tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14864063157787136932024-02-21T03:11:27.156+11:00Muddle-headed MummyWhat am I? I’m a digital content producer. I’m also mum to two kids under 5, wife to my love of 19 years, a raucous drunk and fan of trashy reality TV. I don’t know much, but I’ve done stuff. Not drugs (although there was a time…) Fun stuff, like travelling around Asia for months. Strange stuff, like getting a nose job. Sad stuff, like losing a baby. Hard stuff, like working fulltime, getting precious little time with my anklebiters. I’m not good at life yet, but I’m still practising.Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-20593440450557783862015-11-15T21:57:00.002+11:002015-11-15T22:21:57.358+11:00When you turn old and have to go to your 20 year high school reunion – a blog post in two parts.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part I</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">How are you supposed
to behave at your high school reunion? What are you supposed to say to
the woman who organised the whole event, when she is the person who bullied you
in primary school? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I am in a conundrum
about this milestone of my life. 20 years has passed since I left high school.
It feels like a lifetime. And my memories of my entire school history are
largely miserable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I’m aware she is a
different person now. We are both adults. She may not even remember me, or that
she teased me and made me an outcast. Her memories of how that played out are
no doubt, totally different to mine. She has created a Facebook event for the
reunion and everyone is posting photos in it. I look through them, and the
comments on them, and it looks like we were all one big happy family, a bunch
of mates having a good time. The reality, well my reality, was that the year
was very divided into a hierarchy of popularity and cliques.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">As a kid I’d been very
interested in performing arts, so my mum had me enrolled in drama classes and
got me an agent. I don’t think I was terribly good, but I performed in a few
stage shows and did some TV ads. Rather than elevating my popularity, this had
the opposite effect. I suppose from some sense of jealousy, I was ridiculed and
ostracised. I changed primary schools in year 5 because of the bullying. I
remember before I left that school, a teacher finding me sitting on my lonesome
in the playground and asking me who my best friend was. A pretty strange
question, when it would seem obvious I was friendless, but I scanned the playground
searching for an answer. Eventually I settled on a girl whose mother was
friends with my mum, but in truth she barely spoke to me. I had no friends, let
alone a best friend. I feel like crying for my child-self when I think about
that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I did better once I
got to high school, the girl who bullied me was back, as were a small group of
others, but once all the cliques were established they largely left me alone.
But I remember the years that followed as filled with that hormone-driven
teenage angst that makes you hate yourself, your family and the entire world. I
really felt I didn’t fit in and I desperately tried to change myself with
make-up, hair dye, even socks in my bra!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I wasn’t especially
unpopular through high school. I had learnt to blend in. I had boyfriends. I
had a best friend, who I shared everything with- clothes, secrets, even
boyfriends. I played sport, albeit very badly. I got okay grades. But still, my
memories hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">In the aftermath of
doing our HSC I had a disagreement with my best friend and hung up the phone on
her. We never spoke again. I was devastated, it hurt equally as badly as any
boyfriend break-up I’d been through, probably worse. That friendship finishing
symbolised the end of that era for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I went on to drift
away from most of my school friends, only a handful remain. I made new friends,
had more boyfriends, met my husband, travelled. I changed my name when I got
married, it seemed like a good opportunity to shake off the girl of my past and
be someone new, someone better. I even got the nose-job I had wanted throughout
high school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I now have a husband
I’ve been in love with for 19 years, two gorgeous kids and a career I’ve worked
hard for and am proud of. I should be feeling confident. Yet I’ve been dieting
for a month in anticipation (dread) of this event. Why am I even going then,
you ask? Yeah, I wonder that too. But one of my oldest and dearest friends
talked me into it and I didn’t want to always wonder “what if…?” We discussed
our approach to greetings – she was for hugging and cheek-kisses with everyone
– I was against. I was adamant, there was no way I was pretending these
niceties with people like my former bully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Part II<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">So, in answer to my
very first question – how should one behave at one’s 20 year high school
reunion – the answer is this. One should apparently get leglessly drunk,
require carrying out and throw up in the carpark before being taken to a
friends place to sleep it off. This is how the evening unfolded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">After spending an
inordinate amount of time and effort to look as fabulous as possible, we
fronted up (fashionably an hour late). I immediately threw back as much alcohol
as I could find as quickly as possible to quash the nerves that I felt must be written
across my panicked face. The food was awful so I didn’t eat anything, and I
drank nothing but white wine and champagne. A recipe for disaster after a month
off the booze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">The first half hour
comprised awkward, stilted conversations with people I barely remembered, but
then everyone seemed to share my boozy buzz and the socialising flowed more
freely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men had aged badly,
lots of paunches and receding hairlines. Thanks to the wonders of skincare and
make-up, many of the women looked hardly any different, just older versions of
their teenaged selves. I know it’s pathetic, but I was thrilled to be sought
out by a guy I had crushed on madly in my final year and for him to tell me I looked
great. Suck on that champ, I’m the one that got away! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">The conversations I do
remember having were mostly pleasant. I was genuinely pleased to see most of
the people I chatted to, and avoided those who I never spoke much to in school
anyway. My philosophy was, why pretend to be pals now? I was surprised that I
didn’t get asked much about myself, I was expecting to have to give my story
over and over again, but the reality was that a lot of people didn’t ask me
what I did or whether I had a family or anything much like that. There was a
lot of small talk, which is my least favourite kind, but I’m rather glad I
didn’t get into the big topics, particularly considering the inebriated state I
was getting myself in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">And the bully – she
greeted me and kissed me on the cheek! I was furious, but I remained civil and
blew her off as soon as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">By the end of the
night, well 11.30, I went to the bathroom and the room was spinning. I was
rescued by a friend who performed the heroic deed of whisking me out of there
to puke in the carpark, before taking me back to her place and putting me to
bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">And then it was over.
I survived it. I had moments of feeling like that kid again, afraid of feeling
insignificant or invisible, or worse, like a laughing stock. There were no
revelations. No-one was a shining star, no-one was bullied (or at least not
that I saw). We were just a bunch of adults still trying to work out how to
navigate this world. I didn’t re-establish any lost bonds or create any new
ones. A bunch of people tried to add me on Facebook afterwards - including the bully! But I think I'll graciously decline. My curiosity is satisfied but I think I’ll leave the past in the past, and pass on the next reunion
(or at least the drinking part of it).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-79620099343777041562014-01-24T21:55:00.002+11:002014-01-24T21:55:33.647+11:00Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So much has changed
since I last blogged and it’s almost beyond me to try and summarise the last
few months. I feel so incredibly lucky. I have this beautiful, healthy,
incredibly awesome family. I now have a job too, and that is actually really
important to me. As documented here, being a stay-at-home mum has been hard for
me, I’m sort of the Anti-Hero of the domestic world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
We had a bit of a scare a few months ago. Lets just say there was a possibility
that the husby might be out of work, and we both had to seriously consider what
we’d do if we had no income for a while. It was very scary and I think we both
experienced real panic. So I began job-hunting. It wasn’t a tough thing to do,
I was keen to work again, and had been thinking about work since before the
Chicken was born. But now it was necessary and I tried damn hard to get some
part time work as a supplementary income and back-up in case the turds hit the
air-con. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Long story short, I
got contacted about a full time job that I’d never have thought to apply for,
it was such great money that I had to apply, and in the end, I got it. The long
story involves not actually getting it, and accepting a part time job that I
didn’t fancy instead but then finding out that the person who was offered it
turned it down, and being the runner-up I was next in line. Anyway suffice to
say, the opportunity is so good, both financially and career-wise that we made
some changes to allow me to go full time. I had received several rejections,
many of them for jobs way below my skill-level, making me start to despair of
my chances of getting work. I never imagined I’d manage to return on this level
– if anything I thought I’d have to take a decrease in pay and responsibilities
on returning to the workforce after 2 years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So Husby is now Mister
Mom – a mantle that suits him far better than it ever did me. Of course I miss
my babies. Lots. I feel terrible guilt about not seeing them such a lot of the
day for such a lot of the week. But the beauty of this job is that it’s public
service so I have RDOs to spend with them. And I know how much work is
intrinsic to my identity. I need to DO something that seems useful, and it is
great to be a contributor (finally) to the family income.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t have done this
– or thought I could do it – if it weren’t for the fact that Chicken sleeps.
