This kid. He drives me insane, cracks me up and amazes me all in one.
Let me tell you.
We have pretty much no cupboards here. Imagine it. It'll give you grey hairs. Now put a (much loved, and known blessing) toddler in the equation who grows an inch a day and has go go gadget arms.
Today he discovered he can get into two new drawers, that have bits and pieces in them that desperately need a clean out but I struggle to know where to put the pieces! So.... My "girls" hammer. Screws and nails. That kinda stuff. And no easy way to lock off the drawers.
But five steps behind his daddy today, he went to the drawer. Took out a Tape measure. Just like his daddy. Came and measured the coffee table. Just like his daddy just did.
The look of earnest and concentration. Priceless. As they say.
Ten minutes later? He was skipping his way around the dining room. Skipping? Well, it took me a little while to work it out but this week at music we skipped. Mummy skipped (oh what a sight) an Toby held my hand and was dragged along. And now? Three days later, he skips. Melt my heart.
I miss my four year old and the things he might be doing.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
No thanks. I want to get off now.
Do you ever get that surreal, almost unconscious feeling of having changed your mind? As if it was ever a choice that was consciously made, but now you've decided you want it to be a different way?
Let me try to tell you a little differently. Sometimes I catch a thought, or maybe a feeling from deep within, that has decided to do it a different way.
"Oh actually, God/universe (insert your believe), if you don't mind I think I'll just go back to the way it was meant to be. Yes, please, just send him back. Oh thank you, thank you."
Ok, obviously my unconscious, or semi conscious doesnt think quite so articulately, but the feeling that accompanies it is what's important. A moment of perhaps relief (?), however fleeting, as I decide I'm not going to do it this way after all.
But followed by a feeling if sick to the stomach as I realise its just not going to happen. It's not a decision I made. It's not even a challenge I accepted. It's life. Make the most of it. Enjoy. TouchÃĐ.
And of course, I do. Or I try. Especially now that I have my foot in both worlds. Sometimes the sorrow and heartache for the one who isn't here is overwhelming. I never lose sight of how lucky I am, but motherhood is a super tough gig, so when you put two dimensions into it... Of heaven and earth... Well, it's a wonder any of us cope at all really.
Oh, looky. There's that super word again (cope). We won't enter that discussion.
::::
One of my closest baby loss buddy's journeys ended yesterday. Her baby boy died in utero four and a half years ago at 39 weeks. A natural conception. A problem free pregnancy. No reason. It just did.
They've endured four years of IVF. Failed stim cycles. Failed donor egg stim cycles. An ectopic pregnancy.. And now their last embryo transfer has given them another bfn. Negative. It's all over.
If anyone was meant to be a mummy, it was her. She's a kindy teacher, and a natural. What do you say? I feel guilty that I have Toby, but I am so grateful I do. But what do you say? My heart aches for her. Some in this world endure so much more than any mother should (and I'm not just talking about this friend).
::::
It's been a baby loss sort if week actually.
The leader of Toby's music group is pregnant. I think I've mentioned her before as she is about 4 weeks ahead of me. I would be around 16 weeks or do now. Hard to believe, and I don't keep tabs. There's no joy in that. But with this girl I have a weekly visual reminder. And since I've started off making it sound like a loss story I will say everything is just fine with her belly babe.
But this week she sought me out. Sat down with me. I asked her an obligatory "how ARE you", as obviously any question of such, even with no emphasis, is going to elicit a pregnancy answer.
She ummed and ahhed, and screwed her face up, concluding that she was "doing not TOO bad".
I expected that she was referring to the aches and pains, the struggle with dealing with a toddler on top of it. You know how it goes. And don't worry I'm not discounting it, given that I don't do pregnancy gracefully, and even at 9 weeks I could see how much "fun" I was going to have as a toddlers mother as well!! But it wasn't a reminder of what I wasn't doing that I was feeling like facing.
But she surprised me. Not in a good way. By telling me that this was her third pregnancy, and this was coming up to the time she lost her first daughter. 22 weeks.
I realised then that she had actually sought me out. She said she was feeling as though no-one gets it, but that she thought of me, and thought "Bir will get it". And yes, yes I do.
You never can guess another person's journey though, can you.
And two days ago an online friend sought me as she attended the still birth of her besties son, sleeping at 27 weeks due to placental abruption.
I can't believe that there was a time when baby loss was foreign to me. When the best I might have come up with was "oh how sad". (Maybe not quite but you know).
::::
But the most emotional for me, maybe because I'm somewhat hardened by the death of babies, is corresponding with the lady from Toby's DIG who lost her 16 month old, essentially to SIDS, just three months ago.
We've been writing, and I've been hoping that by knowing me and my journey through grief might help her. But in everything I write I am conscious of the little boy, three days different in age, who is here with me.
It strikes fear into my heart, her loss. It's validated for me, my helicopter mothering. It's allowed me to not feel guilty or over protective for having Toby on the movement monitor still, or in the cot beside my bed, still.
She mothers three other young children and has eight weeks to go with her pregnancy. You can imagine how she has no time to allow herself to grieve for her girl, or the emotions of all sorts surrounding the impending birth if her son.
And we talk tough gigs.
::::
Christmas looms. I don't suffer the same sadness as I did. And I look forward to Toby's second Christmas where he will have a certain level of understanding of the joy (albeit if Santa and presents but there is time for him to learn the reasons for our celebrations). But of course there is the one who isn't here. And Christmas time was when he was conceived. He "became". And somehow that Christmas I knew it. It's the only pregnancy I've known, and that was from conception. Maybe even before conception. I have never 'known' a pregnancy since.
Let me try to tell you a little differently. Sometimes I catch a thought, or maybe a feeling from deep within, that has decided to do it a different way.
"Oh actually, God/universe (insert your believe), if you don't mind I think I'll just go back to the way it was meant to be. Yes, please, just send him back. Oh thank you, thank you."
Ok, obviously my unconscious, or semi conscious doesnt think quite so articulately, but the feeling that accompanies it is what's important. A moment of perhaps relief (?), however fleeting, as I decide I'm not going to do it this way after all.
But followed by a feeling if sick to the stomach as I realise its just not going to happen. It's not a decision I made. It's not even a challenge I accepted. It's life. Make the most of it. Enjoy. TouchÃĐ.
And of course, I do. Or I try. Especially now that I have my foot in both worlds. Sometimes the sorrow and heartache for the one who isn't here is overwhelming. I never lose sight of how lucky I am, but motherhood is a super tough gig, so when you put two dimensions into it... Of heaven and earth... Well, it's a wonder any of us cope at all really.
Oh, looky. There's that super word again (cope). We won't enter that discussion.
::::
One of my closest baby loss buddy's journeys ended yesterday. Her baby boy died in utero four and a half years ago at 39 weeks. A natural conception. A problem free pregnancy. No reason. It just did.
They've endured four years of IVF. Failed stim cycles. Failed donor egg stim cycles. An ectopic pregnancy.. And now their last embryo transfer has given them another bfn. Negative. It's all over.
If anyone was meant to be a mummy, it was her. She's a kindy teacher, and a natural. What do you say? I feel guilty that I have Toby, but I am so grateful I do. But what do you say? My heart aches for her. Some in this world endure so much more than any mother should (and I'm not just talking about this friend).
::::
It's been a baby loss sort if week actually.
The leader of Toby's music group is pregnant. I think I've mentioned her before as she is about 4 weeks ahead of me. I would be around 16 weeks or do now. Hard to believe, and I don't keep tabs. There's no joy in that. But with this girl I have a weekly visual reminder. And since I've started off making it sound like a loss story I will say everything is just fine with her belly babe.
But this week she sought me out. Sat down with me. I asked her an obligatory "how ARE you", as obviously any question of such, even with no emphasis, is going to elicit a pregnancy answer.
She ummed and ahhed, and screwed her face up, concluding that she was "doing not TOO bad".
I expected that she was referring to the aches and pains, the struggle with dealing with a toddler on top of it. You know how it goes. And don't worry I'm not discounting it, given that I don't do pregnancy gracefully, and even at 9 weeks I could see how much "fun" I was going to have as a toddlers mother as well!! But it wasn't a reminder of what I wasn't doing that I was feeling like facing.
But she surprised me. Not in a good way. By telling me that this was her third pregnancy, and this was coming up to the time she lost her first daughter. 22 weeks.
I realised then that she had actually sought me out. She said she was feeling as though no-one gets it, but that she thought of me, and thought "Bir will get it". And yes, yes I do.
You never can guess another person's journey though, can you.
And two days ago an online friend sought me as she attended the still birth of her besties son, sleeping at 27 weeks due to placental abruption.
I can't believe that there was a time when baby loss was foreign to me. When the best I might have come up with was "oh how sad". (Maybe not quite but you know).
::::
But the most emotional for me, maybe because I'm somewhat hardened by the death of babies, is corresponding with the lady from Toby's DIG who lost her 16 month old, essentially to SIDS, just three months ago.
We've been writing, and I've been hoping that by knowing me and my journey through grief might help her. But in everything I write I am conscious of the little boy, three days different in age, who is here with me.
It strikes fear into my heart, her loss. It's validated for me, my helicopter mothering. It's allowed me to not feel guilty or over protective for having Toby on the movement monitor still, or in the cot beside my bed, still.
She mothers three other young children and has eight weeks to go with her pregnancy. You can imagine how she has no time to allow herself to grieve for her girl, or the emotions of all sorts surrounding the impending birth if her son.
And we talk tough gigs.
::::
Christmas looms. I don't suffer the same sadness as I did. And I look forward to Toby's second Christmas where he will have a certain level of understanding of the joy (albeit if Santa and presents but there is time for him to learn the reasons for our celebrations). But of course there is the one who isn't here. And Christmas time was when he was conceived. He "became". And somehow that Christmas I knew it. It's the only pregnancy I've known, and that was from conception. Maybe even before conception. I have never 'known' a pregnancy since.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
The number four. Among other items.
It's everywhere, have you noticed. I know that many of my baby lost friends also have a number four in their lives. Or I should say missing from their lives. And I'm talking about a four year old, as opposed to anywhere else the four might come up.
But I swear, it seems that everyone's kid is turning four. I'm at the point where I can even second guess. Example... At the supermarket and the checkout lady says to the little girl "and how old are you?". Straight to the tip of my tongue comes the words "she's four. Of course". Because sure enough she was. At Toby's small music group we've had several birthdays in the past two or three months. And all of them turned four. Bite.
::::
It's been a tough month or so. I can admit it here, and now that the month or so is passing. Post D & C recovery was physically easy. I got on with life. I didn't have time to stop and grieve, nor did I want to. I've had my share (can I say more than?), and I don't like the feeling of grieve or its crippling nature. But to be honest I also didn't feel I was denying myself. It was just in my step.
However, as the days and weeks tolled by I struggled more and more. I had all but decided it was time to visit the GP for the antidepressants I have avoided for four years. I was that low. I didn't feel that I was grieving the loss of this last little babe, but there were a lot of emotions surrounding it. The resurrection of grief for Ciaran, and for lost years with my children. With children that I will never get the choice to have, because of my advancing maternal age. And I was feeling very angry about that. About why could this one not stick around. The 'woe is me' moments asking why tease me? Why change things. Why undo all the hard work I had put in on myself to achieve the survival techniques that made it ok to live in this world of babies and easy pregnancies?
Oh there was plenty.
I was also well aware that my body, and my mind, was dealing with hormones. Pregnancy without the happy, as it released itself from my body. And the repairs my body was going through to recover from the nine weeks pregnant, and from the invasive ness of surgery.
Amongst all of that it dawned in me that there was possibly side effects from the pred.nis.one I was weaning off so I asked Dr Google, and it all became clearer.
Depression. Fatigue. And that's on top of the horrid weight gain that always happens when I'm on them (as they also increase appetite). So I was actually fighting a losing battle.... Feeling tired and depressed, I ate more sugary foods, which made me feel worse, both in myself and about my body image. My missing mojo was sending me around in circles.
Eventually I trekked to my amazing Chiro. He has been treating me with large doses of zinc, as well as a couple of Bach Flower Essences, and bless him within a week I was feeling so much more human.
I should probably mention too though they my mention of ADs earlier wasn't in anyway being negative about them or those who use them. They have just not been the right choice for me so far, and I have gotten by without them. Sometimes I do wonder why though. But in my case, the fact that I was do close to feeling I needed them was a failure to myself anyway... As if I had failed in my bid to do it alone. All very silly I know, but meh!
::::
And along with the number four, I'm also a bit.... Well, pissed, at the number of people either pregnant or trying. I'm also pissed at myself because I never wanted to feel like that again.
When I fell pregnant there were three others of my mother of Angel friends who were (are) due within a few weeks either side. Now, I certainly don't wish any of them issues, but I have to say, why did I have to be that statistic? The 'one in four'? They are all travelling along and exercising various levels of sensitivity. Meh, their prerogative.
I'm in two main online groups. Neither are loss groups, though one in one group there were several miscarriages before our current crop of babies. But my pregnancy seems to have set of an avalanche (in both groups) of people deciding its time to conceive. So on top of everything else I've had two months of reading their symptom hunting and AF disappointments. One of the groups is Toby's 'due in' group.s where there is already one subsequent baby 'on the ground'. Both groups paused a moment to say sorry for my mc, but in the next post forged ahead with their quest for the next pregnancy (one posted her positive HPT today). It's so obvious that their innocence doesn't even allow the possibility that they could be the next to suffer a loss to enter their heads. Although I don't wish it upon them, it has been fairly hurtful to be dismissed so quickly. Just because they don't understand just how much a nine week loss can still hurt.
::::
In random facts, Shane and I have been married five years this month. Of that five years, I have been pregnant for literally two full years. Four pregnancies in five years. Oh joys.
But 'at least' I can fall pregnant. Bite.
::::
I have several friends right now whose TTC journeys are drawing to a close, and my heart hurts for them. We will also be faced with it soon.
::::
But in other nicer news, Toby is getting such a big boy now. He's my greatest joy in a day, but there are also plenty of days where he drives me up the wall. And every minute I love how I am blessed. In the words of another blogger.... Stressed and blessed!
But I swear, it seems that everyone's kid is turning four. I'm at the point where I can even second guess. Example... At the supermarket and the checkout lady says to the little girl "and how old are you?". Straight to the tip of my tongue comes the words "she's four. Of course". Because sure enough she was. At Toby's small music group we've had several birthdays in the past two or three months. And all of them turned four. Bite.
::::
It's been a tough month or so. I can admit it here, and now that the month or so is passing. Post D & C recovery was physically easy. I got on with life. I didn't have time to stop and grieve, nor did I want to. I've had my share (can I say more than?), and I don't like the feeling of grieve or its crippling nature. But to be honest I also didn't feel I was denying myself. It was just in my step.
However, as the days and weeks tolled by I struggled more and more. I had all but decided it was time to visit the GP for the antidepressants I have avoided for four years. I was that low. I didn't feel that I was grieving the loss of this last little babe, but there were a lot of emotions surrounding it. The resurrection of grief for Ciaran, and for lost years with my children. With children that I will never get the choice to have, because of my advancing maternal age. And I was feeling very angry about that. About why could this one not stick around. The 'woe is me' moments asking why tease me? Why change things. Why undo all the hard work I had put in on myself to achieve the survival techniques that made it ok to live in this world of babies and easy pregnancies?
Oh there was plenty.
I was also well aware that my body, and my mind, was dealing with hormones. Pregnancy without the happy, as it released itself from my body. And the repairs my body was going through to recover from the nine weeks pregnant, and from the invasive ness of surgery.
Amongst all of that it dawned in me that there was possibly side effects from the pred.nis.one I was weaning off so I asked Dr Google, and it all became clearer.
Depression. Fatigue. And that's on top of the horrid weight gain that always happens when I'm on them (as they also increase appetite). So I was actually fighting a losing battle.... Feeling tired and depressed, I ate more sugary foods, which made me feel worse, both in myself and about my body image. My missing mojo was sending me around in circles.
Eventually I trekked to my amazing Chiro. He has been treating me with large doses of zinc, as well as a couple of Bach Flower Essences, and bless him within a week I was feeling so much more human.
I should probably mention too though they my mention of ADs earlier wasn't in anyway being negative about them or those who use them. They have just not been the right choice for me so far, and I have gotten by without them. Sometimes I do wonder why though. But in my case, the fact that I was do close to feeling I needed them was a failure to myself anyway... As if I had failed in my bid to do it alone. All very silly I know, but meh!
::::
And along with the number four, I'm also a bit.... Well, pissed, at the number of people either pregnant or trying. I'm also pissed at myself because I never wanted to feel like that again.
When I fell pregnant there were three others of my mother of Angel friends who were (are) due within a few weeks either side. Now, I certainly don't wish any of them issues, but I have to say, why did I have to be that statistic? The 'one in four'? They are all travelling along and exercising various levels of sensitivity. Meh, their prerogative.
I'm in two main online groups. Neither are loss groups, though one in one group there were several miscarriages before our current crop of babies. But my pregnancy seems to have set of an avalanche (in both groups) of people deciding its time to conceive. So on top of everything else I've had two months of reading their symptom hunting and AF disappointments. One of the groups is Toby's 'due in' group.s where there is already one subsequent baby 'on the ground'. Both groups paused a moment to say sorry for my mc, but in the next post forged ahead with their quest for the next pregnancy (one posted her positive HPT today). It's so obvious that their innocence doesn't even allow the possibility that they could be the next to suffer a loss to enter their heads. Although I don't wish it upon them, it has been fairly hurtful to be dismissed so quickly. Just because they don't understand just how much a nine week loss can still hurt.
::::
In random facts, Shane and I have been married five years this month. Of that five years, I have been pregnant for literally two full years. Four pregnancies in five years. Oh joys.
But 'at least' I can fall pregnant. Bite.
::::
I have several friends right now whose TTC journeys are drawing to a close, and my heart hurts for them. We will also be faced with it soon.
::::
But in other nicer news, Toby is getting such a big boy now. He's my greatest joy in a day, but there are also plenty of days where he drives me up the wall. And every minute I love how I am blessed. In the words of another blogger.... Stressed and blessed!
Monday, October 8, 2012
Where do you start?
It all feels pretty shit right now. It's the roller coaster again. Nothing like the first ride, but this is the ride where even as you "coast", feeling just somewhat ok, you know that somewhere the wheels will fall off the rails.
