Just what the doctor ordered

And in my favourite mug too.

Please excuse lack of words, peeps. I may purge later in the week. For now... this one's knocked me around a bit. Has surprised me, actually.

More later.

Because I need this

I needed to blog these photos today.  I need her today.  In all her precocious precious princessish-ness. This is what our past week has looked like. I am full. I really don't need anything more.

Smile.

"Steadeeee, Jazzy, steadeeee..."

ENOUGH with the camera, Maamee!

And because I need this (why can't I have a pie as good as I bake, 

baked for me when I need it?):

And now.... It's Monday

It is here.

And it is excruciating.

Panadeine and heat packs front and back.

In the grand scheme of everything, this is nothing. But it was something.

This is a pain so familiar, so worn. It is avoidable. It is unavoidable.

Time to go bear hug my girl.

On being late and endings.

I was a couple of days late. So I did a test. As you do. A line. A shockingly "there" line. That was last week.

Then the niggling premenstrual taunts began a few days later. A stab of pain here. A creep of an ache there. For three days now, I have wondered, which of these moments would bring the beginning of *that* familiar colour? And, just as they do at the beginning of all pregnancies, each one has so far amounted to nothing. A rising and passing of pain.

In a successful pregnancy, this is stretching of the uterus and surrounding body bits. This pain/awareness happens as a matter of biological course.

In someone like me, who is on Ride #14, it readies me. Prepares me for the most likely imminent conclusion. Of course, we have done this many times before. The most recent time was this past January, quite similar to how it has happened this time, I must say. I count my blessings today as I did then. And the two times before that. Thank God for Lolly.

Today, we are packed and ready to head out the door for the day. Fun times with my little family of three (plus one, out there somewhere, far away today). I am prepared for The Colour. The line has gone, I tested again today. Pad is in place in my underpants.

I am prepared and ready. Must remember to pack the heat pack.

Saw like an eagle

The LGBB is in possession of a new book. A brilliant little Scanimation hard page book called "GALLOP!" They are fantastic and this one had become a firm favourite even before the end of the first day Daddy brought it home for her.

On reading it to her tonight, Lolly decided to do the actions for Steve's benefit instead of climbing into bed.

Steve: "Can you.... gallop like a horse?"
The LGBB gleefully gallops animatedly around her clothes-strewn floor.
Steve: "Can you.... run like a dog?"
She runs on the spot, ad-libbing some panting like a dog.
Steve: "Can you.... spring like a cat?"
Some joyous springing, as light as a cat on its delicate paws, ensues.
Steve: "Can you.... swing like a monkey?"
The LGBB does her best Curious George monkey-arms, loping her room, face full of smiles.
Steve: "Can you.... soar like an eagle?"

Lolly plonks on the bed beside her Dad, thinks but a moment, and then makes a sawing motion using her left hand to saw through her right arm.

And he didn't even laugh, so as not to stifle her creativity.  What a bloke.  I'd have been in FITS OF GIGGLES ON THE FLOOR.

Tabbarse

Well, I will just get right down to it and admit....

The "new" cat is a royal PITA.

I have never been quite this annoyed by a living creature before. Unless you count Jazz in her hey-day. Hmmm. Actually, yes. It's possibly a tie. To put it this way, our plumber was here last week (ooops.... sorry, was that rubbing it in, Steve(tropolis)?) and he asked - when Jazz bounced in and ricocheted back out, Tigger-style - how old our bag of beans was. I told him Jazz is coming up six in October. He looked sympathetic and said simply, "Well.... she's not likely to change now is she?" and I said, regrettably, no, I didn't think so. And we both watched her in silence as she attempted to impale herself by slamming into a fence post while playing fetch. With herself. I guess that's one good thing about Jazz: she has learned to make her own fun.

That darn cat, though, she just will NOT leave me alooooooone. So much so, the poor thing's name is now Tabbarse. Or Tabberzarse. It gives a slight satisfaction to be cursing while saying her name. If I sit down with a book (or print-outs - I'm usually reading and editing my own work), she comes and sits right in front of me and smooches her cheeks on the spine of the book. Or the pen I'm holding. Non-stop. If I wave her away and say 'NO!', it seems to encourage her all the more. And her cold little nose runs along my finger as I'm pointing her in the direction she should piss off move aside. As soon as I move, she is at my feet. Whatever room I am in, you can guarantee you will find the cat, perched on the closest high point adjacent to my head or where I'm sitting.

So now, not only do I have a four year-old who still is not keen on making her own arrangements with regards to playing (and the longest she has EVER gone is about 30-40 minutes playing on her own, in another room ohmygodohmygod it was so exciting!!!) and two dogs that fawn at every door and window to just catch a glimpse of me during the day, I have a crazy cat insistent on helping the others to drive me to within a millimetre of SAHMadness.
Tabby's meaowing for me begins at dawn and, while I used to be able to let her out for a play and she'd go and amuse herself outdoors until the afternoon, she has now decided that's not nearly as fun as standing at the front door and running her paws vertically on the security door. She makes it bang like an irate neighbour who's come to complain about the loud music (not... that that's ever happened... but I can just imagine it would sound like this).

If I succumb and let the cat in, she then meaows incessantly and gets under my feet, satisfied only when I feed her. Only thing is, she is overweight as it is and the vet has told me that she is not to have dry food ("Doesn't need it", he said, neither of us realising he had sentenced me to an endless run of putting up with a demanding cat who thinks her tummy is constantly empty, no matter if she just ate ten minutes ago). So she gets a can a day. Now, you try telling old droopy-tum and she'll just blink, shrug (her care factor about such matters is zero) and just meaow at you until YOUR ears bleed. And this is not to even mention the witching hour, that goes on for something like three hours, right after the LGBB has gone to bed. Tabby gets the spooks up and does flat-out sprints up and down the house. Not being a dainty slip of a thing, she hulks up and down on the floorboards sounding for all the world like a subwoofer kicking in with the bass during a helicopter scene from Apocalypse Now.

All of this being said, I have long since learned to look on such things as points of highlighting for me. There is something about her incredibly annoying insistence on being noticed - by me, in particular, for she doesn't go near Steve or Lolly but will actually try and be as close to me as she can at all times of the day and night (until bedtime, when she seems happy to retreat to her own bed) - that has really made me sit up and take notice. So she's doing her job well. A little too ruddy well, but nonetheless, I'm seeking to understand just why she's grating on me so. And she is going to continue to be the pain in my rear end until I work it out, just tipping quietly.

