Volatile Gas World

Language is a Virus That Comes From Outer Space

2011-03-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

Of all the developmental stages the development of language is one of the most fascinating, I think.

This little person who has been relying on us to pick up his cues now has the ability to direct us to pretty much exactly what he wants. Oliver is undergoing a language explosion currently: I noted last evening between 6 and 8pm he picked up two entirely new words ("pop" as in his grandfather, and "thunder" (thunna) as in the meteorological phenomenon). If I stopped to count he probably has several more every day.

Up to about two weeks ago he was only using single words. For example he would point at Ernie's tail and say either "Long!" or "Tail!", but never the two together. But then at dinner one night we could hear a bird squawking loudly in the back yard (I think it was a cockatoo). "Noisy!" He said

"Yes," I say "It's a noisy bird, isn't it."

-click, whirr, clunk-

"Noisy. Bird. Noisy. Bird"... "Noisy, bird. Noisy, bird."

Now pretty much everything he says has a modifier of some sort- eg "Up bird" was a bird he saw on top of a house, and he loves his "rainboo pants" (a pair of rainbow-striped leggings I bought on impulse). He also comes out with some pretty complete sentences- as in subject object verb. A week or so ago he led (at different occasions) both MrT and I out of the house (holding our fingers) saying "Catch train?". Two nights ago as I zipped up his Grobag he said "Bye bye feet" and then in the morning "Fank- oo bag". "Ope(n) diss" is a command he repeats with alarming regularity (toy boxes, peanut butter jar, pencil boxes).

There are a few words that he uses that I'm pretty sure weren't in his big brother's vocab at a similar age. Things like "MINE!" and "turn" (as in, I want my ~), and "Soww-ee" (Sorry). He also has Ollie-isms, like "Yup" for yes, "No-way!" when a plain old "No" would do. He says Pleas and Fank-oo beautifully, as well as "Oh dear" and "Whoops" like a pro.

And he sings. It's gorgeous:
"Tinkle star, tinkle star
Howwai wonda wa- aa- aar
Appa buvva worl-la eye
La la dii-man dinna sy
Tinkle star, tinkle star"

Tinkle star. From now on, for me, stars tinkle, not twinkle.

OhGODoHGODohGodOHGOD

2011-03-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

Fucking exam is doing my head in.

It's like this:

To be an anaesthesiologist (or an anaesthetist as we say in Aus) the mandatory training consists of

1. Medical School (somewhere between 5 and 7 years depending on where you do your degree)
then as a "qualified doctor"-
2. Internship
3. One year (at least) of residency
4,5. Two years as a Basic Trainee of Anaesthesia
during which you have to pass the "primary exam"
6,7.Then two years as an "advanced trainee"
8. the "final exam"
9. One year as a provisional fellow

and at some point complete a research project (10.)

I'm just about to undertake step 8. If I'm successful, I'll then have to do the fellow year (9) and do some research project (10).

To say I'm not feeling very confident would be a MASSIVE understatement. I have been studying for a long time but a) nothing seems to stay in my head (I have an incontinent intellect that leaks, it would seem) and b) it seems that much of my effort has been a little misguided- instead of studying the topics related to my everyday practice as I was, I should have been doing the old exam papers.

My study group consists of five women from my hospital who are all in approximately the same stage of training as me, but have not taken off huge swathes of time to, you know, have children. Only one other is married (and she is married to an already certified anaesthetist), and she has no children. The others are all in their early 30s and have no commitments apart from themselves and their job. It has been incredibly hard to watch them all improve their knowledge at the rate of knots over the last 3 months whilst I am left behind. At the start I was at least on par with probably all but two- ie in the middle of the group knowledge-wise, but now I'm just so far behind ...

I am seriously considering pulling out. I don't get any of my $4600 back, but I couldn't face the humiliation of being the only one in the group to fail. People keep telling me I have nothing to lose by just sitting anyway, but there is a massive massive blow to the ego and intellect when you fail at something you have tried very hard to do, even though you know you were borderline to begin with. What looks worse? A non-starter or a loser?

I'm also concerned that if I do fail, I will have to spend another 6 months in this type of intensive study where I don't get to see the kids, don't get to do anything else in my spare time but sit here in this fucking room pushing pieces of paper all over my desk and eating myself to an early grave. It is a huge stress on MrT and the boys- it breaks my heart when they come to the door and literally wail "Mummy! Please PLEASE come and play with me! PLEASE!". Patrick is convinced I don't love him anymore because I need to study more than I need to spend time with him. Friday has been our day together, but I haven't been able to do it because of this stupid thing, and it is killing me.

So, please. On Friday the 25th March and Saturday the 26th would you all send some smart thoughts my way, or pray for me, or whatever you feel. Because I need all the help I can get to get my life (such as it was) back.

Not so much news as just wasting time at the computer

2011-03-08T21:24:00.000-08:00

Well I checked and Mum and Dad flew up with about 2 hours' notice. God bless them. THEY care about their grandsons.

I think my M-I-L is still pissed off at me for blowing up at her over Christmas, and I can't say I really blame her for being annoyed at me. But don't do it at your grandchildren's expense, lady. I'm not going to let you play that game. If she comes here and totally ignores me I couldn't be happier, really. But don't give me the "I can't see my grandsons because my D-I-L is a bitch" crap. Grow some balls. (Or ovaries. Something.). Build a bridge, get over it. I don't really care, but don't let ME be the excuse for never seeing them when it is your own laziness, bee-yatch.

More NSF...FB

2011-02-18T13:40:00.000-08:00

I am just speechless that Patrick's birthday is so inconsequential to his grandmother she can't be bothered coming to his birthday party.

OK, I'll admit, it IS a two hour drive each way. Or a two hour sit on the train.

But, seriously. When she normally lives six hours away, and is housesitting two hours away, with NOTHING better to do all day, she won't make the effort?

And we could really use a hand. Really. My grown up friends are all out of town at the moment, so it will be just me and MrT, and 18 sugar-crazed kids.

Patrick will be really disappointed. Really REALLY disappointed.

I get so annoyed because she's always griping about how she never gets to see him, how we won't come and visit them (did I mention its a 6 hour drive? with two small children?) but being retired she is just too busy with her USELESS INCONSEQUENTIAL LIFE to return the favour. Any time she likes. And she wanted US to go to sydney for Patrick's birthday so she could see him. Never mind his 17 excited friends who want to come to his party. Or the fact that Patrick wants to have a party for his birthday. No, he can come HERE and see ME.

And I won't even START on Patrick's single, child-free aunt who lives not two suburbs away from where said grandmother is housesitting, who is again too busy to help her mother come visit said grandchild, or give her big brother a hand with the party. Too busy 'cos she's got beach-going to do.

I am about to log off and check air fares from Hobart to see if my mum can fly up for the weekend. I'm so FUCKING SICK AND TIRED of my in-laws attitude. Whingeing and moaning about what we won't do for them, but too busy the one time of the year we could do with help. They are so self-centred. I've said to MrT before that it seems like a great family to be IN, but not a great family to be out of. Well, now it seems that the grandchildren are also too inconsequential to be included.

FUCK THEM. Fuck them all. Next time I get a request for a prescription (which I normally send express post) I'm going to tell them I'm too busy.

Be kind to nerds

2011-02-06T16:56:00.000-08:00

To say that I didn't really enjoy my high school very much is a little bit of an understatement. Most of the time I felt very alone, very much an outsider. It would be wrong of me to say I didn't have any friends, because I did- the other girls who didn't fit in. I'd love to think that made us a little band of renegades, but it didn't. In fact, my two friends barely tolerated each other, as they only really had me in common. It was one of those 'lowest common denominator' Catholic schools, which my parents decided as a relatively new co-ed school was the best option in my town. My Dad, in particular, didn't think the school could do any wrong. I understand that -now- as Dad had been in the first intake of a new school in Melbourne where he grew up, and that school now is certainly fairly prestigious. Sadly, for my school, I don't think 'Prestige' is a word that will ever be tagged to it.

Both of my friends decided to leave after year 10- Renee to go to a state HSC college and then to Uni where she studied pure maths and the sciences, going on to score herself a PhD, and Susan to go to TAFE (not their real names). Susan in particular was let down by my high school: she went on, after a hiatus of working in low paid jobs, to score herself an Honours Degree in Fine Arts. In fact, she managed to sell one of her paintings to the dean of the arts school- not a small achievement. However, at our high school was in the ultra-low achiever class, and was forced to take the "life skills" type courses offered to the 'integrated' students. As her later achievements show, she is NOT at ALL of borderline intellect, as our school had her pegged.

By that time I had decided on a career in Medicine. Ironically it was one of the teachers at that school who had spurred me to it: I had dreams of becoming a Veterinarian, but he berated me for wasting my intellect on animals instead of helping the human race. He was an odd sort of fellow- a Maths teacher with a penchant for being 'matey' with the popular students. In fact he once threw a party to which all the cool kids were invited, and it went down as being the most legendary party of our high school life. Needless to say I wasn't invited. He didn't like me, and the feeling was mutual. In his maths class he would ignore and then ridicule me. I was also in an english class he taught, and although I scored very well, I was never asked to do any of the things the cool kids were- like acting out scenes from the books. Maybe he thought I didn't need any help with my work, so he ignored me. I remember him being very taken with the film "Dead Poets Society" and he wanted to emulate Robin Williams' character. Instead he came over as an overbearing suckhole. But being a good girl, a studious student, I put up with his berating, and believed it must mean I was rather dull when he berated me. In retrospect, maybe he had been jealous of my obvious ambition. Maybe I reminded him of the smart kids at his school who had belittled him. In any case, he was responsible for my ambition to study medicine, and I suppose I have to be kinda grateful for that, although I always wonder what my life would have turned out like if I had gone to Melbourne to do Vet Science. In an alternate universe, how would've I turned out? Hmmm, guess I'll never know.

Where was I going with this? Oh, now I remember.

All this serves to make a fair number of my "friends" on facebook rather risible. Most of the time they are 'friends' who have requested my friendship, rather than the other way around. Certainly there are a few 'friend requests' that I have ignored with pleasure- people who would never have acknowledged my prescence other than to tease or bully me. A few have admitted in later years they would have liked to be my friend at school, but that I didn't ever seem interested. Others said that they were intimidated by me, as I was never backward in speaking my mind in class, or offering an opinion. I guess that goes some of the way to explaining why I was often elected to the SRC, as all the other members just seemed to be elected because they were popular kids.

The school I changed to in my years 11 and 12 (the old Tasmanian HSC was two, rather than one year- a bloody good idea, I thought, because if you fucked around in year 11 you had another year to pull it together and hopefully matriculate). My new school could hardly be more different. I was instantly popular. A few girls remembered me from Primary school (I've earlier blogged about my prosopagnosia), and within only a year of being there, I was elected to Prefect. In fact, the popular rumour was that I was elected head prefect, but the teachers utilised their power of veto as I'd only attended the school one year, and thus didn't really know all the traditions. In any case, I really enjoyed my two years there, and if people ever ask me which school I attended in Hobart, I will nominate this as 'my' school, as it was the one I both chose and felt most at home in, despite having attended the other one for 6 years (including 2 years of primary school).

Where I was really going with this is to say that I often wonder which of the people I now work with would have been the few that were my friends in High School, and which ones would not have given me the time of day. And now, whose kids is Patrick making friends with? Sometimes when we're at a party, or even the park, I'll strike up a conversation with another mother, and it becomes clear to me that the woman I'm talking to has never felt lonely or shy. Has never walked into a classroom and found only one desk available- the one right at the front or next to the smelly kid. Has never struggled to make friends. Becasue when it comes down to it, I'm still that lonely shy kid who can't figure out why no-one talks to her.

I learned early on in my career that responding to "So what do you do?" with the honest answer "Oh, I'm a Doctor" made for either crickets or a breathy "Ohh, riiight". Followed by more crickets. It's like saying "Oh, I'm a nerd". I don't really understand why people find it so confronting. I'm just a person, after all.

POO

2011-01-31T14:28:00.000-08:00

I'm 'not allowed' to post on FB about this, so I'm going to say it here:

Ollie just did the most amazingly HUGE poo. He has been grunting and straining all morning and just now he burst into tears and started screaming. I took him to the change mat and pulled off his nappy to find just THE most enormous poo. It was easily 4 cm in diameter at its widest point (about 1 and 2/3 inches). It would have hurt MY bum coming out.

He did a similarly sized poo over the weekend, and now I fear he has a fissure again. This is a vicious cycle because the more it hurts, the more he avoids letting it go so the harder and more compacted his poo gets until it is so massive it just has to come out and he tears again. We went through this last Christmas and he ended up not only massively constipated but also with a urinary tract infection.

Poor love will be getting stewed prunes again, plus suppositories and coloxyl. But on the up side he can have as much juice as he can drink!

Logic for 4 year olds

2011-01-30T03:28:00.000-08:00

I'm very impressed by Patrick's growing thought processes. Here's just a few.

1. We have to-day and to-morrow (t'day, t'morrow), so P has invented to-morning and to-now. eg: "No mummy! I don't want to wash my hair t'now!" or "Can we go to the party t'morning?"

2. Using the 'legal system' to his own advantage.
For example, sharing is good. That means that it is good if Oliver shares his toys with Patrick. However, like a certain superpower, if it is good, then it is worth enforcing by might. That is, if Oliver won't share, Patrick has the right to 'make' him share :"Patrick, did you just snatch that from Oliver?" "He wouldn't share it. He has to share his toys". Or, another example- we bought a toy train (of course) for his friend (James') birthday party. Initially Patrick was loath to part with it. Until he started getting very, very eager to get to the party and give James his present. "That's lovely, Patrick". "Yes". Nods sagely. "James will share his train wiv me".

Rules are rules, and non-compliance is not tolerated. "Ollie is being very naughty. Naughty boys don't get cupcakes", "Yes, that is true". "If Ollie is naughty, I will have to eat his cupcake FOR him".

3. Punishment doesn't prevent crime.
We have a 'time-out' chair. When Patrick has crossed the line and ignored the warnings, he goes there for 3 minutes. A few weeks ago whilst we were eating dinner, Ernie was sitting on the chair. Patrick was eating some tofu and then opening his mouth and putting his tongue out to show off the mushed up food. I told him if he did that revolting thing one more time, he would have time out. He considered this for about ten seconds. [I could hear the cogs turning over in his mind]. He then got down from the table, lifted Ernie off the naughty chair and marched over to me. I told him I could tell what he was thinking. He looked disappointed that he didn't get to try and gross me out again.

Talking to kids about death

2011-01-24T15:44:00.001-08:00

We had to talk Patrick through first meg and then Bert's deaths- our two cats who died within a few short months of each other. We were just honest and talked about how sometimes animals and people don't get better when they go to the doctor if they are very sick, and sometimes they die. They say not to use euphemisms like "gone away" or "sleeping" because that confuses them, and they get worried if an adult is 'sleeping' or 'gone away'. We reassured him that when people or animals are dead they don't feel pain or hurt, that they don't need to be fed or breathe. We also told him that it is OK to be sad when people or animals die. We let him visit first Meg then Bert when they were in hospital. Then when they had died we showed him the body and that they weren't moving. The vet gave us a lovely plain calico bag "shroud" for Meg (she was in a cornstarch degradable bag as well) and we drew some pictures on it and wrote her name and some things that we loved about her on it and tied it with a flowery ribbon before we buried her. Bert died at home so we didn't have the 'shroud' but we put some special things in his grave too (his collar, some flowers). Patrick seemed to cope with it pretty well. He asked questions and we answered them as honestly as we could. We didn't discuss heaven or God or any religious concepts because we're not believers, but he seemed pretty happy with that anyway. Occasionally he will bring things up about Meg or Bert and we'll answer as best we can. Occasionally he'll tell complete strangers that "Meg died, she's in our garden" - and before the stranger runs away to call the police we have to reassure them it's a cat not a great aunt! Finally we bought "Goodbye Mog" and read that to him.

Occasionally I'll come home sad from work because of someone that I had cared for died. Patrick gets an honest answer ifd he asks why I'm sad. He understands now that very old people and very sick people die, and it is no-one's fault. He also understands that people die because of accidents. He sometimes worries that Ernie (our remaining cat- yes, Ernie and Bert were brothers/littermates) will get run over and die, or that Grandma or Grandpop might die (they are inestimably old in his opinion!) but we reassure him that neither are they sick nor very old. I think this is part of the normal figuring out process that kids have to fit the concept of 'death' into their expanding understanding of the world and life. I'm glad in a way that it was a pet that died rather than a person, so that it is easier and gentler for him to learn about death this way.

In short- be open, be honest and reassure them that what they are feeling is normal. Watch the episode of Sesame Street where Mr Hooper dies and Big Bird reacts. It's perfect.

What I can't post on FB but really want to

2011-01-19T13:19:00.000-08:00

Dear W,

Your aggressiveness suggests to me that you really are quite insecure. You don't need to prove anything to us: we already know you are super-smart. If I ask you a question I am not trying to trick you or question the truth of your answer, I'd just really like to know what the answer to my question is, because, invariably, you know heaps more than the rest of us!

You remind me a little of my friend Blondie- except that Blondie has the humility to take the piss from herself often. Blondie has been my friend for a long time and will remain so because she has the courage to acknowledge that she can be annoying and know-it-all, and makes up for it in her generosity and good humour.

To mis-quote Oscar Wilde: I may take more than one attempt to pass this exam. But at least I will pass it. You, on the other hand, will remain an arse unless you make an effort to change.

DEAR GOD MAKE IT STOP!

2010-11-21T21:58:00.000-08:00

Oh HOLY CRAPEROOONY!

It is a developmental stage, right up there with skipping and telling fanciful stories. The "Why?" phase.

"But why mum? Why? Why?"

I'm going to boil my head in a minute if you don't stop asking me 'why'...!

"WHY?"

Consider yourselves warned

Filmic versions of my life

2010-11-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the having to kink your neck like that.

The first is the reason I have so much trouble studying: in wanders baby, points to Orgasmatron, has very cute and reproducible reaction to same. It looks like I'm torturing him, but he was laughing his head off, and his little leggies were curling up with pleasure.

Secondly, here is a scene from the front of our house, with Ollie looking like a subcontractor in shorts and sandals and his little mower. I love that the brand of the mower was "Super Cutter"- sounds like an Emo superhero...

So very much to do, so little time

2010-11-07T16:00:00.000-08:00

So yesterday was my birthday, and whilst being a grownup and you know that birthdays come and birthdays go, this one was a little more than the ordinary for me.

This is my last year of my thirties. Yesterday I thought back to when I was 29, and it was all so, so very long ago. So much has happened. Ten years ago I was still a surgical trainee, unmarried (although I was dating MrT) and had just bought my first house. I was planning to take a year off to study for my surgery exams, and I felt the world was my oyster, and in truth, it pretty much was. I was young, wealthy, and about 30kg lighter.

I would never have imagined my life now, and if I think back another ten years before that, to 1990, I would never have imagined my life as it was in 2000. So now, to try and imagine my life in 10 years time, I know that I will be wayyyy off the mark.

It is also sobering to think that When I was 19, I wasn't exactly content with my life. I was always looking forward to the next thing, the next chapter, the future. At 29 I couldn't wait 'til the next year, to be taking that break from work, to be moving in to my new house. And now? At 39, I can't wait for the exam to be over, to start my Fellowship (the final year of my specialist training, in which we are treated as independant practitioners but still with the backup of being able to say "this is way past me, I need help"). But now I want life to slow down as well.

It is such a cliche to say that children grow up so fast. I am daily amazed by the things my boys do and say. I want to put them in a bubble and never have them change, but also am so excited by their changing little personas I want to see what will happen next. I know when I stare at Ollie it seems that I will never be able to forget what his chubby little face looks like, but at the same time I can't remember what paddo looked like at that age. There are moments of every day that you want to last forever- smiles, hugs, tickles, sleepy heads nestling into your shoulder- but you know are fleeting.

Patrick's imagination is just bubbling over at the moment. He invents stories, he makes up songs ("Planes and trains and monorails, trains and planes and monorails, they all go froo the gate but not the monorail" *shakes head*) and the cities and scenarios he enacts with his trainset are getting so complex as to be almost incomprehensible ("No! not over there, mummy, that's the hospital! Put it here, that's next to the supermarket"). He reports his dreams to me each morning, and they are just mind-boggling "I was in a frog's tummy, and it was funny. There were bees in there and then I came out and there was a rainbow, a small one"; "There was the moon and it was really big, but there was a puzzle piece missing from the moon and I had to find it".

Ollie is finding a new word every day, it seems. They are sometimes unexpected, but always funny. He has little conversations with me in bed each morning (he still gets a morning feed in bed with me unless I am working) where he sits on my chest or MrT's pillow and says "Awll ee awlll oo blipbillah, awlawlawl borble awlawlawlawl hoowah blobblob spider awlawl hooblob wollwoll mama" complete with gesticulations and seemingly appropriate facial expressions (generally dead serious, but sometimes a nod or shake of his head). I have absolutely no idea what he is saying, but he can keep it up for ten minutes or more, so long as I respond with something ("I see, is that the case? And what happened next?"). It obviously means something to him.

Patrick's drawings have become representational, too. His favourite themes are trains, cars and rainbows. He has also drawn me some recognisable cats, which are the very cuteness- I cut them out and have them stuck in my wallet to look at when I'm feeling low.

Oliver, however, is just scribbling. All over the walls. We have given up trying to stop him and just gone with simple harm minimisation by letting him only use pencils which wash off easily. But still, it's that stage of "I can make a mark. I can do something tangible to my world."

Which makes it all the much more precious.

I don't really know how to segue this; how to appropriately join this to my next statement, but I'm sure you'll get where I am going with it.

Recently there has been an influx of crap things happening at work. I know we daily deal with people's illnesses and lives, but every now and then there are a few things that just bring them home: the unexpected, tragic death of a toddler, the sudden death one of our ICU colleagues who was the partner of one of our anaesthetic colleagues, and finally one of my fellow trainees struck down with a serious illness with, in all reality, a really crap prognosis.

Basically, I have to stop. Waiting for the next. Waiting for it to all come good and realise that this is as good as it gets, this is life. After 39 years, I need to face the fact that whatever comes next may be worse than what happens now, or it might even be better, but that doesn't change the fact that I have to stop worrying about tomorrow and live for the now.

And if you have found a way to do that, please tell me, 'cos after 39 years, I still haven't a clue.
Now here are some pictures of how my life is pretty wonderful just the way it is...

Harm minimisation

plum tuckered out

"It's a city, with a big, tall waterslide"

One of the kangaroos that occasionally hops down our street*

and its mum

The dress I made for my neice who is just a few months older than Patrick. Which is handy because I can put it on him to see if it would fit her...

"I'm a beautiful butterfly!" (referring to the big bow on the back as his "wings")I was worried it wasn't very fashionable until MrT commented that it looked like something Sarah Blasko might wear. Thanks, T!

Taken an hour ago. They were watching a bee together, fascinated. (Note Patrick's purple sparkly sneakers)

*Not. The usual joke we play on foreigners, especiall from Northern America. Ok, yanks. Possums, cockatoos and other parrots, fruit bats would frequent most suburbs, but not roos.

Should I have kids while doing my residency?

2010-09-21T17:54:00.000-07:00

It's a stupid, clunky title, but I'm hoping that maybe someone will google it and this post will come up.

Bottom line: if you have family close by who can support you, then yes. But it will still be hard work.

If your parents and your partner's parents live more than a half hour drive away, then no.

If your partner does not work, then yes. If you are independantly wealthy, then yes.

Note I haven't mentioned friends. Your child-free friends will probably be thrilled that you are having a baby, and they'll offer to babysit "any time you want". Now, I love my child-free friends, but they really, seriously, have no idea. The first time you call in that favour they'll line you up for something next week. And after your hour away from your infant they'll profess to have loved it, but will alwyas be busy the next time you ask. Except for the occasional blue moon. And then you'll spend the next three hours cleaning up the laundry, towels, blankets, toys and mess they've been happy to let your toddler spread around.

People who don't have small children wonder why I find it so hard to study. Let me give you an example.

Just this morning, my boys were playing in the back yard. I had extracted all my ingrown hairs and split all the ends I could see, and then had the bright idea to bring some journal articles out to read while they boys played. The first three minutes were fine. But then Oliver noticed my highlighter pen, and grabbed it from me. He then proceeded to draw randomly all over the article I was reading. Seeking to harm minimise, I went and got some drawing paper and pencils. By the time I reappeared there was blue highlighter all over ollie's face and clothes. No biggie, I'll wash it off later. I put the paper and pencils in front of him and attempted to retrieve my article and highlighter. I got the article back, but not the highlighter. He was eating that. No biggie, blue poo. He drew happily on the paper for oh, about 30 seconds before we were joined by Patrick.

"Hello, Mummy, what are you doing?"

"Well, I'm trying to read all about people with broken necks" (how this kid will ever grow up sane is beyond me)

He then snatches Ollie's pencil from him, and begins to draw. Ollie cries.

