1. Please win me and my children a trampoline: Read my blog via the Family Times website (it counts as well as votes)
30 December 2013
29 December 2013
Some Bad Parenting
It is terrible concern to me that I may already have been disqualified from winning a trampoline, in a blogging competition, for my failure to adequately blog. Already. Week two. I blame the Family Times for their terrible family timing, for picking the busiest time of the year to run the competition, when families are so very busy that time is a JOKE. Which means I declare the Family Times to be anti families, and anti family time. So I am hopeful that I shall slip under the radar and shall blog on and hope for a trampoline regardless of rules for my efforts.
Not only have I been short of time, I have also had the terrible inconvenience of having a seven year old home for the holidays. A seven year old Rabbit who can't keep her little twitching nose out of anything I write, read. or think. She's always watching me. And when I don't watch her I am forever going down in the annuals of BAD PARENTING.
I have been waiting for some time for the question "Mummy, Why haven't you and Daddy been having sex?" because last time I blogged, I made the despicable mistake of LEAVING THE BLOG OPEN. I found my rabbit totally engrossed in reading it. I screeched a little, "what are you doing", she responded "just a minute Mummy, I'm just reading this blog....it's REALLY good". I'm flattered, really, almost enough to let her keep reading to keep up my readership but it's really not a blog designed for her little eyes. I can't possibly handle the questions that would ensue. She's acute, my Rabbit.
In the absence of blog writing I took my small Monkey Boy to the doctors to have his ears checked. In tow was the Rabbit, attitude included. She didn't really want to be wasting an afternoon in the doctor's surgery but her disgruntledness seemed to dissipate when in the exclusive children's area she found a book to take up her interest. I asked her, as I always do, not to enter the bug ridden area for other people's hideous, diseased children. But she ignored me. And wee Monkey Boy followed her in, quite determined to pick up as many bugs as he could to go with his sore ears. I was relieved when we were called in to the GP's rooms. The baby and I were followed by the Rabbit, undisiturbable from her reading.
As the Monkey's ears were checked thoroughly, my seven year old climbed up on the bed and buried her head in her book. As a terrible parent I didn't think to check what she was reading The book was found, after all, in the area exclusively reserved for small sickly people. I could have taken more notice, in retrospect. When it came time to leave, the disgruntled at being at the doctors seven year old whinged and whined. She didn't want to leave. Her book was too good. The helpful GP suggested it would be fine with the clinic if she took the book home with her and returned it another day. "Just tell them at the front desk" she said.
To be clear, neither I, nor the GP, nor the front desk checked to see what it was that my seven year old was reading. I knew she found the bug ridden material in the contaminated space for disgusting ill children. I knew it had a bright yellow cover and a cartoon on the front. I would suggest maybe that while they were cleaning the coughed and spluttered on toys they could have checked whether the items in the buggy area were actually suitable for the infantile invalids at all. But they didn't. And so I came to be sitting in a car with a small, just turned seven year old reading a book entitled "Who Flushed My Toothbrush Down The Toilet? On closer look, my baby was reading a comical look on "What it's REALLY like Being a Dad". Which turns out, as it were, to really be about how a father can never, ever expect, ever again for the foreseeable future to dip his penis in his wife, let alone get sucked off by her.
A simple reminder that I am a terrible parent.
I did, having seen the extended title of the book, whilst driving along ask if really, the book was suitable for little girls. She assured me it was. I kept an eye on the road but kept enquiring what exactly she was reading. She advised me that it most definitely was suitable. That while, as it turned out, I had told her how babies were made (I didn't, SHE told ME...), there was A LOT of information I had MISSED OUT. I hadn't expected a man's need to look at internet pornography in the last months of pregnancy was one of those things I had neglected to mention. Nor had I anticipated my not advising her on the contents of the chapters: 'B' is for Bonk, 'Exercising with Whales' and 'Remember Sex' would come back to bite me. I was unsure whether to be pleased or horrified when she closed the book before I crashed, eventually declaring that there were in fact things a seven year old should not know.
I know. I. Am. A. Terrible. Mother.
