Grief is a strange thing.
It can make the chattiest person fall silent, emptying their brain of coherent words.
It can prevent even the most exhausted person from sleeping.
It can evoke hysterical laughter, even amidst terrible sobbing.
It can create ridiculous, irrational, ill-directed anger (more on that later).
It can cast a pall across every waking moment, making you wonder if anything will ever feel right again.
Yesterday, grief made me a bit...wonky? No. Probably 'off-kilter' is a better way to describe it.
Apart from crying on an old friend's shoulder at the front door of the swimming pool (and the thousands of people who pass through the doors between 3:30 and 5pm on a school night), and crying on the shoulder of the childcare teacher at Maisie's creche (whom I had never met before), I had held it together pretty well this week. And no, I'm not counting the silent weeping behind my sunglasses whilst driving, or the uncontrollable wailing on Christian's shirt-front, or even the general black malaise that has taken over me since Monday. If you know me IRL, you'd agree that I have been exceptionally restrained.
And I had a fair bit of lovely help this week, keeping it together - visits from Kirst and baby Eliza, and Caroline and baby Robot, were invaluable to me. Sange and Hay kept me busy for an afternoon, and my kids to boot. Miffy arrived, baby Asha (now dubbed 'Dashie' by the Mouse) under one arm and dinner for us all under the other. You girls - all of you - gave me love and hugs and coffee and company when I needed it. Thank you.
So I figured that I would be strong at Adam's funeral - strong for my darling Anna and her family, strong for my poor, bereaved husband. After all, anyone who had drunk as much coffee as I had in four days could stand up for hours!!
Anyway. For all my good intentions, grief got me in the arse, big time.
Firstly, we had to spread the kids three ways, which meant leaving the house at 7am. Phoebalina went to Aunty Miffy's house, and was beyond excited to be Miffy's baby-helper all day. She skipped out to the car with her lunchbox and colouring-in gear, and barely looked back. Similarly, Jack was so delighted to spend the day at his best mate's house, I got the whisper of a kiss thrown at my cheek before he and Will disappeared on some adventure. Mummy? What mummy??
The Mouse, on the other hand, is obviously psychic. How else could the child have known about the churning grief and guilt in my head, and pressed exactly the right buttons to accentuate it?? Since I literally had no one to take Mais for me, I was forced to put her in for an extra day of childcare. Now, considering her very first day of daycare EVER was on Wednesday, you can imagine how guilty I felt. Especially since I had to leave her there at 7:30am.
As soon as she saw Jack exit the car, Maisie began crying. It escalated to full screams as I drove away from Will's house, and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she spied the childcare centre looming. "Nooooooo, mummy!!!! No!!!!!!! Mummy, nooooooo!!!!!!" she wailed, as though begging me not to leave her with knife-wielding strangers in a dark carpark at midnight. Which is why I cried on the childcare lady. Totally understandable. (NB: when my mum picked her up in the afternoon, she was as happy as the proverbial pig in mud...to the point Narnie was ordered to sit down to read a story and sing songs. And in the end, Mum had to convince her to leave!! Little bugger.)
Obviously, this put me in a rather fragile state. And I still had three hours until the actual funeral.
About the service, all I will say is this: it was beautiful, simple and heartfelt. Anna gave Adam's eulogy, and a braver woman has never drawn breath. She was so strong, I couldn't take my red, sobbing, ugly face off her. Every poem, every song chosen for Adam was perfect, and the chapel was packed with people who loved Adam and Anna.
It was only when the bagpipes started that the ugly crier turned hideous. I'm sorry, but bagpipes make me blub at happy occasions. Play them at a funeral and I'm a heaving, snotting write-off. Seriously - I've told Christian this, but just so there's no surprises - at my own funeral, I want to exit the church / chapel / pagan cave to 'Born To Be Alive' by Patrick Hernandez. You heard me. If anyone allows my coffin to be bagpiped from the building, I'll get up out of the casket and deck you. Even if I'm lucky enough to die when I'm 99, that's the song I want. Ok? Ok.
I think I mentioned before about grief creating anger? Uhuh. How's this for nasty? My wretchedness was so overwhelming, I was beginning to look at really old (I mean, REALLY old, like proper nonagenarians) in the street and thinking, "Why are you still allowed to be here if Adam is not? How come you got to live so long? Huh? Huh???" Yep. Really helpful stuff. And totally rational too.
So even though I wanted to crawl into a hole lined with Kleenex to soak up the running rivers from my nostrils, we went to the wake to support Anna. And after I regained some sight in my eyes, and the capacity to speak, I tried to help. Passed a bit of food around. Washed a few dishes. Picked up the empties. You know. Nothing that would bring Adam back, but all I could think of doing at the time.
And now it's the next day. The fraught, emotional tension of yesterday has been replaced by tired quietness. A grey veil hangs over my brain patterns. There has been extra kisses and cuddles and a general air of leniency with the kids, coupled with a lowered tolerance level for rude behaviour. Luckily for the big kids, ballet lessons began again for the term today (and I reckon Miss Annette is far better company than Mummy right now), and this afternoon they have gone to Narnie and Pa's for the night. The Mouse was permitted Tiny Teddies for morning tea today, and was given a new doll. It made me feel better, anyway.
If only I could fix Christian's grief with sweet treaties with his morning coffee and a new toy.
I suppose this is where the real work of living with grief begins. It's not that I'm new to grief - I'm not a hothouse flower who has been sheltered from the real world for 35 years - but I am new to this grief. This is the first time a girlfriend of mine has lost a husband. What can I do to alleviate her pain? Nothing. So I bring her offers of company and wine and food and child care, and hope that one day, some of it might help a bit. And I promise myself to talk about him, with her, whenever she wants or needs to. And to make sure the funny stories about Adam always outweigh the serious. Which, knowing Adam, won't be difficult. I promise to remember these stories, and to tell his children (the appropriate ones, of course) when they are older. I promise to keep their Daddy in my heart.
And as this is the second time my husband has lost a best mate to cancer, the grief is both old and new for him. Adam's passing has revived Christian's memories of Jason's death, aged 15. In a way, Christian has been mourning Jason all over again, while dealing with losing Adam. I am completely at a loss how to help him, other than to smother him with hugs and kisses at random intervals. (He hasn't objected...yet.) I suppose time is the answer? The thing is, I can't magically transport Anna and Christian to a time when thinking about Adam doesn't hurt as much. I can't hug their grief away. I can't cook enough in the kitchen to numb their feelings.
Sorry. Here I am, rambling again. Apparently that's another side-effect of grief. Inane rambling. And brain malfunction. Because, as I'm sure you can tell (not!!), I was going to try and make some of this humorous, if only to obey Adam's order to "enjoy your life to the full". Sorry, mate. I will. Promise.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
He is gone.
Last night, late. At home. With his family around him. As it should be.
I'm sorry. It is very hard to type with eyes blurred with tears. And as you all know, it doesn't take much to make the ugly crier emerge. And this crier...she is very, very ugly.
Wherever you are, Adam, I hope the pain is forgotten. It breaks my heart to think that you are gone. I cannot think about Anna and your children without crying. I cannot look at my husband without feeling his grief.
The only thing I can do right now, is picture you pain-free. I imagine that you are bathed in the love that surrounded you in life. I imagine you, standing once again strong and tall. I imagine you moving amongst your family, comforting your children, caressing your wife.
It has only been a day, and already you are missed so terribly. Phoebe keeps asking me when I will stop crying. The honest truth is, I really don't know.