::::
We got through Ciaran's birthday, just like any other day. We had our friends staying, and we travelled to a festival and market in another town. But other than having him in my mind all day, there was nothing more to celebrate. Not even a balloon. I hate that, but I'm not sure what I can do about it. Hopefully in future years Toby will help me to come up with something.
::::
Two days later was "lions den day". Return for a second scan to confirm where we stood with our little one.
Shane held hope. I held none. I tried to, quite honestly, but all I could think is where can you go from "no heartbeat". Hearts don't miraculously start beating again. And even if they did, the damage of it having stopped in the first place would be major and irreparable.
And so it was routine. No further growth. 20.7 cm consistent with 8 weeks 4 days. The previous scan day / Thursday.
Thanks for coming and see you next time.
::::
Last night I watched "What To .Expect When .Expecting". Grand choice for someone in my current position, hey? But I'm working on my hard faced, cold hearted bitch persona.
Anyway, I vaguely remembered someone saying there was a loss, so it wasn't too much of a shock when it happened. It was "only" an early loss, such as mine (not sure how far along she was) but I watched her when she was told the news, and felt totally disconnected and alien. Like "what's wrong with me". Whilst she wept and curled up in a ball, I was continuing my small talk with the sonographer (who I have known for several years now),with no tears, and even some small laughs.
I don't get me anymore.
::::
Next step? Theatre. Friday morning last, 9.30 am admittance.
Routine. Like I do it everyday.
I don't do surgery. I don't do needles. And I definitely don't do IV's. but I don't think there was even a butterfly disturbing my stomach. I sent Shane away whilst still in the waiting room, as a tired Toby was starting to climb the walls. And I sat there by myself.
I met with the anaesthetist, who had also done my last EPU. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes and told me how sorry he was. He said to me that it was ok for me to cry at any time. While we talked or when we went to theatre. He told me that often women were emotional after these procedures and came out of the anaesthetic very upset, and that that was ok too. He told me I didn't need to be embarrassed.
Except that that didn't happen to me. The only time I felt I almost cried was when he told me that I was allowed to. Because pussy footing around me like that is sure to do it.
So instead I calmly went under my anaesthetic, and came out of it just fine. I talked and laughed and shared stories with the nurses.
And now I think they probably wondered what planet I would be from. How heartless.
But really, I've mostly felt.... Accepting I guess.
I'm pissed off that it had to happen. I'm doing plenty of beating myself up in some form. But it's the kind of beating where I tell myself that of COURSE it happened.... Because its me! And the universe hates ME! And all of that negative talk.
I know it's not really like that. Logically. And if you are churchy then you would tell me that it's Satan speaking. But it just is what it is.
::::
The D & C went fine. I've felt dandy enough since. Enough that I managed to wander the shops casually for a while and have lunch before our three hour drive home.
The worst was Saturday night/Sunday morning constipation like I never have been before. Oh man. Enough said.
::::
But the cruelest thing is that at least four people in my world are due a week or so either way. Three of them are mothers of an.gel.s and I certainly wish all of them a safe journey to meet their little ones.
But it's the old "happy for you but sadder for me" thing. As soon as I heard each of them were pregnant I felt the dread. With one announcement I even said to Shane that I didn't like it because there's too much chance that we'll be the one who doesn't come home with happy news. Because that seems to be the way it goes for us. Glass half empty much? And yes, I am feeling sorry for myself.
::::
And words are haunting me again. Someone inadvertently told me how lucky I was when she found out I was pregnant again.
It annoyed me even at the time. But it's such a double edged sword. Firstly, let me say to my beautiful friends who might be reading this that I know I am so very lucky that I have Toby. And I treasure knowing it every single day. So these paragraphs are not meant to hurt any of you who aren't so lucky.... I just need this to be about me for a moment.
Yes, I'm lucky I have a living rainbow child.
And using words that a friend who was supposedly suffering uterine cancer some years before either of us had children "at least you (I) can fall pregnant". (Need I bitterly add that this person also schemed to fall pregnant and fell within the first month of trying, smoked her way through, and managed to have a healthy child).
But "luck" really is one of those debatable words is it not? Because I'm so lucky that to fall pregnant I have to spend thousands that we don't have using IVF, I have to inject my belly with Ckex.ane for the entire pregnancy, I have to take a regime of pills and potions, some of which cost $10-15 per day. And that's just to fall and maybe maintain the pregnancy. If we're lucky enough to get far enough along in the pregnancy then there is the unknown "luck" that we are dicing with, as to whether the baby will survive being born. Hopefully they will be lucky like Toby. Or worst case lucky like his cousin who lived with a trache.ostom.y for three years before undergoing a complete airway reconstruction. Hopefully they are not as unlucky as Ciaran.
I have been lucky enough to fall pregnant four times now.
Yes, I do know how lucky I really am, but it doesn't stop the bitterness seeping through. Falling pregnant is expensive and hard bloody work. Being pregnant is hard work and stressful.
I somehow moved back into a bit if a naive state. Naively thinking that things would be smooth sailing thus time. Do I look like someone who has multiple miscarriages? Pfffft. Not on my agenda. But perhaps that's where I went wrong.
::::
Where to from here? We have one frozen embryo left. I don't like its chances. It was from our first batch, with one pregnancy (miscarriage) and none from frozens.
I don't know if that will be the end. It probably won't be until next year anyway, by the time I get the ok to go ahead, and then the Christmas holidays.
Another fresh cycle was not in the budget. I do t know as its an option. I dont know if I can handle doing it.
::::
I just got the letter from my FS about the first scan saying no foetal heart rate was detected.
I'm not sure how I feel about a following comment from her saying "this is surprising given the strong FHR noted two weeks prior". I feel like I did something to cause it.
Even if I know it was nothing I could prevent.
::::
We got through Ciaran's birthday, just like any other day. We had our friends staying, and we travelled to a festival and market in another town. But other than having him in my mind all day, there was nothing more to celebrate. Not even a balloon. I hate that, but I'm not sure what I can do about it. Hopefully in future years Toby will help me to come up with something.
::::
Two days later was "lions den day". Return for a second scan to confirm where we stood with our little one.
Shane held hope. I held none. I tried to, quite honestly, but all I could think is where can you go from "no heartbeat". Hearts don't miraculously start beating again. And even if they did, the damage of it having stopped in the first place would be major and irreparable.
And so it was routine. No further growth. 20.7 cm consistent with 8 weeks 4 days. The previous scan day / Thursday.
Thanks for coming and see you next time.
::::
Last night I watched "What To .Expect When .Expecting". Grand choice for someone in my current position, hey? But I'm working on my hard faced, cold hearted bitch persona.
Anyway, I vaguely remembered someone saying there was a loss, so it wasn't too much of a shock when it happened. It was "only" an early loss, such as mine (not sure how far along she was) but I watched her when she was told the news, and felt totally disconnected and alien. Like "what's wrong with me". Whilst she wept and curled up in a ball, I was continuing my small talk with the sonographer (who I have known for several years now),with no tears, and even some small laughs.
I don't get me anymore.
::::
Next step? Theatre. Friday morning last, 9.30 am admittance.
Routine. Like I do it everyday.
I don't do surgery. I don't do needles. And I definitely don't do IV's. but I don't think there was even a butterfly disturbing my stomach. I sent Shane away whilst still in the waiting room, as a tired Toby was starting to climb the walls. And I sat there by myself.
I met with the anaesthetist, who had also done my last EPU. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes and told me how sorry he was. He said to me that it was ok for me to cry at any time. While we talked or when we went to theatre. He told me that often women were emotional after these procedures and came out of the anaesthetic very upset, and that that was ok too. He told me I didn't need to be embarrassed.
Except that that didn't happen to me. The only time I felt I almost cried was when he told me that I was allowed to. Because pussy footing around me like that is sure to do it.
So instead I calmly went under my anaesthetic, and came out of it just fine. I talked and laughed and shared stories with the nurses.
And now I think they probably wondered what planet I would be from. How heartless.
But really, I've mostly felt.... Accepting I guess.
I'm pissed off that it had to happen. I'm doing plenty of beating myself up in some form. But it's the kind of beating where I tell myself that of COURSE it happened.... Because its me! And the universe hates ME! And all of that negative talk.
I know it's not really like that. Logically. And if you are churchy then you would tell me that it's Satan speaking. But it just is what it is.
::::
The D & C went fine. I've felt dandy enough since. Enough that I managed to wander the shops casually for a while and have lunch before our three hour drive home.
The worst was Saturday night/Sunday morning constipation like I never have been before. Oh man. Enough said.
::::
But the cruelest thing is that at least four people in my world are due a week or so either way. Three of them are mothers of an.gel.s and I certainly wish all of them a safe journey to meet their little ones.
But it's the old "happy for you but sadder for me" thing. As soon as I heard each of them were pregnant I felt the dread. With one announcement I even said to Shane that I didn't like it because there's too much chance that we'll be the one who doesn't come home with happy news. Because that seems to be the way it goes for us. Glass half empty much? And yes, I am feeling sorry for myself.
::::
And words are haunting me again. Someone inadvertently told me how lucky I was when she found out I was pregnant again.
It annoyed me even at the time. But it's such a double edged sword. Firstly, let me say to my beautiful friends who might be reading this that I know I am so very lucky that I have Toby. And I treasure knowing it every single day. So these paragraphs are not meant to hurt any of you who aren't so lucky.... I just need this to be about me for a moment.
Yes, I'm lucky I have a living rainbow child.
And using words that a friend who was supposedly suffering uterine cancer some years before either of us had children "at least you (I) can fall pregnant". (Need I bitterly add that this person also schemed to fall pregnant and fell within the first month of trying, smoked her way through, and managed to have a healthy child).
But "luck" really is one of those debatable words is it not? Because I'm so lucky that to fall pregnant I have to spend thousands that we don't have using IVF, I have to inject my belly with Ckex.ane for the entire pregnancy, I have to take a regime of pills and potions, some of which cost $10-15 per day. And that's just to fall and maybe maintain the pregnancy. If we're lucky enough to get far enough along in the pregnancy then there is the unknown "luck" that we are dicing with, as to whether the baby will survive being born. Hopefully they will be lucky like Toby. Or worst case lucky like his cousin who lived with a trache.ostom.y for three years before undergoing a complete airway reconstruction. Hopefully they are not as unlucky as Ciaran.
I have been lucky enough to fall pregnant four times now.
Yes, I do know how lucky I really am, but it doesn't stop the bitterness seeping through. Falling pregnant is expensive and hard bloody work. Being pregnant is hard work and stressful.
I somehow moved back into a bit if a naive state. Naively thinking that things would be smooth sailing thus time. Do I look like someone who has multiple miscarriages? Pfffft. Not on my agenda. But perhaps that's where I went wrong.
::::
Where to from here? We have one frozen embryo left. I don't like its chances. It was from our first batch, with one pregnancy (miscarriage) and none from frozens.
I don't know if that will be the end. It probably won't be until next year anyway, by the time I get the ok to go ahead, and then the Christmas holidays.
Another fresh cycle was not in the budget. I do t know as its an option. I dont know if I can handle doing it.
::::
I just got the letter from my FS about the first scan saying no foetal heart rate was detected.
I'm not sure how I feel about a following comment from her saying "this is surprising given the strong FHR noted two weeks prior". I feel like I did something to cause it.
Even if I know it was nothing I could prevent.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The reminiscent hours....
It's 11pm. September 29th.
I'm sure that those of us who can recount exactly where we were and what we were doing at certain times in our lives are actually the minority.
Four years ago I was in room twelve of the birthing suite. It had been a long and exhausting 28 hours and I wasn't even in labour.
Or at least I was now, but it was "just" prostin pain. They said. It had finally started mildly at 5pm. By now though I was slumbering, fitfully, exhausted. I'd had panadeine forte and a sleeping tablet. But by now the pains were strong enough to wake me. My midwife was sitting on the floor beside me with her hand on my almost forty two week bump and talking me through the contractions.
We didn't know.
We had anticipated his birth for so long. We still were. The world was a wonderful place. Our oyster.
But in seven and a half hours it would shatter into a million pieces and would never again be right.
::::
I have my bestie and her family staying this weekend. It's a welcome distraction from the pain that I'm having to carry. Again.
It's cruel because I'm still suffering all day nausea. Throw in a bit of faintness. And a whole lot of new exhaustion.
It messes with your mind. I admit to thinking.... "Just maybe...."
Just maybe they got it wrong. I don't see how though. No heartbeat is no heartbeat. It's not something you can miss when you've seen it so strong before.
Stillness is so defined.
I'm torn with hoping Tuesday arrives quickly so that we can move forward through what is inevitable. But of course I also want to turn back time. Nurture and treasure the last week more than perhaps I did. Monitor my thoughts and actions. Make it not happen. As if I could.
Instead the universe laughs cruelly again. Not just the death of another child, our hopes and dreams for him (her?), but the drawing out of details to ensure that every scratch, every stab, is felt over the crux of our grief season.
Tomorrow I will give to my eldest boy, as much as I can, and remember him in everything I do. As if I don't already.
::::
Tonight we had cake. Tomorrow we are out for the day and busy. I didn't want to chance the day passing without the gesture of a birthday cake, as has happened in a year or two of previous.
For the first time I sang my boy Happy Birthday, and walked into a darkened room with candles lit. I felt the hesitation of the other big people in the room.
Does she expect us to sing to?
And again a big, obvious hesitation... "Happy birthday to_____ Ciaran".
Come on peoples. It's not so hard.
But I also saw the bright anticipation in the eyes of his little brother. Still too young to understand. We are blessed. I am thankful. And I never forget it.
I'm sure that those of us who can recount exactly where we were and what we were doing at certain times in our lives are actually the minority.
Four years ago I was in room twelve of the birthing suite. It had been a long and exhausting 28 hours and I wasn't even in labour.
Or at least I was now, but it was "just" prostin pain. They said. It had finally started mildly at 5pm. By now though I was slumbering, fitfully, exhausted. I'd had panadeine forte and a sleeping tablet. But by now the pains were strong enough to wake me. My midwife was sitting on the floor beside me with her hand on my almost forty two week bump and talking me through the contractions.
We didn't know.
We had anticipated his birth for so long. We still were. The world was a wonderful place. Our oyster.
But in seven and a half hours it would shatter into a million pieces and would never again be right.
::::
I have my bestie and her family staying this weekend. It's a welcome distraction from the pain that I'm having to carry. Again.
It's cruel because I'm still suffering all day nausea. Throw in a bit of faintness. And a whole lot of new exhaustion.
It messes with your mind. I admit to thinking.... "Just maybe...."
Just maybe they got it wrong. I don't see how though. No heartbeat is no heartbeat. It's not something you can miss when you've seen it so strong before.
Stillness is so defined.
I'm torn with hoping Tuesday arrives quickly so that we can move forward through what is inevitable. But of course I also want to turn back time. Nurture and treasure the last week more than perhaps I did. Monitor my thoughts and actions. Make it not happen. As if I could.
Instead the universe laughs cruelly again. Not just the death of another child, our hopes and dreams for him (her?), but the drawing out of details to ensure that every scratch, every stab, is felt over the crux of our grief season.
Tomorrow I will give to my eldest boy, as much as I can, and remember him in everything I do. As if I don't already.
::::
Tonight we had cake. Tomorrow we are out for the day and busy. I didn't want to chance the day passing without the gesture of a birthday cake, as has happened in a year or two of previous.
For the first time I sang my boy Happy Birthday, and walked into a darkened room with candles lit. I felt the hesitation of the other big people in the room.
Does she expect us to sing to?
And again a big, obvious hesitation... "Happy birthday to_____ Ciaran".
Come on peoples. It's not so hard.
But I also saw the bright anticipation in the eyes of his little brother. Still too young to understand. We are blessed. I am thankful. And I never forget it.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Gutted. 8 weeks 4 days. Loss.
Shattered. I don't know how else to summarise.
I was "planning" to be making an announcement soon. One of those ones that results in "happy for you, sad for me" responses for many. Instead, I'm revisiting feelings that I've been through before.
Today I am 8 weeks 4 days pregnant. And today was our second scan to check on the little one's progress. Everyone was so confident. Except me. I can see that now, that really, I knew.
Two weeks ago our first scan was fabulous. Measuring smack on dates, with a beautiful strong heart beat.
Today we saw a beautiful little one, measuring perfect dates, but laying still. No flicker of heart beat. I knew as soon as I saw the little one on the screen.
It is what it is. I'm ok.
I dread having to go through a miscarriage again. Miscarrying naturally is not pleasant. But as I remember a beautiful blogging friend saying about her own, this time round I think I will need to choose the surgical option. I don't have the luxury of waiting, alone at home with an 18 month old, on a farm 50km from medical services. Shane doesn't have the luxury of working for himself anymore and although his boss is fantastic sitting at home with me for a couple of weeks isn't an option either.
I have to return for another scan on Tuesday. I guess it's to confirm that there is no heartbeat and that the little one has died. But as the dates were so accurate for today it would only have died earlier today. How cruel is that. The sonographer, and the FS, both gave the impression that maybe, just maybe, on Tuesday we might see a heartbeat again. At the time we just took it, but now several hours later I'm angry at that. There was a heartbeat two weeks ago, and now there isn't. How will there be one in a few days time? How could it have been missed? I don't think so. But if course that instills hope. Falsely it seems to me.
::::
I'm tired. Exhausted. I'm angry. Again. At a lot of things really. In no particular order, I'm angry at our poor little one for not sticking around. I'm angry at our makers, God, the universe, for dishing this shit to us again. I'm angry that "they" are testing my strength, and pushing my boundaries. Again. And again. I'm angry that the hope that had built up in 8w4d changes things. I started out comfortable with Toby being an only child. With only using our remaining frosties in storage and doing no more fresh cycles. But right now I'm angry that I have another loss under my belt that has already created a yearning for that second child. No matter what. Except financially there is no no matter what.
So many "angries". I'm angry too that there are so many friends due within weeks of when I would be. I wish them well, and thankfully I am in a better place now with Toby here, but it's still going to hurt come April/May.
And I'm angry that this had to happen now. This date. Too close. No breathing space.
Of course I've hit the "why me"'s again. Why us? Why do we have to get all the shit luck. But then I remember just how lucky we are, and it does help a little. Just not enough. Because you look out there at some people and they have it so easy. They might not think they do, you know, but they seriously stress over getting their hair done or fingernails manicured. Because its the biggest thing they have had to deal with.
This isn't the biggest thing I've had to deal with, but I'll be ok. Soldier on. I can't afford too much down time or tears.