"Look, mummy! It's a rainbow train!"

"That's lovely darling, but can you give Oliver's pencil back"

"No it's mine. He can have this one" (hand Oliver a blunt white pencil. Why do they always insist on putting white pencils in packets of pencils for kids?)

Oliver cries. He makes a lunge for Patrick's pencil (which, of course was originally his) "Mine! Mine!!" (it's such a sibling word)

"No Oll-eeee!"

"Patrick, let him have the pencil. Look! Here's a green one!" (green and orange are P's favourite colours)

"No but I want that wuuuuuuuun" (opens and closes his hand in pincer fashion in front of Oliver)

"Look Oliver, a butterfly!" (try to quick change the pencil he's holding)

Oliver cries. Patrick demands milk in a cup. I return to find Oliver has drawn all over Patrick's rainbow. My journal article has been pulled apart. I retrieve my pile of articles to find Oliver pulling the cup out of Patrick's hand and the milk spills all over the pair of them, and the pencils, which will forever smell of sour milk.

Study done: 3 minutes. Time used to clean up both children and mess, and emotional energy drained by pacifying unhappiness caused by spilt milk- oh, why bother.

It will, I have to keep reminding myself, all be worth it some day.

Is it better or worse if the stuff I am coughing up is from my nose or my lungs?

2010-08-17T01:00:00.000-07:00

Ok so I'm having a sick day. Pretty rare for a doctor, I know.

The good thing is I've been able to cross off a few things on the 'to do' list like emailing Nerine and getting our flights to Fiji put on our frequent flyer numbers. Oh yes, didn't I tell you? We went to Fiji a few weeks back. I'll get around to posting some photos... in another lifetime, maybe.

Enny hoo...

When Ollie was about 4 months old, they changed the packaging on my favourite brand of boob pads. Gone was the friendly smiling woman I felt like I'd come to know, as we gazed at each other at all hours of the morning, me in my bed, she on the bedside cabinet. She looks like a woman you could have a yack with. Sure she's a model, but she's got a nice, open face. And a kind of "Oh, Honey- breastfeeding? Man that gave me the shits" look on her face. And I loved the half-assed slogany thing "They Work Beautifully". Like "In the marketing division of Rite-Aid we have absolutely NO IDEA what a nursing pad is, and we really don't want to know either". I suppose "Engorged Boozies Love our Cushies" is a bit out there, really.

But now, this woman.
Can't relate to her at all. First of all, she's asleep. What? You have a baby! You've got no time for sleep!

Secondly- her long, wavy, blondy hair. Who has time to look that good? Meh. Do Not Like.

Finally the soft glowy focus. Maybe it's the dawn light softly stealing up on her as she finally falls asleep only to be woken by the harsh sunlight coming in through the blinds and an overactive 3 year old running in "MuMMY! Rubbish Trucks! RUBBISH TRUUUCKS!!"

Rite-Aid: I'm ready and willing. Anytime you want. Here's my practised 'harried mother' look bound to earn sympathy and purchases:

And, oh Buggerit. A gratuitous shot taken in Fiji of the beach we played on every day. Just to evaporate any lingering shred of pity you had felt for me.

I need new frames (On with the fluff)

2010-08-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

Well, actually I don't. I have these perfectly lovely frames in purple and black. A native mandarin speaker at work told me they mean "prosperity" or "Good fortune".

But i was disappointed in the lack of range of frames in shops these days, so I went hunting for vintage. Specifically cat-eye vintage from the 50s and 60s. I have checked with my opticians and they are happy to fit lenses to my vintage frames.

Now I just need to decide.

Here are the choices:

Of course I have no way of knowing which of these, if any, will suit me. I'd just love to have a pair.

Comments?

And then there were ... four, again.

2010-08-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

I have a long post rattling around in my head about all the crap that has been happening to me lately, just as I have a post rattling around in there about families and the beauty, universality and frailty of the human being. I'd love to one day actually sit down and write them, but my available time to myself is vanishingly small. So it's going to be quick, and not very well written, but I still want to be able to get it out: this blog is as much for me recording my life as it is for other people to read, if they wish.

Well, that's a sufficiently clunky intro.

Basically my most recent work assessment was well below par for my training purposes, and well below my own usual ratings. The person who wrote it accused me of lacking commitment to my training, including because I won't come in on my days off to complete training that (in my opinion) ought to be available to me in-hours, and is available in-hours to other trainees who work full-time.

I was gob-smacked. But instead of standing up for myself and giving a well-reasoned, professional response with reference to the organisation's purported 'family-friendly' work practices and the college's guidelines, I burst into tears. In the middle of an operating theatre. Because I am chronically sleep deprived. And to be honest, because, in part, my supervisor is right. Unlike other trainees, work is not my number one priority. Shock. Horror.

For all its posturing, we do not live in a post-feminist world. I truly believe that much of the backlash against (oh be still my beating heart) Prime Minister Julia Gillard (even if her fruit bowl is empty) is because her supposed "backstabbing" of former PM KRudd was "bitchy" rather than 'manly and decisive'. And I believe that we may have a conservative, sexist PM who may well rescind the legislation permitting RU486 (despite public opinion being overwhelmingly supportive of accessible termination of pregnancy) simply because this country is not ready for a female PM. Goddamit. (It's not the first time I've seriously considered moving to NZ because I hate what this country's become).

And so it is with medicine. The bottom line is that we now have employment policies that make it illegal on paper to discriminate against women because of their gender, but have yet to come up with policy solutions that deal with the reality that the role in parenting is different for men and women, purely because of the differences in the makeup of our biology. Oh, and the fact that if we want to reproduce, that puts a huge hole in the time when we are supposed to be surging ahead in our careers. (Like me. Like right now.) because we don't have endless fertility unlike our male colleagues and partners.

Rulings in the courts acknowledge that women should be given flexibility in their work places until their children are at school age. However, the practical application of this in the workplace is years behind. YEARS. Maybe decades.

I'm angry that in 2010, I have to make the decision whether or not we have a third child is based not on- "could we cope? Could we afford it?" but "can I afford the time off" when this is not a decision my male colleagues have to make. I would be willing to bet that the proportion of male registrars finishing their anaesthetic training who are married with children is reasonably similar to an age- and education- matched cohort, but for women? I can only think of one previous female registrar who has finished this job after having kids. One. One. In a department that prided itself on how equal the trainee intake was. I know there are a number of recent trainees who have delayed having children only to find themselves infertile. And possibly bitter.

Much as I'd like to kick against the pricks and finish my training whilst being a good mother, I'm just going to have to... (deep breath)... be a bitch for the next 12 months. What will I miss? It's only 12 months after all? Oh, only Patrick's last year before school, and Ollie's most cerebrally formative year...

Before we married, MrT and I decided on "more than one, less than four" children. But I've always wanted three. (And, yes, being honest, I would dearly love that child to be a girl. To train to become mummy's little feminist, and to make funky skirts for. But I wouldn't, really wouldn't not love three boys. Brothers! A little band of brothers!!). But this looks increasingly unlikely. I'll be 39 at the end of this year, and we're not getting any younger. Ollie still doesn't sleep well, and neither does Patrick. And this year I've had my own health problems- an irregular heart beat (actually probably due to chronic sleep deprivation. No, really. Seriously.) and a retinal haemorrhage (sounds worse than it is. "just one of those things" according to my opthalmologist (who is my age with a girl Patrick's age. Who works part time. Hmmm... no, I'd go MAD looking at eyes all day: all that death breath to contend with). So, it's probably not going to happen anyway.

But these are the reasons I should not have another child. NOT because it is inconvenient to my training. I shouldn't even have to factor my job into my decision making. Because a man wouldn't.

IT'S NOT FAIR IT'S NOT FAIR IT'S NOT FAIR!!

(stamp! my little feet!! stamp stamp stamp!!)

I have almost come to terms with that conclusion. And I can almost see a future with it.

Well, actually, I should say I had. Because last week... Oh God.

Over the last two weeks, we were on holiday. I had packed some "feminine hygiene products" because I was expecting AF. But when I looked in my diary, I discovered I had actually expected AF the week before our holiday.

Wtf? I'm never late. Never.

Oh. My. God. Nausea- check. Appalling tiredness- check. Peeing all the time (actually took antibiotics because I thought I had cystitis)- check. Feeling like my brain was made of cotton wool- check. Milk supply dwindling (yes, I'm still feeding Ollie)- check.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. This cannot be happening.

But then: cramps. Pain. Spotting. Holy mother of God. That other thing. It's happening. Again.

G7P2. I'd even begun thinking of names. The holy improbability, and then the holy despair. And sadness. What did I do wrong? Was it the air travel? The one Pina Colada? The stress of the workplace thing? The looming possibility of growing up in a country overlorded by the Mad Monk?

Of course I know it was none of those things. But when I look at my sleeping Oliver, my dear, sweet baby who only a few short weeks ago I told my supervisor was the worst mistake I ever made (in terms of my training), the baby who shouldn't be, and I miss the third who may have fucked up my career entiely, but made me whole.

Farewell my furry friend.

2010-07-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

Patrick and Oliver's poor, neglected "elder sister" died today. She had an operation on her tummy to find out what the lump was that probably had something to do with her not eating much for the last week. It was cancer. She woke up after the operation, but died a few hours later.

I remember seeing somewhere about how a cat is like the soul of a house, and I think, for the good cats I have known, it is true. Because right now, at 0045 am I am sitting on the couch alone. With no nice warm friend to wrap herself into my lap and purr and purr and purr to welcome me home. I will miss her fuzzy head bumping gently against me, trying to distract me from studying by imploring me to pat her.

Thank you, Meg, for all the love. We will miss you.

2010-06-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

There should be a law against this site

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Now I know what i'm going to spend ALL next month's mortgage on. Oh to be a fool with a credit card...

Although we already have these lights in Patrick's room:

playing in the rain

2010-05-31T22:53:00.000-07:00

Patrick and I went out in a heavy downpour and had fun pretending to do all sorts of things. P picked up one of these leaves which I had pruned from outside Ollie's window and declared it an 'umbrella'. so we ran around with these on our heads for about half an hour before we both got so silly and muddy we had to come inside...

Tears for this lonely story

2010-05-29T17:39:00.000-07:00

There was once a woman who first felt the flicker of your life...

Who held that child, bursting with life and possibility, swelling with vitality, a flame
inside her

Who named you. Who either thrilled to your presence or cried and died with the heaviness of responsibility and her own life altered, cut off or ripped from her

Who wondered what had become of you- who felt the empty carapace of her body once you had been stolen, or lost

Or who struggled to nurture the child to health and knowledge, thrilled to your triumphs and cried to herself with your failures

We, mothers, know this heaviness. For all mothers know this mass. For as surely as you now walk alone, once you were as inseparable from us as part of our own being- and neither could live with the other torn from them.

Because this burden we each know, we are responsible for all the children of every mother. Because if we do not repect the life that has been borne by another mother, then we forget our own that we have ourselves borne.

BRAAAAAINS... BRAAAAAAAAAAAINS

2010-05-04T18:42:00.000-07:00

Zombies.

I am obsessed with them.

Mostly because of this but also because one day on the pain round, the nurse who was with me that day suggested we play "zombie apocolypse plan" where you each have to come up with a survival plan and critique the other's to keep the boredom of the pain round away (she was way ahead of me. Waaaaay ahead.).

And then on Monday while I was at the public library borrowing all the kids stories on CDs they had (Patrick has discovered we can make up stories and requests them continually) I spotted this book and couldn't put it down.

But. The annoying scientist in me keeps insisting that zombies can't exist because of the need to keep our ATP-dependant Na+/K+ pumps going. And even if a zombie virus somehow made that process anaerobic, what about muscle excitation/contraction coupling?

Sigh.

Buh-bul

2010-04-18T19:27:00.000-07:00

There's something very therapeutic about sitting on the back steps on a clear autumn morning blowing bubbles. Watching the light make iridescent rainbows dancing over the lawn and up, over the fence and away...

If you're feeling mellow, you can just dip and blow, dip and blow.

Then, there's the quest for the perfectly uniform stream of smaller bubbles, or slowly blowing one enormous bubble.

The baby is entranced, and the three year old runs around, squealing, trying to pop as many as he can.

When you catch a glimpse of your two beautiful offspring surrounded by a cloud of shimmering, dancing balls in the morning light, you get that fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated bliss that you wish you could bottle and take with you to open and sniff when you are feeling low.

Hang the free nappies and bottom cream: they should hand out a bottle of bubble mixture to every new parent.

Boys -> Men

2010-04-03T20:10:00.000-07:00

Well, not quite men. But they are growing at an alarmingly fast rate.

Oliver is trying very hard to walk. He toddles when you hold his hands, and is getting to cruise the furniture. Won't be long before he's toddling unaided. He'll be one in two weeks' time... already. He is pointing at everything, mostly trees and trucks, but also at whatever he is interested in (which is helpful). He says four distinct words: Mama (works for either parent), Yumyum (food) and Gat (cat) and 'no' (mostly as nonononono). His hair has distinct curls: at the back of his head there is on that sticks out like a cocky's crest, one on the top of his head that looks like a 'baby' cartoon, and inexplicably, one over his left, but not right ear, which just makes him look lopsided. Patrick loves to point at his head and tells us "His hair goes round and round like a washing machine". God love him, he's using similies.

Patrick's imagination is going crazy. The trains all converse with each other, every toy has a story to tell, and he invents excuses for things. The downside is that he has become scared of the dark, specifically shadows. For some reason "Shadow" from the Bear in the Big Blue House scares the bejesus out of him. He sees monsters in all sorts of things- like a portable air conditioner we bought for his room. He is toilet trained (full stop). Very occasionally he will try and hang on just a little too long and has an accident, essentially as he is trying to get his pants off. The only problem now is trying to get him to put his pants back on: the star chart is now repurposed for this. It's getting very full: we haven't promised anything at the completion of it, but I'm sure we'll think of something. He is learning how to use the computer, and can use the touchpad well (the mouse is too big for his hands) to open "his" games and videos. Sign of the times I guess. Best of all, sometimes he will spontaneously tell us he loves us. It is just the best thing in the world.

I'm really getting back into the swing of study: I'm trying to do three hours a day on most days of the week. I'm not sure if that will be enough, but as the exam is now under a year away, I have to really get down to it. If it's a non-daycare day I've given up trying to study at home, and just go in to work. It's frustrating, because I have to cope without all my usual resources (notes, cards, my own textbooks) but at least I get stuff done. MrT is working more and more: somehow I forgot to post that he has quit his specialist training and is now working as a locum at a private hospital ICU. It's not a position that offers much career advancement, but the pay is severely lucrative, so he only has to do two shifts a week to make almost as much as he was making fulltime in his training post. He is officially trying to figure out what to do next, but I know him too well, and I know he's just enjoying the time off, working in the garden, and being a daddy. In addition, It would really suck to have both of us studying whilst trying to look after the boys, so he'll put off any decisions until after my training is finished (end of 2012 if all goes well).

I'm loving seeing you all on facebook. Thanks for letting me into your lives!

I'm sure there's a PhD in this. If not one already

2010-03-25T21:53:00.000-07:00

Chasings
This sport is for groups of at least three children. The rules appear to be genetic.

To start: one person runs around the play area. A clockwise or anticlockwise direction is acceptable, so long as most players run in the same direction. The coriolis effect may apply in Northern and Southern hemispheres.

At least one other player runs behind them.

The first player squeals

Everyone runs.

Everyone squeals.

Occasionally one player will catch any other player. Those players will stop, look confused and then start running again. And squealing.

At least one player must have an unusually high and piercing squeal. Contrary to popular opinion, this player does not have to be a female.

Why two is more FUN

2010-03-07T20:26:00.000-08:00

Two children is way harder. There's never a ~~minutes' respite~~ ~~pause for sanity~~ ~~tidy house~~ ~~moment to yourself~~ dull moment. I have some video proof., but unfortunately Patrick has no pants on in most of them, and I don't want to ruin my career by posting videos that feature nudie kiddies, no matter how tame, on the interwebs. And it turns out my phone video of Ollie splashing his heart out in the bath is a file type unsupported by blogger. Great. This was going to be an awesome post.

Ordinarily I'd farcebook this story, but it's prolly just a little too much of an illustration of my poor parenting.

I was looking at this awesomely funny site (specifically about this listing) when I heard Ollie making happy splashing noises

In the lounge room.

Huh? how can that be? Turns out he had bumshuffled his way over to Patrick's potty and was happily playing in the wee. Happily covered from head to toe in his brother's urine. (Interestingly enough, Patrick has now added my "OH Nonononononononono nonononono nnnnoononono
nooooooooooooooononononooooo nononono nooo nooooo nonoonononononononnoooooo noooo" to his repertoire of play phrases for when trains collide).

Solution? Put baby bath on the loungeroom floor. Happy splashing washes the baby, and the floor. I am a genius. Yes, thank you. You may venerate me later.

In related news, here is Ollie dressed in the outfit I am making for a friend's little girl who is 8 weeks older than Ollie, including cute bloomers

I am also making some green and white striped leggings and a bodysuit for when it gets colder, so she can still wear the dress as a pinafore.

Finally, kids say the darndest things. Patrick's language skills are going through a bit of a surge at the moment, as well as the development of his reasoning and logic, as well as planning for the future. He is almost (so near, so very near) getting the concept of delayed gratification.

For example, he's been only picking at dinner lately, but we got this the other day:

"Put my dinner in the fridge... the white one... dere (points)"
Me: Why?
"For later"

Me: "Do you know what tomorrow is?" (Thinks, shakes head) "It's your birthday!"
(thinks)
P: "Is it time for sleep (yet)?"

"I don't want (friend) Bianca to come to my party: Bianca will say No! No! No! I don't want Bianca to eat my food at my party."

"I lifted Meggy (cat) up and she went 'Meeeeow'!"

Me: "How about mummy gets her breakfast and then we'll go out to the trampoline?"
P: "Yes, Sir!" (note, not the 'sir yes sir' we expect...)

"I want the other blanket- the fuzzy one" (I know he knows words like 'fuzzy', but I've never heard him use such great adjectives before: generally it's just colours)

And yesterday, after I thanked him for helping me by putting my keys and wallet in my bag (whilst I was strapping Oliver into the pram) as I had asked:
"I'm a really useful engine!"

He has never been a good sleeper, but recently when he doesn't want to go to sleep I've encouraged him to close his eyes and think of things (generally trains or things we've seen or done that day). I know he is doing it because I'll say something like "Can you see a train? A red one?" and he'll reply "No, it's green!".

Right. Time to do some of the other 1000 things I never get time to do.

Ya gotta have faith. I gotta have fayy-aith

2010-02-22T22:54:00.000-08:00

I am avowedly not religious. I live two doors down from a church, I was raised a catholic (albeit in a very liberalist tradition) and chose to attend a Catholic girls' school for the last two years of my high schooling when my mum supported my choice to move to pretty much any school I chose. I had Patrick baptised by my Uncle, who also married us, again in a Catholic church (My Uncle M is the kind of Catholic priest in regular strife with Cardinal Pell, of which I am inordinatley proud). But I'm not religious.

That is to say, I don't follow any particular religious doctrines or teachings. But for someone who discovered atheism at my year 12 retreat (meant to be a time to increase your spirituality), I do a lot of thinking about ... well, God, I suppose. "Source" could be a better word. Part of me just doesn't want to believe that there is nothing other than the physical world that is just the sum of so many atoms and subatomic energies/particles (damn' you quantum physics and Heisenberg for not allowing me to find a more prosaic way of expressing that). Part of me wants to believe.

But religion can be so divisive. I was listening to this on the radio today and I found this one of the most compelling statements of all that Rabbi Brad Hirschfield had to say :

"...September 11th 2001, when I felt the full force of religious fanaticism come storming home to America, and knew as I watched those planes fly into the buildings "Only religion can do that". And I really mean it's religion, it happened to be Islam that day, but I felt it so acutely as religion, because I had been a religious fanatic, and felt the seduction of faith that makes violence ok; not just necessary, but really OK..."

and I thought- he's right- the most, the biggest atrocities are perpetrated because of religion; suicide bombers don't do it for the money or the fame. The so-called 'War on Terror' is the war of one fundamentalism on another, and the belief that only one way can be right. (Brad Hirschfield's book is called You Don't Have to be Wrong for me to be Right: Finding Faith Without Fanaticism, and I want to read it!). And, after all my big long rant about how terrible my mum is, I find that the lovely Erin is subject to the kind of blinding religious fundamentalism that makes me not want to believe in God at all (and I felt so bad for raving about my really, rather normal family after reading her story of what her family did).

I spend much time trying to put together a picture of what I want to believe that isn't just a watered down, new-age, 'pick and choose' version of the catholicism I grew up with. If I have a faith I want it to be the kind I can defend intellectually, and that is probably the reason I have stuck with Catholicism for so long: my experience of religious scholarship was initially all about what I learned at school, tempered by my understanding of things like liberation theology* and my mum introducing me to Shelby Spong's Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism, especially its revelations about the virgin birth (my number one problem with Christianity). If I defend my religious beliefs I want them to be intellectually sound, for the same reason I gave up religion in the first place: St Augustine's proofs always seemed shaky to me.

I get my 'inspiration'- for want of a better word- from all sorts of places: from Regina Spektor singing "No-one laughs at God in a hospital, No-one laughs at God in a war... we're all laughing with God" to my weekly fix of The Spirit of Things, to the Mormons knocking at the door and arguing with them for an hour (and them writing down authors I suggest) about religion vs spirituality. I'm currently (trying to) read The Pagan Christ by Tom Harpur and Jesus for the Non-Religious by John Shelby Spong. That's my kind of thing.

But, yet again, I have no answers. I don't really know what to believe. But I also don't want to be wishy-washy about it; because one thing is for certain- faith takes energy. But if I don't know what to believe, how can I have that faith?

*When I was a prefect at my all-girls Catholic school in year 12, I also studied comparative religion at a university-entrance standard. One day our homeroom teacher, who was also the school principal, was explaining how the money we had raised at our school fete was going to help the nuns of her order in the Phillippines buy back the land of indentured peasants and establish co-ops for them to sell their produce through. I put up my hand and said "So, Sister Anna (not her real name), what we are doing is helping the peasant workers own their means of production?"
"Umm, yes, Jenny, we are"
"Wow, Sister, so if we're helping the workers own the means of production, isn't that like Liberation Theology? Like Socialism, almost?"
"NO! It's nothing like Socialism! What are you talking about?!"
"Well, if the workers own the means of production, isn't that Socialism? I mean, like, by definition?"
"NO! Socialism's nothing like that, we're just helping the peasants not have to sell their produce through a third party. So they can have their own little...."
"Co-operative?"
"Yes, Co-operative. That's what it is. Not ANYTHING like socialism."
But she looked confused for the rest of the lesson. And I looked smug. And everyone else had no idea what thay was all about.

A giant turd of a tale

2010-02-08T13:46:00.000-08:00

Well.

I wrote some of this post a few weeks ago and things have changed a little, but I'll reproduce it in its entirety, then update. I sometimes think the process of putting what I feel down on either paper or electrons is part of the therapeutic process as I often feel better after having written about how crap I'm feeling. I think that putting into words what I'm feeling helps me to see through the issue with a bit more clarity.

Ennyhoo

"Yesterday whilst I was swimming for the first time in several weeks that wasn't f the "come on now let's jump the waves... whee!" variety, I had a good, long think. And it wasn't pretty.

Mothers. Who'd have them?

Since Ollie started solids at 6 months, he has been very very constipated. We have been blessed with a baby that poos at most once or twice a week, and whilst he was exclusively breastfed, that wasn't an issue. But now he's on solids, it is a big problem. He still poos only once or twice a week (normally Thursday, oddly enough- now known as Turd-day) but now his poo is hard. And he has wound up with an anal fissure: a tear in the anal verge. While that is painful enough by itself, once you have a fissure, you hold onto your poo, which only compacts it more, making it harder and harder to pass, so that when your arse is so chock-a-block of poo that it HAS to come out, you have poo the consistency of travertine marble and the size of macadamia nuts. Painful. And only makes the fissure worse.

So what does this have to do with my comment about mothers? I'm getting there.

When we were away for Christmas, Ollie did not sleep well. He was horribly constipated with fissures, despite an exclusive diet of breastmilk, prunes and stewed pears and liberal use of glycerol suppositories. Every time he farted, it hurt. And when you're only 8 months old and have only ever known breastmilk for comfort, that means you wake up your mother every time you fart. Which was, generally, hourly.

Thusly, I was not a happy camperfor the entire time we were away.