My friend, if grief is a measure of love, then you were loved beyond comprehension.
Last night, late. At home. With his family around him. As it should be.
I'm sorry. It is very hard to type with eyes blurred with tears. And as you all know, it doesn't take much to make the ugly crier emerge. And this crier...she is very, very ugly.
Wherever you are, Adam, I hope the pain is forgotten. It breaks my heart to think that you are gone. I cannot think about Anna and your children without crying. I cannot look at my husband without feeling his grief.
The only thing I can do right now, is picture you pain-free. I imagine that you are bathed in the love that surrounded you in life. I imagine you, standing once again strong and tall. I imagine you moving amongst your family, comforting your children, caressing your wife.
It has only been a day, and already you are missed so terribly. Phoebe keeps asking me when I will stop crying. The honest truth is, I really don't know.
My friend, if grief is a measure of love, then you were loved beyond comprehension.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
More than space
Do you remember the day you and Christian wore identical shirts to work? He walked into your classroom and commented on how nice your shirt was, trying to be smart. You owned him, big time, by replying, "Thanks mate. Your wife bought it for me."
And so began the long-running joke in your little staff room about the swapping of wives between the two of you. At that time, I didn't know Anna, only you and your witty, blokey jokes, shared when I visited Christian at school with baby Jack.
When we discovered that Anna and I were both pregnant, and had most likely conceived on the same weekend, the jokes got worse. And funnier. If that's possible. It must have been awful for you two. Two poor buggers, with cranky pregnant wives at home with toddler sons (Can you hear my sympathy? Can you?) Lots to empathise with each other about. Lots to laugh about.
Christian used to come home every day with stories of you. I used to be so envious of him, teaching with such a great group of people. But there'd always be tales of funny things you'd done, or said. Like the time you showed one of your classes a video of Macbeth, without checking it first. Your "mate" howled with laughter, telling me about the terribly pornographic scenes involving the witches and Macbeth on the screen in front of your students, and how you were desperately trying to shut it off. I was bathing the kids at the time. I remember it clearly. I always will.
Do you remember when Anna and I met? I do. You were having a party at the house you had built, all by yourself, high on a bushland hill. You were horrified to hear that I had climbed the un-sealed driveway, in the dark, 8 months pregnant with Phoebe. Trust me when I say it was worth it. Your wife...oh my. Such a beautiful, amazing woman. She has an inner spark that makes people want to be near her. But I don't need to tell you this - you've always known it. That night, when I met Anna, and we compared baby bumps and dreamed of the little people growing within...I loved her immediately.
Phoebe and Harper were born within three weeks of each other, and have idolised each other since. Remember that stinking hot night we all met for a picnic dinner at Lysterfield Lake? Jack was two, Aiden would have been three? Three and a half? And the two girls were babies in their prams, Anna and I busy spooning first solids into their chubby mouths. They were so cute together. We have some gorgeous photos of Aiden leaning over Phoebe's pram - what a beautiful, brown-eyed boy he is.
I remember Jack and Aiden running through the water of the lake until it was dark. They were soaked and shivering, being well and truly eaten by the mozzies, yet neither wanted to leave. Jack still talks about that evening. As do we.
I remember countless nights sitting out the back of your place, on the deck. Pizza oven churning out delicacies for dinner, nibblies on the table. Dogs and kids running amok. The trampoline, the swinging chair. The ploys our children would conjure to stay just a little while longer. I cannot remember one single time that I have left your place without feeling energised and completely content.
Our kids remember the week we spent, housesitting your place while you went camping. How they ran around your sprawling property, how they ran away from the chooks. How the roosters attacked Daddy (and how Daddy unleashed his inner-ninja on them in retaliation) How Mummy hung washing on the line between the trees, all the way up the hill. How the baby chicks hatched under the lamp on the dining room table. How exciting that whole week was, and how they wished they could live there with you forever.
And you gave us a tiny (or not-so-tiny!) piece of your family when you gave us Archie. My beloved border collie baby is a sweet, bouncy, affectionate dog, and a daily reminder that our families are connected. Every time I look at Archibald, I think of you. Which is not to say that you remind me of a dog...but rather, that I loves my Archie with all of my heart. As I do you.
Now, I know you hate maudlin. And I know you hate schmaltz. Such an intelligent, clever, (two very different things, I know!), funny, kind, compassionate, skilled, strong man as you, would hate the fuss. So I will say this. I have told you some of the things I remember (and have thoughtfully left out the poo-wees my middle child did at your house, and your middle child helpfully announced!). Here is something I'd like you to remember.
You are my husband's best friend. Hands down. You have given him a friendship few of us are lucky to experience. Thank you.
You have given me the gift of knowing your wife. I adore her. She is my non-genetic sister. I will look after her, as long as she needs me. And after that.
You have given my children three friends in the form of your children. They are such great little mates. We will always nurture that.
Most of all, please remember that no one could have fought harder than you. Your strength, optimism and incredible sense of humour has inspired more people than I could count. None of us will ever be ready to say goodbye. So I won't.
Love you, mate. More than space xxxxx
And so began the long-running joke in your little staff room about the swapping of wives between the two of you. At that time, I didn't know Anna, only you and your witty, blokey jokes, shared when I visited Christian at school with baby Jack.
When we discovered that Anna and I were both pregnant, and had most likely conceived on the same weekend, the jokes got worse. And funnier. If that's possible. It must have been awful for you two. Two poor buggers, with cranky pregnant wives at home with toddler sons (Can you hear my sympathy? Can you?) Lots to empathise with each other about. Lots to laugh about.
Christian used to come home every day with stories of you. I used to be so envious of him, teaching with such a great group of people. But there'd always be tales of funny things you'd done, or said. Like the time you showed one of your classes a video of Macbeth, without checking it first. Your "mate" howled with laughter, telling me about the terribly pornographic scenes involving the witches and Macbeth on the screen in front of your students, and how you were desperately trying to shut it off. I was bathing the kids at the time. I remember it clearly. I always will.
Do you remember when Anna and I met? I do. You were having a party at the house you had built, all by yourself, high on a bushland hill. You were horrified to hear that I had climbed the un-sealed driveway, in the dark, 8 months pregnant with Phoebe. Trust me when I say it was worth it. Your wife...oh my. Such a beautiful, amazing woman. She has an inner spark that makes people want to be near her. But I don't need to tell you this - you've always known it. That night, when I met Anna, and we compared baby bumps and dreamed of the little people growing within...I loved her immediately.
Phoebe and Harper were born within three weeks of each other, and have idolised each other since. Remember that stinking hot night we all met for a picnic dinner at Lysterfield Lake? Jack was two, Aiden would have been three? Three and a half? And the two girls were babies in their prams, Anna and I busy spooning first solids into their chubby mouths. They were so cute together. We have some gorgeous photos of Aiden leaning over Phoebe's pram - what a beautiful, brown-eyed boy he is.
I remember Jack and Aiden running through the water of the lake until it was dark. They were soaked and shivering, being well and truly eaten by the mozzies, yet neither wanted to leave. Jack still talks about that evening. As do we.
I remember countless nights sitting out the back of your place, on the deck. Pizza oven churning out delicacies for dinner, nibblies on the table. Dogs and kids running amok. The trampoline, the swinging chair. The ploys our children would conjure to stay just a little while longer. I cannot remember one single time that I have left your place without feeling energised and completely content.