So I was on the phone to one of my teachers last week and I was talking to her about something I'm nutting out at the moment, to do with a certain pattern of energy that I have noticed (in a class setting) getting me all riled up and yet I say nothing and in fact am feeling a bit stifled. I know it's something I will keep coming up against - it will just be the same thing, different person, time after time and so far, there have been three people I have had to deal with this over so I know it's something for me to look into further - and I am working on figuring it out. I've also gotten into a bit of a rut with making time to seek my own guidance on things. I've become avoidant about doing any energetic work and I have been enjoying alcohol a bit lately (a great escapism tactic if ever there was one). Anyway, right when she was giving me some clues on where/how to start working this out, I had the dog (who represents loyalty) outside trying to bite and lung at the cat (which serves to highlight the imbalances in your life) through the window. We had to laugh, because it was virtually what we had been talking about - I have to work out where my loyalty is placed at the moment, especially in relation to what I am putting in to my intuitive senses and keeping myself balanced. If I don't, I run the risk of burning out/getting ill again, which was my pattern all last year.

I'll get around to it. I still haven't properly worked it through. I'm so gosh-darn tired this week, having not fully recovered from the other night when I had less than four hours' sleep (UGH.... don't ask.... but it involved a toddler's wet bed and being woken at 12.30am right at the end of my first 90-minute sleep cycle, so I then stayed awake until well after 5am).

If you are so inclined, and you have a cat gnawing at your energy (or otherwise making its presence obvious - more than usual), I recommend checking out the animal wisdom for Cat. I have just posted it on my Earth Healing blog. It is fascinating.

Do you have annoying animals at your house? Pets who haven't grown up? Pooches who think they're people? Cats who won't stop crying? If you do, you have my sincere condolences.

Melting moments that make my heart seize

This is a backtrack to an old post from just before Ella's 5th birthday in January, 2009. It has flashed up at me a few times today in my blog widget, taunting me to click on the thumbnail of this photo of her and open it. For the benefit of new readers to my blog, this is a really good example of the peaks and troughs - this day was mostly in a trough, but seeing her always made the day have a peak! -  of living with only the memory now of a baby who battled for life (and lost hers) in the NICU.

Ellanor was listening to me as I took this series of photos this day. She was thirteen days old. Half way through her life already.

I counted thirteen needle pricks on her hand. And more on her chest (you can just see the ones on the side in this shot). The blue bruising from her hand is of course from said blood drawing. Her other hand looked the same. I remember wincing at the thought. There was bare little skin on her body (she was so early that the lanugo grew on her body after she was born and her skin would grow in folds like that of a roly-poly puppy over several days before she fattened into it, a process I witnessed several times during the month of her life, watching in fascination as she reached a more normal, survivable weight). How could they pierce the chest skin of my baby to take her blood? And her heels I haven't even mentioned yet. They were black and blue. Literally, black and blue. HOW COULD THEY NEED TO TAKE THAT MUCH BLOOD? my mind would scream. It sickens me even now, five years on, to remember her guttural mews of protest - her only way to defend herself, to cry out in pain for them to stop - and me, her mother, having to stand by and simply let them do it.

Dear holy hell, no. Stop, please stop.

I did make them stop once. I stood up, pushed the pathology cart away and told them to wait. I desperately needed to minimise her anguish, for I felt that the energy it took for her to endure it was literally sucking the life out of her. They did stop. That day. They told me this was why they didn't like parents to be present, "because it's too distressing for you to watch."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?? I would rather be here, thanks all the same, I told the woman calmly.

Thank you, Blog. I think you've just unlocked a portion of my book. Must make mental note to come back and continue on this memory. I'll leave it there.

I sat there looking through all the bruising, past the puffy eyelids with their bruising from the birth, and saw the most delicate, fragile yet infinitely resilient being I had ever laid eyes on. So, so, so beautiful. Achingly beautiful to me.

Giving birth to Lolly years later just confirmed this to me: Lolly was never fragile. But Ella was, fragile like spun glass. However, this was also her beauty. Not fragile because of her prematurity. Not fragile because she wouldn't have been able to "make it" in the world and been a push-over. She was strong as an ox; an interesting dichotomy that I noted even at the time. I could see it in her and so could many of her carers. No, instead, I think she was fragile because of her purpose. The weight of her message made her fragile.

I see this photo and it makes me pant. I am now breathing shallow, panting silently. It happens sometimes when I look at certain photos of her. And when I enlarge this one, in particular, on the screen in front of me, my heart quickens. I yearn to bundle her close. I want to point to the thrashing toddler in front of me, complaining that Daddy has just stopped Hi-5, and yell at her that she ought to be bloody well grateful.

Of course I can't. Of course I won't. But I wanted to note the other side of the "I hold my living child close because I know just how very much we have lost" coin. That is, some days I am nauseated by the thoughts that I project onto my second daughter. Why aren't you more understanding? Why can't you be more quiet during this time? But it's not Lolly's place to have to change nor my right to ever try to make her. She would be living up to the impossible: an older sister canonised in her death, forever the child who will be perfect and can do no "wrong". We all - me, Steve and the LGBB included - take our lives for granted, accidentally, as a matter of course, so very, very often. It's inevitable in going through the motions of living our daily lives.

But when I see the memory via a photo of my sweet creation and am forced to confront and remember it, visibly showing the marks of already having endured such pain just to exist in my world, I am impacted heavily. Physically. And vow again to ensure her pain and her life and her fragility will not EVER go in vain.

More than once now on this journey, I have attempted to find a way to hug my computer screen. It's easier with a laptop. But no less dissatisfying.

It's done

One down, one to go....

Over on the private blog.

Mind how you go

One of the strongest phrases uttered by my grandfather that still stays with me (aside from "Oh, choogs", which was his version of "Oh, shit", "Hit me with a bottle", which meant basically "Bloody hell" and "Your blood's worth bottling", which meant you were very highly commendable) is

Mind how you go. 

I hadn't thought about it in years until today, when I went to call out to the LGBB to be careful as she ran ahead. I realised I do an awful lot of "Be carefuls" or "Watch outs" and I always kick myself afterwards - it's a natural reaction, of course, because you do want them to be careful and look out, but I also know that there's a fair bit of fear in these phrases that I would rather not inflict on her.

So I was thinking how "mind how you go" was such a gentle way of saying "take care and be careful" without actually taking away any of that ownership for the child. Beautiful! Another gift from my grandfather, delivered long ago but only realised now. I haven't a clue where my grandfather got it from - whether it was a phrase he heard as a boy himself that stayed with him or whether he made it up - but I think it's so lovely and care-taking without over-'smothering'.

And this, dear reader, is where this post was going to end, until I was dragged out of bed at 2am, unable to think past my thoughts about Granddad. He's around. Surprisingly prominent at the moment, or perhaps not so surprising, considering I have been steeped in thoughts of my grandmother this past week - more on that another loooooong-post time *blush* - as he was always her protector in life. So perhaps things don't change so much after you're gone, after all??? Who knows.