Not only have I been short of time, I have also had the terrible inconvenience of having a seven year old home for the holidays. A seven year old Rabbit who can't keep her little twitching nose out of anything I write, read. or think. She's always watching me. And when I don't watch her I am forever going down in the annuals of BAD PARENTING.
I have been waiting for some time for the question "Mummy, Why haven't you and Daddy been having sex?" because last time I blogged, I made the despicable mistake of LEAVING THE BLOG OPEN. I found my rabbit totally engrossed in reading it. I screeched a little, "what are you doing", she responded "just a minute Mummy, I'm just reading this blog....it's REALLY good". I'm flattered, really, almost enough to let her keep reading to keep up my readership but it's really not a blog designed for her little eyes. I can't possibly handle the questions that would ensue. She's acute, my Rabbit.
In the absence of blog writing I took my small Monkey Boy to the doctors to have his ears checked. In tow was the Rabbit, attitude included. She didn't really want to be wasting an afternoon in the doctor's surgery but her disgruntledness seemed to dissipate when in the exclusive children's area she found a book to take up her interest. I asked her, as I always do, not to enter the bug ridden area for other people's hideous, diseased children. But she ignored me. And wee Monkey Boy followed her in, quite determined to pick up as many bugs as he could to go with his sore ears. I was relieved when we were called in to the GP's rooms. The baby and I were followed by the Rabbit, undisiturbable from her reading.
As the Monkey's ears were checked thoroughly, my seven year old climbed up on the bed and buried her head in her book. As a terrible parent I didn't think to check what she was reading The book was found, after all, in the area exclusively reserved for small sickly people. I could have taken more notice, in retrospect. When it came time to leave, the disgruntled at being at the doctors seven year old whinged and whined. She didn't want to leave. Her book was too good. The helpful GP suggested it would be fine with the clinic if she took the book home with her and returned it another day. "Just tell them at the front desk" she said.
To be clear, neither I, nor the GP, nor the front desk checked to see what it was that my seven year old was reading. I knew she found the bug ridden material in the contaminated space for disgusting ill children. I knew it had a bright yellow cover and a cartoon on the front. I would suggest maybe that while they were cleaning the coughed and spluttered on toys they could have checked whether the items in the buggy area were actually suitable for the infantile invalids at all. But they didn't. And so I came to be sitting in a car with a small, just turned seven year old reading a book entitled "Who Flushed My Toothbrush Down The Toilet? On closer look, my baby was reading a comical look on "What it's REALLY like Being a Dad". Which turns out, as it were, to really be about how a father can never, ever expect, ever again for the foreseeable future to dip his penis in his wife, let alone get sucked off by her.
A simple reminder that I am a terrible parent.
I did, having seen the extended title of the book, whilst driving along ask if really, the book was suitable for little girls. She assured me it was. I kept an eye on the road but kept enquiring what exactly she was reading. She advised me that it most definitely was suitable. That while, as it turned out, I had told her how babies were made (I didn't, SHE told ME...), there was A LOT of information I had MISSED OUT. I hadn't expected a man's need to look at internet pornography in the last months of pregnancy was one of those things I had neglected to mention. Nor had I anticipated my not advising her on the contents of the chapters: 'B' is for Bonk, 'Exercising with Whales' and 'Remember Sex' would come back to bite me. I was unsure whether to be pleased or horrified when she closed the book before I crashed, eventually declaring that there were in fact things a seven year old should not know.
I know. I. Am. A. Terrible. Mother.
9 December 2013
Return of the Pandorum and a Little Introduction
I really have to apologise, it has been a very long time. But I think I should start with an introduction. His name is Archie, he was born on 6 December 2012 by caesarean section and he is my little monkey boy. He is beautiful. He is delicious. He is my wee miracle. Three days ago he turned one. I don't know where that year has gone.