Our kids remember the week we spent, housesitting your place while you went camping. How they ran around your sprawling property, how they ran away from the chooks. How the roosters attacked Daddy (and how Daddy unleashed his inner-ninja on them in retaliation) How Mummy hung washing on the line between the trees, all the way up the hill. How the baby chicks hatched under the lamp on the dining room table. How exciting that whole week was, and how they wished they could live there with you forever.
And you gave us a tiny (or not-so-tiny!) piece of your family when you gave us Archie. My beloved border collie baby is a sweet, bouncy, affectionate dog, and a daily reminder that our families are connected. Every time I look at Archibald, I think of you. Which is not to say that you remind me of a dog...but rather, that I loves my Archie with all of my heart. As I do you.
Now, I know you hate maudlin. And I know you hate schmaltz. Such an intelligent, clever, (two very different things, I know!), funny, kind, compassionate, skilled, strong man as you, would hate the fuss. So I will say this. I have told you some of the things I remember (and have thoughtfully left out the poo-wees my middle child did at your house, and your middle child helpfully announced!). Here is something I'd like you to remember.
You are my husband's best friend. Hands down. You have given him a friendship few of us are lucky to experience. Thank you.
You have given me the gift of knowing your wife. I adore her. She is my non-genetic sister. I will look after her, as long as she needs me. And after that.
You have given my children three friends in the form of your children. They are such great little mates. We will always nurture that.
Most of all, please remember that no one could have fought harder than you. Your strength, optimism and incredible sense of humour has inspired more people than I could count. None of us will ever be ready to say goodbye. So I won't.
Love you, mate. More than space xxxxx
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Cue Gastro
I am about to blatantly abuse my blog. There, I said it. Let there be absolutely no pretences.
I am a walking wail waiting to happen...my mind is a seething mess of grief and anger. I have been going around since yesterday, continuously stopping the wall of shuddering sorrow that builds behind my eyes. It is going to come out, and it will be huge. And ugly. But for now, I cannot release it. I must hold it in, and to do that, I need to write something else. So forgive me, please. And indulge me while I tell you stupid things. It is my way of coping, rightly or wrongly. Thank you.
Have you been having a nice summer holiday? I can't say mine has been terribly relaxing. Not that I've been doing anything strenuous or exciting. I mean, I've seen a hell of a lot of my loungeroom. And I expected to - after all, no one has abdominal surgery a few weeks before Christmas and expects to swan around on the beach with a full social calendar, right? Right.
But after four pretty crappy weeks over Christmas and New Year (literally and figuratively!), I started feeling like I could possibly rejoin family activities outside of my four walls. Cue gastro.
I might have mentioned that the Mouse spewed in the car last week, as we were on our way to Grandma's? (and were already heinously late?) Yep. So Mais chucked in the car on the Sunday evening, flopped around looking very pale on the Monday, and looked marginally better on the Tuesday morning. Which was lucky, because I needed to be at Cabrini to see my surgeon at 9.45am on the Tuesday and the plan was for us all to go up and then do something nice as a family. Cue gastro.
Halfway to the hospital, there was a spluttering, wet noise from the back seat...and some sort of solidy-type liquid was being sprayed onto the windscreen. On the inside. The Mouse was blowing chunks in a big way, all over the interior of the car, whilst crying and wiping her poor little smelly hands though her hair. The big kids were squealing with horror and basically adding to the hysteria.
We pulled over as quickly as we could, stripped the Mouse down to her nappy on some poor person's nature strip, and cleaned the car with baby wipes. Yes, you're absolutely right - we did a shocking job! And with a plastic bag of spewy clothes and wipes in the boot, and a thin veneer of vomit on pretty much everything, we sprinted our way to my appointment.
Needless to say, I went in on my own.
(And while I was in there, Christian made our wonderful family day even brighter by concentrating on avoiding some stupid pedestrians in the middle of a road works zone...and collected the door of a truck. The truck came off unscathed. My car lost the fight. Sigh.)
On Wednesday, Christian went on another bike ride, with the intention of meeting us once again at his parents' place for another birthday dinner (we have a lot of birthdays in January...there's a lot of cake!!). And once again, (cue gastro!) I was detained by vomit. This time, Phoebalina hurled neatly and decorously onto the loungeroom carpet. There was no warning - she was just sitting there, ready to leave. She murmured sweetly, "Mummy, I'm going to be sick," and she was. Just like that.
The poor child apologised so much I had a hard time convincing her that it was ok. Well, not ok...but you know. Not punishable by flogging. She slept nearly round-the-clock, burning a feverish temperature and deathly pale.
The next morning, I left Phoebs with Daddy and took an almost-recovered Mouse and a perky Jack to purchase his new school uniform. We were right at the back of the crammed uniform shop, laden with polo shirts and a hat, when Jack turned white. Cue gastro. (*sigh*) One nanosecond later, he hurled all over the shop floor, and lots (and I do mean LOTS) of high school uniforms. LOTS.
Since he managed to get Maisie in the deluge, she started wailing, and combined with my shrieks to "Hold it in! For the love of God, hold it in!!!", the poor child ran to the front of the shop, and vomited a pool of spew at the front door. He sat, whiter than white, trembling, while I apologised my face off. The lady in the shop could not have been nicer. She wouldn't hear of me cleaning up the mess, and brushed away my pleas to at least pay for the damage. She kept telling me that she was a mother too, and that these things happened. Still, seriously my most embarrassing parental moment ever. Might wear a mask next year to buy Phoebs' Prep uniform.
Back home, the vom-fest continued with Jack and Phoebe throughout Thursday and Friday. Phoebe grew so ill, we took her to the doctor on the Friday morning. When an 18kg child loses 4kg in a week, it's mildly concerning to say the least...even when that child sits in the doctor's office, pale, drawn face above her nightie, retching into a bowl, and tries to make polite society conversation. My daughter will be the Queen one day, without a shadow of a doubt.
After 24 hours of real concern, Phoebe began to keep water down. And slowly, slowly, my kids began to recover. They're still not eating to their normal capacities (silver lining: the grocery bill was considerably smaller this week!) but now they seem like their old selves again...squabbling over their 'spot' on the couch; squabbling over the scooters in the back yard; squabbling over pretty much anything you could name. So, back to normal.
Only...now it's Christian's turn. Not gastro. We think. (We hope!) No, we think Christian has food poisoning acquired from a late-night chicken pizza on his way home from golf yesterday. He is wretched. I am more thankful than I can say that I have not had to clean up his vomit. I mean, come on. I love him more than words can say, but...there's a line. Ok?
So the kids and I hunkered down inside today, away from the heat (and from Daddy lying crumpled in the bedroom), until the sting in the sun had gone down a little. We met Narnie, Miffy and Asha at the beach and had a lovely, reviving swim in the ocean. Amazing how salt water can dissolve the stench of vomit ingrained inside your nostrils...
After I had (single-handedly) driven three happy, wet, sandy kids home, fed them a picnic dinner, bathed them and dressed them in cool, clean pyjamas, I put them to bed happy as Larry. (Who, BTW, I'd love to meet one day - I need to learn from him I reckon). Apart from Maisie getting into the toy box at the end of her cot and dressing herself in a 'danshing' meant for a Cabbage Patch Kid, it was an uneventful bedtime. No vomit. Yippee.
As for tomorrow? I have two resolutions. To remind myself that life is for living, and that excess crying makes one ugly (and although the crying is inevitable, I should at least attempt to keep it at bay for one more day, if only for the sake of those around me). And to get the car detailed. Urgh.