Not “sleeps like a baby”, thank heavens, but sleeps like a proper human being,
that is, for 9 – 10 hours a night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I would not have believed it possible and I count my lucky stars every
day that I wake up and she has slept through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is such a different baby to the Monkey, she is very
laid-back and smiley, whereas the Monkey was pretty intense and serious from
memory. He was SO BUSY being the first to move, roll, crawl, stand, walk etc.
that there was no time for sleep or even quiet reflection. The Chicken is
actually almost crawling now, she can commando and move around a room, if not
in a particularly intentional way. But she is also super-smiley and very
content. And the absolute best thing – she finds the Monkey hilarious. She
squeals with laughter when he is running around flinging himself about like a
lunatic and it makes my heart burst. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Monkey is divine,
so intelligent, so articulate and precocious and with a lively and delightful
imagination. But I suppose it’s this imagination that makes it difficult for
him to sleep at night and he’s still waking at least once a night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">And leaving him is
even harder than leaving the Chicken, even though I had to part-wean her.
Because he wails, “I don’t want you to go to work!!!” when I leave and runs
after me clinging to my leg, and physically breaking my heart. God it’s awful. </span>Last night I got up to
the Monkey 4 times and the Chicken twice. I was a zombie today at work. Luckily
I am still in training mode, God help me when I have to actually be productive.
I have wine now. Signing off…. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-91385607521112218092013-10-25T11:49:00.000+11:002013-11-06T15:07:22.884+11:00Sleep depraved shambles<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here we are at week 10 and all still alive
although my nipples are a shadow of their former selves.<br />
<br />
Chicken is still a very good baby but juggling her needs with those of the
Monkey is challenging. If I don't get them to synchronize their day naps I
don't get a second to myself and that's exhausting and frustrating.<br />
<br />
Breastfeeding is still so painful sometimes that I cry at the prospect of the
next feed. I could be singlehandedly bankrolling the local chemist with my
custom - thanks to my 2nd bout of mastitis I've bought more antibiotics there
and have been hiring a breast pump to give my poor norks a rest.<br />
<br />
I know that I should really give up but I still can't admit defeat just yet.
This may be my last child and I really want to enjoy the breast feeding experience
eventually. So I persist but it's got to the point where I don't know how much
pain I should tolerate, my pain threshold is completely confused.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
This week I ventured out for the first time with both kiddies sans car. Firstly
I had Chicken in the ergo baby carrier and convinced Monkey to get in the
new stroller. We only went to the park but that was an achievement since Monkey
kept asking to get out and walk. I don't trust him to hold my hand and not run
off into dangerous situations so I need him to be in the stroller. It was good
to get out and wear him out doing something fun, plus I chatted to some other
mums there.<br />
<br />
I don't know if I looked quite as desperately harried, sleep-deprived, and
adult-company-starved as I feel, but they were both mums of more than one, so
hopefully they understood what it's like to leave the house without brushing
your hair or even looking in the mirror. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I continue to mourn the loss of my personal
grooming. My hair is this ridiculously long, matted mane that I probably would
have pined for once upon a time. It is so long through accident not design, I
have not had the time or opportunity (nor the cash) to go to a hairdresser for
so long. But it seems to just hang from my head like this big dead thing that
gets knotty and becomes just another chore to detangle and to me it represents
a lack of personal style. I am about 8 kgs overweight and that is not baby-fat,
it's icecream-and-cake fat! I have been eating pretty badly since the birth and
every day I think I'll start the diet tomorrow, but my will-power is so
weakened by tiredness. I need energy boosts and they don't come easier than a
sugar-hit! I try to remind myself what I'd say to any one of my friends in the
same situation - be kind to yourself, appreciate the amazing feats your body
has achieved, don't stress etc. But it's a total double-standard, I am my own
worst critic and although I know I shouldn't compare myself to other people I
find myself looking at other mums of babies and wondering how they look so much
thinner and more composed - some of them even wear make-up!!! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to set my daughter (and son of
course) the example of self-love, so I repeat my mantra - enjoy life, there
will always be tomorrow to diet! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The scariest thing about parenthood I have
decided is how much more vulnerable my heart is. I feel terrified at the
thought of something happening to any of my beloved family members, husby
included, and life seems so much more precious now. The weight of my
responsibility to not only protect them from harm, but to stay healthy so that
I can, adds to the stress of the daily grind. </span></span></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-25334126091729595192013-09-20T11:52:00.003+10:002013-09-20T11:55:52.610+10:00Motherhood - things I now know<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here I am, at the end
of my first week alone as a mum of two tiny people. We all survived and I feel,
as I’m sure many parents do, inordinately proud. Every little task I perform
feels like a major achievement. Yesterday I cleaned the bathroom (Monkey “helped”
me mop the floor), vac’d and mopped the floors and did 3 loads of laundry. I
felt like a superwoman! And really, considering how little sleep I get, and
that there is a small person basically trying to <i>undo</i> everything I do, it is
pretty impressive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am going to say
something controversial though. I hate breastfeeding. HATE it. I am so disappointed
that my experience with it this time around has not been better, but I blame my
children. They must be broken. They are missing some sort of mouth/boob compatibility
gene or have not read the manual. Whatever, they clearly have no regard for my
nipples. I think the nipple thrush has cleared up, but Chicken won’t open her
little beak wide enough, and clamps down with the force of an industrial vice.
It hurts. But I’m a stubborn old mule and I’m not ready to give up just yet. So
I just curse and cry and suffer through the pain 5 times a day. She better
appreciate it when she’s older. It’s OK, I’ll remind her often. In speeches.
Like at her 21<sup>st</sup> birthday party and her wedding. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I am by no means an
expert, but here are a few things I have learnt that seem worthy of passing on:<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The hardest lesson I have learnt was to DO NOTHING.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Babies
will cry – and you don’t always have to DO SOMETHING to stop it. This
revelation was such a long time coming with my first child – I ended up eventually
going through the pain of “control-crying” which is the extreme version of DO
NOTHING - and I still find myself resisting it. There is that mothering
instinct that means I cannot stand to hear my babies cry and I feel responsible
to DO SOMETHING to ease their distress. But I remind myself that it is actually
important to allow them to settle themselves sometimes (as long there is
nothing actually wrong with them, like being hungry or wet etc). Doing nothing
when your baby is crying seems inherently wrong but by constantly cuddling,
rocking or soothing the baby I think they come to depend on it. In any case, it
becomes out of your control when it’s your 2</span><sup style="font-family: inherit;">nd</sup><span style="font-family: inherit;"> child – there is so
much to do that by the time I get free to check on my crying babe she has often
settled herself – woo hoo!</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything always
seems better in the morning.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 1,
2, or 3 or even 4am I have been sitting on the sofa crying while my baby fails
to latch properly, or pacing the floor patting her back, shhhhhhing, trying not
to trip over with tiredness, everything seems so much more dramatic. I begin to
wonder if Chicken has colic, or croup, or reflux, or that she is failing to
thrive, and I consider all sorts of extreme measures… like taping her dummy to
her face to keep it in… But once day breaks - even though getting up then seems
harder than ever – after the coffee takes hold, I realise she is fine, I am
fine, and we will all be fine. And following on from that point:</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Find time/a way to
take a shower every day. This was another epiphany for me. It would sound like
a basic human right, I know, but not for a mother of a newborn. I went for more
than 24 hours without a shower and when you have sticky toddler fingers all
over you, and you’re being drooled on and sneezed on and spewed on all day, a
hot shower is HEAVEN. So I felt like a new woman after having one and I
resolved to ensure I manage a shower in the first half of the day, every day.
Even when I get spewed on almost instantly afterwards, I still feel better for
having had that hot water rush over my face. </span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Breakfast television
is SO bad it’s almost good. And the hosts are invariably, female: over-coiffured
airheads, male: dumb but funny. I love watching the male hosts pretend to be
interested in the latest fashion trends, tummy controlling shapewear and age-defying
make-up. The best ones manage to do it with a cheeky, tongue in cheek irony</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">- as in “How fascinating?!”</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That is enough words
of wisdom for this post. I’m off to take a shower. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-26604328172055280642013-09-16T12:53:00.002+10:002013-09-16T12:53:37.991+10:00Preggers no more!! <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">We made it! Both baby
and I survived the birth intact and are now fit and well. The relief I felt as
soon as she was out was overwhelming. And it is so nice not to be waiting
anymore! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Having a c-section is
quite surreal, and more than a little bit scary, but overall I rate the
experience as a thousand times preferable to my vaginal birth one. The anaesthetist
we had was awesome, he was chatting away with us in the prep and had a wicked
sense of humour, so it really helped eased our tension. Then throughout the op
he was keeping me informed but also distracting me with tales of how he was
doing tequila shots with my OB the night before – ridiculous, as my OB is this
lovely, quiet, Church-going soul who probably doesn’t touch alcohol. It was all
over in a couple of hours and apart from being intensely itchy from the
anaesthetic for 24 hours afterwards, I felt pretty good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Upon arriving home I
ensured I had the catch-up feast of soft/smelly cheeses, salamis and port. And
seeing as I no longer have a night/day division in my life, only grabbing
snatches of sleep where I can, I figure it’s fair game to drink wine anytime,
so long as it’s post feeding the baby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Chicken (my nickname
for baby girl) is a dream baby really. She had a couple of really unsettled
nights in hospital, and since I’ve been home out of 3 weeks she’s only had one
bad one in terms of sleeplessness, so the odds are pretty good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">On the other hand,
I’ve had mastitis and then nipple thrush as a result of the antibiotic
treatment, which progressed to ductal thrush, which is as painful as it sounds.
