Old Mother Hubbard...

So today came the letter from the Clinic which let me know about our frozen embryos. From the four left, none were suitable. 10 eggs, 9 fertilised, 8 embryos, 1 blastocyte. I have no more chances after this one. I keep crying. It was a lot easier to stay calm when I thought I had a few more chances in the freezer. I never thought we'd have none. So much for being the Octomum! So I have to hope like crazy the wee one I have on board is a miracle baby. PLEASE keep those fingers crossed for me!

Walnuts and Waiting

Well I'm still a nervous wreck, anxiously waiting until Wednesday! I have A LOT of grotty, dragging period like pains which can mean one thing or the other: an attaching embryo OR the impending worst EVER period. I'm very much hoping it's the former! I went to acupuncture today and was told off for not coming each day this week - apparently the Acupuncturist's helper got it wrong when she told me when to make my next appointment. So either I'm going to wish like crazy I'd been or it won't matter. I'm going again tomorrow. He also has me eating tahini and walnuts. It's like you have to do everything suggested or you find yourself jinxed. It's tough being a little too superstitious and desperate. My skin is horrendous. I wish my boobs were sore. And enormous. Still, until Wednesday there's a baby in my tummy so I should just relax and enjoy it. My goodness I miss wine. All wine. Lovely wine.

A Lack of Patience

So it turns out I am NOT a very patient person. I'm trying not to think about the Maybe Baby but I'm not doing too good a job! I am analysing every pain and bodily happening and I keep feeling myself up to see if my boobs are getting sore. I suspect they'll be bruised if I keep it up and people will start looking at me funny! Thank goodness I have a busy day tomorrow and a husband home for four days. I think I'll have to book in some coffee dates for Monday and Tuesday and might have to find supportive company on Wednesday until my blood test results come through. This is HARD!!!!! It is raining, my sewing machine which was keeping me occupied with a million things to do has broken and is at the repair shop, and I'm so preoccupied with wondering that I'm not getting much done. One week to go. I think it will be a long week - but then it is a week with hope!!!

Someone Else's Wendy and the Volcano Family

They call them "blended families" families like ours. Families where parents bring themselves together, with their already in existence children, and put themselves together in a big blending pot. Even when sometimes it's like mixing oil and water or jam and rocks. They should be called Volcano Families. Noone ever said it would be easy, but seriously, sometimes it's a fucking nightmare. Into our family I brought a two year old Rabbit. Mr G brought a twelve year old Contessa. My little Rabbit and Mr G fell in love, became Daddy and Daughter and blood became totally irrelevant. The Contessa is a whole different story. It seems sometimes the harder I try, the worse it becomes and not only is blood relevant, often it is boiling, and occasionally I wonder if it should be spilt as I slash my wrists. Time and time again I wonder 'what is the point?'

Years ago I used to have a flatmate, Wendy. She moved into a flat that I and the homeowner lived in. We lived happily, quietly and tidily. Wendy wasn't unhappy but she unsettled our settledness in quiet wee ways. Generally she was pleasant, always she was filthy. No matter how many hints we left or times we asked, Wendy left a trail where ever she went. While we cleaned as we went and did housework once a week as a team, Wendy cleaned up nothing and never helped out in the home. She never saw mess but she left it everywhere. Every morning she would have toast, but leave crumbs all over the bench and smearings of toast spreads. The bathroom I shared with her was COVERED in her dyed red hair. HUGE clumps of it on every surface. It made me feel like vomiting. She never cleaned it up or cleaned the bathroom. When she cooked she never wiped down the bench or stove, she never rinsed her dishes before she put them in the dishwasher. She never unloaded the dishwasher, or did anything to help out anyone but herself. She was bright and cheery but every morning she took a dump directly before I had a shower, even though there was a separate toilet downstairs.

Not only did I need to shower in Wendy's fecal stench, and clean up after her wherever she went, Wendy not only didn't clean up after herself, she didn't seem to shower or wash very often either. Her benchmark seemed to be every three or four days, when her hair would get scarily greasy, so she'd shower. Pretty much her hair seemed to be walking about on it's own on her head and she MIGHT decide it was time to wash it. Which meant she would need to shower. Which meant it was time to change her underpants. Sometimes her clean washing contained only a couple of pairs of knickers. She never washed her sheets. Eventually my flatmate suggested she move on. She left. We happily got on with our lives, cleanly and freshly never giving Wendy another thought. Until cue some  years later and in walks Mr G into my life and in walks the Contessa, and back I am, living with a Wendy!

The worst thing about step parenting is no matter what you do, you have all the responsibility but no ability to change anything. You get to chew out your own kid. The Contessa is difficult, she is stroppy, she is complicated. She is smelly. Wherever she goes she leaves a trail. A trail that I, the housewife, get to clean up. And since she's not my kid and she does NOTHING that I ask, and does nothing for herself, I get to live with it and lump it. And it drives me INSANE. It drives me CRAZY. Sometimes I am murderous. It's the collection of little tiny things that all mixed together make me want to explode, even though explosion usually comes after trivial. It's just that while I am the housewife, she has nothing but contempt for me and a teenaged right of passage. If she eats, I get to clean up the mess. There is always mess. If I ask her to clean it up, she wipes it onto the floor. If she showers she leaves the mat in a heap on the floor so I get to pick it up. She drops hairclips everywhere for me to pick up. She leaves her chair out, any cupboard she opens open, any door she opens open, she leaves heaters on, lights on, you name it. There is a trail. And it all leads to her room, the Stench Pit.