Anyway, here is the rest of it. Written bright and early (oh my god, it's almost 4am), just for... well, me, I guess. But please! Take a read!

--------------------------

My Granddad was a gentle, encouraging, exceedingly kind man. He was the main guiding light for me in a childhood that was at different times scary, confusing, downright frightening and lonely.

I think that the children of this world who face torment and struggle of any kind - that is, they don't have a stable home life for whatever reason, be that abuse, family upheaval, etc. - will always come through the other side and into adulthood with a bright future, as long as they have an elder who represents that torch-bearing quality. For some, it is a parent. For others, maybe an aunt or uncle. Or a teacher, perhaps.

For me, it was Granddad.

His name was Tom. Grandma and his mates would often call him Tom the Pom. He was born and raised in a little village called Padiham, in that northern England region of Lancashire/Blackburn. On our honeymoon in 1999, a mere four years after he died, Steve and I had the great and honorable pleasure of visiting the house he grew up in. Tom had a younger brother, Jim - neither of them were Thomas or James, it was Tom and Jim.... something Granddad attributed to his father who, from my recollection of Granddad's accounts, was not a kind or giving man (so, therefore, couldn't even "give" them the long versions of these names when filling out their birth certificates, as Granddad used to tell the story) - and they lived with their parents in this house.


When he was about 19, at the time of the Jarrow Marches, Tom left Padiham to find work in London.

Tom's mother, Alice, whom he often spoke of - affectionately and with a great amount of tenderness in his voice - was afflicted by asthma. So much so that young Tom left school at age 14 to help look after her. While he was away, Alice died from an attack from which she did not recover. All these details only came to light slowly for me as I sat in Tom's niece's home in Burnley when we stayed with them during our '99 trip. I'm still a bit fuzzy about when Granddad actually began serving in the army (whether it was before or after his mum's death). At any rate, I was so saddened to read letters in my Granddad's handwriting - a young man's hand - that he had written to his mum while he was away. And in the same shoebox his niece possessed were the clippings about Alice's passing and funeral. More letters from Tom to his family, expressing his feelings of loss.

Granddad at some point joined the army. He served in World War II. To hear him tell the story (he was always FULL of high tales), he saw a lot of action. Of course, he never actually did. But he wouldn't let that minor detail get in the way of an eye-widening fable, would he? Noooh. He had me believing that he was a runner in the war. One day, when Grandma overheard him feeding me this story, she barked at him that the only running he'd ever done in the army was in track and field. She was right. His bellowing laughter that time gave him away, as always.

When he was 29 or 30, he met my Grandma Ruby (I made a brief post a while ago about my poignant connection to her, here). They were working in a pub together after the war. Ruby already had a son aged around 3 - my Dad! isn't it funny to think of your parents being so little - but from all accounts, Tom took to him like a duck to water. I don't doubt. Granddad was a-maaazing with little children. By the time my father was 6, Tom had adopted him officially.

And this is where my kindred links to my grandparents begin to entwine. If you've read the story of Ruby in that link above (oh, here's a different link, one that I actually really recommend reading if you want to learn more about me), you will know that she did not bear any more children after giving birth to my father. Tom and Ruby had several miscarriages - I can't be sure how many nor their exact gestation, but I do know that there were at least two in the second trimester, the final of which was almost catastrophic for Grandma.

After this, Tom applied to take his bride and son to Canada to live and work there. It is apparent now that the decision was possibly two-fold: one, to provide my father with the best possible education and opportunity in this younger country and, two, on perhaps a less expressed note, it was a chance to leave behind the devastation at not being able to bear a family together.

Two weeks shy of their big adventure, away from the country they both loved, Tom became quite ill. It was not until after he died (an elderly man aged 78) that we understood just how ailing he had been our entire lives. From the time he was a young man, he had problems with his kidneys - he survived on some crazy-insane amount of medication til the day he died, to make up for his lack of kidney function (I can't recall now if he had one removed... but he never had dialysis so I guess not???) - and it was this that prevented him from entering Canada. They missed their boat. Literally. SO... the next best option was Australia.

Yep, we were apparently the second luckiest country (to them).

When they arrived here, they lived in temporary huts in Mitcham (Victoria), both finding jobs and putting in solid hours their entire working lives. Tom found work as a night watchman at the old SEC building in the city, while Ruby managed an office somewhere out in the suburbs. They saved enough to buy a block of land and build a house, where they lived with my Dad for 40 and 45 years, respectively, until their deaths. The house looks exactly the same today (on the outside, anyway).

When his grandchildren came along, Tom wasted no time and set about giving us all of his affection and attention. Whenever we visited, we were held on pedestals - individually, I think we were all told we were his favourite but "shhhhh don't tell the others" - and he played with us tirelessly. I would serve him cups of tea for hours on end in our cramped cubby house (which he would fold his tall lean frame into, creating a parody out of bumping his head on the pitched ceilings and putting on a posh voice). When he was sitting watching his soaps - for reasons that still elude me, he loved The Young And The Restless and Days of our Lives!? - we would crawl up behind him as he sat on the couch and we'd tickle what little hair he had left on his head. He would oblige by muttering something about a "pesky fly" and swat the air, until (I'm gathering now) he got sick of us interrupting and turn around to catch us out in a fit of giggles. Granddad could create games out of anything. 

The amount of love that Granddad poured into us, his four grandchildren, is not lost on me. Particularly as I became more and more aware of both their struggles to conceive (which ended in a hysterectomy and very lengthy hospital stay for Grandma), but also as I saw just how much these two soldiered on, despite what they had faced. Like all good eggs of the time, they got on with it.

We were never, EVER a bother or nuisance to him. He had all the time in the world for each of us. When you made friends with Tom, it seemed you had made a friend for life. At his funeral, a young man from their street stood up and spoke - we had an open, Quaker-style gathering, where anyone from the congregation could stand up and speak if they felt moved to do so - and he was reduced to tears as he said that he felt that Tom, our kind grandfather, had been the only person who ever really believed in him.  He had made good in his life and it was largely to do with the belief that Tom had had in him.

I learned a huge lesson listening to this young bloke, for I knew that Granddad had also said in private moments to us that "Johnathon from down the street is a bit of a no-hoper" - did this mean, then, that my Granddad had not been all he had seemed all this time? Was I (shock-horror), in fact, not his most favourite grandchild?? Were there others!? Of course there were. It simply meant that Granddad could both hold his own opinion of a situation and share a bit of compassion and goodwill, regardless of his personal beliefs on another's way of life. And the fact that Johnathon was a "no-hoper" did not also prevent Tom from giving that boy a boost up for a good ten years of his adolescence - it remains a shining example to me of the good and decent act of simply passing the time of day with your neighbour, for that was honestly all Granddad ever did with this boy as he passed by their house on his way home. I think I'd love a neighbour who was genuinely encouraging and demonstrative and interested in my wellbeing.