My mother - an otherwise kindly, considerate person, would make comments like "You're not the ONLY person ever to be sleep deprived" and "I've brought up four children, you know" and generally being very VERY unsympathetic. (No, she didn't offer to look after him so I could have one good night's sleep). Then there was the bite incident- whilst at lunch for my dad's 70th birthday, my nephew (9) was bitten on the neck by... something. We don't know what it was, but it was obviously painful. At the time, I was sitting next to him but was holding Oliver, so my mother 'came to the rescue' asking for some ice from the waitstaff. She then proceeded to make a point of making fun of my response by saying "Thank god we had a NURSE nearby to look after him" and various othr jibes. Ok, Mum, I get it, you reacted before I did, but, to be honest, I was waiting for an anaphylaxis or at least some good wheezing to do anything. I'm not a GP, a first aid-er- I'm a critical care specialist, and I deal best with life-threatening emergencies: I was estimating his weight by age, calculating a dose in micrograms per kilogram of adrenaline, wondering if anyone nearby had an epipen anyway, and whether epipens have single dose delivery systems or if they can be titrated. And all that. And if he had had a severe reaction, I'm sure my mum would have been the first to panic, because that's what she does. I've seen it.

The whole point is, while I was swimming I was thinking about my relationship with my mum. Generally it is a good relationship, but since Patrick was born it has been troubled. I want my mum to be my mum, and grandma to my boys, not a full-time "what you are doing wrong" instructor. Which it tends to be. I know all daughters have to put up with a bit of 'constructive advice' from their mothers when it comes to child-rearing, but my mum is also a child health nurse, and she sees it as her 'professional duty' (and, yes, she has used those actual words) to dispense unsolicited advice on how I raise my boys. And just because that isn't enough, she loves to play the 'doctor-nurse game': for the uninitiated this is basically a pissing competition between (generally junior) doctors and (generally senior) nurses to see who gets the closest to a diagnosis or correct course of treatment. It involves much passive-aggressiveness on the part of the nurses ('so you want me to do saline dressings? three times a day?'), and just plain aggressiveness on the part of the doctor ('just, please do as I ask!'). It basically involves the nurse thinking (not without justification) they know the best for the patient because they spend more time with them, and the doctor thinking they know the best because they saw a Cochrane review of the subject.

Finally, she loves to throw in the "I've had FOUR children, and I had no help either" and she pulls out this stop when I'm at my lowest ebb.

No wonder I feel like an inadequate mother. Seriously.

Her advice, sadly, is often dated, and poor medicine, with no science behind it. And she gets very, VERY defensive when I try to help update her. For example, she insists that if I eat foods that are laxative, I will pass this on to Ollie in the breastmilk. The problem with this argument is that the reason most laxative foods are laxative, are because they aren't absorbed in the gut, and help water stay in the solid waste and, well, do their thing, so there is NO WAY IN HELL they're going to get to Ollie.

And then what happens is I get sad about the absolute fallibility of my mum: the fact that she is getting old, that she DOES have weaknesses and I feel sad that she is not all that she thinks she is OR that my mum, my wonderful, smart, funny, loving mother (with whom I share no small portion of personality traits) is not the person I think she was. She's also ageing, flawed and mortal. And I feel bad for being mad at her because she is only, really, trying to help in the only way she knows how. Because, after all, I am sure she still looks at me and sees her last baby, not a grown woman with children of her own.

Then I wonder: what will my boys think of me? What will MY legacy be? If I were to be hit by a bit of falling space junk tomorrow, how would Patrick remember me? What would I want him to know about me?

Mixed up in those thoughts is the little bit of sadness about the fact that the relationship that mothers have with their sons is not the same as the one between mothers and their daughters. And the most I can ever hope to be is a mother-in-law. And that's a whole 'nother drama.

Don't get me wrong; I love my little boys to BITS. I'm not at all sad that they are boys and not girls. Yes, to be honest, I was initially hoping for a Sophie and not an Oliver, but now I wouldn't have it any other way, because !brothers! growing up together!- the closer bond they may have tahn brother and sister just fills me with absolute, pure joy. I'm not denigrating the brother-sister bond, either: I have two amazing brothers (as well as a sister) and MrT has two lovely sisters and I relish and celebrate that tie, but there is something about the closeness of doing... stuff... together as young adults of the same gender that just makes me so happy about their shared future.

But.

Whilst I'm in a confessional mood, I'll confess that the Christmas period also got me down about my dad, too. As I said earlier it was his 70th birthday while we were away. A short number of years back, Dad lost a significant amount of weight. For the first time in my memory, Dad was fit and healthy.

He has put most of it back on, and is as unfit as hell. My dad's family and personal history is poor when it comes to cardiovascular morbidity. Bottom line- I don't think Dad will make it to 80.

I know 10 years is a long time, but it's a reminder of your own mortality when you think of your parents not being around. And it's not like Dda is a 'young' 70 either. He is increasingly deaf, lazy, idle and set in his ways. Surrounded by his five grandchildren basically for the first time ever, Dad spent most of his time sitting in a chair, reading to himself. Right next to them. The kids quickly learned to ask any other adult nearby to help them, because Dad would fob them off "Poppy's just having a rest" (was he ever not having a rest?).

But there was something even more alarming I noticed about my dad.

He was having trouble following complex instructions. He has a tendancy to overlook things beyond pure domestic blindness. He gets frustrated very easily. He has very labile emotions (that is, he goes from happy to sad very quickly). Most alarmingly, he confabulates- that is, he unconsciously invents little stories to cover gaps in his knowledge like I've never seen before, in an order above just "Dad fact" -ness. This is not just 'bluffing', but real, fixed false beliefs- he actually believes the little stories he makes up. He often misses important details and then confabulates to cove it up. My Dad's brain is... how to put it? Slowing down? In decline? Not working well? I'm no neurologist, but I know what I'm seeing. And that. Is INCREDIBLY sad.

My Dad has been a brilliant man. He won a scholarship to study Law at melbourne University- the most prestigious law school in Australia. He was the first in his entire genealogy to finish a degree. He had a meteoric rise through the public service in the days when being a catholic in Canberra was a sentence to a mid-level manager's glass ceiling. He was an excellent public speaker and debater. He was instrumental in drafting law that changed this nation. He helped rewrite many of the laws of the state in which we later lived, and was often a maverick in the close, conservative, local legal fraternity. He embraced affirmative action, advanced the causes of minorities, and was forward thinking on a level that belies his conservative upbringing.

So, the decline, whilst gradual, to me is incredibly sad. My sons will never know Grandpop as the funny, lively wit he was, nor the father I remember helping ME jump the waves, or throw me high in the water to splash down in a laughing heap, teaching me to use power tools or mow the lawn, listening to my debating arguments and correcting my use of grammar. If they do have memories of him, most likely it will be of him sitting passively in a chair.

I wish I had a nice way to sum this up, to tie the ends together, to show what I have learned from the exercise. But the reason I'm typing this now is that although I have put it down, it still makes no sense. I can't work through this yet. It is all still too raw.

Skirty

2010-01-27T15:02:00.000-08:00

Check out the wonderful skirt designs on this lovely lady's site! I own two of her skirts, bought at the Salamanca market in ~~Hobbiton~~ Hobart town.

http://nerines.blogspot.com/

she also has an etsy store- nerines.etsy.com

She does made to measure and custom work- so you can pretty much order what you like; as long as she has the fabric she'll do it.

Gorgeous!

PS long, miserab le post coming soon. Because, despite all the exclamation marks here, I'm miserable

I love my netbook

2010-01-24T02:39:00.000-08:00

I LOVE my netbook. I can tuck it into the back section of my handbag that normally contains nappies and take it to work with me. I'm loving being able to look up things relevant to work at my leisure instead of having to share a computer with the Orthopods, the nurses and everyone else. AND most of all I can look at sites that the work firewall bans, like this, because they have video content. (Like, OMG).

It's weird: I actually look forward to night shift because I sleep better during the day than at night because I'm protected from being woken up at home by MrT, so I get maybe 6 hours straight which I never would normally. And I also love being independantly capable of doing stuff. I mean, I love being a mum, but, hell, I love using my brain too.

Life with two

2010-01-04T15:22:00.000-08:00

I haven't ever posted about how it has been with two children, and I realise that is a glaring omission on my part. Strangely enough, I haven't been quite as introspective about it as I was with Patrick- probably because the life-changing-ness of one to two children is not as shattering as the none-to-one change.

I am back on my meds and have seen my lovely shrink again, as I recognised that I was again falling into depressed patterns of thinking (I'm no good, I'm a useless mother, I don't deserve my children, yada yada) but it was nowhere near as severe as my first episode of PND.

But that seems to pretty much sum it up. Yes, life is harder than it was with one child, but not twice as hard.

But then, MrT has been on leave for about 5 months now, so we have had two parents around for most of Ollie's life. I wonder how much of my perception of "this isn't so hard" is because I have had so much more hands-on help. On reflection, maybe that's also why my PND hasn't been as bad this time around. Also, Oliver is such a happy little individual. We have experienced the joys of a baby that went to sleep in his cot without having to be rocked, patted and cajoled for hours on end (maybe just 20 minutes instead) so we have got off pretty lightly as far as that is concerned (a friend of mine has beaten patrick's 6 hour crying jag record: her lovely infant cried from 11am 'til 10pm. And she's not one to exaggerate either. Unsurprisingly she's on a bigger dose of Sertraline than me).

Still, the gap between Patrick and Oliver seems about right. Patrick is big enough to be independantly self-amusing when Oliver needs feeding or changing. He is still small enough that the gap between them wont be enough that they won't play together (except for maybe the 17 and 19's I expect).

Oliver is starting day care next week, which I feel somewhat ambivalent about. On one hand it will be nice for both of us to get back to work, and on my days off I can actually study (instead of dreaming/dreading it). On the other, Ollie's always ben with either of us since he was born save for a few hoursof baby sitter-ing during which he was asleep for the main part. The thought of my dear, sweet baby sitting in a strange environment, crying, and desperately looking around for mummy or daddy just makes me feel very, very sad. However, he is such a happy and sociable lad I'm sure he will adjust quickly.

In case you are wondering, he is now 9 months old (how did THAT happen?), has 6 teeth, can clap his hands and uses a pincer grip. He tries to use a spoon and a sippy cup, but mostly fails. He is neither bum shuffling nor crawling, and with a messy toddler in the place we're not too upset. He sits up vert well, though, and loves to stand up holding onto our hands. He giggles and chuckles and makes "ba baba ba ba" and "da da da da" noises. He loves peekaboo and splashing in the bath. He is still breastfed, although I'm considering quitting, because it is often the only way he will go to sleep. However, I also know that soon, when b/f becomes an optional extra rather than a chore it is quite nice, so I'll persevere. It may also be the last time I ever do it because I have made a deal with myself that I can only have another baby (another one? wtf???) once the final exam is in teh bag. Yes, I am as nutty as squirrel poo.

I'd better go. Ollie wants a sleep and that means I have to get my tits out....

happy happy joy joy

2009-12-21T13:45:00.000-08:00

Happiness is.... mobile broadband! Ok, so I have to sit on the upstairs front verandah and the planets have to be exactly aligned and sometimes the signal drops out but...

Holiday going well. Except my parents decided to drop in about three days earlier than planned (!parents! gatecrashing our holiday! WTF?!). The cousins are mostly playing well together. Oh, and my s-i-l thinks Patrick is fine: she says it's jjust first child-dom.

Merry Festivities all! From here

PS may not get another chance to get out here again until all the shouting is over.

Oh and thanks for the support :)

Pat-RIIIIICK!!!!

2009-12-16T13:23:00.000-08:00

Back in 1994 when we were studying child psych at med school, it all seemed so simple.

Children need firm and consistent discipline. That's the secret to happy, well-adjusted kids.

Simple, right? Right??

Firm I can do. Hell, I've done surgical training, I can be as complete an arsehole as you would ever hope to find.

It's the consistent I have a problem with.

When you're young you imagine when you are grown-up, you will have an innate ability to be 'grown up' and responsible, because, well, that's what happens when you grow up. You get to drive a car, spend the money, and be calm and rational at all times.

Yeah. Not so easy.

I didn't ever consider that I would still be grumpy, moody, tired (make that exhausted), hung-over, rushed, time-pressed, angry, sad or any of the other PMS dwarves when I grew up and had children (mind you, I thought I'd be married to my med school crush and have three children and a career before the millennium was out, too).

So sometimes I'm firm and calm. Other times, I cave in and do things I never thought I would (sugar in a bowl? with a spoon? sure. Now just let me finish updating my logbook and this presentation for work). I worry that Patrick is just a wee bit... bratty.

Right now, when I am supposed to be packing (not blogging, note- i haven't had my coffee aaaand Ollie woke up three times for feeds last night so i had plenty of thinking time and I want to get it down before it evaporates like those other brilliant blog posts that I haven't had timetowriteincludingthatbrilliantoneaboutfamiliesandloveand... and... and...) Patrick is wandering up and down the hallway yelling out "Daaaaddeee, D-AAAAd-eeee, I need more bottle! Need more BOT-TLE!! And I'm awfully, awfully tempted to cave in, just so we can do all we need to do (eh-hem) without too much interruption.

My psych said i could reduce the stress in my life by not sweating the small stuff. That's great, but where does not sweating the small stuff (please put your undies back on, no eating on the couch, no computer before breakfast is over, don't snatch (toys from Ollie) become complete slackness- the couch is a mess, what is a few more stains?

This has come to a head because we are spending Christmas with my brother and sister-in-law in coastal Victoria, and her kids just came out of the womb happy, quiet and scream-free. Seriously. I've been there when she tells my neice (who is all of 11 weeks older than Patrick) not to do something... and she does it. No argument! Oh. My. Godness. I fear I will spend the week being embarrassed by the naughtiness of Patrick and her 3 calm, cool and disciplined kids, and end up feeling worse than ever.

How do you all do it? On a scale of 1-10 for consistency, where do you fall? I'd give myself.... well, maybe a 5.9. Which barely seems like a pass. How consistent do you need to be? 8? 9? 10? (fuggit, no-one's that good, are they? are they?)

Thoughts?

wow. serious insight.

2009-12-14T17:36:00.000-08:00

I'm listening to a podcast covering (amongst other things) legislation around surrogacy, and I just had a flash of insight.

The reason why medicine and law so often conflict is that medicine deals with generalities, and law deals with specifics.

When making a decision on how best to treat an individual, doctors use the experience of the previous treatments to guage how an individual may respond to a given treatment. In the last 20 years, the concept of "evidence Based Medicine" (or EBM- which always makes me think of "expressed breast milk") has become the guiding light as to how to best manage people- using research- based decisions rather than 'what has akways been done' or even what seems to make intuitive sense. The gold standard in medicine is the Meta-analysis of multiple, large, randomised controlled trials, involving hundreds of thousands of patients. How we treat diseases like breast cancer, heart disease, all the big ones, comes from this evidence. Even in anaesthesia this is true: a Cochrane review of how best to alleviate pain in labour was published not so long ago*.

However, in law, when an individual decision has been made by a judge, this then determines how subsequent matters are decided, rather than the average judgement made on similar matters, which would be the legal equivalent of the randomised controlled trial.

This means that when medical matters come before a group of legal professionals, they care about the specifics of what the treatment means for any one individual. That is, what will work for that individual, rather than for the large number in a cohort study. Which is impossible to predict, of course. We are judged on what we think the specific patient would want to know in terms of risk for any procedure, rather than what works for a large group.

Hmmm. There's a PhD in this, I'm sure. Which I seriously haven't time for. Next year, can you all please remind me that for a time-pressed full time mum, part time doctor, sewing two onesies, a shirt, a pair of board shorts, a pillowslip (trains, of course) and decorating 8 singlets with hand- made applique is a really bad idea? Especially when said person also wants to finish two skirts for herself before, oooh, tomorrow evening when we have to pack it all into the car to drive to Melbourne?

In other non-related and completely random news:

Julia Gillard's hair is looking better. Nicola Roxon, though, OMG. Get some product, woman! Kristina Keneally's hair, however, rocks. And here I am, an avowed feminist, judging female poiticians by their hair.

Ollie sits up, giggles, pulls my hair, loves his brother and is hoovering into the solids. He is, however, getting constipated enough to give his poor little bum a tear. Blood! on the nappy!! sadness all round

Patrick says the most hilarious things. Coming back from here on the bus (if you're ever tempted to go and you are staying on the Gold Coast, seriously, the public bus service is more than easy to negotiate) the driver swevrved to avoid a car and Paddy said "That was close!".

It's hard rubbish in the next suburb and we are going off to grab a new/old clamshell. Whee!!

Oh and we're having the first (Jen) family Christmas in 9 years. Should be, ummm, interesting.

*The plain English conclusion was something helpful like "An epidural is probably of benefit in analgesia to the labouring woman". Like Derrrr.

Air con is evil. Except for today

2009-11-22T02:16:00.000-08:00

Sooo we come back from a week down in dear old Hobart and arrive in our house at 4pm to find it is 42degrees (107.6F) out on the back deck. We quickly dig through our bags to find our swimmers and sprint down to the ocean baths. Patrick had a wonderful time chasing other kiddies and kicking over my sand castles, and we managed to stop Ollie from eating too much sand by letting him suck on a piece of seaweed (he's 7 months old. EVERYTHING goes in his mouth, so seaweed was simple harm minimisation. Hell, it may even have been nutritious.). Two hours later it's still 37(98.6F) out there even though it's now dark, and it's about 30 (86F)in the bedrooms. We've trundled out the old portable air con for our room (the one I demanded we buy when I was pg with Patrick) and I've been looking at ebay for one for Paddo's room.

Srsly. WTF. forty-effing-two degrees.

Photos of Hobart trip to follow...

The meaning of Life

2009-11-06T20:59:00.000-08:00

The thing I love the most about Patrick and Oliver growing up is watching them exploring and understanding their world. Those moments when, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the "click whirr clunk" as the cogs in their heads turn over. Ollie spent at least ten minutes in the bath last night closely examining a plastic flag that clips onto Patrick's tu.pperware bath boat passing it slowly from one hand to the other, turning it over, and occasionally popping it in his mouth for a thorough checking. He is nearly sitting up by himingself- and right now he is leaning gently against me, as I lie on the bed typing. He is carefully examining a (clean) pair of Patrick's underpants and demolishing a rusk (Multitasking in a boy. You gotta love that) with an expression that seems to say "If I can understand this, I'll have it all figured out. Existentialism- meh. It's all in baked goods and undergaments."

Patrick's developments of course these days are a little more cerebral, as he gets better at understanding concepts. Some of the things he is getting into are:
*Birthdays. Well, I'm sue he doesn't really know what the whole "this is the day I was born" thing but he does know it involves presents, a party, cake, and singing (What's not to love, I suppose?)
*Mummy and Daddy's "other" names- like "Jen" and "T.....". Apparently Oliver's "other" name is Ollibollen, whereas Patrick's is "Paddywhack". But he knows Grandma's other name is "(June)".
*Friends. I'd had a particularly crap day at work and Patrick said "Mummy you're my best friend". His toys have best friends too (The green train is the blue train's best friend and so on). Patrick has had two besties at daycare for a good while too- lets just call them Poppy and Bianca, and he talks about them at home.
*Sick. We had a run (pardon the pun) of gastro- Patrick kindly brought it home from daycare, and he confidently told me "the food in mine tummy came out mine mouth". He also helpfully told me "Daddy's done a spew". He knows the food goes into his mouth, into his tummy, then it goes round and round and comes out as poo- we were attempting to gt him to stop eating sand which terribly irritates his bum when he decides to poo in his nappy.
* rewards. We had been going really well with toilet training but hadn't really woked out how we were going to progress fom going pants-less to wearing underpants, as the last tim I tried it he just weed an poo-ed in them. Also he was waiting until he had a nappy on to do a poo- which was triply bad because a. you had to change a nappy almost as soon as it went on, b. that was normally only when we left the house and c. it means he can hold on, but just wasn't going to do it on the potty. My mum suggested a star chart. I didn't think he was old enough to understand the whole action-consequence thing, but what do you know, it's working. We've had him in pants at home for the mornings most of this last week and he's been really good. Only trouble is we are running out of his favourite star sticker(the star in a car).
*boys and girls. He knows mummy is different to daddy, himself and Oliver because "mummy hasn't got doodle". You know that feeling you're being watched? I get it having a wee. Patrick's looking hard to see if I really haven't got a doodle, or if it's just really small. (MrT confuses the issue by saying "Well, mummy has sort of got a doodle..." let's just leave the finer details of anatomy out of it until he's in, say, high school, eh?). He is convinced he has boobies (teaching a 2 year old to say "nipples" just doesn't seem right) and MrT has a fine set of pecs (ok, moobs), and Ollie has big fat moobs, so that doesn't really register. Poppy and Bianca are boys as far as Patrick can tell, (and he is sure they have doodles). But he is getting there.

Other news- mrT and I both got much bigger than expected tax returns, so we're thinking of heading here for a few nights. Or here. We can't decide. At least we know it will be hot in sunny queensland, and the other one is close enough that we could conceivably dash down there any time we choose. We're also doing Christmas with my family in coastal Victoria: on of my aunts has an amazing beach house (One of those ones where they bought a fibro shack years and years ago when they were all as cheap as heck, and then replaced when tit was falling down and they were able to afford to do so), so the cousins will be able to play together for a week which we are looking forward to.

Rigt the battery on the laptop is almost out and I can smell MrT burning something on the stove, so I have t6o go.

My sewing machine still spends more time on my desk than Miller

2009-10-24T02:28:00.000-07:00

Here's what I've been sewing.

As it started to get warm about 6 weeks ago, I realised most of Paddy's t-shirts were getting a little snug, so I decided to make him some shirts. Firstly, this cute as heck Hedgehog one

Hawai'ian

Pirates

Trains

and these are the two t-shirts he ore for breast cancer week at daycare
I sent the love train on down to adorn Drew, a fellow train-lover, but Patrick liked it so much I had to make him his own

Finally I made this for ME a while back. I love the fabric (I couldn't find an Australian stockist so I had to order it in from Etsy) and the best thing about it is pockets! Oh, and it is pretty snazzy

And here are my favourite sites at the moment, too. (apart from failblog, of course)

Ugliest Tattoos
Awful Plastic Surgery
It Made My Day- little moments of win
There, I fixed it
Regretsy (thx, minnie)

Sticks and stones

2009-10-15T15:07:00.000-07:00

Ok before I start, I am typing this with Ollie in his new (second-hand) Bum.bo and Patrick playing trains next to me so I may have to go at any moment.

What do we do about bullying?

I was hoping to not have to consider all of these issues until Patrick was ready for school.

But.

The daycare P attends is having a week-long fundraiser for breast cancer, and they requested the kids all wear something pink. Considering I had nothing better to do than study, I immediately accepted the challenge to make Patrick something to wear. I made two t-shirts- one a white one with a pink star on the front, and another pink one with a train. He wore the pink star one on Monday, with a pair of skate-y long shorts (and the waistband of his Wiggles pullups showing. Dawg).

As we walked to his room I as astounded to hear two older boys (in the pre-K room, so 4 or 5) say as we approached "Is that a boy or a girl? Look, he's wearing PINK so he must be a GIRL" lol lol lol.

Luckily I don't think Patrick got it and he walked on, regardless.

But.

I'm probably drawing a long bow here* but maybe there was this discussion at that little boy's home: "They have to wear pink this week"
"Bullshit. Pink's for girls, my boy's not a girl, he's not wearing pink. This is bloody political correctness gang bullshit. Next thing you know they'll be having Ramadan and banning Christmas" (Ok the last bit is a bit OTT, but you catch my drift).

At least they didn't call him a poof.

As I said, I was shocked, so i ended up not saying anything to the staff, although now I think I should have.

But what to teach Patrick?

Part of me nods in agreement with each side of the fence on bullying. "Bullying is unacceptable, leads to children being isolated, unhappy and stressed and should not be accepted in any setting" but also "we can't insulate our children from all the bad things in life, and teaching them to deal with the bad stuff will make them more resilient and prepares them for the ugliness of real life". After all I was bullied at school and look how I turned out.

Insecure, with poor self-esteem and still hurt by all the barbs. Hmmmmmmmm

If you teach the child to answer back to the bullies it potentially opens them up to more bullying. Similarly, no-one likes a dobber, and he may be tauted more for being a crybaby.

Probably the best defence against bullying is to laugh. "With" them, not at them. If someone's trying to make you feel bad, laughing makes them feel that their jibes don't hurt and it de-powers the insult. But how do you explain that to a 2-year old?

We all want the best for our children. I think I've said it before that the thing I don't want the most for either of my boys is for them to be nerdy, daggy outsiders. The ones whose only frinds are the fat kid and the weird smelly kid. Because that was me, and thank Christ I was academically gifted because otherwise I would've quit school early, as the only thing of interest to me was learning. (sorry Alex, Renee, but it was true and I think we all know it). I don't mind them being 'just another kid', not the most popular, but also not the loner. (I'd really love for them to be the nerdy but sporty one with the looks- the one that the cool girls all have a secret crush on, but would only ever admit to under threat of 'truth, dare or torture'...
Girl 1: "Patrick?!"
Girl 2: "Yeah, Patrick- he has the most amazing green eyes, and have you seen him in boardies? HOT"
Girl 3: "I saw him surfing the other day and he is awesome"
Girl 4: "He's so lovely- he was my partner in chemistry last year and he's really funny and smart, and kind. He was so nice to me when I didn't understand something, and he'd explain it to me really well."
Girl 5 (the slutty one): "Yeah, I'd do him"
-more lolz-
Girl 1: "I can see it, now you say it, yep. He's hot"
Girl 3: "His little brother Oliver is hot too, he's in year 9 and all the girls there love him but no-one would say it"
and Patrick suddenly becomes the bookies' choice for school captain 2025.