This breastfeeding malarkey is really not as easy as it looks. I’ve been
mainlining the Panadol and coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">My mother-in-law was
brilliant, looking after the Monkey while we were in hospital and keeping him
happy since we’ve been home. But she left yesterday so now I face the daunting
prospect of managing alone! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was keeping on top of the cleaning, cooking and laundry so god only knows how
badly things will fall apart, but most of all I am dreading when the Monkey
realises she is not coming back (so far he hasn’t really noticed, but it’s only
a matter of time). It will break my heart to see him pine for her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">But OMG both kidlets
are actually sleeping at the moment so gonna go have a shower – more updates to
come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-71383161127078078952013-08-09T08:30:00.002+10:002013-08-09T08:55:22.699+10:00Twas the night before Friday and all through the house....<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not a creature was stirring - except the rats under the kitchen floor, my unborn baby who seemed to be having a "soon-to-be-leaving-let's-trash-the-place" party in my womb, and my son who decided 5.30am was a good time to get up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Oh yeah, I had a great night. I was almost certain at one point that I was going into labour, that must've been about 2.30am. After the pain subsided and I waited an hour for more to come - never have I wished for pain so fervently! - I realised with enormous disappointment it was a false alarm and managed to get back to sleep, only to be woken by the rats in the kitchen floor. I actually thought my son had woken and was playing in his playroom, that's how loud they were. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Rats FREAK me out. We had them all over the kitchen once and it was my worst nightmare - I mean vermin are not like pigeons, or even cockroaches, they don't scare when you come into the room. They look you in the eye unbudgingly as if to say, "yeah, this is my loaf of bread now, whatchu gonna do about it?" It terrifies me. So I'm lying in bed freaking out about the prospect of them getting in again, with a toddler who is now unbound by baby gates and a newborn due any minute. And then said toddler decides it's time to "wake up mummy", "I don't like sleepytime" and climbs on my head. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On another note - I have to share this blog post which resonates with me so much. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><a href="http://musingmumma.wordpress.com/2013/08/03/being-mumma-enough-its-more-than-just-a-healthy-baby/comment-page-1/#comment-19" target="_blank">Being Mumma Enough</a>Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-90621529410093872802013-08-07T13:23:00.003+10:002013-08-07T13:23:55.062+10:001 week to go!!!!The countdown is on. I was thinking last night how sad it is that I seem to have wished away so much of the last 11 months - yesterday was exactly 11 months since I gave birth to my angel baby Benjamin. I so wanted to go into labour yesterday to mark that milestone, and even thought I was after cramps and back-ache all night, but sadly it wasn't to be. I am still a hippo with a bun in the oven. But I feel sure this bun should be cooked by now!!!<br />
<br />
If you don't count the two months between losing Benjamin and falling pregnant again, I have been on this rollercoaster of expectancy for the last 16 months - that's over a year to be sharing my body with another (or 14 mths if you want to be pedantic).<br />
<br />I am so looking forward to having my body back, but I know that doesn't happen straight away, in fact it can take almost a year with breastfeeding and recovery etc. But boy is that first glass of wine going to go down a treat!!!<br />
<br />
Its the nausea and reflux that's killing me now - I get these frantic bouts of ravenous hunger where I just can't eat enough or fast enough, but then within an hour it all comes back to haunt me... I am so looking forward to enjoying food properly again (and without guilt).<br />
<br />
Plus, I can handle the huge belly and an ass that's so big it almost reaches my knees, but this double chin is depressing.Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-476070506833383312013-07-29T21:52:00.001+10:002013-07-29T21:52:47.977+10:00Groomed bush and wine, these are a few of my favourite things....<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On a lighter note – in
preparation for D-day I just got a wax – finally, after I don’t know how many
months. A lot. So I literally feel lighter! I am gorilla no more, and now the
doc and his team won’t be horrified when I’m lying on the table half-naked
ready to be cut open!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t really
bothered about it until I was at a friend’s baby shower and the other ladies
(all childless and/or single) were laughing about the bush that you tend to see
in birthing videos and I realised that that would be me. I used to be so
conscious of good grooming and I really miss having the time to care! But
seeing as I haven’t been able to see my V-JJ for months now, caring about it’s
appearance has been easy to forget. But I do miss being able to see it. And my
feet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So because these
things are heavily dominating my imagination at the moment, here is a list of
things I have been missing being pregnant for more than a year (ignoring the 2
months between pregnancies – I was in grieving so they don’t really count
anyway).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In no particular order
(well except for Wine, that is definitely number 1):</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Wine – no explanation needed. I need it. Soon.</li>
<li>Food – not any food in particular - although of course blue cheese, brie
and salamis will be first on the post-baby menu – but just to enjoy eating food
without feeling sick and bloated afterwards. To eat without the fear of reflux and
nausea, and to enjoy the taste – pregnancy does weird things to my taste buds.</li>
<li>Flexibility – to sleep on my back, to bend down easily, to feel strong
and mobile again! I hate this feeling that everything is weak and broken.</li>
<li>Sex – yep, it’s been more than a year really since the sex has been any
good, that is, without a huge belly in the way of things. Plus TTC sex is the
worst kind of sex, there is just way too much pressure when you’re wondering if
each time is going to be the jackpot!</li>
<li>Wine – did I mention this one?</li>
<li>Energy – to be able to chase my toddler around again. I feel so guilty
but I am the worst playmate at the moment, I dread getting down on the floor
with him cos I know it’ll be so hard to get up again.</li>
<li>Nice skin, nails and hair – I know I’ll have to wait ages for this one,
as the worst is yet to come. My hair will practically all fall out post-birth
and I’ll get that horrible baby fuzz regrowth. When I was pregnant with H I had
great nails, they seemed to grow faster and stronger, but this pregnancy my
nails have been TERRIBLE, they split and crack and the cuticles are
non-existent.</li>
<li>Kissing my husby – we’ve been sick tag-team for weeks now so it’s been
like a permanent quarantine. And germs
aside, we’re just so busy with work and toddler-wrangling plus the belly gets
in the way, romance is so very dead. I am aware this will not change with the
arrival of a new baby, just lamenting it anyway!!</li>
<li>Wine. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-67783506880816618012013-07-28T21:44:00.002+10:002013-07-28T21:44:49.486+10:002 weeks 2 go!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just over 2 weeks til
D-day (or B day I spose)!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m so excited,
nervous and scared – I feel almost bi-polar, my emotions flux from high to low
so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go from dreading it to
wishing it was happening tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve got so many
reasons to be scared. I know so many beautiful, smart, healthy women who have
lost their babies at this same stage of pregnancy I’m at now or even during
childbirth. None of them deserved that tragedy – nobody does. But, like me, I’m
sure none of them ever expected to suffer such unusually cruel and unfair loss.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been lucky
enough to have one beautiful and healthy child, albeit through a birth that
left me quite damaged physically and a little traumatised. But I also lost a
baby - he may have only been 19 weeks old, but he was mine and growing in my
body and I feel responsible for his fate. So now I am living in this weird
limbo, so close to the end of a long, arduous pregnancy, the light at the end
of the tunnel almost within reach, but with still so many risks and hurdles yet
to overcome. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I feel like I
learn a new terrifying possibility every day. I had a PAL support meeting last
week and in keeping with my split-personality at the moment, it was both unsettling
and therapeutic. I went already in a fragile state, having had a couple of bad
weeks with H waking twice a night and husby being away one week and then sick
the next, I was just physically and mentally exhausted. So it was no surprise
that I cried during the relaxation exercise. But when the organisers started
reading out birth stories I was too taken aback to escape before the floods of
tears began again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since the birth
of my first son I have been unable to read birth stories, good or bad, and I
avoid watching people give birth in TV shows or movies too. I feel so cheated
by my birth experiences, like I did everything in my power to have the best
experience and to give my baby the best entry to the world, and that I was let
down in so many ways by things that were not in my control but that were
influenced by my health care providers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I considered making an
official complaint in the months after H was born, but ultimately I decided it
would not help in my healing process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I saw a counsellor once but it really didn’t make any difference to my
feelings. The PTS was not helped by the sleep deprivation, my son was a poor
sleeper for the first seven months until we tried Tresillian methods, and I am
acutely aware now that if this baby is the same the sleepless nights will not
be over once she is born. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This PAL group has
been a much better outlet and salve for my grief, both for the bungled birth
experience I had with my first son and the tragic loss of my second son. I have
felt supported, understood and maybe most importantly, cared about. But of
course, the flipside is the fear I have for the other ladies and the concern
that what has happened to them could now happen to me too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I try to suppress the
doubts and fears and be positive, but then I worry that if I <i>don’t </i>worry enough
I might be tempting fate. I really just need to get this baby safely into my
arms so I can relax!! I’m torn between wishing it would happen early and
wanting to get through my son’s 2<sup>nd</sup> birthday this week and make that
as special as he deserves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My darling toddler was
testing my patience to the absolute max when thankfully my mother-in-law
arrived like a guardian angel to fulfil his boisterous appetite for attention.
