged - the jury's still out on that. Other supposed-to's include coma, unable to produce milk, in hospital for 3 months and so on. My recovery was miraculous because I didn't know for months just how sick I was. All I wanted was to see my son. I didn't for a week and when i finally got to his side, his state of health completely overshadowed mine.
He was supposed to be dead the night he was born. Then they said, he might last the week. At 4 weeks, they decided he wanted to live, but that the winter would probably kill him. He's nearly a year old now. He's absolutely gorgeous, angelic and smart, but a little bit trapped inside a body that shows signs of cerebral palsy. If I could have chosen a birth with no pain or sadness, I would have, ofcourse, but if it meant I couldn't have him, I choose him.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Birthday
Friday, 8 April 2011
East vs West
I've been seeing my Korean accupuncturist weekly for needles, massage and wisdom. As she attempted to knead all the heavy lifting and unnatural bending out of my sacrum, she informed me that depression is considered a normal part of life in the East. Only in the West do we label it, medicate it and call Lifeline from the garden at 4am whilst drinking hot toddy, smoking cigarettes and deciding which tree branch is low enough to hook a rope from.
Of course, the down side of the East, is that a lot of seriously fucked up people end up swinging from said rope having been told the Korean, Japanese or Cantonese equivalent of "harden up". The down side here out West is that we take anti-depressants when good girlfriends, exercise and regular naps might do the trick.
I don't want to die, but I could do with the rest. And if, like me, you're prone to smashing your fists against a wall because the dogs dropped leaves all over your newly swept floor...wouldn't it be nice for your husband to say "You've been up breast feeding all night. Go and get some sleep"? But it's..."Fuck off angry woman! Come back when you're medicated!"
Ironically the Japanese, much like our babies, used sleep deprivation as a form of torture. Regardless, I wouldn't mind being part of a culture that sends me to bed instead of therapy.
Of course, the down side of the East, is that a lot of seriously fucked up people end up swinging from said rope having been told the Korean, Japanese or Cantonese equivalent of "harden up". The down side here out West is that we take anti-depressants when good girlfriends, exercise and regular naps might do the trick.
I don't want to die, but I could do with the rest. And if, like me, you're prone to smashing your fists against a wall because the dogs dropped leaves all over your newly swept floor...wouldn't it be nice for your husband to say "You've been up breast feeding all night. Go and get some sleep"? But it's..."Fuck off angry woman! Come back when you're medicated!"
Ironically the Japanese, much like our babies, used sleep deprivation as a form of torture. Regardless, I wouldn't mind being part of a culture that sends me to bed instead of therapy.
Monday, 4 April 2011
So much to look forward to.
Monday morning: Go against all instinct and don't breastfeed baby for 3 hours prior to radiology, where you will attempt to feed a baby solids while they're investigating why he won't eat solids. Not only will I perform this contradictory task, I'll perform it with him lying down inside a terrifying, whirring, beeping tube.
Next Monday: Go against massive claustraphobic tendencies and lie inside similar tube for 40 minutes while toxic dyes are pumped through my veins seeking out aneurysms.
At least I can say I'd never put my child through something I wouldn't go through myself.
Next Monday: Go against massive claustraphobic tendencies and lie inside similar tube for 40 minutes while toxic dyes are pumped through my veins seeking out aneurysms.
At least I can say I'd never put my child through something I wouldn't go through myself.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
The wee smalls
Daylight savings switched to winter hours at midnight last night. In the fantasy world that is single life, this means an extra hour to sleep in. In the parental world, this means it's 5:30 and I've been up since 4:30, but baby thought it was 5:30. I've fed him and put him back to bed until 6, which baby will think is 7. So he atleast gets a sleep in.
I will then try to juggle baby, breakfast, medication, dressing, dogs, pram and exhaustion as silently as possible so that husband can sleep in til 9. He worked til 2 with a raging virus and what's worse, they've taken pseudoephedrine based cold and flu tablets off the shelves. Goodbye Mummy and Daddy's little helpers. Fuck you P-heads.
I will then try to juggle baby, breakfast, medication, dressing, dogs, pram and exhaustion as silently as possible so that husband can sleep in til 9. He worked til 2 with a raging virus and what's worse, they've taken pseudoephedrine based cold and flu tablets off the shelves. Goodbye Mummy and Daddy's little helpers. Fuck you P-heads.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Rubbish
This was the carnage last night - my credit card dismembered and rendered useless. It was my husband's idea. I heaved with tears as I made the cuts and kept waiting for him to say: "April fools! I'm actually rich and here...have this platinum card instead."
As the pieces of plastic slipped from my grasp, my sense of self did too. Husband thinks there's no financial freedom in debt and I know he's right, but what about the confidence that comes in the shape of a new pair of stiletto's? Or the shade of a good lipstick? Am I going to have to say goodbye Film Noir by MAC, hello Enamor by Covergirl?