Yes, this is a fantasy of mine I spend some time thinking about, normally when I'm doing laps and some school group turns up and I can see the group dynamics forming... which one would I like Patrick to be?

)

Wow, that's a long way off course.

What to do. Suggestions?

Next post: photos

* speaking of which, MrT and I are addicted to the Ranger's Apprentice series. Sad, very.

Teeth and other dramas

2009-10-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

How does it go? There's nothing like a looming deadline to focus the mind? Something like that, anyway.

My official return to work date is Monday, but thanks to some creative rostering I now have until the week after that. It seems like such a long time since I was at work, but it also seems that Maternity leave has gone so very quickly this time. The days didn't ever seem to stretch out for hours on end like they did with Patick, probably because I haven't been on my own with a partner working 14-hour days. And for that I am eternally grateful.

But now with the prospect of my easy life coming to an end, I am feeling i am feeling increasingly stressed. And down. Yesterday found me in the baby change room of Taronga Zoo crying my eyes out: I was tired and frustrated. We had left our modest hotel at 10am, and now it was 1.30pm and all I had seen of the zoo was the shop (it was pouring rain and I didn't have a raincoat and had neglected to bring one for Patrick) and the inside of this changeroom with Ollie having done an enormous poo, and no-one in the zoo seemingly able to tell me where the baby change room was. Ordinarily I would've just changed him on any flat surface, but it was too wet. He had been howling, but by the time I found the changeroom he had fallen asleep, so I had to wake him up to change him which just felt cruel.

The day before we had driven down, with the plan being that Patrick and MrT would catch trains galore whilst I went to my favourite mall: a three level job dedicated ntirely to discount outlets. But when I got there I just found I kept thinking "what's the point? what am I doing here? why do I want to buy just more stuff? It will only clutter up the house..." and similar thoughts. I bought several pairs of shorts for Ollie, some new bath toys (meg the cat has eaten most of the ones we got for Patrick), socks for MrT, a funky laptop sleeve to use as a change mat for MrT when he's being "Mr Mom" when I'm back at work, some drink coasters and a mini of perfume I have been trying to find for a while (Daisy). I immediately felt guilty about the perfume.

yup. down dooby-do down down, comma comma down dooby-do down down. etc.

I'm not looking forward to work, but I'm not entirely sure why. I enjoy my work. I like using my brain. I like my co-wokers, by and large. I really enjoy the company of the nurses and working with them as a team (I know that sounds like the crap you come out with in a job interview, but no, seriously, I really do). So what is it I don't want to do?

I don't look forward to having to beg and plead for time to go and express. I don't look forward to having to find an alternative room in which to do that (there used to be a spare office we all used). I'm not looking forward to the grind of study and "when are you sitting your exam? What year are you again? Which module do you need?" and "have you presented anything at teh meetings this year? Are you doing journal club?" And all that crap.

I'm not looking forward to having to scurry to get there by 7am, leaving Patrick and Ollie in tears behind. I'm not looking forward to not doing any excercise. I'm not looking forward to having to prove myself.

I'm not looking foward to all that.

It's probably too late to see my therapist before I go back, so I desperately need to start trying to think positively. The only problem being that the more you try and fail, the more of a failure you feel. I've increased the dose of my meds, but all that seems to have achieved so far is feeling hot and sweaty and increased... crapulence (literally. if that's even a word)

What a muddle.

Ollie has the tiniest corner of a tooth showing in his perfect, pink gums. Byebye to his gorgeous gummy smile. He is nearly able to sit up by himself. He is hooting and cooing. At not yet 6 months, he is now fitting into some of the clothes Patrick was wearing when he was a year old. He is getting too long to fit onto my lap to breastfeed in polite society (I need to spread out on a lounge to support his weight with my knees- and -shock, horror- not every cafe or restaurant has a couch (I know, it's a shock to me, too)). He is still, for the most part, a happy, smiley, ... jolly individual. His biggest worry is having his toys stolen by his big brother (MINE bird! MINE elephant! MINE MINE MIIIIINE!) who regularly says "I Like it. It's mine." (that 'rules of a toddler' thing, said literally).

It is far easier to do this the second time around, but there is a nagging feeling that he too often gets left propped up on the couch with his toys whilst we attend to Patrick or something else, so he doesn't get nearly as much attention as Patrick did at a similar age, but I guess he is not the first second sibling to fall victim to this. I ought to know, I'm the youngest of 4! Thankfully his naturally sunny nature means that he doesn't seem to mind for the main part. I suppose it is no different to me putting Patrick in the pram and hauling him around various shopping malls to pass the day when he was young. At least this way I'm saving money.

I waste too much time on FarmTown.

Ok, I have to go. There's too much to do. I'll try and write again before long.

Oh man, I need to have an hour to sit down and write a meaningful post about how it is to do parenting 2.0 but this will have to do

2009-10-04T15:51:00.001-07:00

It's getting warm again, so Patrick's been wearing last year's sandals. I noticed they looked a little tight, but it wasn't until he hobbled across the road I realised just how uncomfy they were.

So we went to a department store to buy some new ones.

I'm fairly fussy about Paddy's footwear, especially stuff he will probably be in day after day fo months on end, so I wanted a nice pair of study leather sandals with and enclosed toe so he can't stub his toes.

$89.95. WTF????

Ebay was bringing me no joy either. I looked in Trget and K-.M.rt and they ere all crap.

When did kids' shoes get so FREAKING EXPENSIVE!

We made a road trip to the outlet store 45minutes away and made a day of it. We had to: Ollie did an enormous Poonami that went, literally, from head to toes. (Ever wonder why they have deep handbasins in Parents rooms? For emergency bathing). That particular shopping complex didn't have a store with kids clothes in it, so we wrapped him up in a blanky and popped a too big t-shirt on him. Then we visited the westfield down the oad and got Gruen-ed into staying there for a few hours...

Why am I telling you this? Aaaargh! Too much sewing to do and only 2 weeks of leave left!

shy

2009-09-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

Prosopagnosia. There's a word for it. Pro-soap-ag-nose-ee-ah.

All my early life I wondered how the other kids were able to recognise (and ridicule) me at school when I didn't recognise many of them. If a kid changed their hairstyle or maybe grew taller, I just couldn't tell who they were.

As I've gotten older I've leaned to cope by trying harder and harder to remember solitary facial features and attatch a name to them, like a kind of facial mnemonic- Kristen with the blisterin' freckles, A-MOLE-ia- or other features that set them apart- Big Steve, Bearded Casey, and so on. Things reached a peak in my early residency because all the ward nurses seemed to be young, thinnish, slightly taller than me, and have brownish hair in a ponytail. I'd only remember the fat, old, red-headed or male ones. Or ones with strong accents.

None of this makes for an easy time making friends. That, coupled with the fact I've always been somewhat different (new, smart, bookish) has meant that I've always been kind of shy. No, actually, make that A LOT shy. My regular friends laugh at this suggestion, because I'm rather outspoken and bolshie once I get to know someone. But it's the getting to know that is the hard part: I mean, how do you say "Oh Hi there" to someone you've only met once socially if you don't have a clue what their face looks like?

This is a weird disability, because as a child I actually had a photographic memory. I remember vividly doing a science test in year 8 and being able to recall what was written on the pertinent page in my excecise book exactly as it appeared. As I've grown older, the photographic memory has faded, although bits remain: when I was studying anatomy I could recall illstrations in the textbook photographically, but not the labels attatched. So I could say "Oh yeah, that nerve that wraps around there and then it goes up and under, and passes though that muscle" but never remember what it was called.

But never, never for faces.

Well, kind of. To remember what someone looks like, I remember (photographically) a photo of them. So whilst I can't sit here and recall or imagine exactly what my husband sitting behind me looks like, I can recall a photo of him. And that (and still making up mnemonics) is the only way I remember people's faces. Ironic, eh.

So today was the first time we've gone to a 'school' playmate's party for Patrick. I mean, we've been to other friend friend's birthday parties, just never the "invitation in the school bag" kind. And I was terrified. Well, maybe highly anxious is a better term. Here was a bunch of people I've only ever met fleetingly whilst picking up or dropping off Patrick, and I didn't have a clue what any of them looked like, or whose child belonged to whom. Luckily, it was faily obvious when we arrived who the birthday boy was, and his parents were happy to re-introduce themselves. But then Patrick started asking "Where's Liam? Where's Liam?" and I didn't have a clue. But luckily, it seems Patrick is not accursed with the same affliction, so once he had spotted him, off he ran. Phew.

One of my biggest fears for Patrick and Oliver is that they will be lonely, ostracised or friendless at school. I don't remember high school with any degree of fondness, apart from the one or two good fiends I did manage to make. But if today's anything to go by, I needn't worry.

Patrick helping to check my ski gear was in working order

Don't call DOCS on me yet

2009-08-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

The one thing Ollie really enjoys doing is laying in his bouncinette watching the washing flapping on the line.

So why do I feel like I'm neglecting him if I leave him there so I can do some stuff in my study, barely 2metres away, with him fully visible to me?

Maybe it just smacks of Truby King too much...

So much to do, so little time

2009-08-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

I have so many things i want to do right now, and, yes, one of them is blogging. I have been missing putting my thoughts to the eter lately, and there is a lot that has been happening between my ears recently, but there never seems to be the time to get it down. Right now I'm between loads of laundry from our skiing trip, so I've got, maybe 15 minutes to try and get some coherency out.

The simple stuff first: we went on a road trip to the snow. We spent a day in Sydney at Luna Park, which Patrick really got into, but not as much as the first time we took him there. Then we drove down to Canberra to see the outlaws, and then on to Jindabyne. The idea was that the outlaws would look after the boys whilst me and MrT hit the slopes, but on the first morning as we were getting ready to go, MamaT floored me with "I hate the snow: I hope you're not expecting me to hang around up there". I mean, FFS, that was the whole idea. And she knew it. She then proceeded to make the entire trip one long whinge fest. The accomodation wasn't good enough. It was too cold (I told her to put the heater in her room overnight, but, noooo, that would mean she had nothing to complain about). The boys were bored. It was too sunny. It was too windy. It was raining. Moan moan moan. I'd suggest something like "Take Patrick out to see the diggers (the snow groomers)", and she'd say, "Oh, no. I culdn't do that". "Take him for a ride on the chairlift" "Oh, no. I'm scared of heights". "Take him on the skitube and ride up and down the mountain" "Oh, no. I couldn't do that.""Take him out on the toboggan run""Oh. No." Let's put it this way: a two year old boy spent three and a half days at a skifield with his grandparents, and how many snowmen did they make? None. Not a single one. This is the level of apathy and crap we- no, wait, I had to deal with. Because I forced her to go there. All she had to say was "No, I'm busy that week" and I would've flown my mum up. And to cap it all off? Apparently I wasn't grateful enough. FFS. FFS. The answer is easy, though: I'll never ask her to babysit again. Simple. We spent 2K on a week where I felt that every time I was having some fun, I was personally responsible for her having such a crap time.

We spent 2 days on the way back in Canberra: Weston Park- which I remember as being the most awesome place in the universe as a kid- is now a sad, sad shadow of its former self. Whilst we were there, so many young adults came along and said "This used to be the BEST playground"- and it was. It looks like the ACT government hasn't spent any money there in the last 20 years. Truly sad. The next day we went to Questacon, which IS great: Patrick enjoyed it, but so did we- several times me or MrT were playing with something and then we'd look at each other and say "Where's Patrick" and have to run off and find him. He was both enthralled and scared of the robot dinosaurs: he kept on saying "More Dinosaurs!" but as soon as we took him in, he'd point at the exit "no! There!". A great place to visit.

Now- the harder stuff. Except I can hear the machine is on its last rinse.

Motherhood 2.0 is both better and worse. I'm not as depressed, but I still have days when I don't even want to get out of bed, and I can't see the point of doing much, as I have so little time to achieve anything. But there are also days when I feel so at peace and happy, I could just die. Oliver is a totally different baby to Patrick: he is happy and laid back. But he is also easily bored. MrT and Patrick caught the train home from Sydney (he blew our cover as cool Sydneysiders- we caught the train into the city from our suburban motel and he was "Train! Another Train! Blue one Train! Mummy! More Trains! Big one! Train goes FAST!". But his enthusiasm brought smiles from other commuters- a rare thing indeed). What was I saying? Oh, yes, easily bored- so me and Ollie drove home after a trip to Ikea: after stopping to feed him he started crying in the back seat- I figured out he was upset becase it was now dark and he couldn't see his toys- once I put on a light for him he was as happy as a clam.

Right. More... later, because the washng has finished and Ollie needs feeding.

boy trouble

2009-08-01T16:59:00.001-07:00

This is the play-dough snowman that P and MrT made yesterday. I was feeding Ollie on the couch at the time, so I heard most of the conversation.

MrT: Lets make a snowman! What does a snowman need?
P: Knees
MrT: Knees? Maybe he needs a head...
P: No, knees.

sometime later...

P: I get a carrot! I get!
runs to the fridge and pulls out the bag of carrots
(at this point MrT intervenes to make a small sliver of carrot for a nose instead of P sticking an entire carrot in)

P: I get sticks! (runs outside and returns with a fistful of jacaranda sticks)
MrT: he only needs two arms
P: Octopus
MrT: What?
P: Octopus snowman... dere

I'm not really too sure why the octopus snowman has sticks hanging out of his lower section too: I was scared to ask in case it was the octopus snowman's doodle

A day or so ago I was cooking dinner and needed some herbs from the garden- Patrick loves 'helping' MrT in the garden, especially when it comes to the herbs (plants you can eat! what's not to love?) so he loves to go out and bring in the herbs that MrT has cut. He handed me a fistful of parsely and went back to the back door to head out for the next instalment, but paused before going out:
"Say fanks, mummy"
On my own petard, hoisted.

And comments on the housekeeping
"I found a fluff!" (holds up dust bunny) "I put in wubbish bin... bye bye fluff! Errrk!"

Of course as soon as I reported Ollie's sleeping habits, he changed. The night after that last post he woke four times for a feed. That continued until yesterday when he slept through. But last night he woke at four... and then wouldn't go back to sleep. Yesterday was a horrible day: he would act hungry and then wouldn't feed... Just awful. He'd arch his back and howl. I was in tears.

Overall, though, he remains a happy little individual. He has got to that stage where he is learning to use his hands, and loves to stuff everything into his mouth for a thorough checking. I've no idea how much he weighs now, but he is in size 0 wondersuits, and that little blue outfit above fitted Patrick at 6 months, but he's busting out of it. He's too big for the bassinette, and tomorrow's job is to put together the new cot. We had thought that Patrick would be out of his cot before Ollie needed it, but so far.... (much touching of wood, digits crossed) he hasn't climbed out of his cot. [He can climb in, but not out. Go figure. I'd like to point out he climbs in not to go to sleep but to bounce up and down like it's a trampoline. Handy. But I suppose at least he's not going to bounce out and break an arm.]

I have so any things that I'd like to post, but I just never seem to get the time to put my thoughts in order. Why I couldn't have done it just now I don't know, but I'll put it down to persistant placenta brain.

news

2009-07-25T03:31:00.000-07:00

Firstly, although I titled the last post 'monkey see', I'd like to point out that I do not feed Ollie by laying on top of him!

Heard at the playground today "Look at me! I'm on a swing!" Our longest sentence yet.

We had been going really well with potty training before Ollie was born, mainly by letting Patrick run around without any pants on. However, we weren't keen to push it afterwards, and then it just got too cold to let him run around bare-arsed. We've been waiting for him to get back into it, and recently he has been obliging: yesterday he went into the bathroom, pulled down his trousers and attempted to rip off his nappy. I'd call that 'ready'. But I'm not sure that day care will agree with Patrick's preferred method of relieving himself: he wants to stand up (like daddy) so the potty is out, but he doesn't want to stand on a stool either. No, he likes to stand up ON the seat and pee into the bowl. So far, he's also peferring to poo in his nappy, so underpants are a good way off yet.

We got a referral to see the ENT specialist about his ears because of the jagged holes I had seen there, and went to see him on Friday. His ears have now healed completely, which is wonderful. It also means we don't have to battle with ear drops. Yay!

Ollie is growing up so fast: he's three months old already, smiling, learning to use his hands and cooing happily at most opportunites. He's in size 00 already which is a pity because all the summer stuff I bought him was 00 and he'll be way too big for that when it warms up. He is sleeping well- most nights from about 1030 until 3 or 4 am for a feed and then again until about 7. Mostly I can convince him to stay asleep after that feed too, so that I can get up, showered, breakfasted and do the same for Patrick too before his next feed at 9. Of course now that I've put it out there, he'll change completely. I can't believe we're already halfway through exclusive breastfeeding and soon he'll hit the solids- it all feels like it is going so very fast this time.

Patrick is an excellent big brother, he loves to kiss and cuddle Ollie (as well as breastfeed him). I'm looking forward to the day they are big enough to play together. Oliver already loves to watch Patick run around the room and smiles at him when he is being talked to. I had been concerned that Patrick might get jealous and resent Oliver for taking up all of my time, but to be honest, if anyone loses out in the attention stakes, it is Oliver: toddlers, apart from being demanding, are also physical too- we regularly get pushed and pulled in the direction Patrick wants us to go!

MrT is finally on his extended leave: 3 months of accrued leave and 3 of long service leave. Strangely, having two adults at home makes everything take longer, which is a surprise, but I can no longer plan my days just around me and the boys. I'm sure we'll work it out... just in time for me to go back to work.

Finally, here is Patrick's latest T-shirt design: I thought it was a nice little play on words. I put it on a red t-shirt: originally i thought black, but that just seemed too obvious. He's going to wear it for the first time tomorrow with his black train pants when we go to the miniature trains; not sure how many of the punters will get the joke.

Speaking of which, I can't decide which of these to get: decisions decisions !

monkey see...

2009-07-21T23:26:00.000-07:00

NKOTB

2009-07-02T05:15:00.000-07:00

Having Oliver has been such a different experience to having Patrick that it's as if I'm having my first baby all over again. For a start, I'm not as depressed as all hell. I have good days and bad days, but overall, it's been amazingly positive. I missed out on so much joy with Patrick, I'm beginning to wonder how I managed to get through it at all.

Oliver is just such a different baby it is hard to believe these two are brothers sometimes. I now know why people say that babies have their own personalities right from the start! As stressy as Patrick was, Ollie is chilled. As blondie as Patrick was, Ollie is dark; as scrawny as Patrick was, Oliver is triple-chinned chubby; as startly as Patrick was, Ollie is snoozy.

But they both are champion boobie gobblers!

To illustrate just how laid back Oliver is, I'll share a story that is as much about my bad parenting as it is about Ollie's personality. We had a picnic lunch the other day at these trains. Whilst T and P were off catching the train to nowhere, I had just fed a snoozy Ollie, and he was laying down on the picnic rug, snuggled up in his blanket. But sleepy as he was, he was just obviously not comfortable. Something was giving him the irrits. I'd just changed him, so I was pretty sure it wasn't nappy related. I'd also not had any coffee or chocolate, so i was pretty sure it wasn't caffeine, either. But every time he looked like he was about to doze off, he'd squirm. And wiggle his head to and fro. Hmmm: maybe it's the wool in his hat that's giving him the shirts, I thought. I pulled it off his head, and there, underneath were two little black ants running around his poor bare noggin.

Now, if this had been Patrick, for a start, there is NO WAY IN HELL he'd just drift off to sleep on a picnic rug. Ohhh no. He would have needed to be swaddled, put in the sling, rocked, patted and sung to for at least an hour before the sceaming settled. And that's even without the ants!

I'm loving Patrick to bits right now, even though he is doing some really, really testing toddler behaviour. Like the running off caper. I thought he'd learned his lesson, but, uh, no. Today as we were leaving the playground he ran the other way. I thought I'dd call his bluff by continuing to walk home and wave good-bye to him. Hm. BAD idea. He waved back. And continued running. I had to park the pram and make a sprint for the opposite end of the park to prevent him from running onto the road. I picked him up and told him I was very, VERY cranky with him. This is normally enough to get a "sorry mummy" out of him, and sometimes even a pouty lip and a sniffle (he's learning remorse! It's awesomely cute). But today he just grabbed my face and started to kiss me, so that I couldn't tell him off any more. (Not quite "get your tongue out of my mouth I'm kissing you goodbye"). Monkey.

The point being that the bad start with Patrick hasn't eroded my love for his awesomeness now, so I can harly wait for Ollie to grow up. It's pretty fun to be me right now.

Mostly.

wild strawberries

2009-06-21T04:18:00.000-07:00

patrick loves strawberries; he'll eat an entire punnet on our way around the supermarket so that I get to pay for an empty container. Here he is singing along to p'nau

Quickie

2009-06-16T15:05:00.000-07:00

I have to share this with you: my new fav lolz site (thanks to Julie at a little pregnant)

Awkward family photos. Genius.

Photos, craft and my arse

2009-06-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

Right, first up, the latest photos.

Here's Ollie doing his bestest smile. Note the major chubbiness and double chinHere's Ollie being fascinated by himself in the mirror during his bath today. This pic is also notable because I'm not in black. I'm also wearing trackie dacks and fluffy slippers. (International visitors, this translates as: "this season's Prada and Jimmy Choos").Here's my superstar husband (suitable de-identified) juggling a chubby bubby and a wiggly toddler in the shops: what a star!Did I mention how hairy Ollie is? Oh yes, there was that post about Hugh Jackman. (Sigh). Here is a shoddy close-up of his gorgeous furry ears- note the brown fuzziness at the back edge at the bottom of his ear lobeAnd finally, here is the little man at play; admittedly not his best shot, but he is entranced by the brightly coloured $2 shop Lei Patrick draped over his ... thing-that-I-made-for-Patrick-when -he was-a-baby (Patrick is an attentive and helpful older brother- he likes to bring things over to Ollie for him to look at)Older brother shots next:

Here is Patrick, whose latest discovery is that if you push a chair close to something high up, you can reach it. In this case he didn't want dinner, so he pushed the chair over to the light switch for the dining room to turn it off. You have to admire his logic... and perseverance- it took about 10 seconds to drag that chair across the lounge room (an eternity for a toddler in a rage)Aaaaand, finally, to round things out... I bet you thought I'd been lazily sitting on my pimply arse* sitting around breastfeeding and having a slack old time, right? Well, actually I've been busy. The seasons have changed and the range of available boys clothing is getting worse as Patrick gets older. So I've been making stuff for him again. Mainly pants: my new 'thing' is applique. I've also upcycled a bunch of old jumpers (sweaters) into some fairly funky pants.(Pants in situ)

I put a new patch on this hoodie, cause the one from the shop sucked and I don't have as much time to make hoodies anymore (wonder why?). Oh and to save electrons there is a pair of pants there in this shot too: the brown bit looks great but was actually because I ran out of fabric... Now it just looks like "that looks like they ran out of fabric on that funky brown patch, but it must be intentional, because no-one would actually draw attention to their mistakes, would they?" Heh. I am so devious. I am screwing with your mind just with my sewing!
I made these pants in summer, but he still wears them (he is a slave to my vanity) when it's a little warmer. He loves to play with the zipAnd what's cuter than a little boy in cords and a skivvy? Why, a little boy in cords and a skivvy ... with a dinosaur on the front...or a train...

I made these two wraps for Ollie before he was born. You can never have too many wraps, IMHO And what's more perilous than the state of pants for toddlers? The state of pyjamas. Call me crazy, but I don't want him in pj's that are offensive or say things like "little horror". I know, next thing I'll be voting for the national party... but we saw this fabric at spotlight and i just had to. And Patrick loves them.I made these pram liners for our new Phil and Ted's (how awesome are they for two?) with the I.kea Ba.rnslig fabic and think they look pretty good. (The rest of the pram is in Ollie's room. And he's asleep. That maxim again? NEVER WAKE A SLEEPING BABY!)Right. That'll do youse all for now.

*Has anyone else's arse become amazingly pimply since they had babies or is that just me?

Mummy ok?

2009-06-08T21:11:00.000-07:00

Although it hasn't really got cold yet, I know it is officially winter because Patrick has been bringing home all kinds of viruses from day care for the last few weeks. Last week, Patrick, Ollie and I were all sick at the same time, so we managed to convince MrT to stay home from work. On Wednesday, Patrick was especially miserable, and had spent most of the night awake and crying.