She honestly couldn’t have come a moment too soon. And with husby finally back
in good health we are almost ready to welcome our new baby to this family. I
even started packing a hospital bag tonight! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So baby girl hang in
there, stay well and know that in just a few more days we will be eagerly introducing
you to our world and whatever the outcome, you will enrich it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-45841719416284415582013-06-24T14:59:00.001+10:002013-06-24T15:13:28.991+10:00Politics and hypocrisy of the mothering type
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only 8 weeks to go
til I have my baby girl and my burgeoning belly now feels like a time bomb
ticking. I am both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of having a daughter.
On the one hand, it’s what I always wanted, being a proper girly-girl myself -
[def. girly-girl: noun A person of female gender who enjoys feminine pursuits
i.e. make-up, nail varnish, clothes shopping and gossip] – I always imagined
having a daughter who I would be really close to, who would share her secrets
with me and seek advice from me. When I found out I was having a boy I was a
little reticent about having to find enthusiasm for cars, trucks and brutish
sports.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am aware that there
are benefits to the mother-son and mother-daughter relationships and I am SO
lucky to be able to experience both. But here’s the kicker – for some reason I
am more afraid of f*cking it up with a girl. I may have touched upon this in
previous posts. I hope I’m not denigrating the importance of boys’ self esteem,
but I just think that in our society, girls’ self esteem is more delicate.
Perhaps because my son seems to have the innate confidence of his father I
don’t worry about his sense of self. He regularly demonstrates his strength of
character and it’s a big relief to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But a daughter, who
stands the chance of bearing as strong a resemblance to me as my son does,
faces the challenges I had to face growing up. And they weren’t pretty. Because
I wasn’t pretty. Now, don’t jump to your feet to protest, that wasn’t me fishing
for compliments (it would be futile if I was, since this blogging business is
like shouting into the wind – I get no response or feedback and never know who,
if anyone, is reading it or if they are scoffing, laughing or yawning). Let me
qualify that, there are people out there who are conventionally attractive, who
can get jobs as models and actors etc. and there are those who aren’t. I am in
the latter category. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no pile of dog-poo to look at.
But I inherited the hefty sized proboscis of my ancestry – yep I had a big
shnozz. I say “had” because, at the age of 30 I had a nose-job. It was
ostensibly to fix some sinus problems, but let’s face it, I just hated my nose
and had wanted to change it my whole life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have always been
painfully conscious of all of my shortcomings, but I believe in doing what I
can to improve myself. So this
seemed logical to me, as my nose had long-dominated my very negative view of
myself. And it was simple, I had the operation and I didn’t all of sudden
become a supermodel, but the burden of that glaring physical “fault” was
lifted. Now it’s important to note that I did this for myself. Although sadly
my negativity towards my nose was very much influenced by society and personal
experience – yep you guessed it, kids can be cruel and there were taunts at
school – I didn’t have unrealistic expectations about other people’s reactions
towards me post-op. I had already found love, and married him, and he had said
nothing to prompt my decision. I had no expectations of career changes or
advancement from it. In fact I wanted nothing in my life to change really,
other than my own happiness when I looked in the mirror. And that did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">BUT… how does this
reconcile with the fact that my heart will break if my own daughter goes
through this? I feel such a hypocrite saying I want my children to love
themselves, inside and out, when I was so unable to do so. I keep wondering
what sort of example have I set them? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can only hope they
see it this way. I was not seeking a “quick-fix” in life. I was not unhappy in
love, nor in my life in general. I did not expect the change in my appearance
to herald a barrage of suitors, to launch a new career, to attract a new class
of friends. I just wanted the inner peace of liking what I saw in the mirror.
And being someone who is driven and motivated, who believes in shaping her own
destiny and making her own path in life, I took action. I do not regret the
action. What I do regret is that the world did not say to me “everyone is
beautiful: fat is beautiful, thin is beautiful, your big nose is as beautiful
as you are unique” right from birth. And although I intend to say this to my
daughter repeatedly I know it may not be enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now for the politics
part of this post. Because almost one month after this baby girl enters the
world we will have a federal election. And so my daughter may begin life in a
country that has a female PM, or under the government of a man who has said things
like:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I think it would be
folly to expect that women will ever dominate or even approach equal
representation in a large number of areas simply because their aptitudes,
abilities and interests are different for physiological reasons.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>While I think men and
women are equal, they are also different and I think it's inevitable and I
don't think it's a bad thing at all that we always have, say, more women doing
things like physiotherapy and an enormous number of women simply doing
housework.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I know that the
current PM, female or not, is not doing the best job of it, and she certainly
didn’t come to power in the way I would’ve liked. But the fact remains she is a
strong woman in the ultimate position of power and she is setting a very visible
example for Australian women. It may be true that she isn’t well-liked. But she
is a politician, and how many of them do we, the public, actually like? Sadly
the less likeable, the more successful they seem to be in politics (see
Rudd/Howard). She certainly isn’t the first pollie to demonstrate
underhandedness in gaining power or to be unpopular amongst her caucus. But the
mere fact that she is there, doing what the rest of them do, gives me, and all women
of Australia hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So despite the
atrocious odds the opinion polls give her, I hope she can hang on til after the
election (and then be deposed by Rudd). I’d like my daughter to start life with
as many examples of the many wonderful opportunities she will have as possible.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjk8hV2W7Cd7K863kisighOJe0ZgaUukkVnR_RCp19lN7ddNdAizuZf_O_f4D_gn-tGtgRs2msQ0Os3R-NIIZI0TS4v7onWOKHILfHTajrYiqq-6DgXURTE60INh4OY9VovjHm9cY7Ow8/s1600/mad-men-joan-meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjk8hV2W7Cd7K863kisighOJe0ZgaUukkVnR_RCp19lN7ddNdAizuZf_O_f4D_gn-tGtgRs2msQ0Os3R-NIIZI0TS4v7onWOKHILfHTajrYiqq-6DgXURTE60INh4OY9VovjHm9cY7Ow8/s320/mad-men-joan-meme.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-43156742117232525132013-05-22T13:05:00.002+10:002013-05-22T13:07:33.072+10:00My little monkey is actually a human! <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I’m astounded at what
a proper little person my boy is turning into. I know that sounds ridiculous,
like what did I expect him to turn into, an orang-utan? But it’s just you get
so used to them being these mute, helpless creatures, that you almost expect they
are going to be 100% reliant on you forever, in an unquestioning way like an
animal would be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">But H is definitely
not unquestioning, nor is he all that helpless. He is strong enough to open
drawers and lids that he shouldn’t be getting into, agile enough to climb onto
beds and up and down stairs, crafty enough to open doors (and slam them shut as
loudly as possible). He can now count to ten, completely on his own and
unassisted. He can almost recite the alphabet, and will sing along if the song
is playing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recognises many
tunes without lyrics and will start singing. And he is making rudimentary
sentences. They are usually things like: “Hamish do it” or “Mummy cuddle duck”
or “no nappy change” but they are words strung together that communicate his meaning
so I am impressed! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">His favourite is “What
dat?” which is the precursor to “Why?” I guess, and although it’s cute, it’s a
little on the maddening side when he points to EVERYTHING and wants to know what
it is. Perhaps this is mostly annoying because when I am frequently stumped for
answers it makes me realise how little I know…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">And he doesn’t miss a
trick, so I can’t do anything in front of him that I wouldn’t want him trying
out himself. (This means I am sneaking lots of snacks while hiding in the cupboard.)