Since last updating my blog I discovered many things: Pregnancy is miraculous, life giving and glorious. And evil and unnatural and miserable; The giving of birth is incredible and oh such a privilege. Personally I would prefer the visiting stork; Newborns are the most perfect and beautiful and mind blowing little beings on the planet, yet nothing in life seems to present quite the challenge of owning one. Since last updating my blog I have acquired a more jiggly, less reliable body, I have doubled my self made army of mischief and I have had almost no sleep. I have had almost no sex. I have searched for miracles in wine and chocolate in smaller quantities than craved and I have experienced love on a level that makes me the luckiest woman on earth. And I am certain I am now in my fifties. I have done next to no housework.
I have great plans to tell you about my boobs. Well I call them boobs. They no longer look familiar as they dangle by my feet. I shall update you on my Rabbit. She is now seven. And delicious. And creative and beautiful and nonsensical and brilliant. Her ears do not work. I shall have a chat or ten about my husband. About how I love him. About how I love that he is mine and I am his and how I love to watch him be a daddy to my little people. That I made. And how sometimes I believe he is from a world so far away that he must indeed be a different species. And how sometimes this is because my hormones run rampant but mostly it is at times when it is all his fault. And of course he still owns a teenager who lives in my house. Who hasn't changed her bed since I last updated this blog.
I am looking forward to catching up. I hope you have been well. Welcome back to Alora's Pandorum.
Since last updating my blog I discovered many things: Pregnancy is miraculous, life giving and glorious. And evil and unnatural and miserable; The giving of birth is incredible and oh such a privilege. Personally I would prefer the visiting stork; Newborns are the most perfect and beautiful and mind blowing little beings on the planet, yet nothing in life seems to present quite the challenge of owning one. Since last updating my blog I have acquired a more jiggly, less reliable body, I have doubled my self made army of mischief and I have had almost no sleep. I have had almost no sex. I have searched for miracles in wine and chocolate in smaller quantities than craved and I have experienced love on a level that makes me the luckiest woman on earth. And I am certain I am now in my fifties. I have done next to no housework.
I have great plans to tell you about my boobs. Well I call them boobs. They no longer look familiar as they dangle by my feet. I shall update you on my Rabbit. She is now seven. And delicious. And creative and beautiful and nonsensical and brilliant. Her ears do not work. I shall have a chat or ten about my husband. About how I love him. About how I love that he is mine and I am his and how I love to watch him be a daddy to my little people. That I made. And how sometimes I believe he is from a world so far away that he must indeed be a different species. And how sometimes this is because my hormones run rampant but mostly it is at times when it is all his fault. And of course he still owns a teenager who lives in my house. Who hasn't changed her bed since I last updated this blog.
I am looking forward to catching up. I hope you have been well. Welcome back to Alora's Pandorum.
14 June 2012
Pregnancy: Tits, Pubes and T-Shirts
Not only is ill fitting underwear a problem, expanding titty skin also gets itchy. And expanding belly skin. And expanding pubic skin. My pubes are driving me mad. Is this the time I mention cervical mucous? Just kidding, there are some places a blog should never go:)
I'm at that awkward point of expansion where no one would call me on pregnancy, but you know everyone is debating the "Chubba vs Expecting" question. If I'm standing up I do look a lot more rounded and pregnant but the second I sit down I bulge in all directions over my trousers and it becomes frighteningly obvious that chubbaness cannot be ruled out. In fact it plays a definite part of the equation. And once chubbaness is determined, it is several months more before anyone would dare suggest, even to themselves, that a uterine goblin is in situ.
I wonder if I should get one of those t-shirts that informs everybody that I am, in fact, pregnant. I think they're designed for the less chatty and more defensive mothers amongst us who think pregnancy is private and find question asking offensive. I'm not one of them. I've never seen the point in getting upset with phatic communication, especially over babies. Sure, if a random lift stranger enquired as to the muckiness of my vaginal discharge I might be aghast, but "when are you due" seems easy to answer. Likewise "she's gorgeous, how old is she?" seems a lot friendlier and less invasive than "did you have an episiotomy?". But anyway, these t-shirts have been invented.
Embarrassingly, in my case my belly completely over exaggerates the 14 weeks of gestation past. I'm unlikely to be taken seriously if I admit my true due date, if someone were brave enough to ask. I'd be tempted to reply that I'm just a chubba but I wonder if the t-shirt would be more appropriate. I'm torn between having on the front "I'm Up the Duff NOT Fat" and "You B*tch" on the back; and "I'm Not the Only Chubba Here" on the front and "But At Least I'm Pregnant" on the back. Which brings me to my husband.