I was "planning" to be making an announcement soon. One of those ones that results in "happy for you, sad for me" responses for many. Instead, I'm revisiting feelings that I've been through before.
Today I am 8 weeks 4 days pregnant. And today was our second scan to check on the little one's progress. Everyone was so confident. Except me. I can see that now, that really, I knew.
Two weeks ago our first scan was fabulous. Measuring smack on dates, with a beautiful strong heart beat.
Today we saw a beautiful little one, measuring perfect dates, but laying still. No flicker of heart beat. I knew as soon as I saw the little one on the screen.
It is what it is. I'm ok.
I dread having to go through a miscarriage again. Miscarrying naturally is not pleasant. But as I remember a beautiful blogging friend saying about her own, this time round I think I will need to choose the surgical option. I don't have the luxury of waiting, alone at home with an 18 month old, on a farm 50km from medical services. Shane doesn't have the luxury of working for himself anymore and although his boss is fantastic sitting at home with me for a couple of weeks isn't an option either.
I have to return for another scan on Tuesday. I guess it's to confirm that there is no heartbeat and that the little one has died. But as the dates were so accurate for today it would only have died earlier today. How cruel is that. The sonographer, and the FS, both gave the impression that maybe, just maybe, on Tuesday we might see a heartbeat again. At the time we just took it, but now several hours later I'm angry at that. There was a heartbeat two weeks ago, and now there isn't. How will there be one in a few days time? How could it have been missed? I don't think so. But if course that instills hope. Falsely it seems to me.
::::
I'm tired. Exhausted. I'm angry. Again. At a lot of things really. In no particular order, I'm angry at our poor little one for not sticking around. I'm angry at our makers, God, the universe, for dishing this shit to us again. I'm angry that "they" are testing my strength, and pushing my boundaries. Again. And again. I'm angry that the hope that had built up in 8w4d changes things. I started out comfortable with Toby being an only child. With only using our remaining frosties in storage and doing no more fresh cycles. But right now I'm angry that I have another loss under my belt that has already created a yearning for that second child. No matter what. Except financially there is no no matter what.
So many "angries". I'm angry too that there are so many friends due within weeks of when I would be. I wish them well, and thankfully I am in a better place now with Toby here, but it's still going to hurt come April/May.
And I'm angry that this had to happen now. This date. Too close. No breathing space.
Of course I've hit the "why me"'s again. Why us? Why do we have to get all the shit luck. But then I remember just how lucky we are, and it does help a little. Just not enough. Because you look out there at some people and they have it so easy. They might not think they do, you know, but they seriously stress over getting their hair done or fingernails manicured. Because its the biggest thing they have had to deal with.
This isn't the biggest thing I've had to deal with, but I'll be ok. Soldier on. I can't afford too much down time or tears.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Seventeen months....
.... Where did it go?
I haven't posted much about Toby in a long time. I don't put a lot of Toby around online anywhere. I'm super conscious of it. Not so much the security aspect, but more so the fact that it's all so public, and my experience of people who I especially know IRL who like to know the inner workings but not play an active part in my life... Well, it still stings.
But this one is about Toby.
He's so grown up now. He'll be seventeen months old in three days. And I can't believe where that time has gone. I understand now, what people really mean.
He's still blond. Some say strawberry. Shane hates that, and refutes it, saying there's no red in our family. How wrong he is though.... My sister is red, and my grandpa was red to say the least. He takes after his mama when it comes to hair, and he still doesn't have much. It's beautiful and fine, and I love how grown up he looks when I brush it into his little boy look.
His beautiful blue eyes melt my heart. He is still his big brother to me. I mean he is everything I imagined his big brother would look like. But that's as far as my imagination takes it because he is through and through my Toby.
::::
He walks everywhere now and protests if I put him in the pram. I love walking with him, holding my hand. He's still learning that he must hold my hand if we're out and about in town, but he's getting there and I love it when he reaches for mine.
We go to a music group every Wednesday. We've been going for about three months now and I love how much he has "blossomed". He joins in some now, and when he doesn't know how he watches intently. His confidence has skyrocketed. He knows the routine. I love to see him go and sit on the mat after our songs and eat his morning tea with the other kids. And the way he plays for so long then seeks me out, mostly just as I'd to say "look at me, ma". When we first started he wasn't yet walking. Now he runs.
He's not talking a lot yet. Or at least doesn't have a lot if discernible words. One of his first words was "BA" for Simba, our dog. He has the occasional "Da", and many versions of "mum". Plenty of times through the day I hear "awwww mummmmm" usually whining in response to something he's not allowed.
He's cute. It's not my bias, but everyone says so. Today when we were out at lunch I heard the man behind us telling someone on the phone about the cute little boy standing there watching him, and two old ladies came to talk to him and tell us how cute and what a good little boy he is. And he is, good I mean.
He also says a version if "hello". Yeah (usually accompanied by exaggerated nods) and no (nah nah nah nah nahhh). He has the cutest way of waggling his tongue as he's pronouncing his words when in full flight, and I can't wait to be able to understand more of them. It must be so frustrating. He is working out ways to make himself understood though. He tries to physically manhandle me off the couch, and if I don't get it he will stand in front and plonk down to the floor to let me know he wants me to sit and play. Or he leads me to the fridge to show me what he wants. Usually to steal a mushroom. I don't know wha his fascination is as he doesn't even like them.
He loves his food, which is so great. He'll easily polish off 1/4 quiche or half of a chicken schnitzel with veges...he loves fruit, and I have to actually say no at times as hell bring me banana after banana or have a meltdown in the fruit department of the supermarket because he wants his favorite, a mandarin!
He's not a fan of eggs straight up, boiled or fried, but will usually eat them disguised as quiche or "pancake". Mushrooms, no thanks. But loves peas.
He is a mini me of his dad. He copies Shane in everything, and I'm constantly trying to remind his daddy that what is cute now may not be the way we want to shape our young man. Of course, daddy doesn't get that, but I guess it's my job as the mama!
He has a cheeky grin, and raises his shoulders and puts his head to the side. Major cheekiness.
He loves to go outside, and this week he has started making a beeline to the back door, gumboots in hand from the minute he gets up. It's heartbreaking though as we just can't be outside all of the time and he cries and cries, with the bottom lip dropped right down.
He's an explorer and hard work when we're out. He doesn't play well (tho it seems not a lot do, as I'm told) and is constantly into everything he shouldn't be. We live on a farm, and it's just an old farm yard with too much to ft into to be unsupervised. The fences are "farm fences" so he could climb through them if he wanted to try. There's a dam just 50m down our driveway, and a railway line 100m away. There are sheds with old broken equipment and drums that you just wouldn't know what was in them. They've been there since time began. The crop beside the house is taller Han him should he wander in. It all worries me. Not at he gets a chance, but things an happen so quickly. And snake season is about to start, so I'm nervous about him wandering ven with me close by.
::::
He doesn't sleep all night, but he is starting to. He still has at least one breastfeeding and sometimes two or three. I used to stress about these points as it seems that there are written rules about how things should be at this age, but then I happened to meet a couple of people on separate occasions who really made sense to me. He is still in our room, and it's me who will find it hardest to move him out. I love having him close to me.
He has a teddy bear.... "Bundles". It's a Little freebie bear we got before he was born. He was never a big one for bears but all of a sudden it clicked for him and Bundles sleeps in his arms. Melts my heart.
He's ticklish. Very. And gets hot feet in bed like mummy, so no socks please. He loves to dance, and concentrates very hard on his next move. He loves to "drive" sitting on my knee, steering and "changing gears" (between here an the road... The benefits of a long driveway and being on a farm!).
::::
That's my boy.
I haven't posted much about Toby in a long time. I don't put a lot of Toby around online anywhere. I'm super conscious of it. Not so much the security aspect, but more so the fact that it's all so public, and my experience of people who I especially know IRL who like to know the inner workings but not play an active part in my life... Well, it still stings.
But this one is about Toby.
He's so grown up now. He'll be seventeen months old in three days. And I can't believe where that time has gone. I understand now, what people really mean.
He's still blond. Some say strawberry. Shane hates that, and refutes it, saying there's no red in our family. How wrong he is though.... My sister is red, and my grandpa was red to say the least. He takes after his mama when it comes to hair, and he still doesn't have much. It's beautiful and fine, and I love how grown up he looks when I brush it into his little boy look.
His beautiful blue eyes melt my heart. He is still his big brother to me. I mean he is everything I imagined his big brother would look like. But that's as far as my imagination takes it because he is through and through my Toby.
::::
He walks everywhere now and protests if I put him in the pram. I love walking with him, holding my hand. He's still learning that he must hold my hand if we're out and about in town, but he's getting there and I love it when he reaches for mine.
We go to a music group every Wednesday. We've been going for about three months now and I love how much he has "blossomed". He joins in some now, and when he doesn't know how he watches intently. His confidence has skyrocketed. He knows the routine. I love to see him go and sit on the mat after our songs and eat his morning tea with the other kids. And the way he plays for so long then seeks me out, mostly just as I'd to say "look at me, ma". When we first started he wasn't yet walking. Now he runs.
He's not talking a lot yet. Or at least doesn't have a lot if discernible words. One of his first words was "BA" for Simba, our dog. He has the occasional "Da", and many versions of "mum". Plenty of times through the day I hear "awwww mummmmm" usually whining in response to something he's not allowed.
He's cute. It's not my bias, but everyone says so. Today when we were out at lunch I heard the man behind us telling someone on the phone about the cute little boy standing there watching him, and two old ladies came to talk to him and tell us how cute and what a good little boy he is. And he is, good I mean.
He also says a version if "hello". Yeah (usually accompanied by exaggerated nods) and no (nah nah nah nah nahhh). He has the cutest way of waggling his tongue as he's pronouncing his words when in full flight, and I can't wait to be able to understand more of them. It must be so frustrating. He is working out ways to make himself understood though. He tries to physically manhandle me off the couch, and if I don't get it he will stand in front and plonk down to the floor to let me know he wants me to sit and play. Or he leads me to the fridge to show me what he wants. Usually to steal a mushroom. I don't know wha his fascination is as he doesn't even like them.
He loves his food, which is so great. He'll easily polish off 1/4 quiche or half of a chicken schnitzel with veges...he loves fruit, and I have to actually say no at times as hell bring me banana after banana or have a meltdown in the fruit department of the supermarket because he wants his favorite, a mandarin!
He's not a fan of eggs straight up, boiled or fried, but will usually eat them disguised as quiche or "pancake". Mushrooms, no thanks. But loves peas.
He is a mini me of his dad. He copies Shane in everything, and I'm constantly trying to remind his daddy that what is cute now may not be the way we want to shape our young man. Of course, daddy doesn't get that, but I guess it's my job as the mama!
He has a cheeky grin, and raises his shoulders and puts his head to the side. Major cheekiness.
He loves to go outside, and this week he has started making a beeline to the back door, gumboots in hand from the minute he gets up. It's heartbreaking though as we just can't be outside all of the time and he cries and cries, with the bottom lip dropped right down.
He's an explorer and hard work when we're out. He doesn't play well (tho it seems not a lot do, as I'm told) and is constantly into everything he shouldn't be. We live on a farm, and it's just an old farm yard with too much to ft into to be unsupervised. The fences are "farm fences" so he could climb through them if he wanted to try. There's a dam just 50m down our driveway, and a railway line 100m away. There are sheds with old broken equipment and drums that you just wouldn't know what was in them. They've been there since time began. The crop beside the house is taller Han him should he wander in. It all worries me. Not at he gets a chance, but things an happen so quickly. And snake season is about to start, so I'm nervous about him wandering ven with me close by.
::::
He doesn't sleep all night, but he is starting to. He still has at least one breastfeeding and sometimes two or three. I used to stress about these points as it seems that there are written rules about how things should be at this age, but then I happened to meet a couple of people on separate occasions who really made sense to me. He is still in our room, and it's me who will find it hardest to move him out. I love having him close to me.
He has a teddy bear.... "Bundles". It's a Little freebie bear we got before he was born. He was never a big one for bears but all of a sudden it clicked for him and Bundles sleeps in his arms. Melts my heart.
He's ticklish. Very. And gets hot feet in bed like mummy, so no socks please. He loves to dance, and concentrates very hard on his next move. He loves to "drive" sitting on my knee, steering and "changing gears" (between here an the road... The benefits of a long driveway and being on a farm!).
::::
That's my boy.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
A horrible reality check, and a bit of this and that...
Our precious ones are borrowed.
Last night Toby and I returned home after a weekend away at my parents. There's no internet or mobile phone service there (and it's even less remote than I am here!) so I've been out of contact.
I logged in for a catch up on my internet world friends and might as well have been hit by a train.
On Friday night one of ladies in my DIG (Due in April 11) put her precious 16 month old girl to bed. And Saturday morning she was gone. The angels had taken her.
At the moment it's being put down to SIDS (or SUDIC).
I was and still am in shock. Floored. Horrified. Devastated.
I have cried and cried and cried. I have visited that dark place that I've been in before. I cannot imagine the pain my friend is feeling, or her family. Yet, I've walked in shoes a similar color.
But we know that none of our shoes are the same. And this little girl wasn't a baby any more.
So much of my upset is selfish. The "what if". It's a normal reaction, I know, but it doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it.
But oh my God. She was the same age as my Toby is. They shared their birth month. We are not out of the woods. We don't know how long we have our precious ones. There is not one little bit of fair about it. I feel so angry again. It's there, eating away on the inside. I think it's one of the strongest emotions I have left from my loss of Ciaran. It's a feeling of hate, though I'm not entirely sure what I hate. It's just anger energy.
Even though we have walked the paths we have, we still sit in a certain innocence I think. I don't know as I have the words to put my feeling on this down adequately. I have relaxed "a little" with Toby, but I'm still so grateful for every moment. I'm still his clingon. He's still in cotton wool. He still sleeps in my room, in his cot, beside me. He still has his monitor pad under him. I still take it for the portacot when we are away. I don't think he's been without it one night yet. And I've been told so many times that I can relax now. That the danger "ends" when they turn 1. I have had to correct people over and over.
Today I was looking at photos of this precious girl. And all of a sudden once more it hit me. She.Is.Dead. D.E.A.D. I couldn't ever say that out loud to so many because it's harsh. But we in here know that our we have dead babies. It's the shock factor that puts the edge back on our loss. Anyway, I think I blanched. I could have vomited with the wave of nausea that swept over me. I cannot stand it.
Rest dear Sage, and look after your mummy and your family, as I know they are missing you terribly.
:::
It's that time of year when things start to snowball.
Four years. How can it be. How many people who aren't us can tell you exactly where they were in these months four years ago.
I was pregnant. I was on stress leave. My idiot chauvinistic boss had tried to sack me citing the reason that I couldn't do my job because I was pregnant.
I said the words "if anything happens to my baby, I will blame him", or similar. Who would have thought that something would happen to my baby. The book was already written.
The Olympics came and went. A leap year cycled past.
And the angels that I never got to meet, who would mean something to me through their mothers' memberships to a club none of us ever imagined would be ours, started to arrive. The dead babies of 2008.
Some have already turned four.
But the August - September ones are just beginning. And they are the ones that really lead me in to our own time. Ciaran's.
:::
The reason I was visiting with my parents was for my niece, Molly's fourth birthday. It was Toby's second celebration. His big brother should have been there, excited to be almost four himself.
I think then of Hope, who's fourth birthday is coming up fast.
Of Keiki. Of Joseph. Of Zoe Beth. Of Liam. Of too many to name.
:::
Toby is a little boy now. My baby is grown up. He's a confident toddler. He loves his mama. I struggle to keep up with his business at times, as he's into everything that he shouldn't be. Toys fail to hold his interest for long. By the time I've "saved" something on this side of the room he's already into something else.
He's starting to talk. The kind of ineligible words that a mama understands first. Sometimes he messes the letters up but I get it. Like "up"... he says "pa" or something similar. But there's the hello. Ta for everything (say "please"... "taaaaaa". It'll do :)). This, there and that. The dogs and cats are all called "Ba" (our dog is called Simba which I think he learned the Ba from very early). And sadly, one of his first words is "phone". He is techno savvy and knows how to swipe the ipad and "play" a few games. He's a little bit naughty and a big bit cheeky.
He's my world.
Last night Toby and I returned home after a weekend away at my parents. There's no internet or mobile phone service there (and it's even less remote than I am here!) so I've been out of contact.
I logged in for a catch up on my internet world friends and might as well have been hit by a train.
On Friday night one of ladies in my DIG (Due in April 11) put her precious 16 month old girl to bed. And Saturday morning she was gone. The angels had taken her.
At the moment it's being put down to SIDS (or SUDIC).
I was and still am in shock. Floored. Horrified. Devastated.
I have cried and cried and cried. I have visited that dark place that I've been in before. I cannot imagine the pain my friend is feeling, or her family. Yet, I've walked in shoes a similar color.
But we know that none of our shoes are the same. And this little girl wasn't a baby any more.
So much of my upset is selfish. The "what if". It's a normal reaction, I know, but it doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it.
But oh my God. She was the same age as my Toby is. They shared their birth month. We are not out of the woods. We don't know how long we have our precious ones. There is not one little bit of fair about it. I feel so angry again. It's there, eating away on the inside. I think it's one of the strongest emotions I have left from my loss of Ciaran. It's a feeling of hate, though I'm not entirely sure what I hate. It's just anger energy.
Even though we have walked the paths we have, we still sit in a certain innocence I think. I don't know as I have the words to put my feeling on this down adequately. I have relaxed "a little" with Toby, but I'm still so grateful for every moment. I'm still his clingon. He's still in cotton wool. He still sleeps in my room, in his cot, beside me. He still has his monitor pad under him. I still take it for the portacot when we are away. I don't think he's been without it one night yet. And I've been told so many times that I can relax now. That the danger "ends" when they turn 1. I have had to correct people over and over.
Today I was looking at photos of this precious girl. And all of a sudden once more it hit me. She.Is.Dead. D.E.A.D. I couldn't ever say that out loud to so many because it's harsh. But we in here know that our we have dead babies. It's the shock factor that puts the edge back on our loss. Anyway, I think I blanched. I could have vomited with the wave of nausea that swept over me. I cannot stand it.
Rest dear Sage, and look after your mummy and your family, as I know they are missing you terribly.
:::
It's that time of year when things start to snowball.
Four years. How can it be. How many people who aren't us can tell you exactly where they were in these months four years ago.