Sometimes, I forget just how much I whinge, compared to my grandparents - both of them - and I would do well to remember the path of their lives more often.

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, if you have made it to the end. Oh, and....

Mind how you go, you lot.

The end of the first chapter

I am all written out. We're well into the job of editing now, Dad and I. Working to my direction, he has taken on the first 6,000 words (or three chapters) and I am mindful of not over-burdening him. This is sensitive subject matter for a father to read, let alone dissect to the enth degree.

I remain so grateful and respectful of this time he is giving the 'project'. He has been under the pump with other work, as well as the gruelling task of putting his property on the market now that they are settled in the new place - a whole lot of elbow grease has had to go into the old place and I am relieved he is finally past that now. He looks so old these days! And I can see now (during a rare, impromptu visit he made by train last Friday - he lives a couple of hours away) that he has become invested in this book. It honestly takes a lot to impress my father.... where words formed into a story are concerned, amongst other studious things. So I am a little humbled by that, if nothing else.

Before I step away from the computer and leave this manuscript in peace for another few days, I want to share the final paragraph of the first chapter. Without giving too much away, the book begins in a crisis moment and provides a chance for a bit of reflection of my journey to parenthood.

This is the end of that chapter. I'd be grateful to know what you think - whether it would entice you to turn the page, whether it's too cryptic, what feelings it conjures... I realise it's a bit difficult to do without having the whole chapter to read, but hopefully you'll catch its drift.

For better or worse (it's the unedited version!), here it is:

   Over the next several days, I cried, I ate and drank a bit too much, I mothered myself the only way I knew how. But I felt different. So much had changed since the last time I had been given pathology results for a baby of Steve’s and mine that would never come into existence. The experience this time allowed me to retrospectively look at my internal reasoning and reactions, using them as a chance to learn even more about myself and noting the difference in sympathy we received now from those around us when they learned of our latest loss. I was also surprised by how much more it seemed to physically take out of my body – as if I was at a critical mass point of succumbing to the toll these miscarriages were really taking on me. I could not bounce back like I once used to and this time, I was forced into bed for a spell. After all, almost a decade had passed since our first loss. I was neither as young nor as healthy as I had been in my twenties.
   It used to be so different. Was I relieved now that the emotions a miscarriage evoked in me were less extreme, perhaps not quite so raw or crucial because I didn’t have every hope pinned on this tiny life? Did I have anything left in me to try and bring another child into existence one day? Had this, therefore, been Steve’s and my last remaining chance to bring another baby into the world? I didn’t know. But I wondered where I found all my resilience.

   The answer was actually to be found in a number of different places, including from deep within. And as I recounted my child-bearing life’s journey, I found with great relief that I was thankful for every single, solitary, sad and sorry, warm and fuzzy one of them.

Things you shouldn't say during KRudd's election speech

And I reference this recent post on my obsession with a little iPhone game to set the scene on this one:

"Oh, that's BULLSHIT! He DESERVES to die!!!"

Steve reeled around, thinking I was watching the screen and listening to our ex-Prime Minister as he made his acceptance speech. I didn't think you were this passionate about politics, I could see the words forming in his mind.

And then he saw me glaring at my phone.

I was really just on a supremely annoying level. With rocks that were bouncing down the precipice and missing all the pigs.

Those bloody green pigs! They are so hard to destroy with my birds! Again, this is not political hate I'm spinning....

Jet Blue Steven Slater - AKA Airplane Johnny

This young individual has made my morning.

Topical, brief and a reference to, oh, just about my most FAVOURITEST ever waste-of-time movie of my youth: Flying High (the title it was released under in Australia).


Jet Blue Steven Slater - AKA Airplane Johnny

Lolly on love

Today, washing dishes together, our conversation was thus...

LGBB: "I love Daddy."
Me: "Oh! That's nice."
LGBB: "And I love you too."
Me: "Thanks! Why do you love Daddy?"
LGBB: "Because. He's funny."
Me: "He is funny. Why do you love Mummy?"
LGBB: "Because you do funny wiggle-dances [MUST do something about that extra tyre... obviously]. And you laugh at Daddy."

Waauuugh. It shows. We love each other and it shows. I was beginning to wonder.

An unproud motherly moment

Unproud. Is that a word? I think it might be, after TLC made Unpretty a word.

I digress.

Today was the LGBB's swimming lesson. On bundling her into the car, after sprinting in the freezing Antarctic wind which Melbourne has been so good at throwing all winter, I heard the mother behind me who was shoving her daughter into the car next to ours. In tandem, we were struggling with seatbelts, the throes of motherhood, having no choice but to get our asses wet as we stood grappling with buckles... you get the picture.

Anyway, I had an unproud moment. It happened as I heard this mum, obviously at her wits' end with whatever her troubles of the day had brought to her, let fly on her pre-teen. And I, in all my "nobody has seen me lose my cool today" prowess, felt a sort of smugness creep in. I sympathised. I instantly recognised the frustration in her voice. I felt drawn to her, mother to mother... parent to parent. And yet, in a cowardly fashion, I allowed myself to feel justified.

There is no denying, it is a tough gig. Being a parent. I often wonder if I am supposed to be something of a super-human being, someone who doesn't ever lose her shit. Because surely, she knows what she is missing out on, her eldest (dead) child a blaring reminder of all that is sacred and filled with wonder and meaning. But I hold these two realities - for that is what they are - equally. If anyone was looking for a hero in me, they are not likely to find it.

Today, I felt glad that I heard someone become a spitfire at their child. Because it made my moments feel more justified. And I ask myself..... is that wrong? Or okay? I want to say no. But I have oh so long a ways to go before I live up to my own high bar.

Bedtime talk

Lately, I have been concentrating on smoothing out the first three chapters of my book. I'm happy with the first chapter. I'm undecided about some of the set-up in the next couple and it has been playing on my mind at odd times, which is why my waking statement to Steve this morning was:

Me:  I don't think the first three chapters are exciting enough.
He:  *sleepily* Well... did you put in the bit about us robbing the bank?
Me:  No, I didn't! I forgot. And those diamonds we found.
He:  Mmm-hmmm. And how we escaped in a submarine.
Me:  Ooooookay.
He:  And I think you should change the title. To Lenny: 007. That's much more snappy.
Me: Okay, you can stop now.


Points taken. But I think it's going to change my demographic slightly.