The maternity savings account is drained and I've gone from main bread winner to the bread line. We just got home from buying bulk cleaning products: a jif bottle the size of my thigh, a persil bucket the size of my stomach. The upside - enough time spent on said bread line and I'll have limbs comparative to bottles of French perfume.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Ness
Whilst rushing on skincare and make-up and preening what has become a deadly arsenal - my toe-nails, I started thinking about my name. What are we saying to people when we introduce ourselves? What does our name mean to us? Are we ever even aware of it?
In that silly movie, You, Me and Dupree, Dupree talks about a character's "Carl-ness". Do I have a "Ness" or is it just a label for me, like Butter? In fact, when we say "butter", we know what we're talking about. We know what constitutes butter and it sure ain't the same as margarine. So butter has a "ness". Do I? And if so, have I lost it?
Is it possible to integrate this new part of my life called "motherhood", into my ness? Or is it the thing that killed it?
ps: new skincare is a revelation!
In that silly movie, You, Me and Dupree, Dupree talks about a character's "Carl-ness". Do I have a "Ness" or is it just a label for me, like Butter? In fact, when we say "butter", we know what we're talking about. We know what constitutes butter and it sure ain't the same as margarine. So butter has a "ness". Do I? And if so, have I lost it?
Is it possible to integrate this new part of my life called "motherhood", into my ness? Or is it the thing that killed it?
ps: new skincare is a revelation!
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Some things are still alive and well.
When I'm out for 5 seconds without the baby and bump into someone I know, they always ask;
"Where's the baby?".
Me: "I left him in the car with a pack of smokes and a lighter. That should keep him happy for a while."
Me: "Crap! Good question!"
Me: "Baby? What baby? Who are you?"
I demand to know if my husband ever gets asked this ridiculous question and if not, since it's no longer circa 1950, why not?
"Where's the baby?".
Me: "I left him in the car with a pack of smokes and a lighter. That should keep him happy for a while."
Me: "Crap! Good question!"
Me: "Baby? What baby? Who are you?"
I demand to know if my husband ever gets asked this ridiculous question and if not, since it's no longer circa 1950, why not?
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
Dreamy
This is what stood between my conscience and the mall today. If God, the bank and the husband didn't want me to spend $170 on delicious new beauty products...wouldn't they have sent something tougher than ducks?
Cancel the papers
Divorce threats yesterday. Coaxing into kisses today. It started early, so we had a full day's work between screaming and forgiveness. In that time, I reiterated three things to myself:
1) I really do love this man to the core.
2) My son is sublime and innocent in all this.
3) We can't afford to get divorced.
1) I really do love this man to the core.
2) My son is sublime and innocent in all this.
3) We can't afford to get divorced.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Wrong side of proverbial bed.
When I came to in DCC (Department of Critical Care), my first thought was "Hell Yeah! I'm alive!". So why does it feel like I'm in hell? Is this motherhood? No career. Brain too mushy to hold talent. My once prized relationship keeps bolting to the toilet, financial security following closely behind. My breasts finally met gravity and then introduced their new friend to my face. I haven't slept properly since morphine. The girl in the photo is buried and the fraction of my former self is starting to feel like the Sisiphys of Greek legend; doomed to push a rock up hill for all eternity after flouting my life.
Clearly I didn't wake up this morning with the positive outlook I intended. Happiness next chance I get?
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Why am I here?
About this time last year, I died. When I found myself undead, I had all the same epiphanies that other undead people report to have had - "life is precious", "make every day count"... But when life goes on...it really goes on.
I should be curing cancer, bunjy jumping, donating my material trappings to the destitute, renewing my vows and hearing an epic score every time I open my eyes in the morning. But when I open my eyes in the morning, I hear a baby cry, a husband snore, the toilet beckon and the silence where the birds should be because it's still too dark to constitute morning yet.
I am not currently on a peace-keeping mission to some war-torn place I don't have time to read about. I'm currently sitting under a tree, shamefully smoking cigarettes, avoiding laundry, waiting for potatoes and my husband and child to get back from walking the dogs. My time is precious and limited. The little I have, I'm wasting bemoaning the fact that I have so little time.
I used to have a career. It was crap, but it was mine. I used to be sexy, dangerous, covered in flawless skin. I used to be able to afford skin cream. I used to bunjy-jump.
My purpose here is DIY therapy, because I don't have time for the real thing. My goal is to find a better life after death than the one I'm living. It may involve honesty, daring, perserverance, humility, compromise and jogging, but it has to be done. And if I can get away with not having to jog, less strenuous suggestions are welcome.
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