On Saturday I developed a blocked ear that then began to ache. By 3am Sunday morning, it was sore enough to stop me from sleeping. We fronted up to the after hours GP to get me some meds (I know we could have done that ourselves, but we aren't really up with the latest in treatment for middle ear infections in adults). But by 8pm that night it was sore enough that I had already gone through my daily allocation of Paracetamol (Acetominophen) so I rang the on-duty registrar at work to get a script for oxycodone (Percocet/Endone). By Monday morning, I was in agony, despite taking 10mg of the oxycodone every three hours plus ibuprofen. I was vomiting, too, and couldn't close my jaw. So we spent yesterday being victims of the health care system, ending up with me on IV antibiotics and getting a CT of my head to make sure I didn't have mastoiditis.

I feel much better today (thankfully).

But on Monday morning, after vomiting, I was sitting on the couch with my head in my hands wincing in pain, Patrick came up to me and gently asked "Mummy ok?". I told him, that, no mummy was sick. That my ear hurt. He thought for a minute and said "Mine ear hurt". I thought initially that he was just playing, but I brought out my otoscope and had a look in his ear.

What I saw made me feel sick. Cold. Just plain AWFUL.

He had a small trickle of dried blood, and a hole in his eardrum that looked a few days old.

The previous Wednesday, we had been, well, a little short with him for grizzling, and for not using words to tell us what was wrong. The poor little man had obviously had an earache, as bad as mine was now, and his rapid improvement was because his eardrum had burst. I felt so mean.

We had given him both Paracetamol and Ibuprofen when he was ill, so we hadn't left him without analgesia, but obviously, in retrospect, he had been suffering badly. We are so used to Patrick being quite articulate enough to tell us what the problem is ("Mine train fall over! Mine foot hurt! Meg mine hand scratch!) , that when he was so sick he couldn't tell us, we assumed he was being whingey.

I'm off to the pharmacy now, to get Ollie some antibiotics: his ears are now red and inflamed (and although three of us in the family having suffered the same thing makes it MORE, not less likely to be viral in origin, I'd hate for Ollie to get worse) and some strong painkiller for Paddo.

Not all bad...

2009-06-05T23:50:00.000-07:00

Not all of the things that I thought were stolen were, in fact, stolen. I have recovered my grandma's jet beads and watch in a jewellery pouch ~~hidden~~ lost down the back of a cupboard. The bead I lost off the remaining pair of earrings was down the back of the couch. And there is a small silver lining to losing all your earrings... you get an iron-clad excuse for buying new ones!

Unfortunately none of the computer stuff or photos have turned up. It's now nearly two weeks ago and the insurance assessor hasn't even called us to make a time to see the damage. I did get to see the same forensics lady who fingerprinted the place after my phone was stolen just before Patrick was born, and we chatted about babies. The crooks were wearing something on their hands, so no fingerprints. MrT is still hopeful that some stuff will be recovered, but I have no such illusions.

It will take about a month before we get any insurance funds for new stuff, but that's too long for me to go without a laptop. Given that my old laptop was pretty steam-powered, I reckon we won't get much for that, so I bought a new/old one off e.bay for 500 bucks, and so far, so good. The main advantage is that Patrick can still have a bath in the laundry sink whilst watching episodes of Thomas ~~ripped off you tube~~ legitimately paid for with our own funds. I did have a video to post of this, but... well, you get the drift.

Speaking of legitimately paid for, what kind of crook takes my sex in the city dvds and not MrT's spiderman or the matrix?

Some photos/video when I get my phone up and running on the new computer...

Note to self: maybe don't store all your valuables in the one spot

2009-05-24T21:48:00.000-07:00

They took ALL my earrings. Except the pair I was wearing yesterday. But to add insult to injury, I lost the bead off one of them when we were out, so now I can't even wear them. Meh!

I've also found that they stole the jewellery I inherited from my grandmother, like her beautiful white sapphire ring and a set of Deco jet beads that I loved. These things are irreplaceable, not because of their rarity or cost, but the fact they were Grandmas. Oh F**k. I just realised her watch has gone as well. The one she called "old faithful" and I wore at my wedding as 'something old'. That means that all the jewellery I was wearing at my wedding is gone.

And that really sucks.

Backup. Do it NOW!

2009-05-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

Turns out I won't be putting any of the photos up here that I wanted to: whilst we were out today (literally in the middle of the day) some arseholes broke into our house and stole my camera, my two laptops and the jewellery that is irreplaceable because it has sentimental value: the earrings my mum and dad gave me for my graduation, and the beautiful garnet necklace and matching earrings they gave me for my 21st.

They didn't steal some stuff that I thought would have gone, like my Longines Dolce Vita watch and they overlooked the little wooden pot that my engagement ring was in, amazingly enough, given that it was right next to the other stuff they stole.

They also took the bag that Patrick uses for daycare. I mean, WTF? It's a very boring Kath.mandu messenger bag. And my old green backpack. The one I have had since year nine (1986) and that has taken me around the world twice and up and down mountains. That really hurts: me and that backpack, we have HISTORY.

But the worst thing is the loss of the photos of Ollie we can't replace from his birth, the photos of Patrick that were only on my laptop.

So DO IT. Backup. DO! IT! NOW!

Second time around.

2009-05-16T22:04:00.000-07:00

Life seems to have settled back to some semblance of what will pass as 'normal' from now on. The second time around is both easier and harder, but I understand why my friend H once said "I wish you could have number two first": I mean, you know the world is not going to end if you are a few minutes late with a feed, and the baby won't explode if you aren't sure if he is hungry or wet or whatever. However, breastfeeding is more entertaining with a toddler who announces "Jump on a baby?" and poses, ready to spring. A few days ago Patrick also announced "Patrick have mummy boobie milk" and "Mine boobie milk!" so after Ollie was satisfied I decided to give him a go. The first attempt he just bit me, but after that he just looked mystified. We gave up.

Today was MrT's first day back at work and things went well. Granted, it was a daycare day for Patrick, but on the way home tonight it struck me that my mood is rather good at the moment, sleep deprivation notwithstanding. Two years ago I would have been in tears before breakfast was over: Ollie woke up every two hours overnight, I didn't have time for a proper shower because MrT had to go to work and Ollie was crying, Ollie did a massive Poo-nami as soon as MrT left (he only poos once every four days, and then, it's MASSIVE), Patrick was demanding Chuggingt.on repeats, the baby bath had a massive cockroach in it, Patrick refused to get dressed, refused to get in the pram, I forgot his daycare bag and only remembered half an hour into the walk to get there, it started to rain as we went home to get the daycare bag and I didn't have the pram cover with me and Patrick refused to put the shade down on the pram to stop himself from getting wet, Ollie was hungry when finally Patrick got to daycare (in the car) and started howling and then i couldn't find a park at the shopping centre. But I was fine. Fiiiine. God bless sert.raline. And my Therapist.

It helps that Oliver is a very different baby to Patrick. One of my friends confided that when she used to look after Patrick for me the one day a week we went to the pool she would get tinnutis (ringing in the ears) from Patrick howling as she tried to calm him down. I also met a woman who used to work in the building next door to our house (a medical centre of sorts) and she said that she and her colleagues would hear Patrick (and me) crying, and crying and crying and crying and say "That poor woman!". Patrick was a screamer. For hours. I wish it had been possible for me to have seen this when he was a baby: a much better explanation than "colic" which has no basis in medical fact, despite everyone knowing what it means.

That's not to say Oliver never cries: he does, but he's mostly very polite about it. If he's fussy, he fusses; squarks and squirms, not full-throttle howling. It's a refreshing change. I'm not going to dwell on the reasons why: likely it is a combination of his own personality coupled with the fact that I am way less stressed and I can actually breastfeed this time without having to express first.

I was worried when I was pregnant that I might compare Patrick and Oliver too harshly if Oliver did turn out to be less screamy than Patrick, but I find myself unable to because it's hard for me to equate Patrick the baby with Patrick the small boy who daily delights me. I love both my boys; with Oliver it's more visceral, Patrick is more complex as I've grown to love the little person he is. Prior to Ollie's birth I would not have thought this possible, but since he was born I actually feel like I love Patrick more than I did before.

Other comparisons: Oliver's hair is darker than Patrick's- not sure if that will all fall out and he'll be another blondie baby. He has a similar chin but it lacks my dimple. His eyes are turning the same colour as Patrick's . He is a hairy baby- he has a hairline that extends down to his eyebrows, and sideburns that go to the angle of his jaw (muttonchops to rival Hugh Jackman's). He remains huge: in the 2 weeks since discharge from hospital he put on 800grams (there's 480 grams in a pound) and he's still going by the looks of it. He's wearing the clothes that Patrick wore at 6 months at one month. He grew out of the 0000's by the time we left hospital.

And last night I think he smiled at me.

So, it's going well: much better than expected, anyway. In fact, some days I worry that I'm possibly getting manic. But then I realise how much i need my sleep and put that idea to rest! It's taken me about 4 days to write this, so whilst I'm hoping to put up some photos soon, it may be weeks.

As threatened. In which I talk about Daniel Craig's Perfectly formed Arse and the Eger Equation. I am nothing if not a nerdy mama.

2009-04-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

My birth story. I'm afraid it isn't as eloquent as Matt's over at Maybe Baby, but that's ok. After all their years of infertility, Matt and Constance get to be eloquent. And compared to Matt, I'm just a crap writer.

Friday afternoon: I go out to lunch with a friend and order risotto. That's significant because when I went into labour with Patrick my mum made me risotto and I then threw it all up in her car on the way to hospital, so it's become a running joke with mum and I.
: Mum is looking after Patrick, so MrT and I watch Quantum of Solace, which I later regret as it means I have had no afternoon nap for the first time in 4 weeks. This is a BAD decision, as it turns out, only slightly compensated for by Daniel Craig: there's no beach scene in this one. (Phwoar). That's when I start feeling niggly badness, somewhere pelvicward.
:2100hrs- the badness pelvicwards has turned into 6 minutely contractions
:2330- there is now Pain, and 5 minutely ctrx's
:0100- the pain is developing teeth. I run a deep bath and get an hour's relief.
:0200- fuggit. I need drugs
:0300- Am greeted by an "Oh He-llo" at the midwives' desk of delivery by my friend H who is doing an overnight shift there as the doctor on-call. We joke in between contractions as she puts in my drip. She uses local anaesthetic because otherwise I would kill her (so I say) but it still hurts. F-ing 18g. At least it was only 18g- at work the protocol is 16g
:0500- stable-ish. I'm curious as to what's going on. My midwifey does a VE and it's a whole 3cm with a huge bag of forewaters. "When that goes you'll go quicker".
I actually manage to sleep in between contractions and N2O. I'm heard to utter "Thank you Horace Wells".
:0830-ish. The obstetrician on duty comes in to see me, and I am going nowhere, still stuck at 3cm with the bulging waters. After a brief discussion we agree to an ARM. As SOON as the waters are broached- OMFG! THE PAIN!! THE PAIN!!! The obstetrician says that as soon as he did it he could feel the head come down "a long way". You don't say. Things speed up. A helluva lot. The N2O is doing freak all. I'm desperately trying to remember the Eger equation which tells you what factors influence the speed of onset of an inhaled anaesthetic (like nitrous) to see if there's anything I can voluntarily do to make it work faster. Normally, I can recall it perfectly :

But now, all I can get is this:
(This is the exact shade of purple I see when I'm sucking down the nitrous and the world starts s l o w i ng dooo o o o o o w w n n n n)

I call for an epidural. I feel like I'm about to burst apart. There is some delay in his arrival: I'm told later the on-call anaesthetist didn't ?want to come ?couldn't be contacted? something, so I get my friend and colleague S. Thank GOD. He taught me how to DO epidurals- I remember standing with him in PACU one evening when I was a very junior registrar stressing about my lack of experience and him saying "Doing an epidural with loss of resistance to saline is dead easy, jen. I reckon you could do it with your arse" and then him miming putting in an epidural by pushing sideways with his bum. "You'll be fiiiine". So I have every confidence. I'm only slightly concerned by the fact that I am standing half-naked (bottom half naked) with my arse pointing at the doorway, leaning into a bean bag on my bed, giving him a beautiful view of my posterior as the first thing he sees walking in. I worry for a split second about never being able to look him in the eye again. It is only a split second.

In retrospect I was in transition: I said some very odd things, apparently, none of them too embarassing, but I did beg S to fill in the gaps on the Eger equation for me. He laughed, but I was serious, in that very earnest way of women in transition.

He does a CSE, and the spinal drops my blood pressure to 50 systolic. The room is all hazy and far away, it's black and white and I feel like I'm about to pass out, but I couldn't care less, as the pain has gone. I am somewhat confused as to why S feels my wrist pulse and then moves on to my carotid, but it doesn't occur to me to feel at all concerned. Because the pain has Gone. He tells me he's going to give me something for my BP but I don't care because the Pain has Gone. I discover all this much later, and learn: as long as you don't feel vomity, being hypotensive isn't that bad a feeling. It's like falling asleep. And the pain's gone.

1030: I've gone from 3cm to 9cm in two hours; only an anterior lip of cervix remains. Did I mention the pain has gone?
1130: the obstetrician reappears. I remember now meeting this Obstetrician for the first time a few months prior- he started working in our hospital probably only 6 months ago. We were doing a late night Cesar, and I noted this young man standing in the corner of my theatre that I didn't know. So I approached him and said "Hi, I'm Jen the anaesthetist. Are you a medical student?" to which he replied "Ah, no, I'm (Joe Bloggs) the obstetrician". I'm pretty much sure I blushed and ran away, so not a good start to someone who now has his hand up my jaxie.
"There are some late dips on the CTG, so we had better give this baby a hand along. I'd like to do a Ventouse". Hey, you're the boss, dude. And I had two days earlier dug out my old copy of Beischer and Mackay and had refreshed my memory about early and late dips: late are bad.

1148: Two pushes is all it takes and I have a baby! A HUUUUGE baby! 2 stitches and we're done.

Hospital log
Day 0. Lunch, shower, upstairs to the maternity ward, nap. More nap. Mum and Patrick arrive. baby still asleep: actually hypothermic and hypoglycaemic. Oops. Express colostrum, visit O in SCNU. O is for observation overnight in the nursery, so we are sent to bed at 9.30 pm. I wake at 5 am feeling slightly guilty and confused, and pad down the corridor to the SCNU where O is now warm, normoglycaemic and ready to roll.

Day1. Ollie is a LOT more settled than P. On day 0 we could put this down to his hypos, but now it's ?nature ?nurture? Who knows- who CARES? Not us. He's not a screamer, and for that we are eternally grateful.
So far so good mood-wise. Feel much more connected with the baby. He's mine, I just 'know'.
P visits after a long day looking at steam trains.
Incidentally, the chicken craving - vanished! Whoof. Gone. All Gone.

Day 2. Started well. I was overwhelmed by the fullness in my heart for my two little boys and my little family. I miss Patrick, badly. Not much sleep overnight but I manage to have good naps during the day. However, the day sours as the nursery midwives tell me off for leaving my baby so as I could go outside and get some fresh air, and then in the evening, another midwife tells me off for leaving my room without having Ollie in his cot. Apparently it's hospital policy, but no-one told me. Hormones plummeting, tears arrive. Boobs become engorged and enormous. Tempted to request Enoxaparin since I'm apparently, it would seem, not allowed to leave my room.

Day 3. Surprisingly good night, slept 'til 7 from 2.30.
Boobs, boobs, boobs. Boobs bigger than belly for the first time in months. Huge dirigibles on my chest where my boobs once were. Boobs.
Mood much better; still in a daze at baby's calm. Lucky us!

Day 4. Much worse. Epic breastfeeding battle lasting 3 and a half hours. (Sounds like an episode of Iron Chef- "Breastmilk Battle- whose cuisine will reign supreme?") A conga line of suckholes each wake me up and then tell me that I should be napping when the baby naps. No DERRR. I finally manage to get to sleep at 1130 (up since 0330) and then woken for another feed at 1230 that goes until 1530. The staff were !wanting me to !go home this morning! Feck that! Have not yet been brave enough to wear sleep mask obscenity side out, but bloody well tempted. Can I say I liked my baby better when he was jaundiced and sleepy? I miss Patrick. I miss life. Because of my run-ins with the staff yesterday I also miss going outside for a walk.

Day 5. Homeward bound. I get up at the crack of dawn to de-stamen the lillies in between breastfeeds. MrT picks me up and we strap Ollie to his seat and head home. The future awaits. Actually, the bedroom and day/night confusion await.

More photos

2009-04-28T16:55:00.000-07:00

Day 11. We have up days and down days. Today is def an up day: Oliver slept well in between feeds and I feel like I have actually slept. I will have a sleep this arvo, but otherwise I feel like I know the difference between night and day, which is not an exaggeration.

Because MrT hates having his photo on the interwebs I'm restricted in what I can put up here, but here's a few more photos and a v. cute video.

This is the hoodie I knitted for Patrick in those 'waiting' days. It turned out pretty well, IMHO. I was going to make it a zippered one, but the toggles are cute.
And here is Patrick in it (before toggles) Mmmmm, snuggly. The yarn is an interesting mix of alpaca, merino, linen and polyamide.
Finally, brotherly love. Actually Patrick screaming "MY TURN! MY TURN! MINE HOLD BABY OLLIVERRRRRRRR!"

Actually, no, that's patrick walking around in my daggy slippers. Sorry it's a bit dark.

This is what I meant to share:

Day 8

2009-04-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe that Oliver was born only 8 days ago. And it's also hard to believe it has been a whole 8 days since he was born. I'm wandering around in that sleep-deprived/distorted state that can only come with either demand breastfeeding or prolonged on-call (1:1) as a surgeon at a busy metropolitan hospital. I am managing to get rest when Oliver does, mostly, although this afternoon is the first time I have felt awake enough to catch up on some correspondance and stuff. I'm still working up to posting my hospital log, so don't run away screaming just yet: much more to come.

I am only now realising what I missed out on with Patrick's early days: with Oliver I have made that instant bond- the equating the baby that was within me to the baby in my arms. Only rarely do I miss the full belly feeling of pregnancy (mostly in the early morning when he *still* won't stop feeding). With Patrick I would have quite freely have given away my newborn- with Oliver i am already a protective mama bear. I am marvelling at every inch of his fuzzy head and warm, soft body. Even his poo is marvellous (just not at 4 am- for the fifth time that night). I had dreaded the first 6 months of Oliver's life, expecting it to be as bad as Patrick's seemed, but not so. Oh blessed relief!

At the same time I really miss my big boy- miss being able to spend time with him unfettered. I also feel awful knowing that all this love I feel for Oliver I didn't feel for Patrick, but am comforted by the fact that that wasn't at all my choice- it was the PND that robbed me of it, and, oh boy, do I ever wish I had been able to choose to NOT have PND! I wish that I could have Patrick's time as a newborn over to compensate, but as that's not possible, I'll concentrate on having the best time I can with Oliver to honour its existence now.

I did get the baby blues pretty bad a few days ago. I forced them to let me stay in hospital another day- funking private hospitals! I also let fly with some choice expletives at our cranky old fart neighbor two doors down who decided to leaf blow our garden as I was trying to get the only sleep I had in 24 hours. And he really is a cranky old fart- he complains that he has to clean up the leaves from our tree every morning from his driveway, and he's 73, and he cleans up half a bucket of our leaves every day, because, like, it's autumn, and, like, leaves fall off trees, yeah? Actually, dude, you choose to leaf blow every morning- there's no law about it. To really illustrate this old fart's eccentricities, his front and rear lawns are so meticulously trimmed, he has my mother convinced it's astroturf. And our other neighbors (the nice ones next door) told me they saw him- get this- vacuuming his front lawn yesterday. That's right, ANZAC day. He's out there at the crack of dawn dustbustering his lawn. Crank.

Anyway, the small one is awake, and my boobies are full. Better go get milked. More fotos coming as soon as I get my act together.

Oliver. Big baby, little man

2009-04-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm home, and desperately trying to catch up on things in between napping when Ollie naps. I have kept a bit of a hospital journal which I will bore you all with when I can.

I'm mostly ok, haven't fallen into the pit of despair... yet, but feeling much more connected than when Patrick was born. But at least now when I wonder "Is it all worth it?" I look at Patrick jumping up and down with joy and think- hell YES.

Hello gorgeous- patrick's 4.37 kg brother born 6 hours ago. That's 9 pound 10.

2009-04-18T00:50:00.000-07:00

Hmmmm, there's something going on

2009-04-17T04:02:00.000-07:00

... that feels like regular crampy pain, that hasn't gone away for the last three hours.

I have just bought three things off etsy- do you think they would give me a refund if I said I was in labour?

10 in 10

2009-04-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

In the last few weeks that I was working, I became obsessed with creating the perfect nutritional dinner that could be made in 10 minutes by a harried, rather pregnant professional woman who had a wailing toddler attatched to her leg screaming out "Dinner! Dinner!!". Of course that wouldn't be me, because I am an oasis of calm and preparedness in an otherwise chaotic world.

But anyway, I have been road testing various ideas, and here are the top 10. Just FYI. And, yes, they do make heavy use of San.it.arium veggie products, but if you're a purist, you're going to be slow roasting your tofu, so, well, bite me. Most of them are lifted from various magazines and shit I've seen at work and gone "Hey, that looks quick" so therefore a veggie versions of meaty dishes. Still, bite me. I'm biteable. Oh, and we always have in stock plenty of coles smart buy tomato and garlic pasta sauce. It's pretty crap as a pasta sauce, but works well as a tomato-ish base, and is very cheap.

1. Pasta primavera-ish. Boil water and put pasta on to cook. Steam (microwave) sectioned green beans, broccoli florets, frozen peas or any other green vegetable in the fridge. Drain pasta and combine with cooked vegies, a squeeze of garlic, oregano, parsely lime or lemon juice, black pepper and parmesan shavings. Soy fillets ('chicken style') chopped into cubes up the protein content for added nutriments.

2. Pasta "summer". Boil water and put pasta on to cook. Whilst cooking, chop up spme sundried tomatoes (or fresh tomatoes). Drain pasta and toss with sundrieds, sliced black olives, basil leaves (roughly torn), black pepper and shaved or grated mozzarella or provolone cheese. Again, some chopped vegie sausages will up the protein content.

3. 5 egg omlette and 'sausage salsa'. NB this looks like it takes a while, but I can get it done in 10 minutes. Seriously.
Whisk 5 eggs (6 is too thick, 4 aint enough) in a bowl and add chopped herbs (whatever your toddler brings you from the garden) and cook in a frypan with pre-heated olive oil (NB if you use the left-over oil from sundried tomatoes this makes it very yummy). Whilst this is cooking over a low/moderate heat, steam broccoli florets in the microwave, and chop up veggie sausages into cm-long lengths (about 4 sausages for 2 adults or 5 for 2 adults and a toddler) and make some thinnish cheese slices (about 3-4mm). When omlette has almost cooked through, place on strips of cheese and fold over. Cook for a further ~2 minutes to get the cheese runny :). Section off about a third and place in the fridge/freezer to cool down for the toddler. In the left over half of the pan, slosh in some cheap pasta sauce and heat through the sliced sausages. Serve with broccoli florets.

4. Felafels- you need to buy pre-made felafel balls, some flat bread, sour cream, hoummus and lettuce. Microwave the felafels for 2 minutes to warm them through and serve up. Adults can make up their own, serve toddlers felafel balls, flat bread spread with hoummus and bits of lettuce .
This reminds me of a famous piece of graffiti that was once on a wall in Darlinghurst "God hates homos" to which someone had addended "But does he like tabouli?"

5. Toasted cheese sandwiches and baked beans. Now, in all seriousness, baked beans on wholegrain toast is actually a very nutritionally sound meal. Even rake-thin dieticians agree with me! If you serve this up with toasties, the cheese just makes it more filling. "good" people will forego cheese as having too much fat content, but they can roll over and stfu.

6. Spinach, Fetta and Olive Pasta.
Put the pasta on to boil. Chop up a largish brown onion finely and saute in a pan with olive oil. Add some crushed garlic, a tin of chopped tomatoes, and about 500g of washed spinach leaves (NB Spinach is SPINACH- it is NOT SILVER BEET which tastes like CRAP!) and cook until the spinach is all wilty. Throw in some sliced black olives, basil leaves, black pepper, and cubed fetta and then stir in the drained pasta. We LOVE this one. Use nice fetta.

7. Veggie burgers- again, use pre-made veggie burgers, and get burger buns from the shop. Microwave the burgers for about 2 minutes. Slice the burger buns in half and throw in two slices of cheese and microwave for about a minute (for 4 buns), throw the warm burger on top, throw in some dead horse and some lettuce leaves. Yummo.

8.Sausage and Beans
Cook veggie sausages in a fry pan. Remove and add some crushed garlic to the pan along with some olive oil, a tin of drained bean mix, chopped tomatoes (or a tin of diced ones), a splash of balsamic vinegar and basil and cook for a bit.

9. Pasta pronto. this one cheats a bit: you need a tin of concentrated pumpkin soup and some filled pasta. Boil water and cook pasta. Whilst this is cooking, fry up some chopped up 'not bacon', garlic and sage leaves. Then chuck in the can of pumpkin soup, and some cracked pepper, and reduce. Stir through the drained pasta and some shaved parmesan.