The Stench Pit is something you only read about in horror movies. Mr G minimises it by saying "all teenagers are like that" but honestly, they're not. I was the Queen of the messy room and the unmade bed. I was terrible and lazy and unconcerned about mess. But the difference was my mess was clean mess. My clothes were clean, my sheets were clean, my room and I did not smell. If you walked in the house you wouldn't immediately know that my door had been left open. I did not have plates and cups and cutlery growing mould and fungus hiding in my drawers and under my washing piles. I didn't keep used sanitary products in my bedroom and I didn't sleep in a smell that brings bile to my throat. The Contessa is different. Nigel Latter may claim that the messy room is a sign that a teenager is finding her identity in the world. I fear the identity she is finding. She showers, at best, 2 to 3 times a week. Her bed is changed, under duress, maybe, MAYBE three times a year. Her clothes are washed, at best, once a month and even then it is only a small percentage of what is worn. It is always at someone else's insistence.

I did used to do her washing. Once every 8 to ten weeks she would throw a pile of clothes all over the garage floor near the washing machine. Some of them were the still neatly folded clothes I had washed last time which still remained unworn and un-put-away. The rest came with tissues in the pockets, sanitary pads attached, and I would be expected to collect them off the floor on demand and sort them. I didn't last long doing this. She turned 14, I went on strike and I went very close to walking out the door. Very close. I spent many days sitting on the garage floor crying and wondering what the hell I had got myself into. These days she hasn't changed overly, but I try to not make it my problem.

What made me think that I could try and help her change for the better, I will never know. I made the mistake, some weeks ago, of telling her that I would make her a new blind (to replace the one that she has broken and is mouldy), if only she would thoroughly clean and wash her room. I also told her if she got it all spotless and packed everything temporarily and tidily into the spare room, I would wash her carpet. I have tried being gentle, I have tried being encouraging. I have tried to suggest that if she was clean and cleaned her clothes and bedding and didn't hoard food scraps and used sanitary products then her room wouldn't stink. She responds with a 'yep' and then carries on the same way. She has made miniscule, piece meal attempts but she hasn't exactly bothered and she has never maintained what she's done and managed to get any further.

To carry out my end of the bargain I spent days hunting for fabric to make a new blind. I thought, since she was going to clean and the blind and carpet would be smell free, I would get her a new duvet cover and make some art work for her walls. I have spent hours making a blind, I have had nightmare after nightmare with staple guns trying to make the art work, I have bought cushions and a duvet cover, I have looked at sheets, I have encouraged my husband to buy me a carpet cleaner, I have explained to the teen exactly what I'd like her to do. I am sick of waiting for her to do it. Day after day she comes home and watches tele. She demands rides all over town from Mr G, never with manners and always at changing convenience only to herself. She showers only if her hair needs washing, even after dance classes. Last time she changed her bed she used dirty, hidden sheets and she has not, for as long as I can remember, changed her pyjamas. And while I am growing forever frustrated and disgusted, Mr G wants to know when I'll put her new blind up so that she doesn't burn the house down when the broken one covers the heater. I can't explain how exasperating it is when regardless of how much contempt she shows for me, she continues to remain my problem. Nothing I do is ever good enough.

I feel for the teenager. She's now 16. She doesn't fit in so well in our wee family but really she doesn't want to either. She wants to be the negative centre of attention. She wants to be waited upon. She wants me to fuck off and die. It hasn't been easy for her to gain a new step mother and a new, exceptionally cute, step sister. She loves the sister but she struggles with me. I get that. But I also think she needs to step up. I wonder at times if I am the only person in her life that has ever expected her to step up. Certainly Mr G, her mother and don't get me started on her grandmother, expect little from her and resign themselves to her behaviour. And she lives up to their expectations. She just doesn't live up to mine and certainly I don't live up to theirs. But I didn't create the problem, I just live with it. Even though I know that she is just a kid, she is stuck with me, just like I'm stuck with her, and she came as part of the bargain. Blended families can be like little, bubbling volcanoes. Life as a step mother can be soooo disempowering. So most of the time I get on with it, sometimes I do my nah-na over the tiniest but always cumulative things and pretty much always I count down the years until she becomes someone else's Wendy.

Headstanding!

It's a weird feeling, having a tiny embryo on board. It's the waiting that's difficult. I keep hoping whenever I go to the toilet that it doesn't fall out, even though it apparently can't. I can't help but wonder if I should be standing on my head. I keep wandering about the house (upright) and willing this tiny maybe baby to grow. Other times I forget. When asked, Mr G said he couldn't tell that I have a teeny, tiny embryo in my uterus. It's like a tiny wee secret. Well it would be a secret if I didn't blog to the world at large. In short, nothing feels different today than yesterday. My nerves are like teeny, tiny, embryo sized butterflies and I'm working hard at dismissing the "what if" thoughts. Grow little embryo, grow!