Tweeeeeeet

Ooops, forgot to say... there has been action at the private blog this week. If you have a log-in, check out the new post! But only when you want to waste some more time. It's seriously not important.

In other news:

• I am two episodes in to the second season of my very first ever viewing of Twin Peaks. And OH how I am loving it. Thanks in no small part to my dear sister in-law (the sister from another mister).
• After four years and 10 months of blogging and being followed, I am about to crack the tonne. Unless someone un-follows/de-follows/sans-follow-anymores me in the next little while. And not that the number of followers equals the number of true readers I have, or is a reflection of anything really, other than "this many people clicked on a button this one time"... but it feels like a bit of a mini woo-hoo! might be in order when the time comes. Until I go visit a blog that has, like, 342 followers.

Annnnywho. Twin Peaks calls. The owls are not what they seem. Didn't you know? (You probably did, given that I am twenty years too late for the initial sweeping of the craze that I swore, as a teenager, I was not going to get caught up in..... oh my God, I feel so old)

It was supposed to be a routine Pap Smear

I put it off for over two years. Well, no, more accurately I forgot and a third year slipped past and I was almost too nervous to make an appointment.

But I went. And soon enough, I found myself in that undignified frogs-legs pozzy on the doctor's bed.

She was a new doctor. New to me. Not new to the profession. And I was grilled - as always - about my reproductive history, given we were looking at *that area*

So then, she's shifting the speculum around and making disgruntled noises, which I thought for sure should have been my domain, given she was poking around somewhere rather delicate, and then she said, "Hmmmmmm....... that shouldn't be there. Did you know you had a growth on your cervix?"

Whoops. Yes. In fact, I did. I was supposed to get that seen to surgically about 3-4 years ago. Ummmm.

You would think that a thumb-sized polyp up one's nether region would be felt. Now that I thought about it, it had been. I had been (ignorantly) ignoring it and willing it to go away.

To tell the honest truth, I have had that much "intervention" in that area of my body that I think I just shut up shop. One of my personal trainers once told me she had never met anyone more in tune with their body than me. This was at the height of my baby-trying, baby-making, baby-dying years. No flipping wonder I had a sixth sense so well honed in that area that I could have cut laser-dyes out of metal with it.

Now, I have to go face the music. Muzak. Whatever. Next Thursday, I will be in the frog-legged pose with my obstetrician - always a pleasure, seeing him *turn to the left and cough... no, wait.... that's not right* - and I'll be attempting to bargain my way out of surgery. I do NOT want another general anaesthetic if I can help it. I have already seen my Homoeopath and we have begun a protocol that hopefully will see the polyp/offending barnacle shrivel up and disintegrate. I need six months to be sure, apparently. Already, I have had pains and smarts and similar such things in my nether region - as the remedies prescribed by the Homoeopath go to work.

In saying that, I don't like my chances (my Ob told me 3 years ago not to let it go too long) but I will be giving it my utmost to avoid the meeting with the needle, gown and green cap. And Dr R knows better than to humour me. So .... we'll see.

Mother's ruin

Not as you would expect. Not in this house.  Mmm-mmm.

Not a clear liquid stashed in a bottle at the back of the linen cupboard (how inconvenient and at the incorrect temperature as well, just by the way).

No, in this house, it's something far more geeky and anti-social.

This obsession of mine is costing me valuable points, for instance, at my brother's house - where I was to be found perched *hee hee* on the couch, phone in hand, trying to get past this one blasted level that I had been stuck on since the day before. All at the expense of any coherent conversation from me. The most my bro and his lovely wife got from me last weekend when we were over for lunch and an impromptu computer install (that was where Steve came in handy) and concert (that was where the LGBB came to the fore) were improperly interjected laughs and grunts (they were from me).

As if I was keeping up with all their nattering when I had little green helmet-headed pigs to destroy! Ha-har!

I speak, of course, of.......  Angry Birds. An iPhone app/game that I just. Cannot. Get. Enough of. Right now. And I am here to say, I am going to make it through all of these locked levels if it renders me insane.

They say acknowledging the addiction is the first step. Right?

What about you? Do you have any phone app's you're ashamedly fixated on?

Oh goody!

More bleepin' rain today.

That is all.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

The book playlist

 I love music. I have a soundtrack to my life and I am quite practiced in creating playlists for a mood on any given day when I am working around the house or have visitors.

My book playlist has settled into a rather hotch-potch mixed tape of musical genres. It grows slowly, for I am not wont to adding new songs. But the list below, should you care to ever look any of them up to listen, is quite a good sample of what I listen to - on repeat rotation - over the countless hours that I have been writing this book. Two years, five months' worth of listening time. Cripes. Lucky digital music doesn't wear out like the old tapes and CD's used to, eh!

What does your usual soundtrack look like? Do you have a certain playlist that you must listen to when you're working, doing a chore or a job?


Alone In Kyoto - Air
Sing Sang Sung - "
African Velvet - "
All I Need - "
Ce Matin La - "
La Femme D'Argent - "
Cherry Blossom Girl - "
Universal Traveller - "
Mike Mills - "
Another Day - "
Biological - "
Playground Love - "
Time - Alan Parsons Project
Baby, Now That I've Found You - Alison Krauss
Vienna - Billy Joel
Feels Like Home - Chantal Kreviazuk
Put Your Records On - Corinne Bailey Rae
Sunny Road - Emiliana Torrini
People Get Ready - Eva Cassidy
Songbird - Eva Cassidy
Easy - Groove Armada
Early Winter - Gwen Stefani
St. Patrick's Day - John Mayer
Comfortable - John Mayer
Kid A (radiohead Cover) - John Mayer
River - Joni Mitchell
This Womans Work - Kate Bush
Lefroy (Prelude) - Kylie Auldist
I Keep Forgettin' - Michael McDonald
Woodbrook - Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin
Les Nuits - Nightmares On Wax
Run Run Run - Phoenix
Love For Granted - "
(You Can't Blame It On) Anybody - "
If It's Not With You - "
Holdin' On Together - "
Alphabetical - "
Long Distance Call - "
Honeymoon - "
On fire - "
Eple - Röyksopp
Good Enough (Piano Solo) - Sarah McLachlan
Ordinary Miracle - Sarah McLachlan
La Ritournelle - Sebastien Tellier
What the world needs now is love - Stacey Kent
Landslide - Stacey Kent
Maybe Tomorrow - Stereophonics

Help spread the word

Okay, so it may not be important to some of you, but to me (and, I'm sure, many others) this is of critical importance.

I speak of those fellow human beans who HAVE TO HAVE the expensive car but CAN'T DRIVE THE FECKING THING.

