Nonagenerians, tutus and a very flat tummy

Hey there Neglecterinos,
(Yes, it's true. I have contracted a slight case of NedFlandersitis....or quite possibly have gone slightly doolally. Whatever.)

So....*insert awkward silence*....how've you been?? Good? Good.

It's been crazy as usual around here. Which I suppose is normal (or even expected?). And quite frankly, I have enough to worry about with thinking about the fact I just labelled my own family stark raving bonkers without batting an eyelid...

If I gave you the details, most likely we'd both come away feeling a bit grotty and slightly sullied...so how about I just summarise?? Paraphrase, if you like. And just to make it more palatable, I'll *ahem* "edit" some of the information.....m'kay? Not all of it. Just the bits that need...how do I put this....tidying up.

So what's been going on with Team O'Toole this past week-and-a-bit? Well...

* Today, my Pa Bert is 91 years old. That's pretty amazing!! I told Jack and Phoebe that is was Old Pa's birthday today, and asked them to guess his age. Jack guessed 300. Phoebe guessed 68 (which I suppose is quite old when you're four...). Ninety-one candles is a big deal - more than most of us can fathom. Happy birthday Pa!

* I got all my hair cut off. It had reached my waist and was a nest of split ends, so I decided to be a grown-up and get it lopped off. Thank goodness for the Mouse's newfound obsession with the Muppets (and more specifically, thank goodness for YouTube on my iphone!!), as she watched "mee-mee" (Beaker to normal people) and the Swedish chef for the full hour it took Whitney to change my head.

Funnily enough, after getting five inches of hair cut off, not many people noticed....and those who did, asked me, "Did you have your hair cut?" Even Jack swore black and blue that I'd just tied it up. Maybe next time I'll do something drastic?!?

* Gertrude, Esmerelda and I spent one glorious night up in the city last weekend. We shopped (or to be totally accurate, we drooled in Zara), drank an uninterrupted glass of wine and actually held a conversation in which no one needed their bottom wiped (we hadn't imbibed enough vino to need help), and went out for dinner. And yes, you may throw things at the computer screen when I tell you that instead of going dancing or heading out to the pub, we went back to our little apartment to keep chatting over a cup of tea. But let's face it - we'd eaten a meal we hadn't had to cook, there were no dishes to wash, there were no children ANYWHERE, we were able to sleep all night (yep, that's right - 8 hours!!!), and when we woke up (of our own volition, and with no inkling of a Wiggle in earshot), we had breakfast and went window-shopping without a pram or a nappy bag even entering anyone's head. It was triumphant.

* My kids love dressing up at the best of times, but Halloween proved to be a new favourite in this house. Phoebe and Maisie have already spent the most part of the last month in their fairy dresses (over the top of their normal clothes, or their pyjamas, or sometimes just over a nappy or some undies). The Mouse is currently sporting Jack's old dinosaur pjs (the ones I will struggle to part with when she is too big for them, because all three of my babies have worn them) teamed with a fetching pink tutu. Phoebe managed to dress herself this morning in sensible trackies (pink velour, of course!) and a matching pink tutu. Obviously.

But even thought the girls are in costume pretty much every day, it was Jack who embraced Halloween with a passion this year. I tried to convince him to wear his Batman costume to the school disco last Friday, but he was determined to be a vampire. So I trawled the $2 shops and the Reject shop before I found vampire teeth ($1) and a cape ($4), which was the best five bucks I ever spent. By the time he had red biro blood "dripping" from his mouth, and black eyeshadow smudged around his eyes, Count Jackula was a knockout. He was delighted with himself, and even more so when some of the teachers at school didn't recognise him! All Christian and I could do was sit back and watch our baby emo with pride.

* Last week, I had an appointment with a surgeon. Let's just say that I contracted an illness as an 11 year old which was so rare I was used as a guinea pig to find a cure. The other little girl who got it at the same time as me died. At the time, my parents were told that the doctors weren't really sure what the long-term effects would be. As it turned out, apart from a suppressed immune system, there weren't really any obvious effects until my body began enduring pregnancies. Anyway, long story short, after 24 years of on-again-off-again minor problems, the last three months have seen me in increasing *ahem* difficulties. So off I popped to yet another specialist to see if he held the magic solution to my problem.

I've seen many, many doctors since I was eleven. I admire them greatly for their skill, composure and compassion. I even wanted to be one. Goodness, I wouldn't be here but for the assured hands and cool brains of two surgeons, at least. Unfortunately, the man I saw last week was not one of the compassionate ones. Qualified? Absolutely. Skilled? I'm sure he is. But he will not be laying one hand on me, not after completely dismissing me as a hypochondriac without examining me, or even listening to me. I'm sure the man was busy, but he could have at least read my referral letter.

* Anyhow, despite that little bump in the road, yesterday I had the first "investigative" procedure in an attempt to find out what's wrong with me (and no, people, obviously we're not talking about my head - it would take a team of people too many years to get to the bottom of my psychological issues.....let's leave the crazy alone, shall we???) Now, how to phrase this delicately...

I spent Melbourne Cup Day fasting, which was fine. In the afternoon I had to ingest some liquids which would help "cleanse" my insides. Well. I'm pretty sure my insides were scoured with steel wool. By yesterday morning, I was about as clean as anyone would ever get, with a thumping headache thanks to a ban on drinking anything, even water, for six hours before the main event. But boy, oh boy, was my tummy flat!!! Forget dieting. Next time I want to forego a girdle at a wedding, I'm going to do "Dr. Purge's Dramatic Diminishing Diet" (aka taking so many laxatives that your oesophagus attempts to exit the terminal end of your gastrointestinal tract) (And yes, I'm joking. I do not condone taking laxatives for dieting purposes. I do not condone laxatives, full stop. Dieting is evil. Being roundy is good. But holy moly, was my tummy flat!!!)

Even now, the day after the main event, I am still feeling the effects of the general anaesthetic and the magic purging drink. And I'm quite annoyed that even though I'm now allowed to eat, doing so makes me feel nauseous (although that may just be the irritating kid on Postman Pat...you know - the doctor's daughter that speaks as though her nose is full of mucous?? I can't stand her. She makes me feel squiffy)

Anyway, so the girls and I are having a quiet day at home. Poor Christian has gone back to work for a rest. Phoebalina has been so good, making me endless cups of 'tea' and all sorts of meals with her toy tea set (served, of course, by a princess in a pink tutu). The Mouse has been less than impressed with the whole Mummy-lying-on-the-couch scenario, demanding "Up!" at me until I comply. Other than that, she's been dawdling around with her Duplo, shouting into her mobile phone and harassing Ernie. A normal day for Mais. She'll be right. As long as there's cheese in the fridge, Maisie is happy.

It will be quite nice, actually, having a day at home with the girls. Can't drive anywhere, can't do much. Just nursing my sore tummy and keeping the Mouse from climbing the bunk ladder (her newest and proudest accomplishment to date). As long as Aunty Miffy doesn't go into labour today, we'll be just fine...although wouldn't it be cool if Miffy's baby had the same birthday is his or her great-grandfather?? I guess I could call a taxi to get me there...