It would seem my beloved has proudly added to his announcement of our expected status, that he didn't have to have sex to do it. I'm sure there are ways to be clearer. I questioned his preference that everybody find out he took a syringe to the testicles but he charmingly pointed out that he'd rather everyone knew than think he'd had sex with me. He's kind of the opposite to most blokes. You know the kind who love walking proudly beside their pregnant Mrs. You can see it in the Cheshire grin "YES she's pregnant, Yes I put my Penis in her Vagina". Not mine. He'd rather everyone think that some random stuck it to me than admit that he may have sullied his member. Still, it does make him feel holy and pure.
So anyway. I'm 14 weeks and 1 day. This week I heard a tiny heart beat. It sounds terribly cute. I am still a bundle of nerves but I am expanding beautifully, or should I say prolifically, and my boobs are sore enough to let me know my hormones are screaming PREGNANT. And they're huge. I'm not as tired as I was, I'm still rather moody and my pubes are driving me batty. What else can I tell you about pregnancy? Other than in between the neurosis, I'm letting myself get EVER so excited!!!!!
1 June 2012
Introducing....
The littlest miracle, due 12.12.12
I am delighted to announce that the 12 week scan was PERFECT, that the baby looks GORGEOUS, and we are VERY, VERY EXCITED!!!!
I am delighted to announce that the 12 week scan was PERFECT, that the baby looks GORGEOUS, and we are VERY, VERY EXCITED!!!!
14 May 2012
A Quick Updatey Thing
Just a couple of things. My husband would like to make it clear there was no 'suggestive cuddle' made in the early hours of last weekend. He simply wanted a cuddle because he had a bad dream. I love my husband. He has been an outstanding man about the house for the past week and did all the housework (mostly and sort of) on Saturday morning while I lazed about doing NOTHING. I had breakfast in bed, a lovely mothers day and have been very spoilt and waited on as I try and rest and relax and grow this baby.
The other thing: I have this morning been to an obstetrician and seen the baby one more time. It is growing perfectly, its heart is beating strongly and no abnormality with it or the sac around it or the immediate area around that. Adenomyosis, however, was still very clear on the ultrasound and may well be the cause of the bleeding. But all is looking ok! I am still an emotional wreck. But every day with the baby still on board is a good day.
The obstetrician and I also made a monumental decision between us. I may or may not have mentioned the disaster that was the Rabbit's entrance to the world, or the terror of having a stuck baby with barely a heartbeat and in significant distress, or the mess I was left in following her delivery. Or the fact I wasn't given pain relief when I was held down and had a baby ripped out of me with forceps after several attempts. Or the tear afterwards. Or the ripped hip joint. Or the crutches. Or the incontinence. Or the hip surgery afterwards. Having spoken to my midwife, and having sobbed through my meeting with the obstetrician, it has been decided that this baby is coming out the sunroof. As much as I would love a natural, empowering birth experience, my IVF, miracle, last chance before a hysterectomy baby is going to have a planned, calm birth without risk of an hysterical mother. Poor baby will get to see enough of that throughout his or her life...
So there we have it, in summary of the update: my husband DID NOT want to have sex with me. He was just scared. And one or both of us are full of it. The baby is looking perfect. It will be delivered by c-section. I am doing ok. My husband has cleaned the house.
The other thing: I have this morning been to an obstetrician and seen the baby one more time. It is growing perfectly, its heart is beating strongly and no abnormality with it or the sac around it or the immediate area around that. Adenomyosis, however, was still very clear on the ultrasound and may well be the cause of the bleeding. But all is looking ok! I am still an emotional wreck. But every day with the baby still on board is a good day.