I am a walking wail waiting to happen...my mind is a seething mess of grief and anger. I have been going around since yesterday, continuously stopping the wall of shuddering sorrow that builds behind my eyes. It is going to come out, and it will be huge. And ugly. But for now, I cannot release it. I must hold it in, and to do that, I need to write something else. So forgive me, please. And indulge me while I tell you stupid things. It is my way of coping, rightly or wrongly. Thank you.
Have you been having a nice summer holiday? I can't say mine has been terribly relaxing. Not that I've been doing anything strenuous or exciting. I mean, I've seen a hell of a lot of my loungeroom. And I expected to - after all, no one has abdominal surgery a few weeks before Christmas and expects to swan around on the beach with a full social calendar, right? Right.
But after four pretty crappy weeks over Christmas and New Year (literally and figuratively!), I started feeling like I could possibly rejoin family activities outside of my four walls. Cue gastro.
I might have mentioned that the Mouse spewed in the car last week, as we were on our way to Grandma's? (and were already heinously late?) Yep. So Mais chucked in the car on the Sunday evening, flopped around looking very pale on the Monday, and looked marginally better on the Tuesday morning. Which was lucky, because I needed to be at Cabrini to see my surgeon at 9.45am on the Tuesday and the plan was for us all to go up and then do something nice as a family. Cue gastro.
Halfway to the hospital, there was a spluttering, wet noise from the back seat...and some sort of solidy-type liquid was being sprayed onto the windscreen. On the inside. The Mouse was blowing chunks in a big way, all over the interior of the car, whilst crying and wiping her poor little smelly hands though her hair. The big kids were squealing with horror and basically adding to the hysteria.
We pulled over as quickly as we could, stripped the Mouse down to her nappy on some poor person's nature strip, and cleaned the car with baby wipes. Yes, you're absolutely right - we did a shocking job! And with a plastic bag of spewy clothes and wipes in the boot, and a thin veneer of vomit on pretty much everything, we sprinted our way to my appointment.
Needless to say, I went in on my own.
(And while I was in there, Christian made our wonderful family day even brighter by concentrating on avoiding some stupid pedestrians in the middle of a road works zone...and collected the door of a truck. The truck came off unscathed. My car lost the fight. Sigh.)
On Wednesday, Christian went on another bike ride, with the intention of meeting us once again at his parents' place for another birthday dinner (we have a lot of birthdays in January...there's a lot of cake!!). And once again, (cue gastro!) I was detained by vomit. This time, Phoebalina hurled neatly and decorously onto the loungeroom carpet. There was no warning - she was just sitting there, ready to leave. She murmured sweetly, "Mummy, I'm going to be sick," and she was. Just like that.
The poor child apologised so much I had a hard time convincing her that it was ok. Well, not ok...but you know. Not punishable by flogging. She slept nearly round-the-clock, burning a feverish temperature and deathly pale.
The next morning, I left Phoebs with Daddy and took an almost-recovered Mouse and a perky Jack to purchase his new school uniform. We were right at the back of the crammed uniform shop, laden with polo shirts and a hat, when Jack turned white. Cue gastro. (*sigh*) One nanosecond later, he hurled all over the shop floor, and lots (and I do mean LOTS) of high school uniforms. LOTS.
Since he managed to get Maisie in the deluge, she started wailing, and combined with my shrieks to "Hold it in! For the love of God, hold it in!!!", the poor child ran to the front of the shop, and vomited a pool of spew at the front door. He sat, whiter than white, trembling, while I apologised my face off. The lady in the shop could not have been nicer. She wouldn't hear of me cleaning up the mess, and brushed away my pleas to at least pay for the damage. She kept telling me that she was a mother too, and that these things happened. Still, seriously my most embarrassing parental moment ever. Might wear a mask next year to buy Phoebs' Prep uniform.
Back home, the vom-fest continued with Jack and Phoebe throughout Thursday and Friday. Phoebe grew so ill, we took her to the doctor on the Friday morning. When an 18kg child loses 4kg in a week, it's mildly concerning to say the least...even when that child sits in the doctor's office, pale, drawn face above her nightie, retching into a bowl, and tries to make polite society conversation. My daughter will be the Queen one day, without a shadow of a doubt.
After 24 hours of real concern, Phoebe began to keep water down. And slowly, slowly, my kids began to recover. They're still not eating to their normal capacities (silver lining: the grocery bill was considerably smaller this week!) but now they seem like their old selves again...squabbling over their 'spot' on the couch; squabbling over the scooters in the back yard; squabbling over pretty much anything you could name. So, back to normal.
Only...now it's Christian's turn. Not gastro. We think. (We hope!) No, we think Christian has food poisoning acquired from a late-night chicken pizza on his way home from golf yesterday. He is wretched. I am more thankful than I can say that I have not had to clean up his vomit. I mean, come on. I love him more than words can say, but...there's a line. Ok?
So the kids and I hunkered down inside today, away from the heat (and from Daddy lying crumpled in the bedroom), until the sting in the sun had gone down a little. We met Narnie, Miffy and Asha at the beach and had a lovely, reviving swim in the ocean. Amazing how salt water can dissolve the stench of vomit ingrained inside your nostrils...
After I had (single-handedly) driven three happy, wet, sandy kids home, fed them a picnic dinner, bathed them and dressed them in cool, clean pyjamas, I put them to bed happy as Larry. (Who, BTW, I'd love to meet one day - I need to learn from him I reckon). Apart from Maisie getting into the toy box at the end of her cot and dressing herself in a 'danshing' meant for a Cabbage Patch Kid, it was an uneventful bedtime. No vomit. Yippee.
As for tomorrow? I have two resolutions. To remind myself that life is for living, and that excess crying makes one ugly (and although the crying is inevitable, I should at least attempt to keep it at bay for one more day, if only for the sake of those around me). And to get the car detailed. Urgh.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Goodbye, Cherokee
It's funny, isn't it, how you remember specific snatches of your childhood. How years and years of being a child become snapshots; how only certain memories of your early childhood and adolescence are kept.
I've sometimes wondered why we keep certain memories and not others...why, for example, I distinctly remember climbing out of my cot, aged 18 months, and walking into my parents' bedroom very early in the morning. I was looking for my wooden chicken. It was dark, and my Mummy got cross. Understandably.
I suppose, rather than retaining a photographic record of childhood in our brains, we keep feelings. All of the hugs given and received, all of the stories read, all of the birthday cakes baked, all of the ordinary days spent doing ordinary things, all of the happinesses and sadnesses - they all combine to form a conglomeration of emotions that colour our childhoods.
The luckiest people are those whose childhoods were happy. It is what every child deserves, and hopes for. This is the story of a horse who coloured my family's life in the best possible way, and who made my sister's childhood magical.
My brother and sister and I were (and are) among the luckiest kids on the planet. We had what you could call an idyllic childhood. Even though our parents weren't wealthy, they gave us love and attention in spades, good food to eat, fresh air and a big back yard to run in, and an extended family of pets.
Even before I was born, Mum and Dad had two dogs and a pussy cat, and over the years the menagerie grew. Thanks predominantly to my sister Miffy, at various points in time we had dogs and cats (always!), rabbits, guinea pigs, canaries, mice, hermit crabs, fish, blue tongue lizards and horses. My mum drew the line at ferrets. (Fair enough, too.)
My sister's obsession with horses began in the womb, I'm sure of it. Stables of My Little Ponies were groomed and trotted out by two-year-old Miffy; our dog Tubby was saddled up a few times until Dad rescued the poor dog; and even the back of the couch was commandeered as a pretend pony. I remember getting quite upset when my sister took some of my knitted dolls' clothes and cut them up to make blankets and rugs for her ponies. Some would call her artistic and inventive - I called it plain old destructive!