I was pregnant. I was on stress leave. My idiot chauvinistic boss had tried to sack me citing the reason that I couldn't do my job because I was pregnant.
I said the words "if anything happens to my baby, I will blame him", or similar. Who would have thought that something would happen to my baby. The book was already written.
The Olympics came and went. A leap year cycled past.
And the angels that I never got to meet, who would mean something to me through their mothers' memberships to a club none of us ever imagined would be ours, started to arrive. The dead babies of 2008.
Some have already turned four.
But the August - September ones are just beginning. And they are the ones that really lead me in to our own time. Ciaran's.
:::
The reason I was visiting with my parents was for my niece, Molly's fourth birthday. It was Toby's second celebration. His big brother should have been there, excited to be almost four himself.
I think then of Hope, who's fourth birthday is coming up fast.
Of Keiki. Of Joseph. Of Zoe Beth. Of Liam. Of too many to name.
:::
Toby is a little boy now. My baby is grown up. He's a confident toddler. He loves his mama. I struggle to keep up with his business at times, as he's into everything that he shouldn't be. Toys fail to hold his interest for long. By the time I've "saved" something on this side of the room he's already into something else.
He's starting to talk. The kind of ineligible words that a mama understands first. Sometimes he messes the letters up but I get it. Like "up"... he says "pa" or something similar. But there's the hello. Ta for everything (say "please"... "taaaaaa". It'll do :)). This, there and that. The dogs and cats are all called "Ba" (our dog is called Simba which I think he learned the Ba from very early). And sadly, one of his first words is "phone". He is techno savvy and knows how to swipe the ipad and "play" a few games. He's a little bit naughty and a big bit cheeky.
He's my world.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Will I ever....
.... Believe it?
Will I ever believe that I visit my eldest son at the cemetery?
Will I ever accept that my memories include dressing on the day of his funeral and wondering if I would survive through the day by remembering to breathe? Or the overwhelming need to throw mysf into the dirt with him?
Will I ever forget the incredulous feeling that sitting in the back of my father's car, driving the familiar road to town that I had travelled all of school days, all of my life, was to put my son in the ground?
And here I am. Almost four years on. Visiting with my son. At his cemetery.
Incredulous.
And heart broken. Always.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The politically incorrect thoughts of a BLM...
Let me say that consciously I absolutely would never, ever, ever wish the pain of baby or child loss on anyone. Not my worst enemy. From the bottom of my heart. It hurts. It's unbearable. It's never to be recovered from. It's a pain I wish could be banished from the world.
But, I'm sure that there is not one of us, who has entertained fleeting moments of wondering why it happened to me, and not them. Why it is that I have to suffer and be misunderstood. Why is it that everyone else goes off to hospital, survives whatever complications they might have, and brings home a baby. That even though they say 'oh yes, we almost lost blah blah blah', there are few, if any, in our immediate circle of people we know, who can sit there in a conversation with us and discuss dead babies. Nod along, so to speak, as we do in our blogging world. Companionably.
Just to tangent off for a moment. Even that word, companionably, is politically incorrect when it comes to dead babies, isn't it? I mean, you have to be kidding. Consciously, I do not want to be companionable with parents of dead babies.
Oh? You have a dead baby? Let's do coffee!
Politically incorrect, I'm sure.
Unconsciously though, we have to face that it's a different matter. We need each other.
But back to my thoughts.
::::
So, I was laying there this morning, in my half still snoozing state. Thinking about babies, about dead ones, and in between ones (the ones who survive after a stint of touch and go). Somehow I got thinking about a cousin, who has recently announced they are expecting twins.
Yippee. Yahoo.
Yes, that's the extent of my excitement.
I haven't really thought about them much since I heard, to be honest. I have no reason to. We are not "friends" as such. I don't "see" them often, as such. It affects my world in only the teensiest, tiniest corner. Something like having a storage closet closed off at the back of the house.
And them popping into my thoughts this morning was very random. Unimportant even. But then I had a pang of jealousy. Fuck that. Who likes the feeling of the old green eyed? Let alone when it's wasted on something that is honestly unrecognizably important.
My rambly, green eyed, half sleepy thoughts travelled through the facts. They are young. Fertile. Their first was born somewhere around Toby, I think. It's timely for them to have another pregnancy. And twins? The third set in my cousin's family (both of his brother's wives have also birthed twins). I mean... a high risk pregnancy to have two, right? You "qualify" to have the best in OBs if you so wish. But these "lucky" people would still just be celebrating the "exciting yet daunting" world of getting twins in the family. Run of the mill for them. Everyone does it, in their family. Not even a major complication.
Interruption. Even as I type, I feel guilty. Like I am wishing bad.
I say again... never, ever, ever. I certainly am not. I am simply trying to put into words where the deep, dark of the unconscious wanders. And if I'm alone, be sure to bring me down.
Back to being envious.
So. Twins. A "ready made" family. Numbers two and three. No need to go back and try again. No need to experience the sadness of secondary infertility. Or to feel the biological clock ticking.
My cousin's family is a large one, so maybe they will. But seriously, a nuclear family kind of seems to negate the urge and desperation to me. Surely trying for number four LIVING child wouldn't hurt as much as trying to get any living child? Or even the ?slightly? less hurtful of trying to get a second living child through secondary infertility?
But then my deep, dark unconscious wondered if they would heed the Geneticist's warning that we have passed on to the rest of my extended family, in writing. That all pregnancies are to be treated as potential risks for genetic airway problems. That all pregnancies should be treated with respect, through an obstetrician, and recommended testing such as fetal MRI's and diagnostic US. Whereby an OB and NICU team are on standby for birth, ready to perform immediate tracheostomies.
I bet they don't heed those warnings.
Because to them, I'm sure the danger just isn't real. If they think about it at all, then they probably think of it as "removed". I mean, sure, their cousin's baby died of it. Their other cousin's baby survived though, because the doctor's "fixed" him. Musta had better doctor's, hey? Well, thankfully, it's never happened to our family, so we'll be right.
General non babylost way of thinking, right?
But then I thought. I wonder if it will happen to them? I wonder if their baby will die?
(no need to repeat my sincere prayer that it doesn't!)
But then I had a hit of.... what is that? More jealousy? Because on the one hand I was thinking that thought, and thinking well, then at least they would know what it feels like then. Except that then I might be dealing with something worse... that they would somehow take the stage of being more important in the family babyloss world. You know? Because, my own loss happened... heck, almost four years ago now, you know? She's had a rainbow baby. She's over it now. ThankGAWD.
In truth, though, besides the political correctness of not wanting anyone else to feel the pain, I also feel the political incorrectness that I don't want anyone else stealing my OR CIARAN'S thunder.
And I don't want their baby to have a survivable milder form of webbing either, because I don't want a reminder that someone else's baby (in my extended family) was spared not like poor Bir.
So, I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't.
I'm just going to chalk the whole lot of related feelings up to being "babylost Bir".
We're all still individual, and walking in different shoes, no matter how much our experiences tie us together, and so I hope that my words somehow make sense and don't offend, because their is no intention here.
:::
But I also want to add a side note to the words "jealousy" and "envy".
Two words.
Tarago envy.
I came across it the other day, unexpectedly. I had to smile at myself, because really, I'm thankful and it's ridiculous.
Let me make up some kind of dictionary meaning for you...
Tarago envy is a kind of envy for something you realise that you can never have. A family big enough to require a Tarago, or some kind of people mover. The end of a dream, or the end of the possibility of the dream. Even the end of the control over choosing the dream.
It hit me as I watched a Bret.hr.en family climb out of their wagon at the supermarket. Ouch.
:::
The funny thing about my Tarago envy? We have just bought a new car, and it's actually a seven seater, so should by some miracle I birth four more living babies, we're right.
But, I'm sure that there is not one of us, who has entertained fleeting moments of wondering why it happened to me, and not them. Why it is that I have to suffer and be misunderstood. Why is it that everyone else goes off to hospital, survives whatever complications they might have, and brings home a baby. That even though they say 'oh yes, we almost lost blah blah blah', there are few, if any, in our immediate circle of people we know, who can sit there in a conversation with us and discuss dead babies. Nod along, so to speak, as we do in our blogging world. Companionably.
Just to tangent off for a moment. Even that word, companionably, is politically incorrect when it comes to dead babies, isn't it? I mean, you have to be kidding. Consciously, I do not want to be companionable with parents of dead babies.
Oh? You have a dead baby? Let's do coffee!
Politically incorrect, I'm sure.
Unconsciously though, we have to face that it's a different matter. We need each other.
But back to my thoughts.
::::
So, I was laying there this morning, in my half still snoozing state. Thinking about babies, about dead ones, and in between ones (the ones who survive after a stint of touch and go). Somehow I got thinking about a cousin, who has recently announced they are expecting twins.
Yippee. Yahoo.
Yes, that's the extent of my excitement.
I haven't really thought about them much since I heard, to be honest. I have no reason to. We are not "friends" as such. I don't "see" them often, as such. It affects my world in only the teensiest, tiniest corner. Something like having a storage closet closed off at the back of the house.
And them popping into my thoughts this morning was very random. Unimportant even. But then I had a pang of jealousy. Fuck that. Who likes the feeling of the old green eyed? Let alone when it's wasted on something that is honestly unrecognizably important.
My rambly, green eyed, half sleepy thoughts travelled through the facts. They are young. Fertile. Their first was born somewhere around Toby, I think. It's timely for them to have another pregnancy. And twins? The third set in my cousin's family (both of his brother's wives have also birthed twins). I mean... a high risk pregnancy to have two, right? You "qualify" to have the best in OBs if you so wish. But these "lucky" people would still just be celebrating the "exciting yet daunting" world of getting twins in the family. Run of the mill for them. Everyone does it, in their family. Not even a major complication.
Interruption. Even as I type, I feel guilty. Like I am wishing bad.
I say again... never, ever, ever. I certainly am not. I am simply trying to put into words where the deep, dark of the unconscious wanders. And if I'm alone, be sure to bring me down.
Back to being envious.
So. Twins. A "ready made" family. Numbers two and three. No need to go back and try again. No need to experience the sadness of secondary infertility. Or to feel the biological clock ticking.
My cousin's family is a large one, so maybe they will. But seriously, a nuclear family kind of seems to negate the urge and desperation to me. Surely trying for number four LIVING child wouldn't hurt as much as trying to get any living child? Or even the ?slightly? less hurtful of trying to get a second living child through secondary infertility?
But then my deep, dark unconscious wondered if they would heed the Geneticist's warning that we have passed on to the rest of my extended family, in writing. That all pregnancies are to be treated as potential risks for genetic airway problems. That all pregnancies should be treated with respect, through an obstetrician, and recommended testing such as fetal MRI's and diagnostic US. Whereby an OB and NICU team are on standby for birth, ready to perform immediate tracheostomies.
I bet they don't heed those warnings.
Because to them, I'm sure the danger just isn't real. If they think about it at all, then they probably think of it as "removed". I mean, sure, their cousin's baby died of it. Their other cousin's baby survived though, because the doctor's "fixed" him. Musta had better doctor's, hey? Well, thankfully, it's never happened to our family, so we'll be right.
General non babylost way of thinking, right?
But then I thought. I wonder if it will happen to them? I wonder if their baby will die?
(no need to repeat my sincere prayer that it doesn't!)
But then I had a hit of.... what is that? More jealousy? Because on the one hand I was thinking that thought, and thinking well, then at least they would know what it feels like then. Except that then I might be dealing with something worse... that they would somehow take the stage of being more important in the family babyloss world. You know? Because, my own loss happened... heck, almost four years ago now, you know? She's had a rainbow baby. She's over it now. ThankGAWD.
In truth, though, besides the political correctness of not wanting anyone else to feel the pain, I also feel the political incorrectness that I don't want anyone else stealing my OR CIARAN'S thunder.
And I don't want their baby to have a survivable milder form of webbing either, because I don't want a reminder that someone else's baby (in my extended family) was spared not like poor Bir.
So, I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't.
I'm just going to chalk the whole lot of related feelings up to being "babylost Bir".
We're all still individual, and walking in different shoes, no matter how much our experiences tie us together, and so I hope that my words somehow make sense and don't offend, because their is no intention here.
:::
But I also want to add a side note to the words "jealousy" and "envy".
Two words.
Tarago envy.
I came across it the other day, unexpectedly. I had to smile at myself, because really, I'm thankful and it's ridiculous.
Let me make up some kind of dictionary meaning for you...
Tarago envy is a kind of envy for something you realise that you can never have. A family big enough to require a Tarago, or some kind of people mover. The end of a dream, or the end of the possibility of the dream. Even the end of the control over choosing the dream.
It hit me as I watched a Bret.hr.en family climb out of their wagon at the supermarket. Ouch.
:::
The funny thing about my Tarago envy? We have just bought a new car, and it's actually a seven seater, so should by some miracle I birth four more living babies, we're right.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
The three door theory...
I'm not the helicopter mummy I started off as. So says I. No, really. But I am still more of a protective parent than many understand.
I had an impromptu lunch with a friend today. I use the term loosely, not because of any dislike, but rather because we don't know each other like BFFs. She came into our lives a year or two post Ciaran. We are, or we're before Shane and I moved, from the same rural community.
I remember the first time we met though. She probably doesn't. Her children were with her. A girl. And a boy. I knew straight away that her boy was "Ciaran's age", and I was entirely distracted for the entire conversation.
While she was seeming oblivious I saw him crawling on ground that I would consider (still) unhygienic. I watched him drag his dummy through the dirt around the working dogs cages. Where they poo and pee. And just pop it back in his mouth. Ugh. But she wasn't concerned in the slightest.
Our parenting styles were obviously different. But how much of it is because I was parenting an angel baby? What sort of parent would I have been had my son not died? The situation I just used to illustrate was extreme. I don't think any of us would consciously let out child play in tha sort of hygiene, but perhaps the difference is more around having a heightened awareness of the dangers that just might lurk.
So, lunch today.
The three year old who turns four just days after Ciaran does. I actually asked this little man today... "how old are you now?. Knowing full well the answer but needing to hear his three year old voice tell me. How clever Ciaran would be by now. Biased mummy that I am.
My friend and I chit chatted. She oohed and aahed over Toby and how cute he is. We talked like two mummies. It's a different world for me now. An opportunity to try on yet a new "normal", although three normals in three years is a bit much, and the cloak will be wrinkled for a while yet. She commented on how big he is now. She told him he needs to let mummy sleep at night, as he still has two wake ups on a good night.
One thing led to another in tha conversation and somehow an admittance of "my bad" slipped out.
That Toby is still sleeping in our room.
I can give you all of my reasons and excuses, such as the fact that the ready-ing of his room, draught proofing, decorating, and all of that, is a work in progress. The fact that even though he will probably or possibly sleep better in his own room, so I'm told, is in no way a guarantee, and I don't want to spend the cold nights trotting between our rooms when I could be sleeping, and barely waking to feed him as I sit on the edge of my bed. The fact that I'm not ready. That I..we... Like him being beside us. Near us.
I've stressed over it, but then came to the conclusion that it was only because I was feeling the pressure of other people's conventional parenting techniques. At least, thinking like this makes me feel better.
My slip up, in telling my friend, was met with a fast instruction to get him into his own room.
That way I won't hear him until he really calls me, she said.
I laughed and said the monitor would let me know.
Throw that thing out. You don't need it. He's a big boy now, she told me.
The answer on the tip of my tongue was " but that way, I won't hear my child dying". I didn't say it. She wasn't expecting an answer anyway.
She continued on by saying that her father was a GP and always told her to use the "three door method" - close three doors between you and them. If you can't hear them, then no problem!
I'm not even going to go into my thoughts on that old train of thought.
There will be none of that here, and rather than throw the monitor away when he goes into his own room, I will be investing in a video monitor. I only have one Toby.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Here.
OK bloggies... first up, techie help! I see I have the new dashboard which I'm not happy with... so question number one is can I still hide the blogs I don't want everyone to know exist? And then my second question is can I remove the option for people to share posts on fb etc? I've looked but I canna see....
:::
And then, where do I start? I haven't blogged in a long time. Life is busy. Of course it is - I am, after all, lucky to have a now 13 month old. He doesn't let me at the computer while he's up and about - he wants to be in the study too and that would be equal to an environmental disaster. So, I'm limited to ipad access which isn't conjusive to blogging. But I can't entirely blame the child... I am entirely overwhelmed by what I have on my plate these days.
To the point where I have sought counselling, if only to remind me that my own expectations, and that of others who surround me in my life, are entirely unrealistic.
It doesn't help me a lot. But it does help a little. To hear someone else remind me that I am apparently some kind of super woman. That in the past three years and a bit I have somehow survived the supposed impossible. Emotionally impossible that is. And that even in the past twelve months (and a bit), on top of mothering a baby in heaven, I have survived a rainbow pregnancy, birthed my living baby, and moved house twice. Just the reminder that I have managed to tick off so many of the "most stressful situations" checklist does help a little. But it doesn't help to unpack boxes, organise and redecorate, or cook, clean and housekeep. And I still have bucket loads of that too do. All of it I mean. There are boxes around - too many! I'm gradually getting through them, but faced with challenges of where to put things. Or challenges that feel like a chain of things to get through - like I can't unpack the rest of the linen closet until a) I find where MIL has put everything, b) I clean the old, dusty, mousy cupboard out, c) I put contact down on the shelves to try to keep them cleaner and nicer and d) hope they fit. Same goes for the rest of the pantry. Then there's the laundry - I finally managed to buy a suitable laundry cupboard. So now I need Shane to assemble it. But I need him to tell me exactly when he will so that I can then move everything that MIL "kindly" (against instructions) unpacked onto the bookshelf I have in there (hoping that no cleaning products have left rings on the timber), so that we can move said bookshelf to it's new home in the study, so that the new cupboard can be put together, put in place, and everything put in there, and the rest of the laundry unpacked and organised.
Sigh.
Add to that the fact that since we arrived here Shane has been working loooooonnng hours - 12-14 a day mostly. He usually arrives home as I'm bathing Toby, and then it's bed time. Getting Shane to do something at that hour is near impossible as, didn't you know, he's had a hard day at work.
Sigh.
Luckily I've got easy days, sitting around playing with the happy baby.
But you see I'm not allowed to feel stressed about that (i.e. the fact that my day certainly isn't sitting around playing with a happy baby!), because I know just how lucky I am.