If I have a cup of coffee or tea, he does too – imaginary ones. He has little
tea parties and picnics with his toys where he gives them all sips from tea
cups and makes the slurpy noises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I am constantly
impressed by his learning and marvel at all of these skills – it’s just not
what I expected of him before he is even 2 years old! Especially considering I am not driven and ambitious about
teaching him things. </span>I am a warm, loving, attentive mother but I have always been fairly relaxed about his development. I am not in any rush for him to reach development milestones. He started crawling so early, then walking at just 10 months, so I knew he wasn't going to lag behind (and, if anything, those skills just made him more work than the slower, more sedentary babies!). There are no flashcards in our house and I do not drag him
to dozens of “activities”. In fact I often feel quite guilty that I don’t take him to
the gymbaroo, swimming lessons, dance classes etc that other kids attend. But
clearly, he is doing OK without it.
He makes me feel like I’m doing a good job at parenting, even if there
is no-one else to tell me I am.</div>
Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-52687567051265042932013-04-29T15:54:00.000+10:002013-04-29T15:54:15.044+10:00Time to slow down
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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCMJARUhnktcEU6EBuoZpYQueeEhq5iCMJSHMTy_MCuWM-i9sprp0dkpE6pXPFAG9Q-TNDWml5t3uE8jYQ0JeESiuGaJErFen39CxDZCQcXFBykLMg5P7w1pJSI3UQVhmTvz2YmrA33Yq/s1600/Domestic_Goddess_by_enkana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCMJARUhnktcEU6EBuoZpYQueeEhq5iCMJSHMTy_MCuWM-i9sprp0dkpE6pXPFAG9Q-TNDWml5t3uE8jYQ0JeESiuGaJErFen39CxDZCQcXFBykLMg5P7w1pJSI3UQVhmTvz2YmrA33Yq/s320/Domestic_Goddess_by_enkana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m 23 weeks now and up
until now I have been willing the time to pass as quickly as possible, if I had
a fast-forward button I would have been leaning on it heavily. But now, just
now, I have finally thought I should probably stop to smell the roses, so to
speak. Realising that this is my last few months of me-time and time to just
focus on H as my only child, and there will be no turning back once Little Miss is
here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been feeling
really positive about the pregnancy now and doing everything I can to relish it
and celebrate it. I am even doing a spot of pregnancy modelling this week, just
as a “normal” looking pregnant lady! But it will be so nice to have my hair and
make-up done and feel pretty for a night. Plus I get paid in maternity clothes,
which I am more and more in need of. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have had a wonderful
long weekend of enjoyable family time, with husby taking an extra day off
between the public holiday and the weekend. And now, only one week til we take
our “babymoon” down the coast with munchkin. I can’t wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow I shall
attempt to cook said husby a special birthday dinner, including birthday cake.
This will be special if it is even edible, as my worth in the kitchen is limited
to doing the dishes. Yep, I’m the type who can’t even make toast without burning
it, I’m so domestically challenged I could probably burn water. Even the
planning of this meal has taken me hours already as I had to familiarise myself
with a bunch of herbs/spices I wouldn’t be able to find in the supermarket
unless they had neon signs on them, and then go through the cupboards to check
our stocks, since I don’t even know what we have.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily it’s a slow
work week for me (meaning no freelance work sadly), so the daycare day will be
free for my kitchen f*ck-ups, I mean, gourmet experimentation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If only I had buckets
of cash, none of this DIY shit would be necessary!<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-74532270631785444412013-04-16T11:16:00.000+10:002013-04-16T11:16:10.281+10:00Humanity
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been crying a
lot recently. You could say I am an expert at it. And although my own pain is
often the reason, I feel like I have become a sponge for others’ suffering too.
It’s going to sound ridiculous, but I think perhaps the pregnancy hormones, combined
with the grief of a mother have made me some sort of empathy super hero. Call
me Sympathatron. Or Mega-Wail. Or something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaO1i_V8aS9Z7BSfEZ1XXyBiFNfk17X9K4YCtIwbQHGDbI15BdgR25cMYb7dMD-MkecLgpu5sI2LLafscNEmYOc9AhCfjf8XqSrX6NzZJCzkqRsLXZsr7Z31srk4u5NJG3qsLYMKqgoueQ/s1600/optimist_prime_by_avid-d2xz9e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaO1i_V8aS9Z7BSfEZ1XXyBiFNfk17X9K4YCtIwbQHGDbI15BdgR25cMYb7dMD-MkecLgpu5sI2LLafscNEmYOc9AhCfjf8XqSrX6NzZJCzkqRsLXZsr7Z31srk4u5NJG3qsLYMKqgoueQ/s320/optimist_prime_by_avid-d2xz9e1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today my tears are not
for me. They are for the families and victims of the Boston Marathon bombing. I
have no words for the devastation it causes me to know that again, AGAIN, some f*cked-up people have felt that the
best way of effecting change in the world is to hurt others - innocent, unsuspecting,
unconnected individuals, whom represent nothing more than symbols of whatever
misguided cause is behind this heartless attack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My tears are also for
this wonderful woman, Lori, whose blog I just found and can’t tear my eyes
from: <a href="http://www.rrsahm.com/">http://www.rrsahm.com/</a> Her story is
a true tragedy and yet she has risen from it with the courage and positivity
that others can only dream of. She has been hurt, abandoned and traumatised by
the one she loved and who loved her most, and instead of forsaking love, she
has rallied and used her love to rise again, damaged but somehow cheerful. THAT
is humanity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And my reserves of
tears seem to be boundless for Rachel, of <a href="http://www.mummymuddles.com/">http://www.mummymuddles.com/</a>
whose eloquent expressions of grief are like a strange oscillating magnet to
me, I am drawn to them, I <i>have</i> to read them but then I have to turn away
because they churn me up inside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a visit
yesterday from the Baby Nurse I used to visit before I moved house. She was an
angel, a beacon of light in the dark, treacherous, confusing world of new
motherhood. Her advice, support and encouragement were my lifeline when I was
unwittingly suffering post-traumatic stress after the birth of my son H, and
she continued to keep me sane whilst I struggled with a baby who wouldn’t sleep
more than 3 hours at a time for the first 7 months of his life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her approach to
helping new mums has the personal, emotional, <i>human </i>feeling that the medical
support services are gravely bereft of. She asks mums questions about
themselves and their babies to really get to know them and then assesses them
individually, suggesting things to try, but never prescribing a right or wrong
way. She is always embracing new ideas and seemed open to learning as much from
the mums she saw as she was interested in imparting her knowledge. But, most
importantly she was always reinforcing what a great job I was doing, which,
when you’re floundering in a foreign world and feeling lost and afraid and so
goddamn TIRED you could accidentally wander out in traffic, is all you need to
hear sometimes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her positive feedback
and genuine interest in mine, and my son’s wellbeing were invaluable to me. Eventually,
as I found my feet as a mum, I found I was visiting her clinic just for a chat,
more than to seek out her professional advice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I had not seen her
since we moved house 8 months ago when I was about 12 weeks pregnant with Benjamin, and after she
heard of my loss just recently she tracked me down again. I am so glad she did.
She came around for morning tea and we chatted for 4 and a half hours about
life, babies, motherhood, politics and love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I am Sympathatron, she is the
Compassionater. This woman oozes love and empathy. And to use a cliché, she is an
Earth Mother, offering the nurturing care of a mother to all. This is not
stretching the truth, as she not only raised her own 3 kids but looked after
her friend’s 2 boys when they were orphaned and is now acting as a surrogate
mum to a teen daughter of a friend who has gone wayward. She is the sort of
woman who wants to give the world a hug and whose hugs are regenerative. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And after seeing her I
feel a little bit more healed. Baby steps, as they say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-79721251066768080612013-04-11T16:50:00.000+10:002013-04-11T16:50:37.606+10:00Be afraid, be very afraid
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am afraid of my son.
I am not kidding. I wish I was. He
rules the roost and he rules with an iron fist. This is partly because I am a
pushover who melts every time he smiles, cries or says/does something cute. But
it is also from a lack of confidence.