Miffy learned to ride from a very young age, and always had the natural ability of someone who understood animals completely. She was at ease on horseback, comfortable in the company of horses, and always happiest when covered in horsey muck.
So when Mum and Dad bought Miffy her first horse when she was eleven, she was the happiest girl alive. Cherokee was a 16 year old Appaloosa, a beautiful, gentle old boy with a mottled brown and white coat. He had what Miffy described as an 'optimistic' face, because he always looked pleased to see you, in his own quiet way.
Checks, as he soon became known, was as honest as the day is long. He and Miffy rode happily together for years, and Mum never worried (and amazing occurrence in our house, believe me!) when they were out on a trail ride. I can remember a time when Miffy's favourite outing was to Horseland, and she would spend ages looking at all the bridles and saddles, dreaming of kitting Checks out in gorgeous new gear. Every penny she had, she spent on him.
For as long as I can remember, my sister would be popping out to take Checks' rug off, or put it back on; she would fret if the weather changed and he might be too hot or too cold. He was fed every day, talked to, groomed. Dad used to laugh that Cherokee would greet him by practically frisking Dad for treats in his pockets - I remember him coming home one night from feeding Checks, saying that he had removed the car keys from Dad's pants and looked quite disgusted when he couldn't eat them!
Pony Club was a huge part of my sister's childhood. She and Checks (and Mum and Dad) spent practically every weekend floating Checks to various meetings. He would have his mane braided, his tail groomed, his coat brushed until is gleamed. You could tell Checks enjoyed the outing as much as my sister did - it didn't matter if they were jumping, or doing dressage, or simply riding. They were together.
When Cherokee damaged his leg in a fence, Dad and Miffy spent months bandaging it twice a day, every day. When he grew too old to be ridden, Mum or Dad, or sometimes both, would go with Mif just to feed the old man and say hello. During his retirement, Checks lived with several other horses on a lovely local property. He was happy, whinnying to the others horses when he felt like a chat, or simply standing under a tree for a quiet dream. Many, many times, we joked that he was like another big, friendly dog, just like Dad's pups at home.
As my sister grew older, she acquired a beautiful mare, Prisma. Prissy has since given birth to three foals, and two of them survived. So at the age of 28, my little sister had a menagerie all of her own - two dogs, a one-eyed, three-legged kitten, a duck, and four horses. And of course, just before Christmas she added her own little bubba to the farm, which meant that feeding time at the zoo became quite chaotic.
Last year, it became clear that our old man was beginning to fail. Although he was happy in himself, he was losing condition, and Miffy suspected something was wrong with his stomach. She fed him up as best as she could, and saw him every single day. But even the best veterinary care in the world could not reverse the fact that Checks was 35 years old - positively ancient in horse years.
On Sunday, Cherokee was taken to Mum and Dad's place, and put in their huge, leafy back yard with the two dogs for company. Mum said that he'd settled in so well, it was a shame they hadn't done it earlier. Checks kept coming up onto the back deck, looking for munchies in the flowerpots, so in the end Dad had to shut the gate. Checks just hung his head over the fence, looking straight in the kitchen window at Mum. It was like having her own Mr. Ed, she said.
I saw him there yesterday afternoon, clopping around under the trees, drinking out of the dogs' water bowl because he preferred it to his own. He whinnyed at my sister to hurry up with his food, and stood champing on it hungrily, always lifting that same front leg to paw at the bucket. He was the same old Checks from our childhood, just very, very old, way too thin, and extremely tired.
Only the luckiest people experience nineteen years of love. Miffy and Cherokee were best friends and partners in crime for nineteen magical years. With him, she grew from a little girl into a woman, and finally a mother. With her, he experienced a lifetime of companionship, love and trust. I cannot imagine a time when my sister will be without her beloved boy, but now I have to.
We said goodbye to Cherokee under the trees, in my parents' backyard. He went as peacefully as he lived; quietly and with dignity. My heart is breaking for my family, but mostly for my little sister, who knew that her beautiful boy could not be asked to go on any longer.
Thank you Cherokee, for being a part of our family. You gave so much happiness to all of us, and we will miss your soft eyes and nuzzling nose. We will miss your bossy pushing and the smears of grassy slime up our shirts. We will miss having our pockets searched. We will miss the loud greeting whinny, and the canter over to say hello. But the time has come for you to gallop up to the big paddock in the sky, where the grass is always lush and green; where you can eat as many apples as you like; where the sun and the shade are just how you like it. The time has come for you to rest your old bones, my friend, and know that you have lived a life of love. Goodbye, Checks. We will always love you.
I've sometimes wondered why we keep certain memories and not others...why, for example, I distinctly remember climbing out of my cot, aged 18 months, and walking into my parents' bedroom very early in the morning. I was looking for my wooden chicken. It was dark, and my Mummy got cross. Understandably.
I suppose, rather than retaining a photographic record of childhood in our brains, we keep feelings. All of the hugs given and received, all of the stories read, all of the birthday cakes baked, all of the ordinary days spent doing ordinary things, all of the happinesses and sadnesses - they all combine to form a conglomeration of emotions that colour our childhoods.
The luckiest people are those whose childhoods were happy. It is what every child deserves, and hopes for. This is the story of a horse who coloured my family's life in the best possible way, and who made my sister's childhood magical.
My brother and sister and I were (and are) among the luckiest kids on the planet. We had what you could call an idyllic childhood. Even though our parents weren't wealthy, they gave us love and attention in spades, good food to eat, fresh air and a big back yard to run in, and an extended family of pets.
Even before I was born, Mum and Dad had two dogs and a pussy cat, and over the years the menagerie grew. Thanks predominantly to my sister Miffy, at various points in time we had dogs and cats (always!), rabbits, guinea pigs, canaries, mice, hermit crabs, fish, blue tongue lizards and horses. My mum drew the line at ferrets. (Fair enough, too.)
My sister's obsession with horses began in the womb, I'm sure of it. Stables of My Little Ponies were groomed and trotted out by two-year-old Miffy; our dog Tubby was saddled up a few times until Dad rescued the poor dog; and even the back of the couch was commandeered as a pretend pony. I remember getting quite upset when my sister took some of my knitted dolls' clothes and cut them up to make blankets and rugs for her ponies. Some would call her artistic and inventive - I called it plain old destructive!
Miffy learned to ride from a very young age, and always had the natural ability of someone who understood animals completely. She was at ease on horseback, comfortable in the company of horses, and always happiest when covered in horsey muck.
So when Mum and Dad bought Miffy her first horse when she was eleven, she was the happiest girl alive. Cherokee was a 16 year old Appaloosa, a beautiful, gentle old boy with a mottled brown and white coat. He had what Miffy described as an 'optimistic' face, because he always looked pleased to see you, in his own quiet way.
Checks, as he soon became known, was as honest as the day is long. He and Miffy rode happily together for years, and Mum never worried (and amazing occurrence in our house, believe me!) when they were out on a trail ride. I can remember a time when Miffy's favourite outing was to Horseland, and she would spend ages looking at all the bridles and saddles, dreaming of kitting Checks out in gorgeous new gear. Every penny she had, she spent on him.
For as long as I can remember, my sister would be popping out to take Checks' rug off, or put it back on; she would fret if the weather changed and he might be too hot or too cold. He was fed every day, talked to, groomed. Dad used to laugh that Cherokee would greet him by practically frisking Dad for treats in his pockets - I remember him coming home one night from feeding Checks, saying that he had removed the car keys from Dad's pants and looked quite disgusted when he couldn't eat them!