Enter another guilt stress in my life. Trying to accept that just because you know how lucky you are, doesn't mean you aren't allowed to be frustrated or frazzled. I wouldn't change anything for the world (well, obviously there is that one little thing...), but not having any support network or even friends close by really does take it's toll. The only bit of "relief" I get is if Shane is home early enough I can throw Toby through the shower with him, rather than running the bath and physically doing that myself. Funny how handing a naked baby to his daddy for five minutes under the water is sometimes the most relief I can find before baby sleep time.
I'm the ultimate in overprotectedness. My mother brought us up with her mother's saying that "you have your babies - you rear them". I find it very hard to leave Toby for even half an hour. He's only been left with someone once - a close friend who I trust, while I went to the chiropractor, but it was enough for me to decide that wasn't something I want to do if I don't have to. That friend is 2.5 hours away now anyway! My family is 3.5 hours away.
And so Toby and I are with each other constantly. And mostly I love it. I would however also love a massage and a haircut.
:::
The day after Toby's first birthday in April, we went on our first real family holiday. We flew over to Perth in Western Australia. Toby was so excited on the plane. My heart swelled so much over the next two weeks. I really didn't expect a one year old to be so excited about things!
He was a gem on the holiday. The time difference was hard on mama - it meant he was getting up between 4 and 5am for the day, but not going down until normal time. He was getting plenty of sleep in the car as we were road tripping, but I wasn't. Shane was somehow managing to keep sleeping in the same motel room as us, not bothered at all. At least he had a nice relaxing time, with a chance to catch up on some sleep!
We covered about 3000+ km - from Perth, down to Bun.bury and Aug.usta, and then up to Den.ham for my cousin's wedding, and back to Perth again.
:::
Another Mothers' Day survived. I was feeling very blah about it. But one of those things that once more I felt that I wasn't really entitled to the "blah" now that I have my rainbow.
I've been missing Ciaran a lot these past few months. Toby is so much of a personality now, and I'm forever wondering about the little boy who isn't here. I try to see him in Toby, like I "could" when he was a baby, but I don't know if I can anymore, because Toby is no longer a baby, and Ciaran will always be. Does that make sense?
Most of the baby clothes from pre-Toby times have been outgrown and packed away. The nursery was packed when Toby was a baby because we moved, and here I find myself needing to set up a little boy's room. I'm struggling with that - still. I'm happy with Toby in our room. He doesn't sleep all night. He ends up in our bed more often than not these days. I've been told that he will "probably" sleep all night in his own room. But if he doesn't, then I'm the one who has to wake to go in to him. Just a minor excuse really. I'm in no hurry to move him. He's happy. We're happy.
But there are fewer and fewer "reminders". Of the baby that was and the baby that is, because that baby is now a toddler. He's walking now, as of a week or two ago. Not a baby any more.
:::
The yearning is still there, though. Sometimes it's just under the surface. Sometimes it's at a more comfortable depth. I find myself not wanting to revisit the pain. I remember wanting to live in that pain forever, way back when. Feeling that that was the closest I would ever be to my little boy. And now, I don't want to be washed by that wave anymore. It hurts. I cry a lot. Toby laughs. Which of course, mostly helps me to laugh while I cry.
I don't know if there will be any more. I'm about as satisfied as I can be. I don't have the same need anymore. There will always be one missing. But I do hope there will be another one. For Toby. And of course, for us. I just mean that if there were only so many to go around, then there are other important people in my life that I would say "take it" to. Toby is my healer. Another one is not going to heal me any more, I can't imagine. We'll take what God gives us.
:::
:::
And then, where do I start? I haven't blogged in a long time. Life is busy. Of course it is - I am, after all, lucky to have a now 13 month old. He doesn't let me at the computer while he's up and about - he wants to be in the study too and that would be equal to an environmental disaster. So, I'm limited to ipad access which isn't conjusive to blogging. But I can't entirely blame the child... I am entirely overwhelmed by what I have on my plate these days.
To the point where I have sought counselling, if only to remind me that my own expectations, and that of others who surround me in my life, are entirely unrealistic.
It doesn't help me a lot. But it does help a little. To hear someone else remind me that I am apparently some kind of super woman. That in the past three years and a bit I have somehow survived the supposed impossible. Emotionally impossible that is. And that even in the past twelve months (and a bit), on top of mothering a baby in heaven, I have survived a rainbow pregnancy, birthed my living baby, and moved house twice. Just the reminder that I have managed to tick off so many of the "most stressful situations" checklist does help a little. But it doesn't help to unpack boxes, organise and redecorate, or cook, clean and housekeep. And I still have bucket loads of that too do. All of it I mean. There are boxes around - too many! I'm gradually getting through them, but faced with challenges of where to put things. Or challenges that feel like a chain of things to get through - like I can't unpack the rest of the linen closet until a) I find where MIL has put everything, b) I clean the old, dusty, mousy cupboard out, c) I put contact down on the shelves to try to keep them cleaner and nicer and d) hope they fit. Same goes for the rest of the pantry. Then there's the laundry - I finally managed to buy a suitable laundry cupboard. So now I need Shane to assemble it. But I need him to tell me exactly when he will so that I can then move everything that MIL "kindly" (against instructions) unpacked onto the bookshelf I have in there (hoping that no cleaning products have left rings on the timber), so that we can move said bookshelf to it's new home in the study, so that the new cupboard can be put together, put in place, and everything put in there, and the rest of the laundry unpacked and organised.
Sigh.
Add to that the fact that since we arrived here Shane has been working loooooonnng hours - 12-14 a day mostly. He usually arrives home as I'm bathing Toby, and then it's bed time. Getting Shane to do something at that hour is near impossible as, didn't you know, he's had a hard day at work.
Sigh.
Luckily I've got easy days, sitting around playing with the happy baby.
But you see I'm not allowed to feel stressed about that (i.e. the fact that my day certainly isn't sitting around playing with a happy baby!), because I know just how lucky I am.
Enter another guilt stress in my life. Trying to accept that just because you know how lucky you are, doesn't mean you aren't allowed to be frustrated or frazzled. I wouldn't change anything for the world (well, obviously there is that one little thing...), but not having any support network or even friends close by really does take it's toll. The only bit of "relief" I get is if Shane is home early enough I can throw Toby through the shower with him, rather than running the bath and physically doing that myself. Funny how handing a naked baby to his daddy for five minutes under the water is sometimes the most relief I can find before baby sleep time.
I'm the ultimate in overprotectedness. My mother brought us up with her mother's saying that "you have your babies - you rear them". I find it very hard to leave Toby for even half an hour. He's only been left with someone once - a close friend who I trust, while I went to the chiropractor, but it was enough for me to decide that wasn't something I want to do if I don't have to. That friend is 2.5 hours away now anyway! My family is 3.5 hours away.
And so Toby and I are with each other constantly. And mostly I love it. I would however also love a massage and a haircut.
:::
The day after Toby's first birthday in April, we went on our first real family holiday. We flew over to Perth in Western Australia. Toby was so excited on the plane. My heart swelled so much over the next two weeks. I really didn't expect a one year old to be so excited about things!
He was a gem on the holiday. The time difference was hard on mama - it meant he was getting up between 4 and 5am for the day, but not going down until normal time. He was getting plenty of sleep in the car as we were road tripping, but I wasn't. Shane was somehow managing to keep sleeping in the same motel room as us, not bothered at all. At least he had a nice relaxing time, with a chance to catch up on some sleep!
We covered about 3000+ km - from Perth, down to Bun.bury and Aug.usta, and then up to Den.ham for my cousin's wedding, and back to Perth again.
:::
Another Mothers' Day survived. I was feeling very blah about it. But one of those things that once more I felt that I wasn't really entitled to the "blah" now that I have my rainbow.
I've been missing Ciaran a lot these past few months. Toby is so much of a personality now, and I'm forever wondering about the little boy who isn't here. I try to see him in Toby, like I "could" when he was a baby, but I don't know if I can anymore, because Toby is no longer a baby, and Ciaran will always be. Does that make sense?
Most of the baby clothes from pre-Toby times have been outgrown and packed away. The nursery was packed when Toby was a baby because we moved, and here I find myself needing to set up a little boy's room. I'm struggling with that - still. I'm happy with Toby in our room. He doesn't sleep all night. He ends up in our bed more often than not these days. I've been told that he will "probably" sleep all night in his own room. But if he doesn't, then I'm the one who has to wake to go in to him. Just a minor excuse really. I'm in no hurry to move him. He's happy. We're happy.
But there are fewer and fewer "reminders". Of the baby that was and the baby that is, because that baby is now a toddler. He's walking now, as of a week or two ago. Not a baby any more.
:::
The yearning is still there, though. Sometimes it's just under the surface. Sometimes it's at a more comfortable depth. I find myself not wanting to revisit the pain. I remember wanting to live in that pain forever, way back when. Feeling that that was the closest I would ever be to my little boy. And now, I don't want to be washed by that wave anymore. It hurts. I cry a lot. Toby laughs. Which of course, mostly helps me to laugh while I cry.
I don't know if there will be any more. I'm about as satisfied as I can be. I don't have the same need anymore. There will always be one missing. But I do hope there will be another one. For Toby. And of course, for us. I just mean that if there were only so many to go around, then there are other important people in my life that I would say "take it" to. Toby is my healer. Another one is not going to heal me any more, I can't imagine. We'll take what God gives us.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
The train.
Where we live now, we have a railway line through the property, probably just 500m or less from the house. It's a busy freight line. Maybe five or six trains a day go past.
You can see them from the house, though it's through a copse of trees.
Without being all that conscious of it, when I hear a train I get excited for Toby, saying "listen...!! Here comes a train!!"
And I scoop him up and go to where we can see it. Usually from our front verandah. I have a photo but apparently I can't upload it from iPad. Bugger.
He looks. And he smiles.
And if I am busy and don't react I see him stop what he's doing, and look in the direction that he hears the train.
We don't know the timetable, and they seem to come at different times.
So the other morning we were out hanging the washing early. Toby was sitting in the pram. And we heard the toot of a train approaching one of the crossings not far away.
I saw Toby look in that direction, so I quickly grabbed the pram and ran. Yes, that's a sight for sure. I jogged and shuffled in my flip floppy round the house crocs, down the dirt road. I could see the head light of the train in the distance.
I managed to get probably 20 metres from the railway line. Maybe closer. I stopped, bent down and quickly unclipped Toby and picked him up.
And we waved. He grinned. The train gave a toot, as it approached the crossing in front of us. Then the driver must have seen us so he gave a few more toots ending on a big, fun long one.
Toby had a grin from ear to ear. We waved frantically.
And then I cried. And cried. And cried.
Even writing this now, my bottom lip shakes.
Poor Toby. Sometimes he must think his mummy is just a crack pot.
I looked at him, looking at the train, and then looking at his crying mummy, and I laughed and said excitedly, "it's a train...!!".
In my heart was an ache for the little boy who wasn't with me.
Because when I was pregnant with Ciaran, whenever we saw a train we would say "look bubby... there's a train", and talk about the time we would be able to show him for real.
And then he was born. And he died.
But still we said "look bubby... there's a train". And we would cry.
:::
So, here I am. So few yet so many years later. Saying several times a day "Listen. Look. There's a train". And the only thing I stop myself at, with a lump in my throat is "... bubby".
You can see them from the house, though it's through a copse of trees.
Without being all that conscious of it, when I hear a train I get excited for Toby, saying "listen...!! Here comes a train!!"
And I scoop him up and go to where we can see it. Usually from our front verandah. I have a photo but apparently I can't upload it from iPad. Bugger.
He looks. And he smiles.
And if I am busy and don't react I see him stop what he's doing, and look in the direction that he hears the train.
We don't know the timetable, and they seem to come at different times.
So the other morning we were out hanging the washing early. Toby was sitting in the pram. And we heard the toot of a train approaching one of the crossings not far away.
I saw Toby look in that direction, so I quickly grabbed the pram and ran. Yes, that's a sight for sure. I jogged and shuffled in my flip floppy round the house crocs, down the dirt road. I could see the head light of the train in the distance.
I managed to get probably 20 metres from the railway line. Maybe closer. I stopped, bent down and quickly unclipped Toby and picked him up.
And we waved. He grinned. The train gave a toot, as it approached the crossing in front of us. Then the driver must have seen us so he gave a few more toots ending on a big, fun long one.
Toby had a grin from ear to ear. We waved frantically.
And then I cried. And cried. And cried.
Even writing this now, my bottom lip shakes.
Poor Toby. Sometimes he must think his mummy is just a crack pot.
I looked at him, looking at the train, and then looking at his crying mummy, and I laughed and said excitedly, "it's a train...!!".
In my heart was an ache for the little boy who wasn't with me.
Because when I was pregnant with Ciaran, whenever we saw a train we would say "look bubby... there's a train", and talk about the time we would be able to show him for real.
And then he was born. And he died.
But still we said "look bubby... there's a train". And we would cry.
:::
So, here I am. So few yet so many years later. Saying several times a day "Listen. Look. There's a train". And the only thing I stop myself at, with a lump in my throat is "... bubby".
Thursday, April 5, 2012
We did it. The first year.
Somehow we have survived it. I mummied. I am still mummying. Despite the brick walls, the challenges, the doubts, and the constant search for the instruction book, we have all survived one year as a rainbow family.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY MOST PRECIOUS BABY BOY ON EARTH, TOBY!!
1!! One!! However you want to write it.
Happy. Sad. Mixed. Reminiscent. What ifs. Wishes. That was then, this is now. So much. Love.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY MOST PRECIOUS BABY BOY ON EARTH, TOBY!!
1!! One!! However you want to write it.
Happy. Sad. Mixed. Reminiscent. What ifs. Wishes. That was then, this is now. So much. Love.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
OK hands up then...
... if you are thankful that you are not one of those women who have bad things happen like babies and children dying? Come on... I mean, I know that most of the audience are from the unfortunate baby lost community, but seriously I know you are out there.
It seems that these people are everywhere in my life right now. I'm sick of them. They're driving me nuts. Normally I can kind of gloss over them, and not let it get to me, but apparently I have an overload of them and it's eating my insides at the moment.
One discussion I've been privy to today is on the use of cot bumpers, which of course SIDS recommends against the use of. One of the women has a baby who has just reached the head banging stage. Toby went through it. I was advised he'd "grow out of it" and that they "seldom do any real harm to themselves", but yes he occasionally had a bit of a bump, and often had a red spot on his forehead. But this woman is adamant that her child gave herself concussion (but no, she didn't take her to the hospital), and feels the need to put bumpers in the cot. Several people have pointed out the SIDS recommendations, but she has an answer for it all. One or two people have admitted to putting bumpers in themselves, and duck their head as they answer. They at least are acknowledging that they have put a risk there for their child.
But what is coming through loud and strong to me is that this woman in particular thinks that she is one of the "lucky" ones. The ones who feel sorry for you, but thankfully it will never happen to them. It makes my blood boil on so many levels.
I don't want to be felt sorry for. Not as such. Or feel sorry if you must, but do not pity me. Especially when it is tinged with a dose of "it won't happen to me".
:::
I think we all start out like that. It comes along attached to "innocence". Thankfully, we all have that in the beginning. And maybe it's hard to not be smug about it. I don't know, I can't really remember what I was like before. I do remember hearing about a school friend's baby boy being born sleeping at 5 months. Back then it would have been more about her baby being stillborn. Meaning that it was just something unpersonal and unfortunate that happened to someone we knew in a past life. Poor girl. I mean, can you imagine that happening? Whereas in reality I had never been pregnant. I had certainly never miscarried let alone organised a funeral for my beautiful baby. So I had no comprehension. How could I?
And I know that that's where the majority of people lie. In that pond of total innocence.
But seriously... my baby did not die of SIDS so I am not just being super sensitive when I remind you of the guidelines. My baby was not stillborn, so you don't need to assume anything there either. In fact, what happened to my baby is totally irrelevent to how you think or feel in your innocence. The truth is it could happen to you. The truth is that it will happen to some of you out there. The other truth is that some, maybe even "many", of you will have to organise your child's funeral, and no matter when it happens you will consider it unfair and untimely. And maybe then you will think of us, in this boat so early on.
Oh, yes I sound bitter don't I? And yes, you don't need to smile and nod knowingly about what an overprotective parent I am. Don't worry, I don't do everything by the book either. But the risks I take I take with a cold fist around my heart, knowing I can't have him completely wrapped in cotton wool, but well aware of what the consequences might be and what guilt I might have to live with for the rest of my life.
Smell the roses people. You can never replace what you have now.
It seems that these people are everywhere in my life right now. I'm sick of them. They're driving me nuts. Normally I can kind of gloss over them, and not let it get to me, but apparently I have an overload of them and it's eating my insides at the moment.
One discussion I've been privy to today is on the use of cot bumpers, which of course SIDS recommends against the use of. One of the women has a baby who has just reached the head banging stage. Toby went through it. I was advised he'd "grow out of it" and that they "seldom do any real harm to themselves", but yes he occasionally had a bit of a bump, and often had a red spot on his forehead. But this woman is adamant that her child gave herself concussion (but no, she didn't take her to the hospital), and feels the need to put bumpers in the cot. Several people have pointed out the SIDS recommendations, but she has an answer for it all. One or two people have admitted to putting bumpers in themselves, and duck their head as they answer. They at least are acknowledging that they have put a risk there for their child.
But what is coming through loud and strong to me is that this woman in particular thinks that she is one of the "lucky" ones. The ones who feel sorry for you, but thankfully it will never happen to them. It makes my blood boil on so many levels.
I don't want to be felt sorry for. Not as such. Or feel sorry if you must, but do not pity me. Especially when it is tinged with a dose of "it won't happen to me".
:::
I think we all start out like that. It comes along attached to "innocence". Thankfully, we all have that in the beginning. And maybe it's hard to not be smug about it. I don't know, I can't really remember what I was like before. I do remember hearing about a school friend's baby boy being born sleeping at 5 months. Back then it would have been more about her baby being stillborn. Meaning that it was just something unpersonal and unfortunate that happened to someone we knew in a past life. Poor girl. I mean, can you imagine that happening? Whereas in reality I had never been pregnant. I had certainly never miscarried let alone organised a funeral for my beautiful baby. So I had no comprehension. How could I?
And I know that that's where the majority of people lie. In that pond of total innocence.