I am afraid of most children in a way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is because I never
really had that much exposure to kids beyond my peers. Sure, I babysat when I
was a teenager but that involved sitting on someone else’s sofa, eating and
watching TV while the kids slept most of the time. I never had to provide much
supervision during waking hours and I had never changed a nappy before my son
was born. I wasn’t all that interested in kids either (probably for the same
reason). Because of my lack of experience I didn’t know what their age meant -
how much independence they required or deserved, or what they understood - so I
never knew what level of communication to strike with them. Use a “baby voice”
and assume they know nothing and risk their scorn and derision – “well der, of
course I know milk comes from cows!” Or talk to them like adults and hope they
don’t find me as terrifying as I find them? There is a reason children make
some of the scariest baddies in horror films – for your reference see Children
of the Corn, The Exorcist, The Shining, the list goes on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the uninitiated,
children have the incredible power of the unknown quantity. They represent
walking time-bombs, we never know what to expect and fear the worst. If I tell
them off for jumping on the glass coffee table or playing footy with mum’s fine
china ornaments will they cry? Or worse, will they defy me and then tell their
mum I abused them? Hate me and tell everyone they think I smell? They may be
innocent but to me they always seemed so cunning…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess I am not what
you’d call a “natural” at this motherhood gig. I was never a “chuck the baby on
my back and off I go” kinda chick. I was the one struggling with the nappy bag
the size of a suitcase and freaking out the minute the baby cried in public. I
was the woman who was so flustered she forgot to put her boob away properly
after breastfeeding in a park (only once, and thankfully I noticed before I got
ALL the way home…)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my experience,
every day is about delicately balancing everything you do to keep them happy.
Don’t, whatever you do, skip a feed, be late with a nap, deny them some toy or
dangerous/expensive/fragile object. The whole day can fall into disarray. Take
today for example. Thanks to the wonderful invention of daylight savings, which
I am now petitioning be abolished, my monkey has been waking at 5am all week.
This would be OK if he also napped early or extra long, which he did yesterday.
But today, exhausted after a string of resist- and-cave tantrums over his lunch,
I eventually had to try some tough love and left him crying in the cot. For 25
minutes. It was worth it though because now he is asleep. However the many
plans I had for my day (see my To Do List post below) and the kitchen sink full
of dirty dishes cannot tempt me and all I can think of doing is going for a
little nanna-nap myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course once you get
your head around the nuances of your own spawn, the daily grind becomes much
easier. You develop the confidence
to exert the ‘power of the big people’ and utter those arrogant words “because
I said so”. But I still fear the wrath of a toddler and prefer the path to an
easy life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-6784059527720412112013-04-05T12:53:00.000+11:002013-04-05T12:54:24.816+11:00Milestones and setbacks<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
Here is the post I
wrote yesterday BEFORE seeing my OB:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Halfway. I have
officially passed the point where we lost Benjamin. This should encourage more
confidence but I still panic at the slightest pain and worry when I think I
haven’t feel the little bean move in a while. Lucky for me she is a pretty
active little bean and there are plenty of kicks to comfort me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I attended a Pregnancy
After Loss meeting two weeks ago. It opened the floodgates to my grief and a
room full of people got to witness the debacle that is me crying. I’m one of
the ugliest criers in the world – it’s all gulping and sobbing and streaming,
red blotchiness. It must be hard to feel sympathy for a blubbering, snot
volcano!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overall though, it was
good to get it out amongst people who understood, were there specifically to
hear it and had useful feedback. My major revelation was that I felt like I had
less legitimate reason to be grieving than the others, that my grief was less
valid because my baby did not go full-term. Technically my loss is called a
“miscarriage” on the medical records at least. That is because babies that die
before they are 20 weeks are not considered still-born – even though I had to
give birth to him, the same way all babies are born. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will never forget
when I asked about claiming the body from the hospital the nurse simply saying
I was not “obliged” to give the baby a funeral. She seemed not to understand
that I wasn’t even thinking about a funeral, I wanted to take my baby home and
it didn’t occur to me that they would not release the body. After some
ridiculous bureaucracy was dealt with we were granted permission to receive the
body after an autopsy (which we agreed to and still anxiously await the result
of). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never held a funeral
or any type of service and I never really considered it, but I have his ashes
and I may choose to scatter them privately. Or I might just keep them. That is
my right, the very least I am entitled to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other thing I
learnt was that if I want to get a positive reaction about my pregnancy from
friends it’s up to me to convey it as a positive message. It seems so obvious
now, but I realise I was “breaking the news” in such doom-filled way that
people didn’t know how to react and so followed my lead with a sombre response.
This made me feel miserable. So now if I tell someone new, I say it with
excitement and omit the disclaimers of “hopefully” and “all going well”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short I am actively
trying to embrace this pregnancy and “Operation Normalise” is on. I have taken
my first bump photo. After we survived the milestone 19 week scan, or to be
literal, my baby survived it, I celebrated by buying something for the baby.
The fact we know it’s a girl helps. It gives me added incentive to shop as I
always used to look longingly at all the lovely girls’ clothes in shops and it
seems as though there is always twice as much available for girls as there is
for boys. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have even resigned
myself to the fact that my clothes are not fitting anymore and dug out the
maternity clothes bag. It is such a relief to wear comfy bras and jeans again! I
have now resolved to tell anyone I see or speak to, and am ruminating over a
Facebook announcement. The bump is getting too obvious to ignore now anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that was <i>before</i>
seeing my OB. Unexpectedly he had the results from Benjamin’s autopsy – we had
been told it could take up to a year so I was not expecting to know anything
before this baby was born. The only indication they can find of a cause for
death was that the umbilical cord was too long and hyper-coiled, so may have
compromised the blood flow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am feeling pretty
conflicted about knowing this. In some ways it's good to know it wasn't a
genetic problem or something likely to occur again. But also to know such
random things can happen makes me feel so nervous that not just that could
happen again but any one of a million other things could go wrong. I have
gone from being like the majority of the population, thinking “it won’t happen
to me” to being a big scaredy hypochondriac-style neurotic, who thinks that
every complication is not only possible but <i>likely</i> to happen to me. This extends
to my little man too, my mama-bear protective instinct is in hyper-drive and I
foresee every possible accident or mishap befalling him. Husby thinks I’m
insane I’m sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next PAL meeting
isn’t for another month and I don’t know how I’ll feel then. Will I need it,
will it make things better or worse? I’ll just see. For now it’s back to
embracing the positive and cherishing the kicks my little girl gives me on the
inside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-29216713005938522662013-03-19T14:15:00.001+11:002013-03-19T16:05:20.577+11:00The To Do List<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never been a devotee of the To Do
List. I just hate the fact that nothing ever gets crossed off it. But I am a
big fan of the cheat’s version - the Already Done List, where you add things
you just did and tick them off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is very hard to
make the transition from busy career woman (although I feel like a total fraud
calling myself that, not sure why) to a “stay-at-home-mum”. Ugh, I hate that
expression. There is something so slothful sounding about it. You just imagine
some woman sitting around, daytime TV blaring, ironing board up, kids running
riot around her feet as she does something like update her Twitter status or
write a blog entry…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or there’s the
alternate reality where you might imagine some 1950s super-domestic mum who
bakes cookies and healthy dinners and organises educational craft acitivities
for her kids, which she then sits down and does WITH them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, it’s really
nothing like that. Either version. Except maybe the blogging bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I honestly don’t know
where the time goes. When H is home (which is most of the time – he is only in
daycare two days a week) it’s a constant cycle of feeding/cleaning. I don’t
know where mums find the time to “prepare” delicious healthy meals, because
somehow when its time to have lunch or dinner all of a sudden there is this
urgency about it, like if I don’t serve up his meal in the next ten seconds I
will miss my window and all hell will break loose. So all the food prep I do is
reheating or making sandwiches, it’s really not that hard. But there is truly
nothing messier in the entire world than a toddler eating. Especially mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So then there is the
clean-up, and since my toddler likes to run around while he eats the cleaning
stretches across multiple rooms. If I try to get too involved in the cleaning