Pony Club was a huge part of my sister's childhood. She and Checks (and Mum and Dad) spent practically every weekend floating Checks to various meetings. He would have his mane braided, his tail groomed, his coat brushed until is gleamed. You could tell Checks enjoyed the outing as much as my sister did - it didn't matter if they were jumping, or doing dressage, or simply riding. They were together.
When Cherokee damaged his leg in a fence, Dad and Miffy spent months bandaging it twice a day, every day. When he grew too old to be ridden, Mum or Dad, or sometimes both, would go with Mif just to feed the old man and say hello. During his retirement, Checks lived with several other horses on a lovely local property. He was happy, whinnying to the others horses when he felt like a chat, or simply standing under a tree for a quiet dream. Many, many times, we joked that he was like another big, friendly dog, just like Dad's pups at home.
As my sister grew older, she acquired a beautiful mare, Prisma. Prissy has since given birth to three foals, and two of them survived. So at the age of 28, my little sister had a menagerie all of her own - two dogs, a one-eyed, three-legged kitten, a duck, and four horses. And of course, just before Christmas she added her own little bubba to the farm, which meant that feeding time at the zoo became quite chaotic.
Last year, it became clear that our old man was beginning to fail. Although he was happy in himself, he was losing condition, and Miffy suspected something was wrong with his stomach. She fed him up as best as she could, and saw him every single day. But even the best veterinary care in the world could not reverse the fact that Checks was 35 years old - positively ancient in horse years.
On Sunday, Cherokee was taken to Mum and Dad's place, and put in their huge, leafy back yard with the two dogs for company. Mum said that he'd settled in so well, it was a shame they hadn't done it earlier. Checks kept coming up onto the back deck, looking for munchies in the flowerpots, so in the end Dad had to shut the gate. Checks just hung his head over the fence, looking straight in the kitchen window at Mum. It was like having her own Mr. Ed, she said.
I saw him there yesterday afternoon, clopping around under the trees, drinking out of the dogs' water bowl because he preferred it to his own. He whinnyed at my sister to hurry up with his food, and stood champing on it hungrily, always lifting that same front leg to paw at the bucket. He was the same old Checks from our childhood, just very, very old, way too thin, and extremely tired.
Only the luckiest people experience nineteen years of love. Miffy and Cherokee were best friends and partners in crime for nineteen magical years. With him, she grew from a little girl into a woman, and finally a mother. With her, he experienced a lifetime of companionship, love and trust. I cannot imagine a time when my sister will be without her beloved boy, but now I have to.
We said goodbye to Cherokee under the trees, in my parents' backyard. He went as peacefully as he lived; quietly and with dignity. My heart is breaking for my family, but mostly for my little sister, who knew that her beautiful boy could not be asked to go on any longer.
Thank you Cherokee, for being a part of our family. You gave so much happiness to all of us, and we will miss your soft eyes and nuzzling nose. We will miss your bossy pushing and the smears of grassy slime up our shirts. We will miss having our pockets searched. We will miss the loud greeting whinny, and the canter over to say hello. But the time has come for you to gallop up to the big paddock in the sky, where the grass is always lush and green; where you can eat as many apples as you like; where the sun and the shade are just how you like it. The time has come for you to rest your old bones, my friend, and know that you have lived a life of love. Goodbye, Checks. We will always love you.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Shary Bobbins Approach To Parenting
Parenting is great. Difficult, yes. Challenging, definitely. Rewarding? You betcha. Obviously, since so many people become parents, it can't be ALL bad.
(Allow me to insert a small clarification here: clearly, many people choose to become parents and go to extraordinary lengths to do so, by hook or by crook...whilst others have parenthood thrust upon them by "surprise". The thing is, even if there's a 0.01% chance of getting pregnant, then even though that's quite unlikely, it's not totally out of the question, is it?? So those who say they got pregnant by accident...no. No, you didn't. You just got unbelieveably lucky. You should buy a lottery ticket).
Anyway.
There's a lot of love involved in parenting. And a lot of hard work. A lot of book reading. Helluva lot of chopping up fruit. A ton of cuddles. And, it would seem, a whole lot of vomit.
Luckily, after a few years of dealing with the partially-digested foodstuffs of another person, you get used to it. Sort of.
What I mean is, (and I'm not talking about baby milk possets here, oh no. That's child's play compared to real, actual-chunks-of-food-mixed-with-digestive-juices vomit) the first time I dealt with a vommy of Jack's, I spent the first five minutes shrieking and flapping my hands in horror. After Jackie-boy had spewed on me a few times, I realised (yes, I'm a bit slow on the uptake) that the less time I spent squealing and gesticulating, the less time I would be forced to inhale particles of upchuck.
As a result, I guess I got better at cleaning up my children's vomit (which has been documented before, here, and curiously has become a hotly-pursued topic on Google. Really!! I know!) And the follow-on from this was that becoming the vommittee (that is, the person being vomitted on) didn't really phase me. Well, not as much as it had in the past. Had Christian tried spewing on me...well. I didn't give birth to him, did I?
So anyway, the Mouse has been a bit off the last few days, but I wasn't really that worried. I mean, she's two, she's teething, it's hot, and she's two. Right? It's not like her head was spinning on her neck or anything really scary. We just haven't been getting that much sleep over the last week, since most nights Mais has been crying on and off, seemingly having bad dreams. It wouldn't ordinarily bother us, except for the fact that the kids are still all sharing one room. So when one wakes up, they all wake up - and at 2am, I'm sure you can appreciate my angst.
Yesterday morning, the air was rent by earth-shattering shrieks at 5.54am. I'm sure you would have been impressed with the athleticism I displayed, leaping from the bed (whilst still completely asleep) and hurtling into the kids' room to shush the Mouse before the big kids woke for the all-day activity called "Playing With Really Loud Toys".
There, I was greeted by a very distressed Mouse, dripping in her own spew. Her face, her pillow, her pyjamas, her cot - all were covered in the remains of her vegetables and fish cakes eaten for dinner the night before (and before you ask - yes! There CAN be more disgusting forms of vomit! Fish, in particular, can be very...aromatic. Pungent, even).
Now, I'm no hero. But I reckon I did a pretty good job of staying calm. I stripped her off on the tiles, Christian grabbed a facewasher and a drink of water for her, and together we cleaned her up well enough to climb back into our bed. The poor little bugger slept between us for another hour and a bit, smelling faintly of spew but still pretty damn cute.
She had a fairly quiet day, just playing and sleeping. I thought it must have been an errant toddler-tummy thing, because around afternoon-tea-time, the Mouse presented me with a bowl and commanded, "Bowl!", which means, "Take this vessel and fill it with food, woman, for I am a hungry girl and desire to be fed. Promptly!". So I put dry biscuits and apple slices in the bowl, figuring they'd be safe food for a wobbly tummy. She ate them. Cool.
Since we were due at Grandma's house for a birthday BBQ at 4pm, I chucked the kids, some hats and sunscreen, the cricket set and a salad in the car and expected to be at our destination about 15 minutes later. Silly, silly Mummy.
Half way there, there was a splashing noise, followed by crying (Mouse) and shrieking (Jack and Phoebs, who were also flapping their hands). Covering my beloved baby was a stream of undigested apple and dry biscuits (and there might have been cheese in there too...hard to tell). Keeping (scarily) calm, I chucked a U-ey, drove home, stripped her off in the driveway, barked at the big kids to get over themselves and step over the vomit pieces, cleaned her up, re-dressed her, and called Christian.