But seriously... my baby did not die of SIDS so I am not just being super sensitive when I remind you of the guidelines. My baby was not stillborn, so you don't need to assume anything there either. In fact, what happened to my baby is totally irrelevent to how you think or feel in your innocence. The truth is it could happen to you. The truth is that it will happen to some of you out there. The other truth is that some, maybe even "many", of you will have to organise your child's funeral, and no matter when it happens you will consider it unfair and untimely. And maybe then you will think of us, in this boat so early on.
Oh, yes I sound bitter don't I? And yes, you don't need to smile and nod knowingly about what an overprotective parent I am. Don't worry, I don't do everything by the book either. But the risks I take I take with a cold fist around my heart, knowing I can't have him completely wrapped in cotton wool, but well aware of what the consequences might be and what guilt I might have to live with for the rest of my life.
Smell the roses people. You can never replace what you have now.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
That was then. But this is...
I don't even think about the fact that I've grown "accustomed", if you can, to telling people that my eldest son died. I seldom deny him, although in truth I know I have a couple of times in recent weeks, because I judged the situation was best that way and that's a whole different story. But in the most part, I never deny him. Toby lives in his shadow. Almost.
Is this your first? No. Toby is our second. His big brother passed away shortly after he was born.
Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.
And the conversation moves on.
So, most of the time it's as sterile as that.
But every now and then, it's not.
A couple of days ago I ran into someone who used to be a good friend. Not that we had a falling out, or anything like that. It's just that our paths went in different directions, and that part of our lives moved on.
That was then.
And I think it's moments like that, where you run head long into your past, that you hear the walls starting to crash down.
Her name is Natasha. She was a part of a life that just doesn't exist for me anymore. I was her boss. In a career I no longer have. She was my friend. In a life neither of us live anymore. Everything has shifted. Left or right, it doesn't matter.
It was the type of reunion that includes little girlish jumps and squeals. Suddenly the pram felt awkward... it wasn't there in that other life. I'm grateful for it now, don't get me wrong, but you know when you can physically feel the gap between worlds? So, there was my pram, and there was her bump!
She was so excited for the pram. Is he yours, she asked? Yes, yes! Ooooohhh she said. And told me she was SO happy for me.
Clang.
Is he your only? I think they were her words.
No. I told her. But every single word hurt.
My first little boy passed away after he was born.
I saw her baulk, and the tears in her eyes. She told me she was sorry.
I think I glossed over it and moved the conversation awkwardly forward.
I thought about it a lot though, and here I am a few days later still thinking about it I guess. Just about how much more I felt the impact of having to tell someone I had been close to from before.
Does any of this make sense to anyone else?
Is this your first? No. Toby is our second. His big brother passed away shortly after he was born.
Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.
And the conversation moves on.
So, most of the time it's as sterile as that.
But every now and then, it's not.
A couple of days ago I ran into someone who used to be a good friend. Not that we had a falling out, or anything like that. It's just that our paths went in different directions, and that part of our lives moved on.
That was then.
And I think it's moments like that, where you run head long into your past, that you hear the walls starting to crash down.
Her name is Natasha. She was a part of a life that just doesn't exist for me anymore. I was her boss. In a career I no longer have. She was my friend. In a life neither of us live anymore. Everything has shifted. Left or right, it doesn't matter.
It was the type of reunion that includes little girlish jumps and squeals. Suddenly the pram felt awkward... it wasn't there in that other life. I'm grateful for it now, don't get me wrong, but you know when you can physically feel the gap between worlds? So, there was my pram, and there was her bump!
She was so excited for the pram. Is he yours, she asked? Yes, yes! Ooooohhh she said. And told me she was SO happy for me.
Clang.
Is he your only? I think they were her words.
No. I told her. But every single word hurt.
My first little boy passed away after he was born.
I saw her baulk, and the tears in her eyes. She told me she was sorry.
I think I glossed over it and moved the conversation awkwardly forward.
I thought about it a lot though, and here I am a few days later still thinking about it I guess. Just about how much more I felt the impact of having to tell someone I had been close to from before.
Does any of this make sense to anyone else?
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Not unnoticed...
The other day I was outside a room when my parents were talking to a man about business, and as I came back in and heard pieces of the conversation I gathered my father was telling him that Toby was special and the sadness we had been through. I didn't hear the words exactly... It was only the end. The man said along the lines that we had certainly had our (meaning my family) fair share of stress and sadness in recent years.
Yes, my father sadly agreed. We have.
Ah but you get over it.
He said.
My mother corrected him and said "no. You don't". Bless her. And then both men agreed.
It was just one of those things said, you know? I know dad didn't mean it. It was an automatic response. Like saying "good thanks" to the question of how you are.
:::
Yesterday I was with my dad and a young lady came to help him with some things, and he introduced us. He introduced Toby.
"And this is Toby. Her beautiful little miracle".
The girl looked at me and smiled. And I smiled. And looked at Toby.
And then dad added "he's IVF" proudly. Like by way of explanation.
It didnt bother me, really, but I couldn't help but note it.
Because it kind of felt like advertising my (secondary) infertility.
It kind of felt like a public announcement of at least a small part of my failure.
Airing a bit of dirty linen, so to speak. Or a pair of stained underpants.
But also there's a bit of a feeling of.... Scoffing. From me. Because, come oooonn dad! IVF is soooo common place nowadays!! Every second child is made in a test tube. Aren't they? It's not the 80's anymore.
And none of us are innocent. Not anymore.
Yes, my father sadly agreed. We have.
Ah but you get over it.
He said.
My mother corrected him and said "no. You don't". Bless her. And then both men agreed.
It was just one of those things said, you know? I know dad didn't mean it. It was an automatic response. Like saying "good thanks" to the question of how you are.
:::
Yesterday I was with my dad and a young lady came to help him with some things, and he introduced us. He introduced Toby.
"And this is Toby. Her beautiful little miracle".
The girl looked at me and smiled. And I smiled. And looked at Toby.
And then dad added "he's IVF" proudly. Like by way of explanation.
It didnt bother me, really, but I couldn't help but note it.
Because it kind of felt like advertising my (secondary) infertility.
It kind of felt like a public announcement of at least a small part of my failure.
Airing a bit of dirty linen, so to speak. Or a pair of stained underpants.
But also there's a bit of a feeling of.... Scoffing. From me. Because, come oooonn dad! IVF is soooo common place nowadays!! Every second child is made in a test tube. Aren't they? It's not the 80's anymore.
And none of us are innocent. Not anymore.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Stealing moments and lalas...
That's what it is right now. Blogging would not exactly be up there at the top of "most important things to get done today" for sure. But then neither is anything else that would be considered "for Bir". It's a tough juggle, and I'm the ultimate martyr. Beware, this might be a bit of a whingey post. Or it might be a bit of a woe is me post. I'm not sure. But it will be straight facts.
I have a counselling appointment today. New counseller in a new town. Sounds like I'm running from something doesn't it? Funny thing is that my MCHN referred me to her probably 8 months ago as she was concerned that I had too much going on and was a candidate for PND. Meh, whatever, was pretty much my response. But the therapist took several months to call me, and lost a bundle of respect from me. I can't really explain why, other than when I'm expecting to hear from someone, and the MCHN kept asking if she'd called yet, and she hadn't, it pissed me off because I simply don't need someone else to inadvertantly "confirm" my unimportant-to-the-world status (in my bad times, in my head!). When she did eventually call, I just said thanks but no thanks. She insisted I take her number, which I did.
A short time later Shane came home and announced that he'd been sacked. Ker-plunk.
I reckon one of my first thoughts was to find that number. But, I didn't have time to fall in a heap, so I pushed on and pushed Shane on, and pulled him out of a hole occasionally (although I think he thinks I was just a nasty bitch for not letting him stay in bed and sleep his doldrums away), and tried to keep the firecracker under his backside lit, as well as the home fires burning, so to speak. I do a pretty crap job.
So, last week I finally fished out her number. Because ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk.
And right about that same time I sat back and realised that perhaps the reason that I'm all up in arms, a bunch of panicked knots on the inside, is that I do have way too much going on for any normal person (let alone a damaged one perhaps) to cope with sanely. And also about expectations. The fact that I have high expectations of myself, and I tend to take on the expectations that others have, or seem to have, for me as well. If I was talking about it to someone then I would say that I didn't, or "bugger what anyone thinks", but really? Deep down, or maybe not so deep, it eats me that I feel like I'm doing a shit of a job in all departments.
I can't even begin to cover off what I mean by "all departments". Too much, too hard. Work it out for yourself if you wish. Just every.thing..!!
And the point where I'm at is that every little thing is a big, fat, major thing to me right now. It makes it very hard for others to understand I think, because all they see is the little thing and me having a big lala over nothing. And I just feel like a fool.
I'm doing a lot of counting breaths, and taking deep ones. I hate the fact that all of this seems to interpret to "not coping with Toby" kind of talk. The truth is that when it's just Tobes and I, our routine just flows, we play and have fun. Add in boxes to unpack, cleaning to be done (the daily duty type as well as the "inch of dust in a 100 year old house" so I can put something away type). Add in husband convos of "can you just... " which ends in things like look something up on the net (the only time I usually get time on the net is after Toby's bed time, and our dinner time, and somewhere about then is when Shane has finished playing on the net and going to bed), or wash something, feed something, get something. Because bless his cotton socks, he's working hard now and gone from the house ten to twelve hours a day. Paid work must be so much harder to do too, because when he comes home he can barely move off the couch, and he's always tired despite sleeping a third more hours than I do at least. Yes, insert sarcasm. At least part of that whinge I am pretty sure many relate to and it's just simply a man thing. As a friend put it recently... oh to have testicles and licence to think only of yourself.
:::
I suspect that "my" time will be up soon. Toby is napping. Finally we are getting that routine down pat again (ssssh don't tell the baby!) as that has also been a nightmare.
:::
I'm not sure as the house is looking any more organised. More boxes have been opened, but not necessarily all put away. I am still trying to finish cleaning the pantry, so that I can finish putting contact on the shelves to try to eliminate some of the dust problem, so that I can finish unpacking grocery type boxes, and storage type boxes. It's ongoing, as I only tend to get one little job finished before getting called away, and then can't get back to it again for days.
I need to buy a cupboard for the kitchen, and one for the laundry as well, but the finances are short. Having spent well over $5K on moves in the past twelve months, then a recent few weeks with no income, a rental property for sale that has fallen through thrice (but will hopefully go through next month) which has been untenanted since November... need I go on. The thing that I find people don't understand is that each move costs so much money because each house "needs" things to make it work. The kitchen cupboards as I said - here we have very limited cupboard space. There is a big walk in pantry, but it's not part of the kitchen (it's a separate room off what I have made the dining room) and besides being an old dusty room, it's just not a convenient place to put your crockery. Not in my books. And the laundry has no cupboard at all. At the moment I find that a set of wrought iron and timber shelves have been put there in my absence... husband or ILs directed the fellas unpacking the truck. Yes, they would serve the purpose, and I don't really need these shelves anywhere else in the house, however at $500 I don't think I really want them scratched and de-stained by laundry products either. Apparently, that is a hard concept to understand. Add another notch to my stress belt. But I have some birthday money tucked away from last year, and MIL usually gives me some with my upcoming day again, so I think I will just "invest" it in some plain old boring household shelves. Sigh. Glad I saved it for something special, hey? Yes, insert sarcasm again. But my point being is that the spending isnt' over yet.
I am fussy and I like my house to look nice. I don't think it really has for years now. Well, I don't mean this the way it will sound, but since Shane and I met. We've lived in four houses in four years now. He doesn't have the same appreciation of "nice" that I do. Partially that man thing again probably, but I also still blame MIL who picks up after him, or buys him a new whatever thing that got broken for not being looked after properly. It's not so fun. I get cross at him (stress. notch. belt.) but then I get cross at poor absent MIL for doing this to her son. Not that she sees it this way, of course. It's tiring. The other day we fought because he arrived home at the end of his long, tiring day, and walked through the newly vacuumed dining room in his work boots so he could say hello to Toby in the bathroom. I see the floors I have just cleaned, and the lack of care and respect for the time and effort I put in and my reasons for doing it in the first place, whereas he gets cranky because his boots are "clean" (i.e. no mud, and you can't see germs so no problem, right?) and my expectations of him to take them off at the door when he has to go back outside shortly are too high and unfair. We are at an impasse. My choices are to fight a battle I cannot win, or just drop it and admit defeat and give up caring about the floors. Perhaps cleaning in general. On the inside... stress.notch.belt. It is never going to change. He is a product of his upbringing, and whether he knows it or not, his expectation is that the woman of the house will happily run around behind him with a bucket and mop among other things. And if I cry, as I did on this occasion, just quietly, in despair, I am simply going on about nothing. And there you have it... I am, and what I do, is unimportant.
I am trying not to turn this in to a husband whinge. It's an everything post. But part of the reason for my appointment today is that I came to the conclusion the other day that that is one area that I cannot change as such... because he IS a product of his upbringing... but until I can just accept it it will push me to the brink, so I'm seeking help.
:::
It's only the brink because all of everything at the moment is the icing on the cake. I accidently knocked over a box when I opened the bathroom door the other night. We had already had a money argument, because I was asking what I thought was a simple question but he was tired and giving me stupid, cranky non-answers. So the box, and the smashed contents made me cry. Apparently that was me going on with "shit" again. Whatever. It probably was. He apologised later and said that he knows it's "just everything on top of everything" at the moment for me. Funnily enough, he doesnt' realise that the most "upsetting" of that incident was that the one thing that smashed was the after shave I bought him for Christmas. And the fact that he didn't even realise that kind of hurts too.
:::
So, I've really been trying to remember my journey. Really trying to breathe, and remember that other people, everyone, tends to look at you for what is going on now. They don't sit back and look at the journey. They don't realise that they project expectations unintentionally.
Three and a half years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I birthed expectations for him, and for me, and for us. I birthed hopes and dreams. I gave birth to a whole new life. And then it died. He died, and along with it, an entire new life died.
And along with that an entire old one as well. Suddenly, I had no life whatsoever. Limbo. Oh so sad, isn't it? Gee, woe is me. Will she ever get over it?
So few really get that we don't, right? Those of us here in blogland... it's really been one of the few "constants" since that time. Sure, I've gotten better at appearing to have moved on. I have a rainbow too now and I count my blessings for having him. And I won't deny that I was given the chance of another new life with his birth, and I'm better for it. Not better "fixed", just "better".
:::
So, there's no need for me to go on about the journey of the next two years. The ttc-ing in desperation. The fails month after month. The joy of pregnancy and the devastation of miscarriage. The IVF. Needles, drugs, weight gain, hormones. Another subsequent pregnancy. Tests. Fetal MRIs. Living just waiting. The arrival of news that it's genetic. All of that.
But a birth with a live, living baby.
Skip ahead. Moving house with a two month old. Other people packing and moving your belongings. Living in a shoebox. Mice infested. Throwing away belongings ruined by them. So many little things. Constant. Shane losing his job. Limbo. Feeling like we were about to be homeless, literally, but other people not seeing it that way as we "could always just move in with family". It's just not that simple. Ever. Money. Or lack there of, and the looming threat of my SAHM status being taken from me because I will have to return to full time work. Another sacrifice of something important to me. Another house move. Clingy ten month old. Any wonder... perhaps it's text book, but in the eyes of a baby? Poor bub.
And here I am. Getting little done. And feeling misunderstood by many. I am sure my mother is saying to others that I'm mad if I have another. I'm sure that my husband is thinking that having a baby is what turned me into a grumpy, sooky old cow. I'm sure that everyone thinks I don't cope with being a mum.
Yet I think I cope with that bit just fine. I think if the world was a different place, and we were nicely settled in a suitable house where we had everything that we needed (to be comfortable) and could establish a routine that didn't have to include unpack boxes and arrange furniture every day... but maybe that's me being in a dream world. Again.
:::
And then I worry that that is simply falling into the trap of wishing for something that isn't going to be rather than making the most of the situation, and I realise... it's just that I'm tired of forever trying to make the most of the situation. Of finding the good. Of dealing with the shit and just marching forward. I want to stop. Again. Familiar story. Stop time, enjoy the moment. Or wallow in it. Whatever it is that needs to happen.
:::
I also don't have much of a support network left, having moved so many times, and further away from any semblance I had to start with. My mum and my sister are two constants but they have so much of their own to deal with right now.
I'm trying to build myself a new one. Enrol in a music group for Toby, find a playgroup, that kind of thing. But it's hard, because I'm so much more in a "hermit" frame of mind. Not to mention that logistically we are 40 minutes drive from town so it's not something I can justify doing more than once or maybe twice a week. It's also a big thing to go to town in that I have to pack at least one meal and snacks for Toby, and plan a stop somewhere for lunch, or whatever.... I said that to someone recently who lives in a town and they said "oh yes, I always have to take snacks for so-so too". Totally misunderstood. Even if I feed Tobes in the carseat before we leave, or sit on a park bench and feed him in his pram, it's a "long" day. I'm gone at least three hours, even if I just want milk. And it's tiring.
:::
And then there is also the other things that I think most people don't think play on my mind. At 4am this morning I was "listening" to Ciaran calling me from the other room.
"Mummmaaaaa"
"Mummmmmmaaaaaaaa"
I heard him padding down the hallway.
I felt him climb up into bed with us.
And snuggle.
And beside me Toby stirred and rolled over in his cot.
Ahhh. The world is perfect.
Or it's not.
:::
Some of the other little things I've put up with this past week, that have sent me to the brink?
Driving 40 minutes to town to buy a bracelet that was 30 percent off on Tues, that Shane wanted to buy for my birthday, only to find that despite them telling me it would still be there on Friday, had been sent back to the supplier. Oh well, too bad, too sad. Apparently.
Going to do washing on Saturday to find that the washing machine is only using hot water, and that the hot was scalding... too hot for general washing and I couldn't change the taps or do anything about it until Shane was home and had time to fix it.
Going to have a shower on Sunday morning and finding that there was no hot water ... the service had pooed itself. Add in the arrival, smack on time of course, of AF. Oh, and a stinky hot muggy summers day. Cold shower out of desperation (a cold shower is still a cold shower even if it's summer).
Blackout just as dinner went in the oven on Sunday night. Power out until after midnight. Cranky household.
Tripping over a toy in said blackout, and twisting my ankle, then falling to land on a block under my thigh. No lasting damage, but it made me cry at the time. And today? I think I must have hurt my back a little as it's very stiff and awkward.
Having to contact the owners/shanes boss AGAIN to request an electrician and that smoke alarms be installed in the house. Makes my blood boil having to ask again and again. Not a good start.