10. Quick rice. This one also cheats with pre-cooked rice.
Fry up pre-cooked rice, chopped onions, "bacon", carrot and mushrooms, crushed garlic, beaten eggs and soy sauce.

The following is a bit cheaty, as it uses frozen vegies which i would ordinarily call an anathema, but, hey, meh, newborn looming, screaming toddler, cat that claims not to have been fed for several years etc etc:
*Vegetable pasta- microwave a good size portion of frozen, chopped veggies (I used a 500g bag for 3 adults and a toddler). Boil pasta. Pan fry the microwaved vegies with a jar of coles best buy pasta sauce, stir through the drained pasta and top with parmesan shavings.

The next few take a little longer than 10 mins, but are relatively easy still:
*Quick mex- Put a tin of drained and washed red kidney beans, some 'casserole mince', grated cheese, coriander, cumin and some pasta sauce in a big bowl and mix up. Place a good slop onto soft tortillas or mountain bread and fold up into parcels, fry in a pan with a little oil and serve with extra salsa.

* Spuds and sausage
microwave spuds for 10 minutes after cutting them down the middle and with some lateral cuts too (think like the laces on a football but right out to the sides of the spud). Whilst they are cooking, prepare some steamed veggies (broccoli, carrots etc). When the spuds are done, splay them out and dump sour cream/butter and chives in the centre. Cook up the veggies and microwave some veggie sausages.

* Sausage stodge. Heat oil in a fry pan, cook chopped sausage pieces for 1-2 mins until brown and set aside. Cook 'not bacon' and one chopped onion in the same pan for 5 minutes on medium heat until onion is soft. Add chopped garlic, a tin of diced tomatoes and chicken-style stock and bring to the boil, then reduce. Add 3 cups of frozen, mixed vegetables and simmer until cooked and stir in the sausages and add some chopped parsely (or whatever herbs your toddler brings you back from the garden)

Yeah, still bollox

2009-04-14T19:45:00.001-07:00

My obstetrician told me "Ahh, maternal instinct: of the women who think they know when they're going to have their baby, 95% think it will be early"

Sounds more and more like wishful thinking.

Today is the magical 40 weeks, and still nothing.

I'll keep ya posted.

Why 'Maternal Instinct' is bollox

2009-04-11T20:11:00.000-07:00

I had a sure feeling this baby was going to be early. So sure, I rang my mum and asked her to come up a whole 10 days earlier to look after Patrick whilst I was 'laying in'.

I'm now 39+4 and nothing is happening. Patrick was born at 39+4 (I went into labour at 39+3). I have been trying raspberry tea, jumping up and down, making appointments, organising things to do for the next few days, swimming lots... and nothing is working. (Having a husband on night shift and my own mum in the house makes the other 'bring on labour' strategy a bit difficult). I have made new bed sheets for Patrick, knitted him a hoodie, commenced work on two zip bags to store pram spare tyres in (our Phil and Teds had three flat tyres in two days- the tube was faulty, but there's nothing like trying to push a stroller on the rims when you've got a struggling toddler in there and you're very pregnant), lined up a menu for what to cook for the next week, and made truffles.

And still nothing.

Well, I have had three nights now where I have been woken up with strong pelvic cramps that were semi-regular, but they all went away in half an hour or so. I was particularly disappointed that 9/4/9 went by with no action (that's 4/9/9 for you in the US of A): both me and MrT have kind of palindromic birthdates- mine is like 27/2/72 (it's not, it's something like it, but) and MrT is something like 23/3/73 so I was kinda hoping 9/4/9 was to be it: that was actually one of the days I was woken up with the pain so I was all keen to go.

So, bollox to that. That and the fact that I had assumed that my mum was a far better mother than me, and since she's been here, I've noted we have remarkably similar parenting styles. Spookily, in fact. That's shouldn't surprise me- we are, after all, scarily similar. At Easter Mass this morning (mum dragged me along- gave me the catholic guilts) we both mispronounced the same word in a hymn to amuse ourselves (I can't remember exactly what it was, but like in 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' "...Late in time behold him come, Offspring of a virgin's wumb...") and we both giggled like schoolgirls. So much for me being inadequete!

Now: baby news and photos-
The baby is sitting very low: my tummy is poking straight out the front, and my belly button is almost popping- about as popped as a fat girl can hope for :)

So here's some belly shots- this is what I see when I try to look at the floor when sitting down. Note absence of feet!From the side
I feel like one of those old cats that have that "flap"-like belly that swings from side to side as they run: like feline tuckshop lady arms. I have absolutely no doubt that post-delivery this tummy will hang straight down, and I'll not only be able to hold a pencil under there but the whole crayola caddy.

Having the time of his life at the regional agricultural show, where he also wanted to hold a snake:
He looks awkward, but he was just holding absolutely still. As soon as the man took the snake off he said "More?"
Eating birthday cake. Umm nummm.
Bucket head. MrT also has a bucket on his head, but as per his request, I can't show his face on the interblags. They were running around the house together. It was v cute.

Now, I'm pretty sure I'm breaking several laws for this, but, man, is he too cute?
In the bath:

At the dog excercise beach

He did start of fully clothed, but the shoes came off first (fair enough, too) then his hoodie (it was warm), then he wandered into the water and his pants got wet- so off they came, fair enough as well, then he decided he didn't want his nappy on so he ripped it off, and finally, he fell into the water and his t-shirt got soaked. I got several tut-tuts from a few old ladies, but, seriously, he's two. And adorable.

Finally, a little video.

The background to this is that MrT has been working in Intensive Care again, and occasionally does 'retrieval' shifts. A medical retrieval is where a team (well, a doctor and nurse and a whole crapload of equipment) get dispatched from our ICU to a smaller, regional hospital to bring back a critically unwell patient who needs ICU or tertiary level care. For example, if you have a cardiac arrest in, let's say, Boggabri, you'll end up sedated and ventilated in a larger, metroploitan hospital's ICU because Boggabri simply hasn't got the equipment, staff or expertise. If it's close enough, they go by ambulance (up to about an hour away), but often go by helicopter, and rarely, by air ambulance.

Now, travelling in a helicopter to rescue really unwell people sounds glamorous, but it's really not. The chopper is hot, noisy and smelly, not to mention cramped, and if your patient starts vomiting, you can bet everyone else on board will, too. But Patrick LOVES helicopters, so I convinced MrT to get some footage on his phone the next time he went out. And here is Patrick after not being allowed to touch daddy's phone (what is it with men and their phones?):

don't you just love the pouty lip? He gets that off me, and I know why my mum used to tell me "you'll trip over that lip if you're not careful" and laugh.

The weirdest thing is, though, that he now loves that video and demands to see "sad baby, sad baby!" all the time. And laughs at himself

Finally, he loves to see himself on camera, especially when it is associated with me making an ass of myself, because he can see me on the screen on the other side of the camera.

Right-oh, gotta go swimming and hopefully the next you'll hear is that Avagadro is here!

39 weeks. Not that I'm counting...

2009-04-05T17:25:00.000-07:00

Eh. So totally OVER it.

10 Things I will NOT miss about pregnancy:
1. Having only two pairs of shoes that reliably fit, and one of those is clogs and the other pair smell baaad
2. Mental health toenails
3. *Burp*. Reflux.
4. Snoring
5. Breathlessness
6. Waddling
7. Having the steering wheel hit your tummy.
8. Inability to move gracefully, at all, in any circumstance.
9. Not being able to cuddle or hug
10. Not being able to turn over in sleep witout waking up

10 Things I WILL miss about pregnancy
1. Baby kicks and belly rolls
2. Feeling of fertility and oneness with creation. And mothers everywhere.
3. Not having to bother about whether something makes you look fat. Everything is stretch and that doesn't matter and people tell you that you look glorious anyway.
4. Maternity leave prior to the birth. (Last weeks of freedom)
5. Thick, lustrous hair.
6. Long, strong fingernails
7. An excuse for a nanna nap every day
8. Meh-ness. Didn't get something done? Meh. It can wait. I'm ready for a nap
9. No period :)
10. Round, strokeable tummy. Secret dialogue with baby inside.

At the obstetrician's this morning we had an estimated fetal weight scan. My obstetrician skillfully avoided the "So, what's the magic number?" question by saying "Well, often it's position that determines how easy the birth will be, and that baby's in a good position right now, so keep up the letting your belly hanging free to encourage it not to go posterior (blah blah blah) Anything else you want to ask?".

"Yes. what was the estimated weight."

"Well often second babies are bigger than the first, and it's only a rough guide anyway. But I'm sure this one will just fly out. Have I talked to you about group B Strep prophylaxis?"

On our way out the door, I sneaked a quick look at my chart. Now, my obstetrician is a gentle, lovely man, and a good clinician and surgeon. But he has appalling handwriting. (I can assure you that it is no longer just accepted that all doctors have poor handwriting). But I managed to see something scrawled after "EFW" that started with a 4, followed by three other, scrawled numerals.

Over. FOUR. Kilos.*

Putting that in perspective, when the very same obstetrician did Patrick's estimated fetal weight, the number he came up with was 3220g. And Patrick's birth weight was... 3220g.

HMOG. JMJ. ROTFS(obbing)

Better start those pelvic floor excercises again.

Patrick news
Patrick has invented a new system of maths. Apparently any items that are of a multiple, but not very many of that multiple is "two". For example, two, three or four dogs are equivalent to two dogs. A larger amount is "four". An enormity is sedden (often mistaken for 'seven'). This makes counting easier: to go from any amount from one to very large, all you have to do is count "One, Too, Four, Sedden!" . In the wake of the GFC, I expect this may mark a revolution in economics. How much does the bank owe us? Oh, I expect it's a very large number. Maybe even Sedden dollars.

His new system of classification of arthropods I also expect to catch on. Very small creatures are ants. Larger creatures are ladybirds. Creatures on walls that don't move are spiders. Creatures that skitter around the room are ockroaches. Small flying insects are mozzies. Larger ones are either dragonflies or buff-lies depending on their prettiness.

Still other new classifications apply to vehicles. Small vehicles are cars. Larger vehicles are trucks. Agrarian vehicles are track-taas, and any vehicle sporting a top light is a NEE-NAH! Thus, a taxi is a car, but also a NEE-NAH! There are also NEE-NAH! Track-taas, and NEE-NAH! Trucks.

He's not afraid to tell us that anything he wants is "patrick's" including my chair, dinner or laptop. But anything he doesn't want is definitely mummy's. My mum has come up to help us out over the perinatal period (and to hold the fort if I go into labour whilst MrT is at work) and he is loving having Granma around; a captive audience.

Right-oh. Have to pee again.

I promise to try and update from my hospital bed if anything happens, so you will hear about it, don't worry. I'm also more well-educated in that I know I can actually leave the building to go out for a walk and leave the neonate at the nurses' station this time (strange how that got glossed over in the orientation to the ward, eh?).

So far: lots of tightening, and the last three nights I have been awoken by crampy pelvic pain not unlike period pain (!) but that went away after half an hour or so...

*That's at least 8.8 pounds. Patrick was 7.1

Update on things at casa di gas

2009-03-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

So last week was the first week of my maternity leave. This was the first opportunity we had to get Patrick's inguinal hernia operated on, given that Tuesday was a work day for me, and Tuesday is the only day our chosen surgeon operated at my hospital. We chose to have it done at our hospital because we would at least be familiar with the staff and environment, and hopefully Patrick wouldn't get as worried seeing as how we were almost relaxed. He did really well- our anaesthetist sung him a song about going to sleep as he gently held the mask on, and within a few verses Patrick was all azuz. Recovery was a whole other matter as he screamed and screamed and demanded to go "there! There!": pointing at any available escape route out of the unit. Luckily/unluckily the staff let us walk him about and show him all the equipment, but he still wasn't happy until we had left there entirely. He perked up once he had had some vegemite sandwiches and apple juice (juice is a real treat) and attacked the tiny teddies one of the recovery girls had given us.

Our surgeon had told us that he would recover remarkably quickly and maybe need one dose of paracetamol in the afternoon. I thought, yeah, right. Sure. But seriously- he went into theatre about 8.20 am, we were dischrged at 10 am, and by 1pm he was literally jumping around his bedroom to dance music urging us to join in.

He has now totally recovered, his wound is healing beautifully; in fact, it looks like a tiny scratch on his tummy.

But. Friday.

Patrick had been watching some videos I'd downloaded (like monkey vs tigers, the worldwide sirens of emergency and so on) on my new (November) laptop whilst I had a shower. When I came out he was playing with my reels of thread from my sewing machine, which I thought was a little odd, because once he starts with the videos, he generally doesn't stop. It wasn't until I tried to shut down the computer that I realised there was something seriously wrong with the screen. He had put something on top of the keyboard and the attempted to close the lid, pushing harder and harder until the screen cracked. Bugger. $1600 down the drain.

Then we went out to the car to go to our weekly 'singing' session- a little hippie kids music class. But car, she no go. Actually, car, she no even open with remote. Car battery- she VERY flat. Someone likes to play in the car after we get home sometimes: yes, I know, I know, but we never leave the keys in there, and even then, the start up procedure confuses most adults, let alone toddlers. But he does like to turn on the hazard lights and rearrange the mirrors. Oh, and put on all the internal lights: one for each passenger and driver, plus a front and rear middle light. Unfortunatley when MrT locked the car two days before he had forgotten to check all the lights were off.

45 minutes later the NRMA dude arrived and roundly criticised me for my choice of car ("You don't really need all this fancy stuff, all you need is a nice small 4 cylinder car. This wouldn't get any better economy on the road than a little runabout blah freaking blah blah...". [Sorry, sir, but go fuck yourself. This car gets far better economy than my old 4 cylinder job- wayyyy better]. And off we went.

Finally, I had a real 'mummy moment' in BigW- we were looking for baby things for a friend who has recently announced what looks to be a successful pregnancy after 2 prior mc, and Patrick was having fun pulling stuff off the racks and presenting it to me "Pretty, mummy" (he has a hankering for Dora gear, it seems). But then- I lost him.

Don't panic, I told myself. Don't panic. What would someone want with a healthy white kid with blue eyes...

I walked around for what seemed like an eternity calling his name and looking in the usual places- girlswear, toys, books: still no Patrick.

As I was about 10metres away from the front desk, I got the call "Attention shoppers, we have a little lost boy in the store..." HMG. I felt so terrible. But relieved. Relieved like you wouldn't believe. The good thing is that since then he has stopped wandering away from me so much when we are out and about, so I don't hae to do so much pregnant lady waddle/dash across open parkland, fearing for the blow dart that would ground me (but, then again; hey, Ketamine. Wouldn't that be neat?).

Did I say finally? Oh I did. Ok I lied.

Patrick has started making jokes. He's not about to win raw comedy, but it is the sweetest thing; and not a developmental stage you'll find anywhere in the books. Yesterday morning as I picked him up out of his cot, he pointed to the cat (Meg)
"It's a cat!" he said
Mummy: "And what's her name?"
P (massive grin): "MeeOOOOOWWW!" and then proceeded to laugh himself silly for the next 5 minutes.

This morning, he pointed at my belly button and said "Mine". And then back at his and said "Mummy's". And laughed his head off.

Ok, so it's absurdist humour. It's better than my first effort:-
Q: "Why did the angel fly up in the air?"
A: "Because she saw a snake!".
Cue hysterical laughter from me, with blank stares from my family. Followed by tears from me because no-one thought my joke was funny.

No other big news: baby is doing fine, large protruberance that feels like a knee to the left of my belly button is the most uncomfortable feature. He's moved down into my pelvis well: last Obstetrician visit we were at +1 and LOA. It's easier to breathe, now, since he's descended, but less easy to squat or move quickly. My cravings for ice chips and myl.anta tablets continue. I am pretty much ready except we need to scrub down the bassinette that has been sitting in the garage getting dusty and get the baby seat installed in the car. I have finally finished the maternity pants that I cut out about two months ago- I'll post some photos... next time.

Plus size maternity or nursing bras pretty

2009-03-18T17:10:00.000-07:00

Ok so the title of this post looks like a search term, right?

There's be a reason for that.

Because I fed Patrick for 18 months, I had 18 months of wearing the same, boring, ugly bras. The same, freaking, awful, shapeless sack-like contraptions. Ugh ugh ugh. It hit me the other day that I probably have 3 weeks left before I'm going to have to stop wearing a nice, comfortable, supportive underwire and get back into a maternity bra for an undefined length of time, so I trooped off to David Jones' praying that in the last 6 months someone, somewhere may have designed a nicer bra.

Nup. There's a whole wall of maternity bras. And most of them go up to a D cup. Srsly. And the ones that go bigger cup-wise only go up to say a 16. So you can be a 24B (B cups for breastfeeding? Really? Wow) or a 10 G, both of which seem pretty odd shapes, IMHO, but not an 18G. Is it just me, or does it seem really weird that you would make a bra for someone naturally tiny with enormous gazoongas but not for someone who is either naturally bigger, or just plain fat who wouldn't have enormous boobs?

Anyway, the only choice I had left was the exact same style I had endured for the previous episode. I took it to the counter and asked for them to order me two in black. "We don't stock black in this size". No, that's why I'm ordering them, you idiot. I'm not blind. "I'm not sure we can order them". You did last time. "You don't want them in beige?" Look at me, lady, do I look like I wear beige? ever? Pussy bum face "I'll see what I can do". You go girl... not.

I came home and started doing what I shopuld have done in the first place. Hit the interwebs.

Now, I'm not one to advertise normally, but; Hot Milk. Up to 20G. God Bless New Zealand. I'm in love with that country.

And this mob.

And the one I'm wearing today: Freya.

Other sites: here, here and here.

I was a little hesitant about ordering lingerie off the interblags, because, like, how could I be sure it would fit? But a tape measure and being bluntly honest about what it read (Really? I'm more than a metre around? Bugger.) But, no, beautiful. Fits. Gorgeous.

I'm not dead...

2009-03-13T01:49:00.000-07:00

I've just started selling stuff on ebay, and I have been spending a lot of time there trying to figure out wtf I am doing. Big clean outs from major nesting = tons of stuff to sell. And sell it has: 85% of the stuff I listed has sold! (I expected maybe 20%).

So we're all good here: I finally finished work 3 hours ago and now have 6 glorious months off. Hooray! Small matter of a squalling neonate to deal with, but, sheesh- how hard can it be, right? Right??

Ok- don't answer that one.

My pelvis is no longer joined reliably: the second SI joint gave way last night at work when I was trying to do a spinal. And the symphysis gave way about two weeks ago. So I no longer walk so much as wobble.

Loving every minute of it, though. Big belly and loads of kicks and rolls.

Bring on 4 weeks of sitting on the couch! WOOT!!

The magic arrived yesterday in the mail

2009-02-25T16:20:00.000-08:00

Three times this morning I have been presented with a minor injury (bumped arm, grazed knee, bumped head). After a rapid assesment (history- "did you bump your~" examination- "oh, a hurty" diagnosis- tis but a flesh wound) a swift kiss was applied to the injured area resulting in an immediate return to premorbid status (ran back to play again). The third presentation was accompanied by the patient's request for a repeat in treatment that had brought relief in the previous two presentations ("mummy kiss?").

Ahhhhh.

what a f&*ked up week. And it's only tuesday

2009-02-23T22:33:00.000-08:00

Here's what's been going on

1. My dad's cousin's son was caught in the bushfires in Marysville. He was one of the 'missing' but body has now been identified. Because of the scale of the tragedy, his body may not be released for burial for some months. I didn't know him, but my dad's cousin came to our wedding and is a lovely woman, so i'm feeling very sad for her.

2. I actually passed the 2 hour 75gram glucose test, so I don't have GDM. But my friend M, who is an endocrinologist tells me that i now have a higher risk of type 2 diabetes and insulin resistance, just because I had a borderline result in the 1 hour test. This will mean that after this pregnancy, I have to lose weight and get fit again.

3. It was Patrick's birthday on Sunday. Despite having thought that I organised a roster swap, I spent from 7am to 830pm at work, whilst my mother-in-law and sisters-in-law showered Patrick with love and affection. They took him out to see a model train railway, and reported back he was so excited he was trembling. MrT was also rostered on to work, so neither of us were there. Parenting FAIL. The day was particularly full-on, with sick patients and I only got 30 minutes break the whole day. THE WHOLE DAY. I am so tired.

4. It's official. I have antenatal depression. My meds have been increased and I'm seeing a perinatal psych...iatrist. Bloody hell that's hard to say.

5. I feel almost as bad as the pit of despair episode. I have been trying to hide it. But...

6. Yesterday I totally lost it at a colleague at work. I tried to apologise but he wouldn't listen. I don't think it will end my career, but it's not exactly a shining moment. Today I'm having a sick day- a mental health day, you might joke, but unfortunately it IS actually a mental health day. Like, a real, alive one. When I came home I sat on the back verandah and blew bubbles for Patrick but the tears just kept falling out. Patrick looked at me quietly and said "Mummy sad". I could have died.

7. I just ate 20 mylanta tablets because I like the pepperminty chalkiness of them (?pica?). I then looked at the box and noted the sorbitol content. I am going to spend all tomorrow on the bog. F@#k.

Is that enough yet?

Planning = FAIL

2009-02-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

I burst into tears yesterday when I realised I had missed a waxing appointment I made about (it seems) a year ago. I haven't depilated since just before Christmas, and every time I get in a swimming pool I feel like there is seaweed growing on my legs. The underarms don't bug me that much, but I know that every time I lift my arms up at work everyone else gets an eyeful, and they probably think it's feral (they'd be right). My brows are as free range as it gets, like two hairy caterpillars angrily marching towards one another.

I'd DIY except that it is getting increasingly hard to bend down to my legs. And I just abhor shaving, especially since the hormones give me about a five- no, make that 11-o'clock shadow and heinous stubble.

But seriously, it seems that everything lately has been getting too hard, too arduous, and can never seem to achieve anything that requires me taking some time out to do something for me alone. MrT is doing a term in ICU which means he is doing long hours- 8am to about 9pm for four days then 8pm to 9am for three to four days. He then takes about three days to recover, and that normally gives us maybe three days of normalcy per fortnight before it all starts again. Also, because he's quite experienced there, they often give him extra shifts if they need someone to fill in, but conversely it's hard for them to find someone to replace him when he's unable to do a shift. And because he's a kind and soft-hearted fellow, he doesn't ever say no to these extra days. It sucks.

Consequently, it has taken me since early December to get together a twenty minute powerpoint on chronic post stroke pain, and the renovations in the laundry- well, I have given up on getting in new flooring, I'll just have to put up with bare concrete. Having an office in the laundry with the other domestic items seems very appropriate. I've been relegated to the same place as the cat's bowl and the nappy soaking buckets. Great. I'm meant to be studying for the fellowship exam this year, but I bet you can guess how THAT is going.

Oh and I failed the glucose tolerance test. I've got this weekend of eating as much toast, pasta, potatoes and watermelon as I can before I officially get the news from my obstetrician on Monday. Is that irresponsible of me? Probably, but how exactly do you get enough protein to be pregnant when you're a vegetarian on a low GI diet? Without becoming sufficiently flatulent to run your own biofuels plant? I guess I'll find out.

grief and mother magic

2009-02-11T01:56:00.000-08:00

Two terrible tragic events have come out of Victoria in recent times. The first, an unspeakably cruel death of a child, the second (although, more correctly, at last count, 2nd to 181st) the deaths of ordinary people trapped in the worst bushfires this country has ever seen, at least some of which have been deliberately lit.

I have been trying hard not to think of the terrible last moments of those affected, but the images just keep popping up in my mind of the burnt out wrecks of four cars that had collided in the frantic effort to escape the terror of a firestorm. And the thought of desperate families trying to flee, but overwhelmed.

I am not personally involved in either of these events. Although I have relatives who live in rural Victoria, mercifully, none of those live in the affected areas. But these horrors strike me in a way I haven't ever really fully realised before.

Before I became a mother, that is.

I used to think that the whole 'kids with cancer' pathos was a little overdone. A little cliched. Why the general public got so stirred up about 'kwc' but didn't appear to give a hoot about, say, little old ladies with fractured femurs who often die in the months following these fractures seemed a little, well, inequitable to me. But now I *get it*. I didn't ever truly appreciate why the children we had admitted to intensive care tugged at the heartstrings of the nurses involved in their care any more than a dearly loved grandfather with overwhelming sepsis. But now I do.

I am now so totally besotted with Patrick than I ever have been before. Maybe it is a sign of my inner insecurity and selfishness that until he was old enough to be demonstrative in his affections, wants and conversation I didn't really get what women said about being "so in love" with their babies was all about. I also have to say I feel more than a bit cheated by the fact that some women feel this infatuated glow right from the moment of birth and that I have been robbed of this golden emotion. In any case, sometimes I just want to spend hours brushing his hair, or gazing at his eyes, or cuddling and tickling on the couch. Or to read book after book after book just to see the wonder and absorption on his face. Sometimes I just catch a glimpse of round little leg in a slightly scuffed brown sandal and feel that I am not worthy of such a blessed little creature.