Because what else could I do? My poor beleaguered husband had actually managed to escape for a bike ride, and was meeting us at Grandma's house. So in the absence of another grown-up to clean up the mess, what could I do but deal with it? I'd tried standing around, hand-flapping...it's quite ineffective.
By the time the Mouse was clean and calm, and the washing machine was chugging away with yet another load of chunky clothes, we were outside reloading the car. Only problem was, I hadn't cleaned the car seat. Bleurgh.
Dettol wipes took care of the chunks and blobs on top of the car seat...but nothing could get at the bits inside the seat belt clasp. And I kind of underestimated how much liquid had soaked into the actual fabric of the car seat. (What kind of mother am I?) So I'm afraid I used the Shary Bobbins approach to cleaning (if you don't know who she is, remember the Mary Poppins rip-off character on The Simpsons?) and stuffed tissues under the Mouse's bottom to soak up the residue, flung her in the car and drove to where the other adults were.
My punishment for this lacksadaisical parenting? Every time a little bit of sunshine hit the car, a whiff of warm chunder was emitted from the baby seat. It was a very warm, sunshiny day. Nuff said.
We arrived at Grandma's with all the car windows down. And left them down. I didn't eat much last night. Can't blame me really, can you?
So yeah. You wanna learn resilience? Patience? How to do a half-assed job? Try parenting. It's great. Difficult. Challenging. Rewarding. And smelly. That pretty much covers it, right?
(Allow me to insert a small clarification here: clearly, many people choose to become parents and go to extraordinary lengths to do so, by hook or by crook...whilst others have parenthood thrust upon them by "surprise". The thing is, even if there's a 0.01% chance of getting pregnant, then even though that's quite unlikely, it's not totally out of the question, is it?? So those who say they got pregnant by accident...no. No, you didn't. You just got unbelieveably lucky. You should buy a lottery ticket).
Anyway.
There's a lot of love involved in parenting. And a lot of hard work. A lot of book reading. Helluva lot of chopping up fruit. A ton of cuddles. And, it would seem, a whole lot of vomit.
Luckily, after a few years of dealing with the partially-digested foodstuffs of another person, you get used to it. Sort of.
What I mean is, (and I'm not talking about baby milk possets here, oh no. That's child's play compared to real, actual-chunks-of-food-mixed-with-digestive-juices vomit) the first time I dealt with a vommy of Jack's, I spent the first five minutes shrieking and flapping my hands in horror. After Jackie-boy had spewed on me a few times, I realised (yes, I'm a bit slow on the uptake) that the less time I spent squealing and gesticulating, the less time I would be forced to inhale particles of upchuck.
As a result, I guess I got better at cleaning up my children's vomit (which has been documented before, here, and curiously has become a hotly-pursued topic on Google. Really!! I know!) And the follow-on from this was that becoming the vommittee (that is, the person being vomitted on) didn't really phase me. Well, not as much as it had in the past. Had Christian tried spewing on me...well. I didn't give birth to him, did I?
So anyway, the Mouse has been a bit off the last few days, but I wasn't really that worried. I mean, she's two, she's teething, it's hot, and she's two. Right? It's not like her head was spinning on her neck or anything really scary. We just haven't been getting that much sleep over the last week, since most nights Mais has been crying on and off, seemingly having bad dreams. It wouldn't ordinarily bother us, except for the fact that the kids are still all sharing one room. So when one wakes up, they all wake up - and at 2am, I'm sure you can appreciate my angst.
Yesterday morning, the air was rent by earth-shattering shrieks at 5.54am. I'm sure you would have been impressed with the athleticism I displayed, leaping from the bed (whilst still completely asleep) and hurtling into the kids' room to shush the Mouse before the big kids woke for the all-day activity called "Playing With Really Loud Toys".
There, I was greeted by a very distressed Mouse, dripping in her own spew. Her face, her pillow, her pyjamas, her cot - all were covered in the remains of her vegetables and fish cakes eaten for dinner the night before (and before you ask - yes! There CAN be more disgusting forms of vomit! Fish, in particular, can be very...aromatic. Pungent, even).
Now, I'm no hero. But I reckon I did a pretty good job of staying calm. I stripped her off on the tiles, Christian grabbed a facewasher and a drink of water for her, and together we cleaned her up well enough to climb back into our bed. The poor little bugger slept between us for another hour and a bit, smelling faintly of spew but still pretty damn cute.
She had a fairly quiet day, just playing and sleeping. I thought it must have been an errant toddler-tummy thing, because around afternoon-tea-time, the Mouse presented me with a bowl and commanded, "Bowl!", which means, "Take this vessel and fill it with food, woman, for I am a hungry girl and desire to be fed. Promptly!". So I put dry biscuits and apple slices in the bowl, figuring they'd be safe food for a wobbly tummy. She ate them. Cool.
Since we were due at Grandma's house for a birthday BBQ at 4pm, I chucked the kids, some hats and sunscreen, the cricket set and a salad in the car and expected to be at our destination about 15 minutes later. Silly, silly Mummy.
Half way there, there was a splashing noise, followed by crying (Mouse) and shrieking (Jack and Phoebs, who were also flapping their hands). Covering my beloved baby was a stream of undigested apple and dry biscuits (and there might have been cheese in there too...hard to tell). Keeping (scarily) calm, I chucked a U-ey, drove home, stripped her off in the driveway, barked at the big kids to get over themselves and step over the vomit pieces, cleaned her up, re-dressed her, and called Christian.
Because what else could I do? My poor beleaguered husband had actually managed to escape for a bike ride, and was meeting us at Grandma's house. So in the absence of another grown-up to clean up the mess, what could I do but deal with it? I'd tried standing around, hand-flapping...it's quite ineffective.
By the time the Mouse was clean and calm, and the washing machine was chugging away with yet another load of chunky clothes, we were outside reloading the car. Only problem was, I hadn't cleaned the car seat. Bleurgh.
Dettol wipes took care of the chunks and blobs on top of the car seat...but nothing could get at the bits inside the seat belt clasp. And I kind of underestimated how much liquid had soaked into the actual fabric of the car seat. (What kind of mother am I?) So I'm afraid I used the Shary Bobbins approach to cleaning (if you don't know who she is, remember the Mary Poppins rip-off character on The Simpsons?) and stuffed tissues under the Mouse's bottom to soak up the residue, flung her in the car and drove to where the other adults were.
My punishment for this lacksadaisical parenting? Every time a little bit of sunshine hit the car, a whiff of warm chunder was emitted from the baby seat. It was a very warm, sunshiny day. Nuff said.
We arrived at Grandma's with all the car windows down. And left them down. I didn't eat much last night. Can't blame me really, can you?
So yeah. You wanna learn resilience? Patience? How to do a half-assed job? Try parenting. It's great. Difficult. Challenging. Rewarding. And smelly. That pretty much covers it, right?
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The tale of two baby girls: Part Two
As you may know, my niece, Miss Asha Jane, was born via emergency caesarean section after a three-day labour. Apparently, she hadn't read the memo from her parents who were aiming for a gentle, intervention-free home birth. Which I suppose is to be expected because even exceptionally gifted babies can't read before they are born. (And we already know she is advanced. And beautiful. Obviously.) But since she is here safely, and is all snuggly-buggly and learning to smile, we have to forgive her for the ordeal she put her mother through, and simply enjoy every gorgeous minute (and just for future reference in your next incarnation, Ashie, it was the birth canal you were looking for, not the thigh bone. Ok? Ok.)