.... but happy to say that it's now Monday. The hws is fixed. The electrician is coming on Friday, and will do the smoke alarms then. And I'm off for (I'm hoping) a warmish shower before heading to town for my THERAPIST!
I have a counselling appointment today. New counseller in a new town. Sounds like I'm running from something doesn't it? Funny thing is that my MCHN referred me to her probably 8 months ago as she was concerned that I had too much going on and was a candidate for PND. Meh, whatever, was pretty much my response. But the therapist took several months to call me, and lost a bundle of respect from me. I can't really explain why, other than when I'm expecting to hear from someone, and the MCHN kept asking if she'd called yet, and she hadn't, it pissed me off because I simply don't need someone else to inadvertantly "confirm" my unimportant-to-the-world status (in my bad times, in my head!). When she did eventually call, I just said thanks but no thanks. She insisted I take her number, which I did.
A short time later Shane came home and announced that he'd been sacked. Ker-plunk.
I reckon one of my first thoughts was to find that number. But, I didn't have time to fall in a heap, so I pushed on and pushed Shane on, and pulled him out of a hole occasionally (although I think he thinks I was just a nasty bitch for not letting him stay in bed and sleep his doldrums away), and tried to keep the firecracker under his backside lit, as well as the home fires burning, so to speak. I do a pretty crap job.
So, last week I finally fished out her number. Because ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk.
And right about that same time I sat back and realised that perhaps the reason that I'm all up in arms, a bunch of panicked knots on the inside, is that I do have way too much going on for any normal person (let alone a damaged one perhaps) to cope with sanely. And also about expectations. The fact that I have high expectations of myself, and I tend to take on the expectations that others have, or seem to have, for me as well. If I was talking about it to someone then I would say that I didn't, or "bugger what anyone thinks", but really? Deep down, or maybe not so deep, it eats me that I feel like I'm doing a shit of a job in all departments.
I can't even begin to cover off what I mean by "all departments". Too much, too hard. Work it out for yourself if you wish. Just every.thing..!!
And the point where I'm at is that every little thing is a big, fat, major thing to me right now. It makes it very hard for others to understand I think, because all they see is the little thing and me having a big lala over nothing. And I just feel like a fool.
I'm doing a lot of counting breaths, and taking deep ones. I hate the fact that all of this seems to interpret to "not coping with Toby" kind of talk. The truth is that when it's just Tobes and I, our routine just flows, we play and have fun. Add in boxes to unpack, cleaning to be done (the daily duty type as well as the "inch of dust in a 100 year old house" so I can put something away type). Add in husband convos of "can you just... " which ends in things like look something up on the net (the only time I usually get time on the net is after Toby's bed time, and our dinner time, and somewhere about then is when Shane has finished playing on the net and going to bed), or wash something, feed something, get something. Because bless his cotton socks, he's working hard now and gone from the house ten to twelve hours a day. Paid work must be so much harder to do too, because when he comes home he can barely move off the couch, and he's always tired despite sleeping a third more hours than I do at least. Yes, insert sarcasm. At least part of that whinge I am pretty sure many relate to and it's just simply a man thing. As a friend put it recently... oh to have testicles and licence to think only of yourself.
:::
I suspect that "my" time will be up soon. Toby is napping. Finally we are getting that routine down pat again (ssssh don't tell the baby!) as that has also been a nightmare.
:::
I'm not sure as the house is looking any more organised. More boxes have been opened, but not necessarily all put away. I am still trying to finish cleaning the pantry, so that I can finish putting contact on the shelves to try to eliminate some of the dust problem, so that I can finish unpacking grocery type boxes, and storage type boxes. It's ongoing, as I only tend to get one little job finished before getting called away, and then can't get back to it again for days.
I need to buy a cupboard for the kitchen, and one for the laundry as well, but the finances are short. Having spent well over $5K on moves in the past twelve months, then a recent few weeks with no income, a rental property for sale that has fallen through thrice (but will hopefully go through next month) which has been untenanted since November... need I go on. The thing that I find people don't understand is that each move costs so much money because each house "needs" things to make it work. The kitchen cupboards as I said - here we have very limited cupboard space. There is a big walk in pantry, but it's not part of the kitchen (it's a separate room off what I have made the dining room) and besides being an old dusty room, it's just not a convenient place to put your crockery. Not in my books. And the laundry has no cupboard at all. At the moment I find that a set of wrought iron and timber shelves have been put there in my absence... husband or ILs directed the fellas unpacking the truck. Yes, they would serve the purpose, and I don't really need these shelves anywhere else in the house, however at $500 I don't think I really want them scratched and de-stained by laundry products either. Apparently, that is a hard concept to understand. Add another notch to my stress belt. But I have some birthday money tucked away from last year, and MIL usually gives me some with my upcoming day again, so I think I will just "invest" it in some plain old boring household shelves. Sigh. Glad I saved it for something special, hey? Yes, insert sarcasm again. But my point being is that the spending isnt' over yet.
I am fussy and I like my house to look nice. I don't think it really has for years now. Well, I don't mean this the way it will sound, but since Shane and I met. We've lived in four houses in four years now. He doesn't have the same appreciation of "nice" that I do. Partially that man thing again probably, but I also still blame MIL who picks up after him, or buys him a new whatever thing that got broken for not being looked after properly. It's not so fun. I get cross at him (stress. notch. belt.) but then I get cross at poor absent MIL for doing this to her son. Not that she sees it this way, of course. It's tiring. The other day we fought because he arrived home at the end of his long, tiring day, and walked through the newly vacuumed dining room in his work boots so he could say hello to Toby in the bathroom. I see the floors I have just cleaned, and the lack of care and respect for the time and effort I put in and my reasons for doing it in the first place, whereas he gets cranky because his boots are "clean" (i.e. no mud, and you can't see germs so no problem, right?) and my expectations of him to take them off at the door when he has to go back outside shortly are too high and unfair. We are at an impasse. My choices are to fight a battle I cannot win, or just drop it and admit defeat and give up caring about the floors. Perhaps cleaning in general. On the inside... stress.notch.belt. It is never going to change. He is a product of his upbringing, and whether he knows it or not, his expectation is that the woman of the house will happily run around behind him with a bucket and mop among other things. And if I cry, as I did on this occasion, just quietly, in despair, I am simply going on about nothing. And there you have it... I am, and what I do, is unimportant.
I am trying not to turn this in to a husband whinge. It's an everything post. But part of the reason for my appointment today is that I came to the conclusion the other day that that is one area that I cannot change as such... because he IS a product of his upbringing... but until I can just accept it it will push me to the brink, so I'm seeking help.
:::
It's only the brink because all of everything at the moment is the icing on the cake. I accidently knocked over a box when I opened the bathroom door the other night. We had already had a money argument, because I was asking what I thought was a simple question but he was tired and giving me stupid, cranky non-answers. So the box, and the smashed contents made me cry. Apparently that was me going on with "shit" again. Whatever. It probably was. He apologised later and said that he knows it's "just everything on top of everything" at the moment for me. Funnily enough, he doesnt' realise that the most "upsetting" of that incident was that the one thing that smashed was the after shave I bought him for Christmas. And the fact that he didn't even realise that kind of hurts too.
:::
So, I've really been trying to remember my journey. Really trying to breathe, and remember that other people, everyone, tends to look at you for what is going on now. They don't sit back and look at the journey. They don't realise that they project expectations unintentionally.
Three and a half years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I birthed expectations for him, and for me, and for us. I birthed hopes and dreams. I gave birth to a whole new life. And then it died. He died, and along with it, an entire new life died.
And along with that an entire old one as well. Suddenly, I had no life whatsoever. Limbo. Oh so sad, isn't it? Gee, woe is me. Will she ever get over it?
So few really get that we don't, right? Those of us here in blogland... it's really been one of the few "constants" since that time. Sure, I've gotten better at appearing to have moved on. I have a rainbow too now and I count my blessings for having him. And I won't deny that I was given the chance of another new life with his birth, and I'm better for it. Not better "fixed", just "better".
:::
So, there's no need for me to go on about the journey of the next two years. The ttc-ing in desperation. The fails month after month. The joy of pregnancy and the devastation of miscarriage. The IVF. Needles, drugs, weight gain, hormones. Another subsequent pregnancy. Tests. Fetal MRIs. Living just waiting. The arrival of news that it's genetic. All of that.
But a birth with a live, living baby.
Skip ahead. Moving house with a two month old. Other people packing and moving your belongings. Living in a shoebox. Mice infested. Throwing away belongings ruined by them. So many little things. Constant. Shane losing his job. Limbo. Feeling like we were about to be homeless, literally, but other people not seeing it that way as we "could always just move in with family". It's just not that simple. Ever. Money. Or lack there of, and the looming threat of my SAHM status being taken from me because I will have to return to full time work. Another sacrifice of something important to me. Another house move. Clingy ten month old. Any wonder... perhaps it's text book, but in the eyes of a baby? Poor bub.
And here I am. Getting little done. And feeling misunderstood by many. I am sure my mother is saying to others that I'm mad if I have another. I'm sure that my husband is thinking that having a baby is what turned me into a grumpy, sooky old cow. I'm sure that everyone thinks I don't cope with being a mum.
Yet I think I cope with that bit just fine. I think if the world was a different place, and we were nicely settled in a suitable house where we had everything that we needed (to be comfortable) and could establish a routine that didn't have to include unpack boxes and arrange furniture every day... but maybe that's me being in a dream world. Again.
:::
And then I worry that that is simply falling into the trap of wishing for something that isn't going to be rather than making the most of the situation, and I realise... it's just that I'm tired of forever trying to make the most of the situation. Of finding the good. Of dealing with the shit and just marching forward. I want to stop. Again. Familiar story. Stop time, enjoy the moment. Or wallow in it. Whatever it is that needs to happen.
:::
I also don't have much of a support network left, having moved so many times, and further away from any semblance I had to start with. My mum and my sister are two constants but they have so much of their own to deal with right now.
I'm trying to build myself a new one. Enrol in a music group for Toby, find a playgroup, that kind of thing. But it's hard, because I'm so much more in a "hermit" frame of mind. Not to mention that logistically we are 40 minutes drive from town so it's not something I can justify doing more than once or maybe twice a week. It's also a big thing to go to town in that I have to pack at least one meal and snacks for Toby, and plan a stop somewhere for lunch, or whatever.... I said that to someone recently who lives in a town and they said "oh yes, I always have to take snacks for so-so too". Totally misunderstood. Even if I feed Tobes in the carseat before we leave, or sit on a park bench and feed him in his pram, it's a "long" day. I'm gone at least three hours, even if I just want milk. And it's tiring.
:::
And then there is also the other things that I think most people don't think play on my mind. At 4am this morning I was "listening" to Ciaran calling me from the other room.
"Mummmaaaaa"
"Mummmmmmaaaaaaaa"
I heard him padding down the hallway.
I felt him climb up into bed with us.
And snuggle.
And beside me Toby stirred and rolled over in his cot.
Ahhh. The world is perfect.
Or it's not.
:::
Some of the other little things I've put up with this past week, that have sent me to the brink?
Driving 40 minutes to town to buy a bracelet that was 30 percent off on Tues, that Shane wanted to buy for my birthday, only to find that despite them telling me it would still be there on Friday, had been sent back to the supplier. Oh well, too bad, too sad. Apparently.
Going to do washing on Saturday to find that the washing machine is only using hot water, and that the hot was scalding... too hot for general washing and I couldn't change the taps or do anything about it until Shane was home and had time to fix it.
Going to have a shower on Sunday morning and finding that there was no hot water ... the service had pooed itself. Add in the arrival, smack on time of course, of AF. Oh, and a stinky hot muggy summers day. Cold shower out of desperation (a cold shower is still a cold shower even if it's summer).
Blackout just as dinner went in the oven on Sunday night. Power out until after midnight. Cranky household.
Tripping over a toy in said blackout, and twisting my ankle, then falling to land on a block under my thigh. No lasting damage, but it made me cry at the time. And today? I think I must have hurt my back a little as it's very stiff and awkward.
Having to contact the owners/shanes boss AGAIN to request an electrician and that smoke alarms be installed in the house. Makes my blood boil having to ask again and again. Not a good start.
.... but happy to say that it's now Monday. The hws is fixed. The electrician is coming on Friday, and will do the smoke alarms then. And I'm off for (I'm hoping) a warmish shower before heading to town for my THERAPIST!
Monday, February 6, 2012
Done and dusted. Now to blog or to sleep?
The million dollar question.
Just a quick update for those who might be around. Might be wondering.
We moved. We're here, in the new house. There are boxes everywhere. Bits of furniture peeking out from underneath. Boxes marked office in the kitchen, and boxes marked kitchen in the guest room.
Beggars can't be choosers. The ILs came to help us do it. It's my husband's way of helping.. bring in his parents. Rather than get off the couch and help me himself. Oops did I say that out loud? In his defence he did have a heck of a lot to deal with outside, with moving all the chook cages and dog cages and such, but he isn't the most motivated or organised fella, and the nice thing (for him) was that with his mother here he was able to continue to "knock off" come dark time, eat a meal and go to bed.
His wife (aka me) on the other hand hasn't really been to sleep before 1am for probably three weeks now. "Up" time is any time after 6am, and there is one wake up at least to deal with in between. I am exhausted to say the least, but when you hit that level the answer isn't just to "have an early night".
We have a holiday to the west lined up for April. Bring it on.
:::
Oh, but that means my nightmare ILs will be back to house sit for us. Don't get me wrong.. I do actually really like my ILs. But a little goes a long way in times of stress, in a small house where we are on top of one another, and when she just.doesn't.listen.
But we got packed up in the end. My one am mornings finished off with a two thirty am one, so that I could seal her boxes, move them into an organised and stacked position, and see what hadn't been done so I could do that too! Tensions were high, and Shane tells me I'm not currently the favourite DIL.
I found though, that this time round I just don't have the patience for pussy footing. I don't know if it's "dead baby" or if it's "subsequent live baby", but whatever it is I have a much shorter fuse and am a lot more direct. I'm still polite as it's not in me to be rude.
All is "good" at the house. It's divine to have a proper house again. Nice big rooms. Room to move. Toby is having a ball crawling around. On the down side he has hit the clingy stage, and with me needing to move between rooms doing things, and not being able to let him follow me because the other places aren't baby proofed... well, there is a very sad child at times. Poor baby.
:::
But in among all of the changes I've had some very low, low, low down times.
I found a box of baby toys that were packed up from the first house, never unpacked due to room constrictions in the next house, and now Toby is too big for them really. Sad enough in anyone's little one's world. As my MIL said... he won't miss them. Except that these were toys I had bought for Ciaran. Another child, another place, another time. Heart ache.
I'm struggling with setting up Toby's room here. I only realised today that I think the problem is around the fact that I had a nursery that I enjoyed setting up. It was for baby Ciaran. And it was never taken down, but was "enhanced" for another baby that didn't come, and then for Toby. Except we moved house before Toby "enjoyed" it either. And now I have a room that is for Toby. I get to set it up all.for.Toby. Except I don't know where to start. It's not a baby's room any more. He's turning very quickly into a little boy.
:::
And now? I need to sleep. Not much of a blog update. I'll have to get to it another time when I can think. Perhaps in about twenty one years.
Just a quick update for those who might be around. Might be wondering.
We moved. We're here, in the new house. There are boxes everywhere. Bits of furniture peeking out from underneath. Boxes marked office in the kitchen, and boxes marked kitchen in the guest room.
Beggars can't be choosers. The ILs came to help us do it. It's my husband's way of helping.. bring in his parents. Rather than get off the couch and help me himself. Oops did I say that out loud? In his defence he did have a heck of a lot to deal with outside, with moving all the chook cages and dog cages and such, but he isn't the most motivated or organised fella, and the nice thing (for him) was that with his mother here he was able to continue to "knock off" come dark time, eat a meal and go to bed.
His wife (aka me) on the other hand hasn't really been to sleep before 1am for probably three weeks now. "Up" time is any time after 6am, and there is one wake up at least to deal with in between. I am exhausted to say the least, but when you hit that level the answer isn't just to "have an early night".
We have a holiday to the west lined up for April. Bring it on.
:::
Oh, but that means my nightmare ILs will be back to house sit for us. Don't get me wrong.. I do actually really like my ILs. But a little goes a long way in times of stress, in a small house where we are on top of one another, and when she just.doesn't.listen.
But we got packed up in the end. My one am mornings finished off with a two thirty am one, so that I could seal her boxes, move them into an organised and stacked position, and see what hadn't been done so I could do that too! Tensions were high, and Shane tells me I'm not currently the favourite DIL.
I found though, that this time round I just don't have the patience for pussy footing. I don't know if it's "dead baby" or if it's "subsequent live baby", but whatever it is I have a much shorter fuse and am a lot more direct. I'm still polite as it's not in me to be rude.
All is "good" at the house. It's divine to have a proper house again. Nice big rooms. Room to move. Toby is having a ball crawling around. On the down side he has hit the clingy stage, and with me needing to move between rooms doing things, and not being able to let him follow me because the other places aren't baby proofed... well, there is a very sad child at times. Poor baby.
:::
But in among all of the changes I've had some very low, low, low down times.
I found a box of baby toys that were packed up from the first house, never unpacked due to room constrictions in the next house, and now Toby is too big for them really. Sad enough in anyone's little one's world. As my MIL said... he won't miss them. Except that these were toys I had bought for Ciaran. Another child, another place, another time. Heart ache.
I'm struggling with setting up Toby's room here. I only realised today that I think the problem is around the fact that I had a nursery that I enjoyed setting up. It was for baby Ciaran. And it was never taken down, but was "enhanced" for another baby that didn't come, and then for Toby. Except we moved house before Toby "enjoyed" it either. And now I have a room that is for Toby. I get to set it up all.for.Toby. Except I don't know where to start. It's not a baby's room any more. He's turning very quickly into a little boy.
:::
And now? I need to sleep. Not much of a blog update. I'll have to get to it another time when I can think. Perhaps in about twenty one years.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
How quickly a memory creates...
We'll be leaving this house in a couple of weeks. Forever. A lot sooner than we anticipated when we moved in here eight months ago.
I'm busy trying to pack. Panic mode packing really because MIL arrives on Monday to "help", and as I've said time and time again, bless her, I do need her help, and I am grateful for it, but the stress and anxiety both her visit and her help creates.... well!