I implore you to get the word out there:  If you are going to buy your Beemer or Merc or Audi, please ensure you are going to then be willing and able to keep to the speed limit. For let's face it, if you're over 70* and your eyesight is failing and the distance of that dashboard past the top of your head is much higher than it used to be and you're struggling to look past your bonnet (of your car, that is, not the optional one on your HEAD), then it might be that the 'able' part of keeping to the speed limit is beyond you.

When these expensive and/or high performance vehicles leave the dealership, you would think there was a duty of care (other than the care factor of their commission off the sale) by the salespeople that obliges them to think of us. The other road users.

I am sick to tears of negotiating my way to the front of dual-lane carriageways full of slow cars, only to find that the culprits have been a white Honda and a gold Mercedes keeping speed with each other and "driving carefully to avoid any bumps or scrapes."

I cannot tell you the number of times I have felt like I am doing warp speed on a highway with a designated speed limit of 80km/h, only to glance down and see I am doing *GASP* 75km/h!

Look, I am all for safe driving. My father is an international expert in the field, heavens above. But I draw the line at people who seem too timid or otherwise unable to get behind the wheel and drive properly. They are just as dangerous as the hoon!

The problem with safe drivers who drive 20-under the speed limit is.... THEY MAKE THE REST OF US DRIVE CRAZY!




* To be fair, of course it's not always and only elderly people. Many older drivers are the safest on the road and I'd prefer to drive alongside them any day to some other distracted drivers who perhaps haven't been around long enough to negotiate their car through every sort of road condition. BUT it remains that most drivers of these higher end vehicles are in the middle-older age bracket.

Jazzlene!

Apropos of nothing, Jazzlene! just popped her head up at the window at me while I was working. And I thought, "That's another bit of totally useless and irrelevant trivia I've never shared in the blogosphere!" I'm full of them. Useless bits of boring, uninteresting, mundane trivia. But here we go:

During ANTM's cycle 8 (2007),  Steve and I discovered a model who seemed to be our dog's human equivalent. If not only because her name was Jaslene. It was all in the way she said it. And our dog, let's face it, was ripe for the picking (on). She needed a new name. "Miss Mena", while endearing, was simply not as equally annoying as the pooch herself.

Here is Jazz, doing her best and most favourite "LOOK AT MOY!" stunt. I guess, in ANTM terms, she pops for the camera. Although, being a dog, I can tell you that most of her popping is done at her rear end (sorry, I had to... I live with a four year-old and she'd be so ashamed of me if I missed that opportunity). I particularly like the way she manages to combine comical with utter woe. Look at those heavy-laden eyes. So sad! She pulls this face a lot, at any window she can see us through - this was the first time I captured it on camera, back in 2006 - and uses it to get the laughs. She seems to think the attention will translate into being let inside. It hasn't worked for her so far. But she'll be sure to keep you posted.

So Jazz became....... JazzLENE! The way Jaslene herself would announce her name on the show. We spent the rest of the season (yes... we watched the entire train wreck) amusing ourselves about Jazzlene every time she came on.





And then, of course, there was Homer. And the Lurleen Lumpkin episode of The Simpsons.

We couldn't forget Pepper in all this. And her nickname was already Renie.... long story. So Renie became Lurlenie, an affectionate nickname of her new proper (made-up) name. Lurleen. These days, she's most often called Peppy-Lurl. Really, we could "call" her anything. The poor old darling is so deaf *sob*

There you have it. That's it. Today's Tale In The Utter Nonsensical. Now, back to work, you lot.

The Water Lily

A lonely young wife
In her dreaming discerns
A lily-decked pool
With a border of ferns,
And a beautiful child,
With butterfly wings,
Trips down to the edge of the water and sings:
`Come, mamma! come!
`Quick! follow me-
`Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!'
And the lonely young wife,
Her heart beating wild,
Cries, `Wait till I come,
`Till I reach you, my child!'
But the beautiful child
With butterfly wings
Steps out on the leaves of the lily and sings:
`Come, mamma! come!
`Quick! follow me!
`And step on the leaves of the water-lily!'

And the wife in her dreaming
Steps out on the stream,
But the lily leaves sink
And she wakes from her dream.
Ah, the waking is sad,
For the tears that it brings,
And she knows 'tis her dead baby's spirit that sings:
`Come, mamma! come!
`Quick! follow me!
`Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!'

Henry Lawson, 1867-1922

This poem takes my breath away. I published it on my old blog in 2005 (if it looks familiar to any of  ye olde readers).

It was written in 1890. Seems some things never change.

All hail Sally Seltmann

This song is the only thing that will get me going today. We're heading for record rainfall in Melbourne. Just today. WHAT THE?? Hasn't it already rained a year's worth in one season? :(  Poop.

Right-o!

The rooms are clear (not clean, just clear... in readiness for the hosing down decent vacuuming they're going to get shortly).

The orange cake is in the oven. Made with oranges from our very own tree, IF you don't mind (soooo juicy, just miniature sized!). Two more oranges to use up, plus some lemons from our machine of a lemon tree, so next cake will be more a zesty citrus affair. I'll get that out in another hour or so.

Just finished a 30-minute internet workout (with the LGBB helping by gallantly passing me the hand weights each time it called for it).

Am soon going to embark on vegie-chopping for tonight's stir-fry pie - a delectable selection of sautéed veges (leeks, mushrooms, celery, zucchini) bunged in a pie dish lined with pastry, a few eggs cracked over the top, slash the yolks then crumble 200g-ish of goats' feta over the top before putting on your top layer of pastry.

And.... AND!!!  The cyclamen is still alive. And newly flowering, to boot. WHA'?! NNGhhghsfffl? How is that possible?

We're cookin' with Crisco here!

Meantime, about to play a game of hot-and-cold (the LGBB's latest fave), just because I haven't pressed the flesh enough with her today and she's been patiently waiting ever since getting home from kindy.

Yup. Gettin' back in the groove *squishing butt into the couch of life for the perfect comfortable fit, just like Homer Simpson*

I blame Sarah MacLachlan

(there is also a new post up at the private blog, for those who are interested/following that one AND a new post at the Earth Healing blog as well. A plethora of posts!)

Last night, Steve came out after watching the end of Charlotte's Web with the LGBB, his face puffy and red, cheeks wet from tears.

Assuming that he wasn't upset over the film's CGI graphics or anything, I gathered it was probably that adorable song in the closing credits by Sarah MacLachlan (I've written about it before, here).

I was right.

As I was preparing tea and setting it on the table at the time, I couldn't properly stop and ask him what was going on until we sat down to eat. When we did, I asked straight out, "So, what happened there?"

The combination of the beautiful lyrics - which he openly stated were reminding him of Ellanor - and the fact that his surviving daughter starting chiming in and singing them just broke his dam. Lots of dam-busting going on here this week!