Now, to juxtapose Asha's supposed-to-be-natural-homebirth-turned-into-very-scary-emergency-caesarean, I would like to bring you the story of another beloved little fairy girl, born to my beautiful friends Arby Bec and Uncle Chrissy. Arby Bec, so named by mine own kids, taught with me a few years ago when I was up the duff with the Mouse. And apparently, we can all blame the Mouse for Uncle Chrissy's subsequent cluckiness, because I think quite simply he fell in love with Miss Maisie. As people tend to do (and which she is completely aware, and abuses the hell out of!) So not long after the Mouse's first birthday, we found out that Arby Bec and Uncle Chrissy would be having a little cherub of their own.
Now, Arby Bec always knew she would have a very controlled birth in a huge, well-known hospital, with very little say in how that birth played out, due to an existing medical condition. The doctors weren't quite sure how her body would react to the stresses of labour, so she was instructed by several specialists that she could not be induced, that she would only labour for so long, and she could not have an epidural. She would be monitored carefully in hospital every step of the way.
And during her pregnancy, she was. Bec's baby grew strong in her belly, and neither she nor Chris minded the medical intervention. They had almost no say in the type of birth they would have, but of course, they knew why. And as much as I'm sure they would have liked a more relaxed birth plan, both were happy to do as the doctors asked, as long as they were looked after and their baby was delivered safely.
Well.
Arby Bec's due date was Christmas Day (which prompted my children to declare she should name it 'Jesus'. Yes, even if it was a girl). So no one was more surprised than my friend when she began having mild contractions early in the evening of the 21st of December. They were so mild, and so irregular, she told her hubby they would go to bed and try to get some rest before the real deal began.
At around 10pm that night, Bec woke as her waters broke all over the bed. Did I mention they were living with Chris's parents while he renovated their own home? No? So Bec's waters broke all over the spare bed at Chris's parents' house, and when they rang the (very big, important) hospital, they were told to come straight in.
Given Bec's medical history, she expected to go straight in to the labour ward and be monitored closely. She laboured all night with contractions 2-3 minutes apart, with no pain relief because she could take nothing but Panadeine, which made her vomit. I'm not quite sure how many hours she was (supposedly) meant to be allowed to labour for, but she went all night. At 5am, she was examined by a doctor, pronounced to have made no progress at all, and was told to go home as there were no beds. The midwife fought for Bec, telling the doctor that under no circumstances was this woman to be sent home, in advanced labour, with her medical condition. She wanted Bec to be caesared immediately. Unfortunately, it's usually only good doctors that listen to midwives, and this doctor did not listen. So by 6am, Bec and Chris were back at home.
At 8am, Chris called an ambulance.
At 8.53am, on December 22, 2011, Tahli Marie was born on the spare bed in her grandparents' house, guided by her mother, her father, and three paramedics. Thanks to the angels above, she was just over 6lbs of dark-haired, velvet-skinned perfection. Her incredible mother had progressed through labour so rapidly, the paramedics were unable to move her and were forced to deliver Tahli where they were. We are so very, very lucky that Bec was able to deliver so easily. We are incredibly blessed that nothing went wrong. All births are amazing, all birth stories are a mix of horror and intense joy. But this...thank the heavens above that this birth went so right, in the end.
And so, despite all the medical warnings and cautionary procedures put in place for my friend, she safely delivered her child by herself at home. Which, in a weird, warped sort of way is sort of like Miffy and Bec swapped birth plans?? Kinda sorta. Anyway...
Bec and Tahli returned to the big hospital to get checked out, and Tahli went into Special Care for the night. Bec became a legend around the ward (which I'm sure you'll all agree was completely deserved!!). And on Christmas Eve, Arby Bec, now known as Mummy, and Uncle Chrissy, now known as Daddy, brought their little princess home. For good.
And that's the end of the story.
Now, to juxtapose Asha's supposed-to-be-natural-homebirth-turned-into-very-scary-emergency-caesarean, I would like to bring you the story of another beloved little fairy girl, born to my beautiful friends Arby Bec and Uncle Chrissy. Arby Bec, so named by mine own kids, taught with me a few years ago when I was up the duff with the Mouse. And apparently, we can all blame the Mouse for Uncle Chrissy's subsequent cluckiness, because I think quite simply he fell in love with Miss Maisie. As people tend to do (and which she is completely aware, and abuses the hell out of!) So not long after the Mouse's first birthday, we found out that Arby Bec and Uncle Chrissy would be having a little cherub of their own.
Now, Arby Bec always knew she would have a very controlled birth in a huge, well-known hospital, with very little say in how that birth played out, due to an existing medical condition. The doctors weren't quite sure how her body would react to the stresses of labour, so she was instructed by several specialists that she could not be induced, that she would only labour for so long, and she could not have an epidural. She would be monitored carefully in hospital every step of the way.
And during her pregnancy, she was. Bec's baby grew strong in her belly, and neither she nor Chris minded the medical intervention. They had almost no say in the type of birth they would have, but of course, they knew why. And as much as I'm sure they would have liked a more relaxed birth plan, both were happy to do as the doctors asked, as long as they were looked after and their baby was delivered safely.
Well.
Arby Bec's due date was Christmas Day (which prompted my children to declare she should name it 'Jesus'. Yes, even if it was a girl). So no one was more surprised than my friend when she began having mild contractions early in the evening of the 21st of December. They were so mild, and so irregular, she told her hubby they would go to bed and try to get some rest before the real deal began.
At around 10pm that night, Bec woke as her waters broke all over the bed. Did I mention they were living with Chris's parents while he renovated their own home? No? So Bec's waters broke all over the spare bed at Chris's parents' house, and when they rang the (very big, important) hospital, they were told to come straight in.
Given Bec's medical history, she expected to go straight in to the labour ward and be monitored closely. She laboured all night with contractions 2-3 minutes apart, with no pain relief because she could take nothing but Panadeine, which made her vomit. I'm not quite sure how many hours she was (supposedly) meant to be allowed to labour for, but she went all night. At 5am, she was examined by a doctor, pronounced to have made no progress at all, and was told to go home as there were no beds. The midwife fought for Bec, telling the doctor that under no circumstances was this woman to be sent home, in advanced labour, with her medical condition. She wanted Bec to be caesared immediately. Unfortunately, it's usually only good doctors that listen to midwives, and this doctor did not listen. So by 6am, Bec and Chris were back at home.
At 8am, Chris called an ambulance.
At 8.53am, on December 22, 2011, Tahli Marie was born on the spare bed in her grandparents' house, guided by her mother, her father, and three paramedics. Thanks to the angels above, she was just over 6lbs of dark-haired, velvet-skinned perfection. Her incredible mother had progressed through labour so rapidly, the paramedics were unable to move her and were forced to deliver Tahli where they were. We are so very, very lucky that Bec was able to deliver so easily. We are incredibly blessed that nothing went wrong. All births are amazing, all birth stories are a mix of horror and intense joy. But this...thank the heavens above that this birth went so right, in the end.
And so, despite all the medical warnings and cautionary procedures put in place for my friend, she safely delivered her child by herself at home. Which, in a weird, warped sort of way is sort of like Miffy and Bec swapped birth plans?? Kinda sorta. Anyway...
Bec and Tahli returned to the big hospital to get checked out, and Tahli went into Special Care for the night. Bec became a legend around the ward (which I'm sure you'll all agree was completely deserved!!). And on Christmas Eve, Arby Bec, now known as Mummy, and Uncle Chrissy, now known as Daddy, brought their little princess home. For good.
And that's the end of the story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)