But as I was doing the bed time chores tonight, for some reason I was hit by a barrage of memories. Moments of reminiscince. Things I never necessarily thought of as important.
Ciaran was never here in this house. He was at the old house, he lived there while still in my middle. But he was never, ever physically in this house. And he will never ever be in any house I live in in the future. That kind of thought adds to the loneliness I feel with being parted from him. And the old adage that he is forever in my heart or that he is everywhere that I am, just doesn't help when we talk about the physical.
Toby was and is here. This is where he has lived for most of his first year of life. This is where I sat, at 3am, feeding him, with my feet safely tucked up on the couch for fear a mouse would run up my leg. We were in a mouse plague and occasionally I would see one run across the floor. Ugh.
So this house holds many of Toby's special "firsts". All the learning and growing that they do in the first 6-8 months... it's here in this room.
And so despite the bad memories here. The ones that make me feel sick. The bad outcomes of them sacking Shane and then going "oops, our bad". All of that. No, I'm not going to miss them. I'm way too jaded to just get over things like that.
So, that's why I was so surprised to be hit with the good memories all of a sudden. Well, not just the good, but the... "this is the way it is" memories.
I'm busy trying to pack. Panic mode packing really because MIL arrives on Monday to "help", and as I've said time and time again, bless her, I do need her help, and I am grateful for it, but the stress and anxiety both her visit and her help creates.... well!
But as I was doing the bed time chores tonight, for some reason I was hit by a barrage of memories. Moments of reminiscince. Things I never necessarily thought of as important.
Ciaran was never here in this house. He was at the old house, he lived there while still in my middle. But he was never, ever physically in this house. And he will never ever be in any house I live in in the future. That kind of thought adds to the loneliness I feel with being parted from him. And the old adage that he is forever in my heart or that he is everywhere that I am, just doesn't help when we talk about the physical.
Toby was and is here. This is where he has lived for most of his first year of life. This is where I sat, at 3am, feeding him, with my feet safely tucked up on the couch for fear a mouse would run up my leg. We were in a mouse plague and occasionally I would see one run across the floor. Ugh.
So this house holds many of Toby's special "firsts". All the learning and growing that they do in the first 6-8 months... it's here in this room.
And so despite the bad memories here. The ones that make me feel sick. The bad outcomes of them sacking Shane and then going "oops, our bad". All of that. No, I'm not going to miss them. I'm way too jaded to just get over things like that.
So, that's why I was so surprised to be hit with the good memories all of a sudden. Well, not just the good, but the... "this is the way it is" memories.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Mid January...
It's scary how quickly the months go. The days go. I worry so much more about the future these days, and when time moves so quickly it worries me more, because the future will get here too soon.
:::
So, did we end up homeless? I've had a few ask me, and the easiest answer is "I'll update my blog". And it's only taken me, ooohhhh, a couple of weeks. Oops!
:::
We didn't quite end up homeless.
Remembering that we were "meant" to be out by the 31st December, but the boss had ever so kindly and unofficially said it would be ok if it was more like mid January...
At Christmas Shane had 7 applications for positions around the region. They were all "lower" than his position here, so we were fairly confident that he would get interviews. But our fear was that he would be seen as over qualified, as it's happened several times before.
But. Guess what. Of all of those apps, only one employer contacted us before Christmas. We drove two hours to get to that interview. The location was great - only an hour or so from my family. The house was great. Gorgeous really. The job was... well, meh, but Shane was happy enough if it came through. But the interview was non existant! The employer showed us the house, took Shane for a drive around the property, didn't ask anything and kind of rushed off on us when they returned. We figured that that was a no go (it was) and that he already had someone in mind (yeah, thanks mate, we could have done without four hours driving and petrol money that day!).
Then there was another one - it came about by word of mouth via my father's stock agent four hours south of here. Short(er) story is that the employer emailed Shane two days before Christmas to say he wouldn't be interviewing before Feb. No use to us.
But the next morning he called... he needed someone urgently as his worker had had a "brain explosion" and bashed his wife and neighbour the night before, and was now in jail. Hmmm.
So off we trekked... a three hour drive from here, but only an hour or so to the other side of the city. Down side is that there was 30km of dirt road, travelled by road hogging log trucks, to get to the house. Funnily, the employer had Shane's contract all typed up, and the job was his. Biggest down side though? Not the crappy road. Not the climate of a few good dumps of snow every year. Not even that the job was more about cattle than sheep. And the money was just fine. The biggest wrong thing was that we couldn't even see our "new" house, except by drive by, as the people still lived there, but it was trashed and she was in hospital and he was in jail. Nice. BUT even that wasn't exactly the worst thing... what was worse was that they couldn't give us a date that the house would be ready... maybe 3-4 months and in the meantime we would be moving into this tiny old, old, old three bedroom cottage. Nooooo thankyou.
But beggers can't be choosers, right?
:::
So, Christmas was spent still up in the air. Feeling somewhat better that we at least had something, but feeling a little sick on the "down sides" of it. And really, really hating the boss here. Still do. Arsehole.
Did I tell you that the week before Christmas Shane rocked home with a homemade Christmas cake, a box of beer and a christmas card from the owner? I think I may already have posted about it, but basically it made my blood boil.
It was addressed to Shane and Henrietta.
Henri-fucking-etta??? He doesn't even fucking know my name! Seriously!!!!
Anyway, it went on to say how he was sure that we would find something so much better and blah blah and merry Christmas.
I really saw red on it. How rude. Who sacks someone then sends them a Christmas card saying all of that shit? And how do you get to be 80 years old and that dumb?
Anyway.
:::
Just after we returned from our Christmas the boss here came to see Shane and offered him another month's work. What a relief!
He told Shane that since they'd had their "talk" he'd found Shane so much easier to work with, and that the issues that Shane had brought up about the other two employees (who have been here 17 years +) the boss could now see for himself and was addressing.
Is there not something wrong with this whole picture? Shane was the one who lost his job, yet the boss is now saying "oh yeah, you're right... there are big problems there!". Again... my blood boils!
:::
Now, one of the applications that Shane had in was another job he had found by default when a young fella came to buy a dog and brought his dad with him. Turns out that his dad was a big property owner, about an hour from here, and was looking for a stockman.
We went to meet him and his family a week or two after Christmas, and Shane was offered the job. He's very excited about it, as it's exactly what he was looking for. I'm looking forward to being on the other side of this move. I still feel sick about what went down here, and nervous that it will happen again. It's that anxiety thing.
Whilst we were sitting in the owner's beautiful homestead, the wife told me about our new house... it's an old bluestone homestead... five bedroom... renovated kitchen and bathroom... walk in pantry... laundry... french doors from the bedrooms and lounge onto the verandah that goes around three sides of the house. It's a very pretty picture, is it not?
In truth, it is exactly what she told me, but the picture it paints is not quite so pretty. It's a tired old house, that could be a real masterpiece with some money spent on it. The bathroom is newly reno'd but disappointingly has no bath for Toby. I know many don't have bath's but I'm a believer that little boys should have a bath to play in. Oh well. The kitchen is reno'd, but maybe twenty years ago. The walk in pantry is narrow and dark. My thought was "spidery". The french doors are narrow, and the only windows in the rooms, so the house is quite dark (I like natural light). I also noticed a nice gap between the doors in what will be the main bedroom. I think it's going to be a cold and draughty house. Shane says it won't be, but he lives his life wearing my piscean rose coloured glasses. The verandah is indeed nice, and overlooks the land stretching out below. It'll be nice to sit out there in the evening with a glass of vino. If I ever really get back into doing that. Maybe just a glass of boring old lemonade! But Toby could easily slip down off the verandah between the rails, so it's not a safe place for a toddler, but we'll deal with that.
The yard is overgrown and needs a lot of work. They spoke of wanting to put gardens in and a watering system and the like. I hope that they are true to their word, and do some work to the house and yard.
But I am excited to have a house again. This is a house, but it's awkward, and wrong. The "new" house is built like a house. It has a hallway with two bedrooms coming off it. Toby will have one, and we will have one. It has a lounge room and another bedroom off that. I can have a dining room again. And the other two bedrooms are actually an "add on" that includes a "sitting room", that I'm going to use as the "guest" wing and a storage room, and the sitting area might be a nice escape with the second tv and a place to chat on the phone.
That's a two seater lounge on the right, and to the left is the corner of the dining table. I have the portacot there as a playpen at the moment, but I'm putting it away tomorrow. I thought it might give me a little more freedom as Tobes is over his toys at the moment and makes a beeline for the cats water dish and any electical cords he can find, so I'm constantly running after him and getting nowhere.
But if you remember my rants from the last time... I am NOT looking forward to this visit. And... FIL apparently didn't want to come, so MIL told him he was coming to babysit Toby. So now he is happily coming, but he's going to be rather disappointed when he finds that he's not capable! He uses two sticks to get around now as his feet are so bad, and his shoulders are both inoperably dislocated, so he has never been able to lift Toby, let alone catch him before he gets to the kitchen and bring him back. I think MIL thinks he will just lay there and not move or something. I'm cross about that. And she refuses to listen to me.
MIL is constantly on to FIL and telling him he's useless (he is). Shane speaks to them both like poo, and he'll be yelling at them to shut up because he'll be watching tv. And poor Toby will be whisked away by me. The "spare" room is where all of my packing gets done, so I won't be able to do my late nights (MIL goes to bed at 8), and our bedroom is off the kitchen so Toby and I will be woken with the beds (she gets up at 5 or 6) and I certainly won't be ablet to go back to bed with Toby as I do most mornings now. Which will make for a grumpy mumma.
Ooooh I'm not looking forward to it.
I also don't have my study to escape to anymore. My work computer is smack next to the dining table. Bring on the new house!
:::
In Toby news, we had two teeth arrive at Christmas, then a couple of weeks break, and I think we're just starting up again now. Poor bugger. Last night he had a couple of good screaming sessions in the middle of the night, and it just makes your heart break for them. The pain :(
But he is no longer my baby. He's crawling everywhere, and gave up on the commando crawl for the real thing a week or so ago. He says mumumumumummm alllll the time (oh heart melting), and occasionally a dadadadddd. He looks for me. He gives kisses. He loves other children, and hasn't a shy bone about him. You really do just love them more and more every day.
:::
But Ciaran is still not here. I don't see him in Toby every time I look at him now. But he's still in everything I do. And I'm still very bitter. I don't think I will ever lose that bitterness.
:::
So, did we end up homeless? I've had a few ask me, and the easiest answer is "I'll update my blog". And it's only taken me, ooohhhh, a couple of weeks. Oops!
:::
We didn't quite end up homeless.
Remembering that we were "meant" to be out by the 31st December, but the boss had ever so kindly and unofficially said it would be ok if it was more like mid January...
At Christmas Shane had 7 applications for positions around the region. They were all "lower" than his position here, so we were fairly confident that he would get interviews. But our fear was that he would be seen as over qualified, as it's happened several times before.
But. Guess what. Of all of those apps, only one employer contacted us before Christmas. We drove two hours to get to that interview. The location was great - only an hour or so from my family. The house was great. Gorgeous really. The job was... well, meh, but Shane was happy enough if it came through. But the interview was non existant! The employer showed us the house, took Shane for a drive around the property, didn't ask anything and kind of rushed off on us when they returned. We figured that that was a no go (it was) and that he already had someone in mind (yeah, thanks mate, we could have done without four hours driving and petrol money that day!).
Then there was another one - it came about by word of mouth via my father's stock agent four hours south of here. Short(er) story is that the employer emailed Shane two days before Christmas to say he wouldn't be interviewing before Feb. No use to us.
But the next morning he called... he needed someone urgently as his worker had had a "brain explosion" and bashed his wife and neighbour the night before, and was now in jail. Hmmm.
So off we trekked... a three hour drive from here, but only an hour or so to the other side of the city. Down side is that there was 30km of dirt road, travelled by road hogging log trucks, to get to the house. Funnily, the employer had Shane's contract all typed up, and the job was his. Biggest down side though? Not the crappy road. Not the climate of a few good dumps of snow every year. Not even that the job was more about cattle than sheep. And the money was just fine. The biggest wrong thing was that we couldn't even see our "new" house, except by drive by, as the people still lived there, but it was trashed and she was in hospital and he was in jail. Nice. BUT even that wasn't exactly the worst thing... what was worse was that they couldn't give us a date that the house would be ready... maybe 3-4 months and in the meantime we would be moving into this tiny old, old, old three bedroom cottage. Nooooo thankyou.
But beggers can't be choosers, right?
:::
So, Christmas was spent still up in the air. Feeling somewhat better that we at least had something, but feeling a little sick on the "down sides" of it. And really, really hating the boss here. Still do. Arsehole.
Did I tell you that the week before Christmas Shane rocked home with a homemade Christmas cake, a box of beer and a christmas card from the owner? I think I may already have posted about it, but basically it made my blood boil.
It was addressed to Shane and Henrietta.
Henri-fucking-etta??? He doesn't even fucking know my name! Seriously!!!!
Anyway, it went on to say how he was sure that we would find something so much better and blah blah and merry Christmas.
I really saw red on it. How rude. Who sacks someone then sends them a Christmas card saying all of that shit? And how do you get to be 80 years old and that dumb?
Anyway.
:::
Just after we returned from our Christmas the boss here came to see Shane and offered him another month's work. What a relief!
He told Shane that since they'd had their "talk" he'd found Shane so much easier to work with, and that the issues that Shane had brought up about the other two employees (who have been here 17 years +) the boss could now see for himself and was addressing.
Is there not something wrong with this whole picture? Shane was the one who lost his job, yet the boss is now saying "oh yeah, you're right... there are big problems there!". Again... my blood boils!
:::
Now, one of the applications that Shane had in was another job he had found by default when a young fella came to buy a dog and brought his dad with him. Turns out that his dad was a big property owner, about an hour from here, and was looking for a stockman.
We went to meet him and his family a week or two after Christmas, and Shane was offered the job. He's very excited about it, as it's exactly what he was looking for. I'm looking forward to being on the other side of this move. I still feel sick about what went down here, and nervous that it will happen again. It's that anxiety thing.
Whilst we were sitting in the owner's beautiful homestead, the wife told me about our new house... it's an old bluestone homestead... five bedroom... renovated kitchen and bathroom... walk in pantry... laundry... french doors from the bedrooms and lounge onto the verandah that goes around three sides of the house. It's a very pretty picture, is it not?
In truth, it is exactly what she told me, but the picture it paints is not quite so pretty. It's a tired old house, that could be a real masterpiece with some money spent on it. The bathroom is newly reno'd but disappointingly has no bath for Toby. I know many don't have bath's but I'm a believer that little boys should have a bath to play in. Oh well. The kitchen is reno'd, but maybe twenty years ago. The walk in pantry is narrow and dark. My thought was "spidery". The french doors are narrow, and the only windows in the rooms, so the house is quite dark (I like natural light). I also noticed a nice gap between the doors in what will be the main bedroom. I think it's going to be a cold and draughty house. Shane says it won't be, but he lives his life wearing my piscean rose coloured glasses. The verandah is indeed nice, and overlooks the land stretching out below. It'll be nice to sit out there in the evening with a glass of vino. If I ever really get back into doing that. Maybe just a glass of boring old lemonade! But Toby could easily slip down off the verandah between the rails, so it's not a safe place for a toddler, but we'll deal with that.
The yard is overgrown and needs a lot of work. They spoke of wanting to put gardens in and a watering system and the like. I hope that they are true to their word, and do some work to the house and yard.
But I am excited to have a house again. This is a house, but it's awkward, and wrong. The "new" house is built like a house. It has a hallway with two bedrooms coming off it. Toby will have one, and we will have one. It has a lounge room and another bedroom off that. I can have a dining room again. And the other two bedrooms are actually an "add on" that includes a "sitting room", that I'm going to use as the "guest" wing and a storage room, and the sitting area might be a nice escape with the second tv and a place to chat on the phone.
So, this is actually the back of the house. I didn't get any other photos as I was dealing with a tired and hungry Toby, and also we just didn't know if the job was ours or not at this stage. But I quickly snapped this as we drove away. The stone part to the left is the laundry, and the kitchen is "behind" that, then the middle part is a built in verandah which I plan to make my dining area, and the area to the right is the "guest wing". So, as you can see it's a tired old house with a lot of character and potential. Potential doesn't mean much when it's not yours though.
:::
I'm trying to get packed up now, but it's a good day if I get one box packed at least. Yesterday I did three boxes, but no dishes or anything else. Today I did no boxes but almost finalised some photography for a client, and the dishes!
The ILs arrive in seven days... for nine days in this house, and who knows in the other. Let me show you what my living area looks like at the moment (well, earlier today)...
But if you remember my rants from the last time... I am NOT looking forward to this visit. And... FIL apparently didn't want to come, so MIL told him he was coming to babysit Toby. So now he is happily coming, but he's going to be rather disappointed when he finds that he's not capable! He uses two sticks to get around now as his feet are so bad, and his shoulders are both inoperably dislocated, so he has never been able to lift Toby, let alone catch him before he gets to the kitchen and bring him back. I think MIL thinks he will just lay there and not move or something. I'm cross about that. And she refuses to listen to me.
MIL is constantly on to FIL and telling him he's useless (he is). Shane speaks to them both like poo, and he'll be yelling at them to shut up because he'll be watching tv. And poor Toby will be whisked away by me. The "spare" room is where all of my packing gets done, so I won't be able to do my late nights (MIL goes to bed at 8), and our bedroom is off the kitchen so Toby and I will be woken with the beds (she gets up at 5 or 6) and I certainly won't be ablet to go back to bed with Toby as I do most mornings now. Which will make for a grumpy mumma.
Ooooh I'm not looking forward to it.
I also don't have my study to escape to anymore. My work computer is smack next to the dining table. Bring on the new house!
:::
In Toby news, we had two teeth arrive at Christmas, then a couple of weeks break, and I think we're just starting up again now. Poor bugger. Last night he had a couple of good screaming sessions in the middle of the night, and it just makes your heart break for them. The pain :(
But he is no longer my baby. He's crawling everywhere, and gave up on the commando crawl for the real thing a week or so ago. He says mumumumumummm alllll the time (oh heart melting), and occasionally a dadadadddd. He looks for me. He gives kisses. He loves other children, and hasn't a shy bone about him. You really do just love them more and more every day.
:::
But Ciaran is still not here. I don't see him in Toby every time I look at him now. But he's still in everything I do. And I'm still very bitter. I don't think I will ever lose that bitterness.
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