Now, I have a bit of an inkling about this. And about just why it's proving to be a rather Ella-focused emotional week. First of all, I am now steeped in the part of the book where we are starting IVF. That means it's nearly time for Lolly to come slipping in. Which also means... I'm nearly finished. I have agonised for so many months over "when will this damn thing ever be done? When will I get to the end? I can't do it anymore!" And Steve has been there, coaxing and coaching, pushing and willing me to get through.

It is, rather, like a labour of love. A three year-long labour, granted, but still... the process is eerily similar. The fact that at the heart of it is our girl (well, both of them), and me being steeped in the emotions and uncertainty of that time - doing IVF - has surely been affecting Steve as well.

I mean, I know I have written on here before about the times he comes to me with tears in his eyes over Ella. But it really only happens a couple of times a year. This time, I was really surprised to notice that, as I am sort of between realities at the moment (between February 2005 and current day) and writing about what we were working through/towards then and am more readily familiar with what we were doing and how we were both feeling, the look on Steve's face was different as he let his guard down.

His tears were heavy with acceptance this time. Back then, he used to cry and his look at me would be full of desperation - "please help me rip this pain off me, I want it gone". Now, he has lived with it long enough to know. It never goes. It just rises and passes.

Haaaaaaah. Sorry, folks! Just writing how I'm seeing it. This is me this week. I can't be/write something I'm not. I see so many blogs around that are amusing and intelligent and laugh-out-loud funny (and thank God for them, otherwise I might not raise a giggle for weeks on end sometimes). I feel like I'm a morose stick in the mud, often, amongst these blogs of light and cynical wit. But.... such is life, writing honestly and not just "in good times." I couldn't do that, it wouldn't be honest of me. And what I have always aimed for with this blog is a true portrayal of my journey from grief to... wherever I am now. Working towards contentment, I suppose.

Please bear with me. This too shall surely pass. And don't call me Shirley.

Ah, bugger it. Here's the vid again. Watch it and don't tear up at that melody and those words. Dare you!

I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I had just finished making my toast earlier today, taking a break from writing for a moment, when the phone rang.

"Hi, it's Sandy from the new medical centre," the caller announced. "We have your records here and what must be one of your children who has attended the centre, transferred from your last medical centre. Now, what we don't have are records for your other child and, I'm sorry, I only have a first initial E here..."

Oh, was she going to be sorry, alright.

"Yes, that's Ellanor, our first born. She passed away when she was a baby," I advised Sandy.

I'm used to this sort of bungle. It has happened plenty of times over the years. Our private health care cards still bear Ellanor's name -- in place #3 -- because we kinda like seeing it there with all our names, alongside Lolly's, so we have never requested new cards. The Medicare card is the hardest to carry, though. There's not even a gap where her name appeared, on cards we received the very week she died. A few days later, as the paperwork went through the same health care system, we received new cards, her name erased. When the LGBB was born, she became #4 and not the new #3 - the only indication that the government recognises we had ever had a child before Lolly. Somewhere, in some departments, but not others. Our Medicare cards have no #3. I guess it's a fitting tribute. Or not. I'm undecided.

The call with Sandy went fairly predictably from then on, as is my experience now with such queries about the number of members in our family. She fumbled over her words, overstating how sorry she was to have bothered me, talking over the top of me and not even pausing to fill her own lungs, so I couldn't reassure her that it was okay for her to have called me. She wasn't to know, after all.

But I have been left quite shaken. My hands are shaky, my body feels a bit light and airy. A reeling feeling. Earlier today, and after a few exchanges with a dear friend who is also no stranger to deep, intense grief where lost babies are concerned, I was heading for a vulnerable state of mind anyway, I guess. I was tapping in to that part of myself that knew only how to feel so horribly guilty that my baby had died. Despite everything I thought I knew about her condition. Despite my love. Despite my longing for her. It wasn't ever going to be enough.

And the fact that I had stopped writing to come and make some lunch, leaving my "book songs" on iTunes and listening to Joni Mitchell's "River" when Sandy called, has not made the experience any easier either.

Now I have the words of this gorgeous song looming in my mind like impassible barriers, forcing me to face them today. Fall into them. I am reminded of the times I would listen to River after Ella died and the lyrics would taunt me, as so many of the lost-love songs did during that time. SO many lyrics just seemed to fit so well with how I felt. This one, in particular, was a good beat-up song, I recall. I see now that there was no reason for me to feel so guilty about her passing. But anyone who tried to suggest that to me at the time would have been wasting their breath. It was a conclusion and a healing I had to come to in my own time.

I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye

As if I was the one who got to determine whether she died or survived. As if.

There are many songs that do this to me. Just at the right time, on the right day. Pinpoint accurate and capable of letting the floodgates go. So I cry. And release the pressure on the dam I didn't even realise I had been damming. A decent unwelling is always a good thing. Especially when you were not aware you had been holding it in.

And the winner is...

She holds the envelope in her hand.

Pauses a moment before gliding a thumb under the flap and ripping it open.

It is as she expected.

Acceptance. The place of choice.

But what is this? This is not relief she feels, not elation.

No, this is angst.

Suddenly, it's like a game show. She's on The Price Is Right. The crowd is shouting at her, telling her what to do, but they're all yelling something different so she can't make out what they're saying.

Does she go for choice number 2? Should she choose number 4, perhaps?

Everything she knew goes out the window. All that researching, all that time spent weighing up the pro's, the con's.

Now that she has the acceptance in her hand - her number 1, numero uno, top dollar, head honcho choice - she is suddenly not sure she should take the offer.

For this is not just her game! It's not even her life!

But the decision she makes here is final.

The crowd keeps hollering. She bites her lip. She got what she wanted but now.... Now, the allure of those words on the acceptance form in her hand are taunting her.

If she chooses to accept, there will be no more places offered. If she declines and states a new preference, she has to bank on that one being up for grabs.

And then she will have lost her originally offered first placement preference too.

Top dollah!

She doesn't gamble. But it is ever so tempting.

Was there something she missed?

Is this the universe's way of telling her to make a bolt for the other preference? The one that almost stole her heart, if not for this very late-comer onto the scene?

With a deep breath, she ticks the Accept Offer box. She cuts the form along the dotted line, marked with the little pair of scissors, and places the slip in an envelope.

Seals it.

The crowd is a mixture of cheering, clapping, and some disappointed "Ohhhhhh"s.

She drowns them out as she addresses the envelope.

"Kindergarten Enrolments Co-Ordinator..."

I'm curious

It's been a while since I confessed something of such mammoth proportions as this, but here goes...