The obstetrician and I also made a monumental decision between us. I may or may not have mentioned the disaster that was the Rabbit's entrance to the world, or the terror of having a stuck baby with barely a heartbeat and in significant distress, or the mess I was left in following her delivery. Or the fact I wasn't given pain relief when I was held down and had a baby ripped out of me with forceps after several attempts. Or the tear afterwards. Or the ripped hip joint. Or the crutches. Or the incontinence. Or the hip surgery afterwards. Having spoken to my midwife, and having sobbed through my meeting with the obstetrician, it has been decided that this baby is coming out the sunroof. As much as I would love a natural, empowering birth experience, my IVF, miracle, last chance before a hysterectomy baby is going to have a planned, calm birth without risk of an hysterical mother. Poor baby will get to see enough of that throughout his or her life...
So there we have it, in summary of the update: my husband DID NOT want to have sex with me. He was just scared. And one or both of us are full of it. The baby is looking perfect. It will be delivered by c-section. I am doing ok. My husband has cleaned the house.
11 May 2012
Handbags. Awful Things.
Life used to be simple. I had a very slim wallet that contained a drivers licence and a cashflow card. It fitted in my pocket causing only slight increase to butt size, one cheek larger than the other. With car keys in front pocket I was sorted. But due to earthquakes a mobile phone has become an essential item in Christchurch, my key ring seems to have umpteen keys on it and despite still owning a slimline wallet it is BURSTING at the seams with blinkin cards that every shop, service provider and freaking Tom, Dick and Harry keep issuing to me. And they all think they're so important for doing so.
Everywhere I go people try to give me a card to carry, to represent my loyalty to them. I go to the gynocologist "here's your swipe card, for your privacy"; I enrol the Rabbit in swimming lessons "here is your access card, don't lose it or we'll charge you"; I go bra shopping "here's our loyalty card, each purchase earns you points". Farmers (a large department store) give me two cards to carry, the library gives me one and one for the Rabbit, the AA (Automobile Association) give me two, one of which I have NO IDEA how to use. I have a Fly Buys Card and two different supermarket discount cards. And that is to name a few. I have more. And seriously, all these cards are handed over like I'm being done a favour, like they're an indication of a unique and special service to me. When all they are is a pain in the arse. And what's more, increasingly, they're creating a need for me to own a handbag!
I'm what could only be described as 'the scruffy mum'. Hair pulled back, jeans, polo neck, almost never made up. I'm the casual kind of comfy-mum. It's hard to believe I used to trot into the office in a suit carrying a briefcasey, satchel thing. Handbags and I just don't fit together. But I'm beginning to find that I can't carry a bulging wallet, a bunch of keys and a cell phone without dropping them or worse, leaving one of them around the place. Recently I had to traipse through a shop looking for the wallet I had put down to have a closer look at something. And last week I received a phone call from the supermarket from my own mobile. It turned out I'd left it on the ice cream counter. Pregnancy hormones are interferring with my tracking ability. I hate to say it, I think I NEED a handbag.
Which brings me back to the point that they're just so ugly. And phenomenally expensive. And either stiff and awkward and designed to be trotted about with or large and floppy and kind of trashy. You know the ones I mean, all PVC and slutty. It's hard to find a casual bag, that isn't ridiculously big, that doesn't scream "I'm a handbag" and combines practical with casual, with simple, with style, with cheap. Quite a predicament huh? I looked at hand bags ON SALE on the nzsale site today. Seriously, no word of a lie, the prices ran from $220 to $3,000 for handbags and I cringed at every single one of them. And their prices. It's absurd! Well, apparently other women find it normal. It's so confusing!
So I think I'll see if I can last a wee bit longer without a handbag and keep an eye out for the elusive perfect, cheap bag. I may also need a wallet that fits all the millions of store cards I have (for my shopping pleasure) so that, instead of pulling all cards out at once in the search for the right one, I just get the right one. Even better, I could be able to identify them a little easier so that when I purchase petrol I don't hand the man my card which shows him where I buy my underwear and so that I stop handing the librarian my 'privacy' card for the freaking gynocologist. Privacy indeed! And I can imagine that as this pregnancy continues, I'm only going to get more clumsy, more forgetful and more prone to NEEDING a handbag. So I suspect the only solution is, I'm going to have to become a real woman!
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