though, this is abruptly put to stop by H. He will even get in between the sink
and me and push me away from it with impressive force. If he didn’t do it to my
husband too, I know he’d think that I was making that up to get out of washing
up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyhoo the To Do list
begins to form in my head on the night before a daycare day, when I start
dreaming about how productive I’ll be while H is away. It usually looks a bit
like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Drop H at daycare</li>
<li>Shower - this seems odd since I love my
showers and would love nothing more than to start every day with one like a
normal person, but since I can’t do it while H is awake - I’m not sacrificing
sleep for it! - they have been relegated to nighttimes. And often by the time
I’ve gotten him into bed and sat down to eat my dinner I become a prisoner of
the sofa until I realise it’s time to drag myself to bed and then it’s just too
late. So even on daycare days, by
the time I’ve dressed and gone out and come home, it’s easy to forget that part
of the routine that usually happens pre-dressing.</li>
<li>Do the dishes – see
passage above about trying to do them with H around.</li>
<li>Vac and mop the floor
– this it the one that often gets passed over in favour of:</li>
<li>Do a couple of hours
work – this is fine and usually happens first, as I can sit on my ass with a
cuppa and a piece of toast and get right into it, checking Facebook
periodically. But once the actual
work part is finished, the sitting on my ass part seems to continue
indefinitely…</li>
<li>Eat lunch – never fail
to complete this task.</li>
<li>Do some laundry – I
often leave this to last as I think I can manage it with H around.</li>
<li>Clean up before
picking H up – seems to be optional.</li>
</ul>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today’s list has the
added activity of waxing my legs and underarms. The boredom plus pain factor of doing this makes it fairly unappealing. As you will see from a
previous post, this is something that occurs quite rarely and I am currently
writing this to avoid doing it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay tuned faithful
readers to see if by next time I am able to wear short-sleeves without shame!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
NB here's an update. You will be pleased to note that I vacuumed, mopped AND waxed today. To reward myself I am now eating an entire packet of BBQ flavoured sakatas. The baby wanted them. It told me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-20211982299294437732013-03-15T21:23:00.003+11:002013-03-15T21:25:50.701+11:00Happiness is...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided I wanted to
write a completely positive entry. Because it feels like everything I've
written so far is a bit whingey, and granted things haven't been that great
recently but life is what you make of it, and I believe in doing everything I
can to take control of my happiness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what's the one
thing that I can find good in no matter what? It's no thing, it's my boy! So
this is going to be an ode to his sheer awesomeness. Avert your eyes now if
doting motherly pride sickens you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boy is many, many
levels of awesome. Let me count the ways he makes me happy. I love watching him on the video
monitor sleeping with Quackers, the big, soft, yellow duck who is his beloved
bed companion. Generally Quackers starts the night reclining across my boy's
face, but since H moves around more than a rabbit in a blender they inevitably
get separated at some point. It looks like there's been a lovers tiff when they
are positioned at the furthest ends of the cot to each other. Then somehow H
will end up lying on top of Quackers with his bottom in the air, their quarrel
resolved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In the mornings – if he’s in a good mood
- when I enter his room he squeals and insists we play dancing and singing
games with Quackers, who is a fan of show tunes and Barry Manilow. He chants
“more, more” before we even finish the ducky dance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we read his
favourite book, Captain Flynn and the Pirate Dinosaurs, he sings the Pirate
Dinosaur song throughout, although he only knows his favourite bit of it, the
rest is a jumbled rush to get to the “Go Go Go!” When we tickle him, he lifts his shirt and gives his own
belly a tickle. Sometimes he’ll take a wipe and “help me” when I’m changing his
nappy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love his incomprehensible gibberish, uttered with such conviction. I love that he pronounces
yoghurt "yuck-ett". I love the funny straining face he makes when
he's pooing. I love his cheeky giggle whenever "someone" guffs (farts)
- not me of course, as I am a lady and never do things like that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just LOVE his
feisty, cheeky, indomitable spirit. Just look at him with these bubbles!<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-68696955318206264452013-03-10T20:09:00.002+11:002013-03-10T20:09:54.463+11:00Gorillas are sexy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXph5-wuNmRgm33rB2CXCLp7F1MMFOLHpgeGOrZ-rrUSD0mQ9LGF17M4HbWS8cRwCo4wBP41MQ9tA7F2IIQLKC7n2_a3u_kUl72Q3qTBehUN-IO4qPClVBwLk0XvVkO6Hhlm976vgyCbRC/s1600/72457_507286265975178_502052853_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXph5-wuNmRgm33rB2CXCLp7F1MMFOLHpgeGOrZ-rrUSD0mQ9LGF17M4HbWS8cRwCo4wBP41MQ9tA7F2IIQLKC7n2_a3u_kUl72Q3qTBehUN-IO4qPClVBwLk0XvVkO6Hhlm976vgyCbRC/s320/72457_507286265975178_502052853_n.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
This is almost irrelevant to me as I am a waxer anyway, which means waiting 5 weeks for the hair to grow long enough to wax, then being a gorilla for another few weeks til I actually get around to it. Since I can't afford to get it done professionally any more, I have to DIY and that takes an age, so time is the real reason I look like a hippy lesbian most of the time.<br />Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-72523541247593676882013-03-08T21:13:00.000+11:002013-03-08T23:15:32.859+11:00Women - we rock. Right?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSNKcgxb1f3zQyjuqv9GFAc_mbxMnuGAu8qE00EtfcrPIZHPhcwRwiYgJJIVu-DQIIBgPij_89ho79p-S66WBheLzvXPZ1wAgxxxTMhrPy77qfxvIYzrrSnl77qzmZuPjkwBK7vc2tY3I/s1600/intwomensday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSNKcgxb1f3zQyjuqv9GFAc_mbxMnuGAu8qE00EtfcrPIZHPhcwRwiYgJJIVu-DQIIBgPij_89ho79p-S66WBheLzvXPZ1wAgxxxTMhrPy77qfxvIYzrrSnl77qzmZuPjkwBK7vc2tY3I/s320/intwomensday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's International Women's Day, so I feel
I should post something. Problem is, I'm not feeling that great about being a
woman at the moment. In fact, it sucks, quite a bit. I am usually one for
extolling the virtues of womanhood, how wonderful it is that we are the more
emotionally mature and aware sex, that we form such strong friendships and that
we are the lynchpin holding our families together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But friendship has been a big let-down for
me lately. And although I love motherhood, the pregnancy bit sucks big hairy
balls. Here it is probably relevant that I am pregnant again. 16 weeks. I have
not told many people, just a few select friends and family. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It's been a very tense few months and this
pregnancy has felt quite different from my other two. Firstly, I had morning
sickness, which I never really experienced before. That was fun. But I didn't
actually vomit so I guess I shouldn't grumble. I was also extreeeeemely grumpy.
Like PMS on a royal scale. My poor husby copped the worst of it I'm afraid. At
one point he commented on my mood and I said, sorry the baby doesn't like you.
Harsh, I know. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And now the hormones are playing havoc
with my skin. I have always had dry skin, but this is beyond a joke. In the
last few weeks every last drop of moisture evacuated my face. It looks and
feels like the Sahara desert. My wrinkles are not only emphasised, they
are multiplied. I have wrinkles on my wrinkles. I also think I have the beginnings of SPD, a pleasant condition
where the ligaments in your groin separate to the point of agony when you walk
or move your legs at all. Not to mention the hemorrhoids. I won't even go into what giving birth to my son did to me - he doesn't need to read about it one day in the archives of the intermawebs. Of course, I'd do it all again to get my son. Just like I'll got through all this "fun" to have another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I just feel like a bit of a failure as a
woman. As a stay at home mum, I don’t cook, bake, garden, sew, or even clean
that much. I know that women shouldn’t be expected to do all that, but since I
don’t work anymore I feel like I should be good at at least one traditional
feminine characteristic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And, on that note, I had an OB appointment
yesterday and my Doc took a look between the legs. The baby's, not mine. He thinks I’m having a girl.
This leaves me conflicted. I was thrilled at first. Because I have a crazy, Energiser
Bunny boy already and, having lost a baby boy, I thought the fact that it was a
girl would help me not to draw comparisons as much. Plus I want a baby that
will return all my affection, as my son has only just started doling out kisses
and cuddles and he’s pretty stingy with them. And of course I dream of having a
daughter to shop with, chat with and maybe one day understand what being her
mum was like. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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All of that aside, knowing how shit being
a woman can be, I wouldn’t really wish it on my child. Growing up with body issues;
teasing or bullying over her looks; monthly periods; pressure to be sexy and
have sex, but be smart and have a career; and then go through all this crap to
have her own family. Ugh. I am sure I am overthinking it all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Especially since the Doc said he was only
60% sure it was a girl, which considering the odds are 50/50 means he’s only
10% sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Gah. I'm off to eat a Cornetto.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-17909404064392383032013-03-05T21:08:00.000+11:002013-03-06T19:52:20.578+11:00Single parenting sucks<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband is away on business. For a
week. God help me. This means I have to play Bad Cop AND
Good Cop. It's just that this is extremely difficult for a soft-cock like me.