But the flipside of this is the feeling of absolute responsibility and protectiveness. When I was still breastfeeding Patrick, especially when he was little, he would sometimes look into my eyes so earnestly, I would panic. It was a look of complete trust but also mixed with a searching -for what I still don't know. But it was like he was asking me if I knew the meaning of life, and could he trust me, and I wanted to run away from the responsibility.

In my medical training and career I have come up against many, many viva voce exams. And I still have at least two to go. For those of you who have never sat a Viva, it would be best described as a cross between going to see the principal and confession, mixed with the dread of having to have that conversation with a soon-to-be ex that you need to dump. But the true horror is exposed when the examiner asks you a question and you have a complete, and utter mental blank. Nothing. There is steel re-inforced concrete between you and any memory of the subject in question. This is not like an ordinary written exam where you can pass over that question and come back to it when you have done the other parts of the paper. This is someone wanting to know right now what you know (or, more correctly at that moment, what you don't know). It is stupefying.

Well, that's how I felt when Patrick would look into my eyes. Like- "please, I really don't know, can we move along". Of course now he's far too busy busy busy to stop and gaze at me for more than a millisecond before he's off again, so, mercifully, I don't have to face that maybe daily torture. But it's been replaced. Do you remember being a child and having a mother that seemed truly omniscient and omnipotent? A mum who not only knew everything about, well, everything, but had 'eyes in the back of her head' and also had the power to scare away monsters, the bogeyman, germs, nuclear war and everything else bad in the world? Whose kiss and a band-aid could ease the sharpest pain? That's how I saw my mum. But I don't feel like I have that power. I haven't been invested of it yet. My super, special qualification certificate hasn't yet been delivered by registered post and activated by a secret codeword to be emailed to me. When Patrick falls down and scrapes his knee, or bumps his head on a low-flying swing, or loses his favourite toy, I don't feel like I have the special power to make it all better. Far from being omnipotent, I feel impotent. And it scares the hell out of me.

now how does this relate to the tragedies in Victoria? Well, when I think- unwittingly, but there it is- of the awful last moments of those who have perished, I can't but help thinking of the children looking to their parents to tell them everything will be OK, to activate the magic of grown-ups and get things to go right again. To turn on mother magic. And the helplessness of those parents (or in the first case, one parent but not the other) to do anything makes me think of my own inadequacy, my own failure of superpower to make it all better. Those poor parents had no control over their surroundings, but I feel just as useless. I really feel not up to the job.

I'm not special. I'm not worthy of motherly miracle making status. I'm not qualified. I feel like I haven't read the compulsory textbooks to get through this course. I feel like I've been skipping the lectures and going to do something else (probably that diversion known as having a profession) when I should have been stying up late getting to grips with basic mothers' defence against the dark arts 101. I'd love to take a summer course and catch up, but i don't know where to apply.

How do I earn it? How do I unlock the secrets of cures for all childhood ills? Will I ever know? Will Patrick grow up bereft of magic kisses for banged fingers and sore tummies? Is it a sudden difference or will it grow slowly, like grey hairs and middle aged spread?

Does anybody know?

My heart was singing in time too

2009-02-08T02:35:00.000-08:00

Every 12 months or so I get the urge to drive down to sydney with the express purpose of just going to ik.ea. So it was today: I had additional justification: a friend who is 37 weeks heard that i was thinking of going down and she asked if I could get a few things for her. (I wouldn't relish the idea of 2 hours on the F3 in late pregnancy. I mean, what if you went into labour... at Wyong?). And Ike.a + Nesting = Carload of shit.

When Patrick was very little, car travel was oh so easy. A few mobiles, some singing and a boob at either end. Perfect. As he's grown he's taken to staying awake and demanding more and more. I guess this can only turn into "Are we there yet" in the future. So I loaded up with snacks, books for him to read (thank you Maisy mouse for perfecting the art of 'lifting the flaps') and some approppriate music.

Ahh, music.

I'm one of those fools you see singing loudly and proudly at the lights: ("Taaake onnn Meeeeee, Taaaake meee Onnnnn, I'll Beeee Goone, In a day or ... TWOOOOOOOOO", "Out on the wild, windy moors we roll and fall in greeeen", "Flicker flicker flicker flicker (etc) here you are, cata cata cata cata (etc) caterpillar girl") so it shouldn't come as any suprise that Pat has grown up listening to music of all kinds in the car. Only as he has grown older, he has become more demanding of what he likes. Over and over and over again. We had a good selection of Put.umayo kids stuff, but I got bored with it and got some more traditional kids music, but, seriously, the wheels on the bus tend to turn freakin round and round ALL day long. But a day or so ago, in the car, he demanded "Music" but didn't want either of those. Nor did he want triplej. In desperation I turned to ABC Classics. Bingo! Silence in the back seat.

So today I took my pod, thinking that he could have two and a bit hours either way of whatever he damn well wanted, and seeing the success of the ABC classics, I immediately put on Carnival of the Animals. Well, doesn't my heart swell with pride that not only can he hear a lion roaring in the chromatic scales of a piano, but he can hear elephants swaying in double basses, the slow dignity of the turtle, kangaroos jumping, fish swimming and birds chirping, but he was joining in with Eee-awww s of the donkey and requesting "More fish! More birds! More Lions!". The cuckoo got him confused because he thought I was saying "Kooka" (as in kookaburra) and he did his very cute cooka call (e-e-e-e-ooh-ooh-ooh-a-a-a) instead of quiet "Cuckoo"s with me. He didn't quite get the fossils, or the jackasses, and I personally hate the swan because of bad childhood experiences with flute lessons. Nor did he get why I chuckled at the introductions "Elephants are useful friends, equipped with handles at both ends; they have a wrinkly, mothproof hide; their teeth are upside-down, outside. If you think the elephant preposterous, you've probably never seen a rhinosterous" but he had a great time.

But just as we were coming home, for a bit of variety I put Put.umayo back on. There is a lovely version of "You are my sunshine" that I love to sing along to, dedicating it to the small guy in the back seat. And today, he was singing with me. Not every word, but every third or fourth "Suhshine, suhshine, happeee,grey, dear, you, take, awaaaay". And I just about nearly died from a bursting heart.

Speaking of which I borderlined the 50g glucose load and have to go back friday for the full 2 hour job. Erk.

Tellin' it like it is at 30 weeks.

2009-01-27T02:11:00.000-08:00

When I was pregnant with patrick, I spent a large amount of time denying to myself that I actually was going to have a baby. It was a defence mechanism against the many losses (4) I had to endure before having ababy that 'stuck'. Totally understandable. By this same stage of pregnancy (30 weeks) I had done very little in the way of baby preparations. I mean, sure, we bought a larger house but that was at least in part because I was sick of trying to study at the dining room table because our terrace was so small. I had previously bought baby clothes during pregnancies 1-4 but had given all of them away in various work-related baby showers, because the grief of that little bag of onesies was too hard to bear. In short, I had given up, and it wasn't really until about week 35 that I actually accepted that I was, really and truly, most likely going to give birth to a real baby. But I still couldn't accept that the baby would live. Thus Patrick's arrival brought with it a huge shock. I had spent so long focussing on being pregnant that I had forgotten about preparing for parenthood.

In many respects this pregnancy couldn't be more different. I have gone smoothly from G5P1 to G6P1 with no losses in between. I have not had so much as a whisker of spotting. From about week 20 I have assured myself that this baby is definitely a going concern. I am forewarned about the miseries of early babyhood and late pregnancy. I know that babies grow up from being useless crying lumps to happy, laughing children. This is what 'normal' people must feel like with their first pregnancies, right?

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to apprehension. My PND never really went away: I could blame that on the fact that I was still breastfeeding patrick when I fell pregnant with Secundus, so my hormones have never really 'normalised', but it worries me that I still remain medicated. In fact, a few weeks ago I recognised the signs that my mood was in fact worsening, and my dose has been duly upped. Again this could be rationalised because I actually had ante- as well as post- natal depression last pregnancy as well, and that I am already managing it better. But it does worry me that I will again fall into the pit of despair.

I'm also worried about how I will cope with two. Of course, I will cope, one way or another- I'd just like to think that my coping will be positive. I know that Patrick will be majorly upset when he realises that the baby is a permanent fixture, not a one-off, and I'm worried that he will feel less loved. You know how they say little boys are in love with their mothers? These days I'd tend to agree with that: MrT has been working some ugly 14 hour shifts and it was just me and P for the last 4 days and it has to be said, we've had a ball! Most satisfying was the times he'd come up to me and give me a random hug or kiss, just for existing. I'm going to be sad to miss that one on one closeness, now that it's so overt.

I am heartened by the things I see of mothers with two children, though: I see older ones entertaining younger siblings, and it makes me glad. Not that I'm about to leave Patrick in charge of a newborn whilst I scoot down the pub for a bevvy or two (tempting though it may be), but I know that in time, Yttrium will be amused by Patrick, and hopefully, eventually, they will become friends, not rivals.

I am a little concerned by the practicalities of the second child: our car is not the biggest of vehicles, and I'm concerned that a second baby seat will not be practicable. I have yet to do anything about getting a double stroller: part of me just wants to wing it with Paddy in the stroller and Bernoulli in a sling at least for the first few months before I have to do anything else. I'm pretty sure we will eventually go for the Phil and Teds that seems to be the go for all 2 child families these days- pat's a little too little for a scooter board. But then there's this contraption too... hmmm, time to hit the message boards, methinks.

And, will you look at that! In the time-honoured tradition of putting it all out there, I actually now feel better. Thank you internets!

There's only one thing missing:
I have recently been cravng chocolate sundaes. Specifically, sundaes from a fast food joint that may or may not be scottish (Mac -somebodies. Maybe you've heard of it?). I bought some chocolate sauce from the supermarket yesterday to d.i.y at home... BUT MR T HAS EATEN ALL THE ICE CREAM!! GRRRRR! I waited until Patrick was in bed so I could have one without having to share (because really all that means is I get a spoonful or two before Paddy decides it's all his) and MrT is at work so I can't leave the house. I can SEE the freezer section of Coles from my bedroom window. Arrgh! Fate! Why do you mock me so?

I tried to trick myself with some yogurt but, really, yogurt isn't a hot fudge sundae AND our yogurt tasted off.... there's nothing in the kitchen that even remotely looks satisfying. I had thought to ring MrT at work and ask him to bring me home a sundae from that most evil of venues, but I know from bitter experience that the time you finish this shift is also the time they all clean the ice-cream machines, and you can't get a sundae for love nor money without a hellishly long drive. I'll just have to go to bed dreaming of hot fudgy sauce and creamy creamy vanilla ice cream... mmmmmmmmmm. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

O is for Ossim

2009-01-21T00:30:00.000-08:00

I will admit to feeling a little more optimistic about the world now that there is a new US president. And no-one can deny it is a historic moment, and hopefully, a historic presidency, and not for all the wrong reasons.

I look forward to the world being a better place, maybe, if the big O can deliver on the speech. Except for maybe winning against terrorists: I mean, not that I hope they don't, it's just that, well, not many other countries with a terrorism problem ever really triumphs over all their threats, and the US has, well, just so many targets that, well, I just think.... "by 1990 no Australian child will live in poverty". Yah, right.

But did anyone else notice the beast they call "Cadillac One" had its hazard lights on? I mean, just in case you happened to take a wrong turn and hadn't noticed the enormous motorcade and gazillions of personnel you might go "Oh heck, Mabel, I dang nearly hit that swishy automobile- good thing the driver had his hazard lights on and all".

On another note, Paddy just had maybe what was his biggest dinner ever- two veggie sausages, half a plate of steamed broccoli, a heap of mashed potatoes and a bowl of ice cream. I even felt full watching him.

And yesterday, best haircut in a year. Short choppy bob with loads of bright red chunky strips. Sh-weet.

In which I moan about pregnancy

2009-01-05T02:05:00.000-08:00

I am loving being pregnant. I really am. I love being all round and full. I love little baby kicks and hiccups. I love patting my tummy. I love it that when I ask P where the baby is he will sometimes point at his own tummy, and sometimes mine.

But there are some things that downright shit me. Remember these?

* Why is it that when you are so full of female hormones, and about as female as you can get, your brain gives up being able to think like a woman? Multitasking is a definite benefit in my job (I'll just nudge that blood pressure whilst I make up this penicillin and maybe change the vent settings around; 'hello lovely nurse, could you just grab me some more remi please?') and I hate having to think linearly, but if I try to do too much it just evaporates. Pouf! Ideas- all gone...

* Tiredness. Crapola. I had to have a nanna nap pretty much every day in the first trimester and that went for 15 weeks, not 13, and it has started again- at 25+5, not 27/28. Holy what-the-hell? Maybe this is why one is so much more fertile in one's twenties.

* Most people have heard of eponymous signs- they just don't know what they are. That's something with someone's name attatched that signifies something in a disease process. For example, McBurney's point is the point of maximum tenderness in appendicits. Murphy's sign is tenderness under the liver when someone with an inflamed gallbladder takes a deep breath in, and Rhomberg's sign is someone who can't balance with their eyes shut. Now, I'd like to claim my own: Jen's Monster Pubes of Late Pregnancy. Seriously. I have the longest pubes ever. I haven't yet beaten my record from Patrick's pregnancy, but there are some humungous ones in there. And they're all straight too, like old lady pubes (Ok, I realise unless you work in healthcare that you may not know this, but old ladies seem to get straight pubes. Something to do with grey hair being thicker, or something. Anyway, there you go. Something to look forward to- not).

* Can't bend, can't squat, can't sit, can't stand, can't lie down without multiple pillows. It's uncomfortable just being alive. At least it's not frankly painful. Yet.

*Sweating like it's a Gold Medal contest. My sweat glands are outstripping any antiperspirant on the market. It's not sooo bad at work (air con) but if I have to dress up in gown and gloves and mask, by cranky do I start fogging up. And pouring with sweat. I literally have to change my scrubs after any procedure because they get so sweaty I get too smelly by the end of the day. Icky.

* Bad taste in clothes. I don't know what has brought this on, but I am turning into a hippie. Maybe it's just the attraction to loose fitting cotton, but I seem to be wearing all earth colours and ... navy blue. Navy blue is the colour my mum wears for Chrissakes! There are days when i am wearing- shock horror- no black at all! And I can't be bothered funking up the hair so it just goes back in a hair wrap. Next thing you know I'll be drinking herbal tea, driving a prius and thinking Peter Garrett has finally lost any shred of credibility (Oh Peter- why didn't you join the Greens instead??!)... oh NO! The rot has set in already!!!!

* My toe nails are looking just feral. Mental health staff reckon you can tell how mentally unwell a person is by the state of their toenails. Neat, trimmed, polished= mentally well; crusty, talon-like, only-cuttable-with-a-chainsaw =mentally ill. I have mental health toenails. Oh and my roots have grown out alarmingly, so I also have mental health hair. That combined with the hippie clothes plus a permanently dazed/ exhausted look must make my patients think they have Loopy Luna looking after them.

But. I really am. Enjoying it. Seriously.

Why hanging out washing is an extreme sport around here

2008-12-26T15:47:00.000-08:00

I know I should like golden orb weavers. They make beautiful, perfect webs that shimmer in the morning light, they only eat flies, mosquitoes and cockroaches and things, and the fact that my garden is full of them probably means it is quite a healthy little micro-ecosystem.

But, srsly, do they have to make webs on my washing line? And when they see me coming out of the laundry with a basketful of washing, can't they just fuck off out of the way?!!

Freaking spider in hair. Better than caffeine for a wake-up jolt.

This site will be unattended...

2008-12-18T14:02:00.000-08:00

... until Monday. We are taking Patrick for a little holiday- to sydney (for ferries) via the Austra.lian.Reptile.Park at gosford, then to Luna Park and then the zi.g za.g railway at Lithgow. All his favourite things!

Old bras needed

2008-12-17T17:40:00.000-08:00

One of the disadvantages of breastfeeding for so long was that I was sick of the very sight of my old maternitty bras, and whilst they are still in good working order, I'll splash out and buy some new ones. But what to do with the old ones?

I came across this mob whilst shopping for a new (non-maternity) bra.

From their website: "Disadvantaged women in the third world often live without a bra... A new bra, if available, can cost 10-30 hours' wages, beyond reach for most. Rashes, fungal infections and abscesses (intertrigo) occur between the breast and the chest wall. Bras will help... Sports bras (for farm work), and nursing bras desperately needed... the biggest sizes are the most needed and are the hardest to get. Every bra donated will become the only bra a particular woman owns... Since 2005, Uplift, through Rotary Australia World Community Service, has sent bras through secure channels, making sure they get to the women who need them without compromising their dignity".

The website says their current stockpile is full, however, its useful information to tuck away, and I've got a bagful to send once they are again accepting donations. The website has a list of drop off and postal addresses to send/take your old bra to.

Don't know if anyone outside Aus does this, but surely there must be... The website says you can post your bras direct and gives addresses in Fiji and PNG.

Craptacular potty celebrations!

2008-12-16T16:58:00.000-08:00

Pat did his very first wee and poo on the potty this morning! Yay! Bodily functions! I haven't been this excited to have someone crap since I was a surgeon!!

In celebration... here is my great giveaway- get set for the longest post ever.

First of all, a holiday snap that also fulfils that 'belly shot' criterium: me wallowing in the awesome pool reading Stephenie Meyer

and also a recent shot of my grown up little boy:

And now, the STUFF!

First of all: shoes. A little strange, but that's just me. All of these are pre-worn, I love them all dearly but there is just no way I will ever get my feet back in them. Ever. again. They are mostly flats: I have problems with my feet- they're flat, broad and oddly shaped (the head of my navicular bone sticks way out like an extra anklebone), so I don't get to wear many heels.

Possibly my most favourite pair of heels ever. They are beaded all over with red satin heels. A little worse for wear (I tripped down a grating, so some of the satin is scuffed). The brand is Nat-Sui- size 41, and the widest point is 9cm across the sole.

Next, a duo of ballet flats by Sambag. They are all size 41, with the soles measuring 27cm long by 8.5 cm at the widest point. First of all, black suede moccasin-style:

and then embroidered green cord. These have a little more wear on them, around the toes, but it's nothing you notice when they're on your feet.

Ok, now

Suede lace ups by Fiona Mc Guinness. These are a size 41, sole28.5cm x 8.5 cm. Lovely in winter with opaques and a long skirt.
These are my 'corset' shoes. They look a little bondage, but on your feet look like a sweet little tie-up corset. I LOVED these shoes to death- consequently, they have lots of wear: one of the soles is very thin but you could easily glue on a new one. The leather is in top shape, though. Look great with fishnets.

Red very pointy shoes by Robert Robert, full length of the sole is 28.5cm and 8.5 wide at the very widest. I can't see the size on them, but at a guess they are 41s.

Now, clothes.
A Black Laura Ashley pure wool jacket. I used to use this for job interviews, and the like, but it's really nice- it's a 5-button affair, and is a bit 'riding jacket' style. My bust is way too big for it now.It's a size 16, fully lined, very very nice, I hate to part with it, but there's seriously no way I'll ever wear it again.
This skirt is deep chocolate brown with black jacquard flowers in a velvet/suede. The trim at the bottom is a mink velvet. It's made of a stretch material, is size 16 Mosaic (NZ)label. The unstretched waist measurement is 40cm across (80cm circumference) but it does stretch well.
This is a lovely lambswool jumper. It has a brown neck trim. The stitch changes over where the bust should be- about 10cm too high for me, so it just makes my boobs look like they're down at the navel. It's a size 4: I guess that's about a 14/16. The brand is Raiss- quite mumsy, but can look sweet too.
This is a very versatile black stretch velvet skirt I bought many year sago, and despite it being VERY stretchy, I just never wear it anymore. It's a size 12 and is in very good nick. The unstretched waist is 70cm, but, like I said, it stretches amazingly well. Because it's a a-line you won't get that tucked under the bum' look. I could still wear it today, i just forget to.

This is a skirt by NZ label Robyn Jones. It still has the plastic tag thing in the label. I bought it on sale and wore it maybe once. I have so many black skirts it's embarrassing. The skirt is black georgette/organza type stuff with a nile lily printed on the lining fabric which is dark grey. Gosh it's nice. Unlike most of the stuff here, it's not stretch- size 16, 90cm waist.

This is another skirt I love, I just never wear anymore. It's made of a black fairly sturdy fabric with a bit of stretch in it, but with this red/burgundy panel that isn't appliqued, rather it flaps over. It's really very very nice. It's getting a little tight for me, to be honest which is probably why I don't wear it as much as I could. It's by Moss- another NZ label, size 16, 90cm waist but with some stretch.

Finally, stretchy Green/brown/greyish (I think the label said 'tobacco', whatever that means) pants. Also by Mosaic, size 16. It has a roll waist so i suppose technically you'd call them yoga pants? They're made of a stretchy but fairly dressy fabric. I used to wear them constantly, but now I'm too fat.
Didn't i just make this? Umm, yes. But due to the asshattery of pattern companies, I had to guesstimate my pre-pregnancy measurements to get the pattern size, and although I measured the pattern up against an existing pregnancy tee, it just, doesn't, fit. Slightly stretchy, cross-over bodice with a back tie. Technically it's maternity wear, but i reckon you could get away with it unpreggo.

Finally, stuff stuff.

Red widewale cord, 110wide by 1.5m. I bought this to make Pat a pair of overalls, but the sheen on the pile makes it look ever so slightly pink. I kept it in case Hounsfield was a girl, but he ain't. Therefore, free to a good home.

Broadcloth printed with mushrooms. Retro. A bigger piece, l-shaped, 110cm across, 50cm of that full width, then about another 75cm of half-width.

and smaller mushrooms, 0.5mx 110wide. I've put a dollar coin to show the print size. That's about, what, probably an inch in diameter, probanbly slightly less.

Enough red yarn for me to have started but never finished a cardy. They are all from the same dyelot, about 15 balls. It's Cleckheaton "Show Off", 60% Acrylic, 40% polyester, each ball is 50g/32metres/35yards approx. The guage is 9 stitches by 13 rows to make a 10x10cm square, using 9mm/00(UK)/US13 needles. It's a slightly orangey-red, deeper than the photos show- more like the photo showing the single thread of yarn. I can knit, and this knits quickly, but I just never have the time anymore. Or the patience.

Finally, If nothing is appealing, I can make some little person clothes to your specs: maybe a hoodie:a hat

or a dress?Or anything else you have seen on this blog- let me know the date of the post...

I'll also give away my copy of 'Twilight' and "new Moon"- I can't think I'll ever re-read them and MrT is very unlikely to want them...

I'll probably also throw in a load of my other unwanted stuff i can't be bothered photographing- this whole project has taken me way longer than I ever thought at first..

The catch: well, it's very easy. Just tell me what you like and why you like it in the comments. I'll post a new gmail address for you to write to, soon, maybe tomorrow (ha ha ha, I can hear y's all laughing from here), so maybe just the somments for now.

Hope youse are all grouse!

uH, NOPE.

2008-12-09T14:53:00.000-08:00

Too busy wit inlaw stuff. Will have to be next week.

Time flies

2008-12-07T16:37:00.000-08:00

...when you're having fun. Or are crazy busy. I promise to post the photos of my stuff soon. Promise. Hopefully tomorrow.

News:
feet now too swollen to wear 'old faithful' black clogs.
conjunctival oedema in the mornings makes me bleary eyed.
nothing fits properly anymore. Nuts.
But really enjoying it. Seriously. 21+5/40

It's hard rubbish week, and living in a more affluent suburb, there is some great stuff out there. Pity we are trying to declutter. But we did get a fantastic blackboard/easel for Patrick that just needed a bit of new dowel (too literally one minute to fix), and a ride-on car thingy. We would have kept kerb trawling but Pat was getting tired and ratty. And much as we love it, the pri.us hasn't exactly got the largest cargo area, esp with pat's baby seat precluding laying down of the back seat.

We are off on a baby-free holiday on Wednesday: I feel somewhat guilty about this but I'm rationalising that if I boobfeed Galileo for as long as I did Paddy, it will be close enough to 2 years before we get to do it again. 2 YEARS. I had meant to organise this ages ago, and was originally thinking, like Broome or New Caledonia or Sea Kayaking Abel Tasman in NZ but we are settling for
A Holiday on the Gold Coast
Where people dress in pink
It's a Holiday on the Gold Coast
You won't feel the need to THIIIIINK

My reason is that we could fly free courtesy of several years of accumulated frequent flyer points, and waht i really wanted was to be able to laze in an awesome pool for days on end without having to keep an active toddler entertained. Hence we are going here. It looks like an awful concrete monstrosity- the kind of place I generally avoid like the plague, but the pool looks ossim. And we got it cheap on wotif.

Right. Really need to go prepare the house for the outlaws.

I'm giving it away! It's all got to go!