The LGBB has recently fallen back in love with Curious George. The movie. When she requests it, I put it on for her. As I am walking away, I can't help singing along to the opening tune. It's catchy, dont'cha think?




Okay, now, about 38 seconds in (if you watch the video), you can see that the words are, "If you ask yourself, what is this? Like curious... like curious... Curious George." Right? Right. Easy enough WHEN YOU HAVE THE WORDS THERE IN FRONT OF YOU on the screen.

I ask you to ask yourself, though, when you're walking away from the telly, absent-mindedly humming that theme tune, whether it's possible to just find yourself - like, oh, I don't know, just someone we know (maybe me, maybe not) - singing instead, "Bi-curious, like curious... Curious George."

And you will then ask yourself, "Can monkeys be bi-curious?"

I catch myself singing it every damn time. And it makes me look at poor, sweet li'l George the monkey in a rather different, not so innocent light. And that man in the yellow hat too, come to think of it. Because I swear, that is what I hear him sing [in my defense, I would argue that it's annoyingly clearer to hear that he is saying "like curious" on this YouTube vid, so it doesn't really support my claims of the mondegreen and rather just makes me look like a deranged person].

Anyone with me? Anyone? At all?? You, up the back there? NO???!!!  *sweats* I honestly don't know where my mind goes. But sometimes it keeps me, and all the people in my head, amused.

In love with this right now

The picture and the subject....

On an unseasonably sunny day, Mornington Pier, visiting Nana and Pa.

The time I tried to beat the Liquid Gold habit

In the throes of late pregnancy (yes, yes, I found this... again... I'm working hard, 'kay, and I can't stop and write a blog post at the moment orright?!), I was heavily addicted to iced coffee. The end of the love affair, however, went down thus:

Sunday, May 21, 2006

It started out innocently enough. But now I can't get it out of my mind, first thing in the morning it's what I think of. It's like I'm being called and I am weak for it. I think I am addicted.

Yes. I have been in love with IC Strong Iced Coffee now for at least 6 months.

The problem is, I didn't cover my tracks well enough. And Steve found out. It first started with
one empty 1.5L bottle in the recycling bin, with another on the go in the fridge door. To anyone not suspicious, this wouldn't be interesting. But ohhhhh no. Not my Steve. So I've been sneaking around behind his back. Taking the bottles straight to the wheelie bin. Shuffling off to Safeway (my dealer) during the day.

Then, in the ultimate act of stupidity a person with my addiction could make, I asked him to grab me a bottle once, about two months ago when he came with me to help me shop. 'Great!' I thought, 'I can get him to go up to the dairy section and I don't have as far to walk then.'

Yeah. Good PLAN, Einstein.

He came back, bottleless. I looked at him searchingly, checking his hands for the familiar brown container, carrying my fix. But instead, all I got was a lecture on whether I knew how much "those things" cost. My head hung. My heart sobbed.

It's been at least six weeks since my enforced cold turkey. At first, I couldn't even look at that section of the fridge as I passed by. A few weeks passed and I took my first glance, just to see if they're maybe on special, I said to myself. But there were none. There was a gap where they should have been. SOLD OUT! I thought. That'd be right.

And then, I succumbed about a week ago. I knew the section of flavoured milk was right at the end of the fridge, next to the Yakults. And the drinking yogurt. I sauntered up to the edge of the dairy case, held my hand out, and in what could very well have been a scene from a movie, I let out an audible gasp as I saw my hand in front of the spot where it SHOULD have been. No gap, no price tag. The real estate once taken up by my beloved liquid gold had been closed over, taken up by inferior Ideal Dairy and Mooove brands as far as my welling-up eyes could see.

When I got home and relayed the devastating news to Steve, he re-enacted how it must have gone down these past weeks at the IC Strong Iced Coffee factory:

*looking at imaginary endless computer-paper report and scratching head with pen* I don't get it, NSW's figures are good, SA still looks great, Victoria is fine.... but shit, the Whatman shipment isn't shifting. What's happening, people? If this keeps up, we'll have to close the doors.

Yeah, laugh it up, Funnyboy. They've stopped supplying my dealer! Now my only chance is to find some grimey servo that stocks them. And then we'll talk about how expensive it is for a 1.5L bottle of the stuff. Because you've now forced your pregnant wife to go scrounging around every Fuel Zone in the area .... and if I find a bottle, even if it's $3 for a 500ml bottle, you can bet your moccassins I'll be getting it.

*whimper* I can't stop thinkin' about the juice.

Taking a stroll down memory lane

It's been good for me, trawling back through my old blog and tracking my pregnancy with the LGBB.

I am really at the business end of the book now. My gosh. Where last week, I was quite certain I would never put the words 'The End' on this thing, here I am staring the inevitable ending in the face. I can't believe it!

As I have been going along, chuckling at many an entry and reminiscing the funny stuff, I found this little exchange between Steve and me which I blogged about near the end of my pregnancy. It should be noted that by this stage (if you were around and reading then and recall), I had been permanently beached for a good few months - early threatened labour at 24 weeks, the symphisis pubis dysplasia thing with my pelvis/hips, the dizzy spells, yada-yada-yada... all added up to a prescription of couch-dwelling. And this is the result:

Monday, April 24, 2006

K: I want a cheese slice

S: *trudges off and returns triumphantly with one for each of us*

S: *hands cheese slice over between index and middle finger with an air of 'breadwinner doling out money to the trophy wife'* Git yourself something nice.

K: Ta... D'you think in the history of time, they ever paid for goods or services with cheese?

S: Yeah, and what if they didn't have change? "I'm sorry, do you have anything smaller?" *nibbles his cheese slice down to smaller denomination to pay for invisible item*

A direct quote from Yours Truly

Having traipsed back over my old stomping ground (an online pregnancy/IVF support network) and reading my posts from there as if it was just yesterday, I see I clearly had an obsession with sperm - at the time, dare I say it... as nudge-nudge-wink-wink as it sounds.... all I could think, eat and breathe were the little fella's (ok, pipe down, enough with the gags I can hear you all forming in your dirty little minds already). Now, I am thinking I need to write a book on the comical side to the strive for optimal sperm health.

And I quote *a-herm-herm*

Who knew that sperm that's not regularly "turned over" may actually not have enough energy to get to the egg? And then if they do make it, they're too tired to fertilise it? Awww! How typical..... can you just imagine it: they've spent all their energy driving around cos they don't want to use a map. And then they make it and all they can do is put a bent arm up on the side of the egg, with the other hand on their hip..... heaving and gasping for breath because they're so out of puff they can't even knock on the door.

Hmph!

And just one other little bit o' trivia for you - I posted this on what was to become Lolly's birthday, exactly one year before she was born. Wow-ee, if only I'd know, hey?