After one staunch refusal to succumb to my toddler's demand for Peppa Pig/Play
School/yoghurt/whatever is on my plate, I melt like a snowman in hell. Either
it's that adorable face that I could just eat up, or it's the threat of a
tantrum to challenge Hurricane Katrina. I just want peace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Tonight he refused to eat his dinner, preferring
to stealthily raise the spoon to his mouth, look at me and then fling it across
the room. He also refused to sit in his high chair or toddler chair, preferring
to push the chair around the room like a shopping trolley. I am proud to say
that Bad Cop stepped up and he did not get toast, or cheese or yoghurt as an
alternative (she guiltily admits to past sins).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He also did not want to take a bath. We've
recently had 'issues' with bathtime that have only just been resolved - for
some reason for weeks he hated it and had to just be sponged down on the
bathroom floor. Then, for no reason, the worm turned. Bathtime was fun again,
hooray! So much fun that tantrums ensue on their conclusion. But not tonight. After
dinner dramas he refused a bath. He was still chanting “nom nom nom” indicating he was
STARVING and I was a neglectful parent. I momentarily considered weakening and
cracking out the cheese. Instead I bribed him in with the dummy – Bad Cop fail.
I’d have skipped it but he was all gritty from the sandpit at daycare and a
sandy crack does not make for a peaceful night (for either of us).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He’s asleep now and after mopping the
floor I feel like I have earned the rest of night firmly planted on my ass
cruising the net and comfort eating with some brain-draining reality TV for
background noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He pulled everything out of my wallet a
couple of days ago (and I have a MAMMOTH wallet, the size of a small suitcase
into which every receipt, ticket, card and miscellaneous small object go). I
shoved it all back into one compartment and have not tried to sort it back into
order yet. I almost forgot about that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh and I had a Cornetto for dinner the
other night. Come back husby. Or I might end up with scurvy. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-86253242626877233842013-03-04T20:49:00.000+11:002013-03-04T20:49:45.300+11:00Who is that haggard old lady in the mirror? Since having a baby I have changed. Not just emotionally and in maturity and priorities. But in appearance. I'm afraid to say that expression "she really let herself go" could not be truer for me. I used to be the person who spent an hour doing her hair and never left the house without make-up on. Now, if I get a shower or time to run a brush through my hair before I go out, it's a good day. This seems strange since I only have one child to care for. Let's just say he's a high maintenance child. A wonderful one. But he makes everything hard work.<br />
<br />
If I get my hairbrush out he insists on taking it off me to brush his own hair. Refuse and risk the wrath of a toddler. Whilst getting dressed I am constantly interrupted having to stop him from pulling everything out of the boxes under the bed. Or resetting the alarm clock to GMT. If I try to do something like put sunscreen on, he demands the bottle and squeezes some cream out so he can rub it into his clothes, mimicking me. Bless him.<br />
<br />
My clothes used to be unique, designer type pieces that flattered my figure and expressed my taste and style. Those are all packed away in zip-lock bags for the day when I magically lose that stubborn baby-weight. Now I sport cheap, loose or stretchy sacks from Target that are usually stained with some part of Hamish's breakfast and streaks from his dirty, sticky fingers. I haven't had a haircut in over a year. I rarely get the time to wax my legs and can't afford to pay to get it done any more.<br />
<br />
The old me would find the current me pitiful. I sort of mourn the loss of that polished, put-together person. But I wonder if/when I get the "me time" back to be able to, how much of that effort I'll actually care to bother with.Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-18119386551433775262013-03-04T10:35:00.001+11:002013-03-04T11:10:09.434+11:00Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZACTylD0OuG0Lyh_vIHqs3j9pKuJOkiRGsSZ4o3eMt1AGNiJh-oqvIfhh-QG8MxF67wYh0i-RDIcVJd0YB6DYsiLw4-Pg1mHrzfkeqOt4KOcFlwIleRNfVJaWKGOczk4USR3h9glxFjy/s1600/grief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZACTylD0OuG0Lyh_vIHqs3j9pKuJOkiRGsSZ4o3eMt1AGNiJh-oqvIfhh-QG8MxF67wYh0i-RDIcVJd0YB6DYsiLw4-Pg1mHrzfkeqOt4KOcFlwIleRNfVJaWKGOczk4USR3h9glxFjy/s320/grief.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is a post that I've had inside me for a while now and one of the reasons I needed to start this blog. Last September I lost a baby. I was 19 weeks pregnant, nearly halfway. It's commonly assumed once you pass the 12 week mark, you're safe. So it was entirely unexpected. There were no signs, the pregnancy had been uneventful, and there was no pain or blood to indicate something had gone wrong. I found out at the morphology scan, a routine ultrasound performed at the halfway point. It was a shock. And devastating. And we still don't know why.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
This post is not about the event and the history behind it though (that will come later). It's about grief. Because I feel like I've had my fair share of it now. I feel like life needs to deal me a break. I lost a best friend 6 years ago to a brutal, unfair cancer. She was young, vibrant and beautiful, and she had a baby son who was left motherless. That changed me as a person. Then my father had life-threatening cancer. He thankfully recovered. Then my mother was diagnosed with her serve of it. Hers had already travelled from bowel to liver and the prognosis was not good. I was terrified. She went through a debilitating and disfiguring treatment and survived. But I grieved for her too. For her suffering and her loss. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Now this. Sometimes I feel so fragile I don't think I can handle this world. I can't read the newspaper anymore and if something sinister is happening in a movie I turn it off. I feel weak. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
One of the hardest things about grief is the way other people acknowledge it - or don't. When you go through something so vicious and painful, you need the people you love around you. You need them to let you know they care. But people find pain hard to handle. They don't like seeing you cry. And if they don't know what to say they feel uncomfortable. I get that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
And dead babies are one of the hardest things to talk about. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
It doesn't make it any easier though when you see people you've known for years, who you thought were among your closest friends, and they don't acknowledge what happened. That hurts. This grief is part of my identity now. I live with this pain every minute of every day. Sure, it gets softened with the passage of time, but it's there and it's part of me now. I know it's hard to talk about. And hell it gets boring. This lyric from a Clare Bowditch song keeps running through my head:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
The thing about grief is</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It gets kind of boring for the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">People who don't yet know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your friends - some they will wander off and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most will just wish you'd move on sister</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
That rings so true. I feel like people must be thinking I should be over it by now. I haven't heard from a lot of friends in months. But I won't always be this broken. I'll mend and one day I'll be there when they feel like life is falling apart. If they could just stand by me now...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
On the flip side, I have been so touched by new friends who have demonstrated amazing friendship and empathy. But it doesn't replace the sense of loss of the people I've known for 10 years or more who seem to have deserted me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
I posted this picture on Facebook when I lost Benjamin. It perfectly sums up how I need people to be. I don't expect anyone to "fix" me, find a solution for my grief. I just need support and understanding. </span><br />
<br />Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-29030621837579974662013-03-03T22:48:00.000+11:002013-03-03T22:51:05.387+11:00Muddle-headed origins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP7OUxZnkb20Kk7b2OXTs_kuOavOWguCmXsk7-6nxwX-zS2wLEnk8L5KbJJENK-DaKSSf65nFP5yBDIt8dN8vY0UIHgU6OPbdaGKHWXdPdL3yDO2W8UybBg-0XmGxyKLvB0VHwjTpsAmin/s1600/wombat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP7OUxZnkb20Kk7b2OXTs_kuOavOWguCmXsk7-6nxwX-zS2wLEnk8L5KbJJENK-DaKSSf65nFP5yBDIt8dN8vY0UIHgU6OPbdaGKHWXdPdL3yDO2W8UybBg-0XmGxyKLvB0VHwjTpsAmin/s320/wombat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In case you were wondering about the title of this blog, it's inspired by a book I used to read at my Grandpa's called The Muddle Headed Wombat. It's a series of books actually, but the one that I had, and which I read to my son today in fact, is called The Muddle Headed Wombat on Clean-up Day.<br />
And the relevance is my general confusion with this whole motherhood gig!Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1486406315778713693.post-24314903007058829262013-03-03T22:11:00.001+11:002013-03-03T22:11:31.392+11:00Um, hi....So this is me. I guess you deserve an introduction. 30-something, married mother of one. I used to be a entertainment media producer, but since the birth of my son (and my unceremonious exit from my job) I am now doing bits and pieces of writing, editing, proofing and marketing. It is solitary work and although I adore my baby boy to pieces, I find myself lonely in a way I've never been before.<br />
<br />
So this is going to be my mental chunder. Welcome to my musings.Muddle-headed Mummyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108930471124698367noreply@blogger.com0