2008-11-26T13:06:00.000-08:00

I did mention a PIF before, but it just keeps getting better...

One of the major jobs of my days off was to start preparations for Patrick to move out of the nursery and into his own bedroom. The room that is to become his is currently nominally my study, although I tend to move whatever I'm working on out to the kitchen so I can watch Patrick or talk to the other half, so the room is basically a repository of my ... crap.

So I'm having to rearrange most of the house to make way for places to store my ...useful materials and books. That means that lots of the stuff I have kept a hold of for a long time (well, two years since we moved here) is either going to have to be given to Vinnies OR... given away to YOU!

So stay tuned. I'm going to take some photos once I've finished cleaning out and then whoever likes the stuff the most gets it. Yay!

Pregnancy 2.0

2008-11-22T23:00:00.000-08:00

20+2 weeks.

I'm starting to relive many of the dramas encountered with Paddy's gestation, but with a certain sense of nostalgia. Mixed with arthralgia. But thankfully not the almost obsessive checking for signs of miscarriage.

Remeber this fun?

1. Sacroiliac joint dysfunction. The sacroiliac joint is the joint between your sacrum- the large vertebra at the base of your spine- and the ilium- the part of your pelvis that gives rise to most of your buttock muscles. It's basically where the 'hip bone connects to the back bone'. Stability of this joint is responsible for you being able to put your weight on one leg as you swing the other leg through as you walk without the rest of your body sliding to the ground. So it should come as no suprise that instability of this joint causes major hassles. Pain hassles, mostly, but also sitting, standing and laying down hassles. Kneeling hassles, too. Basically any position where you body is required to be attatched to your legs. Like all the time.

This was a huge issue for me in the last few weeks of my previous pregnancy, and at it's worst I could barely put any weight on my right leg at all. It's already started. I can't carry Patrick and walk at the same time. Already. F@#k.

2. Swelling. I've been aware for about the last week and a half that my fugly outdoor clogs have been feeling a little snug. Then I stopped being able to wear my oxblood mary janes. Yesterday I tried to take my wedding ring off. I wake up most mornings looking like a 'before' shot for a detox programme, only to have the fluid slowly drain throughout the day to any dependant areas like my feet, ankles and hands. Probably also my bum, but it's already enormous so who would know. So far, touch wood, there is no sign of the dreaded Carpal Tunnel, but it's probably only a matter of time.

3. Tummy. Oh tummy tummy tummy. Bigger and better than ever. Most people assume I'm hittin' thirty weeks already. Nope. I was getting the washing out of the machine today and realised I had to stand side on to it because I couldn't get close enough with my tummy hanging out the front. I can't quite judge the distances I can squeeze through anymore (I tummy brushed a guy in S.pot.light today). Itchy, swollen and good for balancing things on. Oh tummy tummy tummy.

4. Weepiness. The other day I listened to a news report on people fleeing the strife in the Congo, and when I heard of women clutching children to them and running for their lives I had to pull over and turn the radio off. Normally anything that involves mothers and children elicits a strong reaction from me, but these days it's almost visceral.

5. Cravings. It was chocolate milkshakes with Patrick. This time it's chicken. That's not so bad except for one thing: I'm supposed to be a vegetarian.

6. Ahh, the sweetness of... fetal movements. Right now there is something going on down on the left side near my hip bone. Don't know, but it feels like he's trying to paint the walls with a long roller brush.

7. Vivid, weird dreams. I had this dream I worked in an office with Brad Pitt- it wasn't like I've ever really had a thing for Brad (either in RL or in my dream), but there he was. We used to give him shit for being such a himbo, and our office nickname for him was "Fluffy" because he was so cute and cuddly, just like a wittle puppy dog. Nothing untoward happened, it was just really vivid. Then last night I had a dream I was invited to an aquaintances' wedding, and my mum tagged along, got really drunk and started slagging off the other guests very loudly whilst making an absolute glutton of herself. I had a big fight with her about it, and woke up feeling totally worn out.

8. Forgetfulness and clumsiness. Ooops. Umm, what? Sorry. (stumble trip). Eh? Bugger.

Luckily Paddy is for the most part a neat freak and he likes to pick things up that I drop and give them back to me. It's cute, but today he also complained because there was "String on my train"- a stray cat hair on one of his carriages. Which he handed to me. And watched to make sure I put it in the bin for him. Odd, very.

What's cuter than cute?

2008-11-22T22:44:00.000-08:00

The internets are faster again, not sure why, but I like it. I've catually finished the sewing projects I set out to do in this weeks off biz, but stashed up again at Spo.tlight- I had a $40 off voucher burning a hole in my handbag... I bought some stuff to make wraps for Copernicus/Thallium/Claudius/Phosphate - stretchy red polka dots with a stripe backing and some flannellette with sharks on it. Cute sharks, that is.

Anyway, back on topic...

I met my friend M at breakfast the day before I went into labour with Patrick. She was due the week after me, and her son L is about two weeks younger than P. She's now also expecting a second, due about 6 weeks before Enthalpy. L and P (also a delicious and refreshing drink- World Famous in New Zealand)(eh-hem) L and P have thus grown up pretty much at the same time, and we meet up at least once or twice a week. I didn't realise that L and P knew each other quite as well as they do until about a week ago, when we met up at a park for some playtime, and the boys started cuddling each other. And kissing. When we were walking back from the park Patrick was lagging behind (looking at beetles in the grass or somesuch) and L called out "Padwick! Padwick!" until P ran to catch up.

Yesterday we walked to the beach for some sand play, and L and his parents arrived a little later. When Patrick spotted L he started jumping up and down with joy, and as the two boys met, they gave each other a big cuddle.

Awwwww.

I'm pretty sure patrick is not going to absolutely relish the idea of giving up his rights to my full attention once Avagadro arrives, but I now feel secure in the knowledge that once he gets used to the idea, he will be a loving and affectionate big brother. Which just makes my heart swell with joy.

nOOOOOO

2008-11-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

I noticed in the last 24 hours that the internets seemed very slow. Turns out this month we have exceeded our download limit and are stuck with dial-up until at least Monday, so I won't be either uploading or downloading any photos or videos.

Nor will I be able to listen to the radio. Ever noticed the Radio National link down there? I grew up spending (it seems like) most weekend afternoons in the sewing room with my mother listening to radio national as we showed- The Goons, The Radio Play, The Feminist Perspective, John Cargher's Music For pleasure and Singers of Renown, Awaye, The Science Show and all sorts of other things. I just can't sew unless I'm listening to someone tell me interesting and not-so-interesting things (in my later adolescence and early University years I knew it was time to go and study when Singers of Renown came on). I usually listen to a weeks' worth of Life Matters, interesting bits of The Science Show, The Health Report, The Law Report, All In The Mind, Ockham's Razor, Background Briefing, Lingua Franca, By Design, The Spirit of Things and anything else that looks interesting. But now I actually have to listen to live radio?

noooooooooooooooooo

Names from maths and science

2008-11-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

Patrick was sick last night and I had to pick him up from daycare early. He vomited a further four times but luckily slept from about 7.30 until 5.30 this am and woke up full of beans.

When I was trying to see if I could get some food and drink into him last night (mostly drink, btw) I rang up my mum to see what I could give him in the way of solids (I had a mental blank) (Mum's a child health nurse) and this morning she rang to see if Pat was ok. She asked about how the scan went, and what I thought about having another boy. I told her it was good to be able to prepare for him, and makes him more of an entity than a completely unknown quantity. I told mum the 'Quantum' story, and she commented that she had seen a baby named "Axiom".

So to add to Quark now I have Axiom, Axis (or even Axys), Nadir, Zenith, Theorem, Kepler, Isosceles, Planck, Radon, Foucalt, Prion, Vertex, Aliquot, Bernoulli, Venturi, Copernicus, Fibonacci, Newton, Electron (Ron for short), Ion, and Pauli.

Abscissa, Inertia, Joule are all fine names for a girl if you know anyone that needs a suggestion (and you don't particularly like them).

Then there's always the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator. I'm to henceforth be known as Revolver Trooper. (And Patrick is Comma Liberty).

Are there any glaring omissions you can spot?

...and I was thinking of 'Sophie'

2008-11-18T18:05:00.000-08:00

Whilst in the Ultrasound waiting room I read a magazine that featured a boy called 'Quantum'.

I just suggested to MrT maybe 'Quasar' or 'Quark' might also be a good boy's name.

Well if he can have 'Raby the Baby' I can have Quark. So Quark it is

for now....

it's a Brother

2008-11-18T15:49:00.000-08:00

Hello world!

Also true for 'Specialist Qualifications'

2008-11-17T17:31:00.001-08:00

more music charts

Mummy's Boy

2008-11-17T16:23:00.001-08:00

I have been aware for some time that if P wakes up at night, he generally calls out "Mummy! Here!" in preference to "Dadda, here!" which is, in one way, lovely- he relies on me to feel good, but it would be nice if he shared it around a bit, once or twice. He's generally becoming more demonstrative with his demands as well- during the day he will call out "Here!" if he wants you to come to him, rather than just the "Mamma" echolocation technique (He yells 'Mamma' and I say 'Ye-es' until he locates me) and just recently he has started to pull or push me in the direction he wants me to go. For example, we were at a lovely new park and I was sitting on a bench having a break when he ran up to me and started pulling at my pants, trying to get me off the bench; yesterday I decided to lie down on the couch and he put his hand under my head trying to lift it up; and finally, MrT took him to daycare yesterday, and when he realised I wasn't getting in the car he pointed urgently at the passenger's seat and called out "Mummy! Mummy! Here!"(point point)"HEE-YARR!" and apparently was in tears until they drove past the local hippodrome when he was distracted by Neighs (horses).

But last night was a total shocker- He howled for a good hour after I put him to bed and the woke about 45 minutes later and took a further hour and a half to go back to sleep. Normally, when he wakes and calls out, all he wants you to do is come in, say hi, stroke his hand or his face for a moment or two and then he'll push your hand away and you can walk away without tears. Not last night. He wanted to hold my hand. I thought it so unusual that I thought maybe something extraordinary had happened- he'd had a nightmare or he felt unwell, so I sat by his cot holding his hand until his breathing became slow and regular, thinking he'd be asleep. Nope. The minute I stood up he opened his eyes and started howling again.

I love it that when we are out we no longer have to always take the stroller if we are only going a short distance because he'll hold my hand and chat away to me (coming back from the supermarket Sunday we saw a Plane AND a Nee-Nah (ambulance) which caused much (mainly incomprehensible) chatter. He will hold my hand to cross a road. He won't wander too far away at a playground- he always checks to see I'm in view. These are all good things.

But when does clinginess become pathological?

The range of activities I can safely do at home is narrowing down dramatically, as he wants me present and participating in almost all aspects of his playtime. I used to be able to blog, read and send emails and write reports, sew, cook, do washing, hang out the washing and do basic housework, read a book or journal article or do some minor repairs (eg gluing something back together) but no more. I love it that he's growing up, changing, talking, running, jumping, interested in the world around him and he wants me to be a part of all of this- this joy at seeing him grow and develop, become his own little person with a sense of humour (slapstick and sight gags), personality (independant, curious and loving) and growing internal understanding of how the world works (I love to watch him try to figure something out- like how to fit his stacking cups together, how a clothes peg works, pouring water from one cup to another). It gives me so much pleasure that I couldn't imagine doing it only once- that and a deep seated biological urge were the two things that really made me want to have a V2.0 (and maybe even a v3, but that will be by negotiation with MrT and the college).

BUT

I didn't really expect motherhood to be so much a process of loss. Loss of independance I expected to some degree, but not nearly to the extent that it is. Loss of identity. Loss of expectation of what I could achieve. Loss of time on a daily basis.

Perhaps I was naiive. Perhaps I still am (Ok, I definitely still am). But some days I just want my old life back.

And then I see his smiling face and am plastered with a big, wet, tonguey kiss, and I know that there's more to life than what I can do as an individulal- what I can achieve as a team with my son is so much grander.

Street View, Schmeet View

2008-11-13T23:09:00.000-08:00

I just discovered we are STILL not on street view.

I know I should be grateful for our intact privacy BUT even bloody OUSE is on Street View

Pronounced OOZE, for chrissakes!

New Mama Sacks

2008-11-13T22:06:00.000-08:00

Within days of getting a BFP for V2.0 I discovered that the two maternity wear shops within walking distance of my house had closed down. No biggie, I thought, I'll just hit the burbs when it's time.

Not long ago, I started to strain the seams of all but my most forgiving (read 'elastic waisted') of regular clothes. So I dusted off the yellow pages and to my horror, found the only mat wear shops were over an hour's drive away (not counting, of course, Targ.et, Big.W and (shudder) Kma.rt- ok for the very basics, but not nice frocks, y'know).

So, i'm having to DIY. Quel horreur! I have to sew! What an imposition!!

Yes, i still have my clothes from Patrick's pregnancy, but they're oh, so very 2 years ago (I jest, of course. They are stored in a cupboard in Pat's room that's too tall for me to open and I keep forgetting to ask MrT before Paddy goes to sleep at night. That and having worn them almost continually for the last three months of P's pregnancy i am sick of the sight of most of them). I could also just buy plus-sized stuff, but the problem with that when you're already uncomfortably chubby is that this option only tends to make me look fat(-ter), not pregnant, and I really don't want to have people think I have really let myself go. (I'm already contemplating doing a presentation to our department meeting on something unrelated so I can slip it onto a slide for those not up on the office gossip who aren't in the know. Although, on the other hand, I did try that with my "Breastfeeding pharmacology and anaesthesia" talk which I announced was "a subject close to my...err...chest" but people still didn't get what this newly-returned-to-work-new-mum had to do for half an hour twice a day. Sheesh. Doctors. Well, male doctors, it has to be said can be pretty dim. Even the ones with lactating wives and partners. "You have to do what?" "Express.""Eh?""Lactate""We don't need a lactate on this gas, the patient's fine""Not the patient, (dumbarse), me""Sorry?""Look, if I don't go and pop my jugs out into a cup then there's going to be a sticky milky mess on the front of this scrub suit pretty soon!""Oh (reddening), I see". I digress (just a little)).

I've got two new patterns from companies I don't normally use- Kwik.Sew and Bu.rda- There are just so few maternity patterns- and then ones that aren't plain goddawful. Even in Vo.gue. And there's another thing- they all tell you to use your pre-pregnancy measurements for bust, but whothefark keeps an up-to-date measurement of themselves just in case they fall pregnant and need to make new clothes? (Erin, maybe you should!).
Here are some of the fabrics I stashed up on my first day off:

Here is Patrick helping me to pin the pattern out (he's so useful)

Here is Patrick doing a 'monkey see, monkey do' with his sunglasses (ever since I got a fringe cut I spend most of my day with either my reading glasses or my sunnies on top of my head to keep it out of my eyes. Dumb progesterone-induced idea).
And yesterday doing his bit for Movember with a milkshake.
And drawing with dadda a few days ago
The first frangipani of summer. Horrible, blurry phone photo

Mr 21st Century

2008-11-13T02:10:00.000-08:00

Things patrick likes:
Butterflies, bees, ladybirds, cats, fishies, pink, shoes, brushing his teeth, flowers, the perfume counter at DJ's, pushing teddy around in a toy pram, kisses and cuddles, singing and dancing;

Cars, trucks, emergency services vehicles ("Nee-Nah"s), planes, gumboots, digging in the garden, running and jumping, trains, throwing and catching balls, playing with his doodle and sneaking peeks at boobies.

Well balanced boy, no?

It feels like I'm on holidays and sleeping in is not a sin

2008-11-11T16:23:00.000-08:00

The powers that be have determined I have way too much leave accumulated, and have forced me into some days off. 18 in all, although that is only 8 work days, but, yeah, it's days off, innit, so who's counting?

I have shitloads that I need to do, from major building work in the laundry to replace termite damaged sections to researching APLS guidelines on paediatric weight estimates for my formal project [my emergency cesar project turned out to need ethics approval- and all the advice I have received is to run like hell away from anything needing ethics approval] so I don't think I will have all that much time off to just laze around and do stuff all, although I sorely want to do just that.

I'm going to try and do two things daily, though- go and do some laps at the local pool (it's only 25 metres which drives me insane but it is also just a handy three minute's walk away) and to try and write something lucid here. I have a post in my head about families, but I just can't think of a cogent way to wrap it up... I had yesterday off and tried to write this very post but my computer decided to shut down the wireless network so i couldn't post it and lost the lot. i also didn't go for a swim: I mowed the back lawn instead (we have a push mower- it's actually great excercise) and totally threw my SI joint out for the rest of the day.

I'm also thinking of a PIF too- whee!

More stream of consciousness...

1. I got a new laptop. I got sick of the old one being nearly full (there's at leats 30G of i-toons on there as well as some video that I will oneday get around to editing, and that takes up a fair whack of the hard drive) and so very slooooow that i just cracked the shits and went out and bought one. On my birthday. Oh- here's a tip; if you are sick of being ignored in electrical stores, bring in a rowdy toddler who wants to push the buttons on every single piece of equipment they have out on display and they will be at your side to get you the hell out of there in no time. When they discover you have money to burn you are their new best friend!

2. I'm loving spring. Our jacaranda that grows out of the back deck is in full purple bloom and looks awesome. Mangoes are getting cheap. The jasmine we planted is in bloom and covering most of the side fence and it smells magical. When we are out walking patrick loves to stop and sniff any flower we come across, and when he smells a particularly nice one, he "ooohs" appreciatively. Fabulous habit in a young man, and one I hope he never grows out of. We found the first frangipani flower of the season when we were out on a walk on Sunday, and inducted P into the flower behind the ear custom. Charming. There's nothing like seeing new leaves on bare wood to make you feel optimistic about life.

4. Up until a few weeks ago Patrick could not have given a flying figtree about the TV, but he's now sorely addicted. It's my own fault- too: I had something i needed to write for work and didn't want him to interrupt me so I put some DVD on, and now he's hooked worse than an old junkie with a habit. Luckily the content of his addiction is not too unbearable- Peppa Pig, In The Night Garden and Finding Nemo. He's not into the Wiggles, and I have also tried Bananas in Pyjamas ('Morgan' the Teddy Bear is one of my brothers' friends from high school, btw) but he's just not that interested. We've weaned him down to maybe an hour at night whilst I'm cooking dinner, but it doesn't stop him throwing an almighty tanty in the mornings. We've managed to distract him to some degree with trains- not long after he was born my s-i-l sent a B.rio trainset (well, actually the i.kea ripoff) in the post with a note on it saying "don't fight it- it's genetic" (my own father is a train nut. A real alive train spotter. When he and my mum travelled Europe a few years ago they did it on the seniors' equivalent of a Eu.rail pass, not so much because it was a cheap way to travel, but because Dad was so keen to check out European trains- like the AVE, the TGV and the ICE. My nephew L is also obsessed with trains- one of his first words was 'Thomas'. When he was about 4 my brother found an ad in the paper for train drivers, and l was so keen they applied on his behalf- "... what I lack in experience i make up for in enthusiasm..." and VicRai.l was so charmed they made him an honourary member of the train, tram and busdrivers union- he still proudly keeps the pin on his school bag).

5. V2.0 is now at 18 weeks. Next Wednesady is the morphology scan. I'm starting to feel some movement. I'm trying to find a non-twee ticker as I lose track these days- no luck so far. I'm starting to waddle, but I'm putting that down to the cranky SI joint. Eek.

More tomorrow! Promise!!

I'm relieved

2008-11-05T00:52:00.000-08:00

I finished my morning list early today, so after a quick cuppa I went and set up for my afternoon list before I had lunch. Whilst I was in the anaesthetic bay drawing up my emergency drugs, the anaesthetist running the morning list in that theatre popped her head out to have a sip of coffee. We exchanged pleasantries and then I said "Oh, and by the way, there's currently a 10% swing to the democrats"

"Oh right", she said "How much do we need to win?"

Congratulation USA. A historic victory.

Ok so I lied

2008-10-26T02:19:00.000-07:00

I just don't seem to have time to do anything anymore- wonder why?

I've developed pregnancy-induced headaches which are a killer- mostly I'm in bed by 9 with a hefty dose of paracetamol/codeine (like I need more constipation... codeine is such a shit drug, too: wish they'd let you get say 2mg oxycodone over the counter. That would rock). I've got one right now but I'm putting up with it to post... something.

Patrick fell out of the bath tonight- we have still been bathing him in the tiny baby bath because it uses less water and we can collect the bath water easily to use as loo flush water. We have it sitting on top of a bathroom cabinet so we don't have to stoop (or should say 'had' and 'didn't). Mr T had just turned his head to blow his nose when Pat stood up and leaned over the edge, and down he went. Huge egg on his forehead and a bloody nose, but no permanaent damage (we hope). Poor little dude! We're now saying bugger the water crisis, we're using the big bath from now on.

Here are a few recent photos- first, of Patrick at the beach: we have a good friend who lives opposite this beach which is about a 20 minute walk away from our house so we walk down on the days I'm not working and have coffee and banana bread and the boys play in the sand. He's wearing a purple hat we found laying on the sand- fantastic mother that I am I forgot his sunhat that day. Unfortunately it has '(NRL football team) POWER' on the brim which spoils it but it was such a good fit and so shady I took it home, pulled it apart and made my own. He's also wearing a new tee from etsy that I have been eyeing off for a long time- it's more than I would usually spend but it's just so cute...

I hope to get the promised posts out soon... but I know that tomorrow I'll probably be late home from work, Tuesday I'm working 0730-2100, and Wednesday I'll be packing- we're off to lovely old Hobart again, this time for MrT's grandma (so Paddy's great-grandma)'s 90th birthday. (Hooray for spending time with the in-laws... umm, woot?)
I just realised he looks like he's eating a dog turd. It's not, it's banana bread.

Better view of the beach in this one
I took this photo whilst I was hanging out the washing in our back yard- how Aussie is it to have a family of Kookaburras living in your own gum tree? About 10s after I took this, though, the bloody thing swooped me. It must be a celebrity Kookaburra. Or ASIO. Or something.

Finally, here is Patrick cleaning up Merewether beach, one paddle pop stick at a time. He was doing this for a full 15 minutes and I eventually ran out of rubbish for him to 'post'. There is a cafe above us and the locals were applauding!

New post coming soon, promise...

2008-10-20T03:31:00.000-07:00

I have had an evening of no work tonight and have squandered it all looking at ufos and ghosts on y.ou tu.be. (There's some real crap there, but some really spooky stuff too- the ghosts, that is. Most of the ufo stuff is crud) so I haven't now got time to write all the crap that's spinning around in my poor old noggin- like about families, pregnancy, little girls (no, I don't know) and crap like that but it will have to wait for Wednesday. Oh and some pics of my latest sewing effort (not a small one, either)

Cheers!

hello v2.0!

2008-10-01T04:52:00.001-07:00

scan=all good. Whee!

Grooovy baby yeah!

2008-09-28T04:39:00.000-07:00

Patrick and I were in Spo.tlig.ht the other day- yes, stashing up- when Patrick pointed at something exciting, and, I swear to God, said "Oooooh- Groovy!"

Spring is definitely here- today it had reached 28 degrees by 1030 am and Pat spent most of the day amusing himself playing in one of those giant plastic clamshells filled with water and stuff from the kitchen (plastic measuring cups, a colander, a funnel, stuff like that). (Our clamshell once belonged to one Mr RJ Hawke. Cool, eh?)

Actually we "had" to go to spotlight because most of the onesies he had last summer are way too small for him, so I'm making a new batch, as well as some more lightweight pants and things for hot days- thank god it's going to be cooler for the next few days because what with him playing in the water today we basically have very little left for him to wear if it was going to be that warm again.

I know, riveting stuff.

V2.0 now 11+4/40. Scan Wednesday.
Now here's the photo for Pat's 21st birthday party invitations:
cute bum.

10+5/40

2008-09-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Now nine days to the all-important 12 week NTScan. I'm counting them down because I can't wait for this pregnancy to be officially ON. I'm still feeling ambivalent about what a poor result will mean. Count that chicken when it hatches, eh. I'm also going to find out my baby's gender this time- I think it will help with the preparation for their arrival into the world, unlike last time when I was in denial about the pregnancy up until about 37 weeks. The transition from multiple miscarriages to getting pregnant- and staying pregnant, moreover- pretty much on the fourth month is taking a while to get my head around. To be honest, I had expected it to take much longer- from 'drawing board' stage to Patrick took us about 2 years, and doing it all in about one year seems precipitous. It will also be nice to be able to tell people I'm not just fat, I am, actually, with child. There's been lots of belly-checking-out going on that I am all too aware of at work, and I will be tempted to draw on my scrubs "up the duff" so people will be able to stop not asking because they are too polite.

We spent the weekend in Canberra for a symposium on Obstetric and neonatal anaesthesia which was excellent, and worth the total of ten hours of driving on the godforsakenly dull Hume Highway. Patrick spent the weekend with his grandparents (MrT's parents) and had an absolute ball, which was great for all involved.