Impregnated and Hopeful!

I would like to begin by saying thank you so much to everyone who has sent a message of support. I am overwhelmed! I would also like to say, excitedly and tentatively that for now, today, I am pregnant. When I say pregnant, I mean I have one little embryo on board. It looks very cute. I suspect it is a ginger. I so hope it makes it!

After the school run this morning I went back to my acupuncture man where I had needles in my head, tummy, elbows and shins. I was feeling so relaxed I almost leaped off the bed when a patient in another bed's phone rang INCREDIBLY loudly. Not only that but she took the phone call. It did sound like it was a wee bit important but I was a bit pissed off that my relaxation had been interrupted. I thought about calling her a bitch, but I decided on concentrating on making my uterus feel motherly. After an hour I was ready to journey to the Clinic to get myself up the duff.

The procedure was relatively quick. I once again needed to strip off and display my privates to even more stranger but I did get to see what is hopefully going to be our new wee sprog. I hope to post an image when they email it through. I was impregnated fairly quickly, having identified my name on the petrie dish (here's hoping there aren't any black couples with the same name) and up it went on a floppy skewer like thing. And that was it. It's a tiny little thing, not visible to the naked eye. Specifically, at this stage of development, the embryo is called a blastocyst. I hope it shall continue to go forth and multiply.

I was told that of my 8 microbabies, 3 had already died. One was a blastocyst and four more are the stage before blastocyst. They need to be blastocysts before they are suitable to freeze and will be checked later this afternoon and again, if not ready, in the morning. I so hope they make it so that I have a back up plan. I am trying not to dwell on what happens if we're unsuccessful in our baby making. So far I've been amazingly positive and relaxed. I say amazing because I am not the world's most chilled out person. I am a stress kitten of evil proportions. I have a patient husband.

After implantation, although I still like to call it impregnation, I went back to the Acupuncture clinic. For another hour I lay, thinking fertile thoughts, with 5 needles in my head, one in my tummy, one in each of my shins and two very painful little bastards in my big toes. Still, my blood flow must hopefully be perfect and I guess we have to wait and see. I have to shove progesterone pessaries up my lady place three times a day until I have a pregnancy test in a few weeks and if positive, the pessary shoving shall continue for many more weeks to optimise safe harbouring of Little Ivy F. NOT that I am naming that baby until it is a baby.

In the meantime, on with life I go. I would kill for a wine, seriously, but hopefully I won't have a drink for many a month. Here's to the promise of a maybe baby!!!

                    A blastocyst (day 5). This is not my one, mine is much cuter!!!

Syringes, Collections and an Escape From the Masterbatorium

Wednesday was a BIG day for me and Mr G: it was the day I had all my eggs collected and Mr G got a syringe in the testicles. I think he was more nervous. Actually I was more nervous about the existence of the Secret Sperm than I was about the egg collection. I needn't have worried! I did make sure I had bright and sparkly pubes, for public viewing purposes and Mr G got to shave his testicles. I have to wonder if pubic clipperedness is something the doctor folk notice of, or if they've seen one bush, they've seen them all. I wonder if they make assumptions amongst themselves both pre and post peeking and whether they're ever surprised by the efforts some people go to.

We began the day by being up and organised very early so that I could be at the acupuncture clinic by 8am. I quite like the acupuncture man, although he makes me quite nervous. He's a Chinese professor. He smiles a lot and nods his head a lot and he is very difficult to understand. It's difficult sometimes not to just say "um yes" to everything he says, even though you have a 50% chance of it being the right answer. He tends to smile and nod back. He may be thinking to himself "ah, crazy bitch you no understand me" but I'm thinking maybe he also just hopes we understand each other.

If any acupuncture works, I have faith in this man. The reason is, is that I have seen him a number of times over the years and he manages to ease pain where everyone else has failed. I have a bad neck due to a car crash years ago where a taxi driver failed to stop at a red light, despite the fact he had to get through me and another car on his way through. My acupuncture man helped enormously. He has also been able to give me pain relief throughout the IVF stages, notably he seems to have removed the permanent knife up my unspeakables. I wish I'd been to see him last year when the pain was insufferable. Apparently the visit before egg collection was to ready my eggs for lifting. I had needles in my head, ears, tummy, elbows, shins and toes. Weird.

Mr G, having attended to child delivery services (The Rabbit to her Gran for a school trip), then collected me from Acupuncture and we arrived at the Clinic, nervously. I was nil by mouth. The fun and games weren't too bad. I got to take a pre-med tablet (medazelam) to help relax me. I've never trusted these things. It's the one that Bill Cosby on the Cosby Show took before surgery once and it would seem he lost his inhibitions. I have a friend who told all the operating theatre staff once that she couldn't believe they wore crocs, that they were terrible and disgusting people and they should be ashamed. Thankfully I kept my inhibitions intact. I then got a luer in my arm and we went through to the theatre. I was injected with something that made me quite woozy which was to help with pain relief. I also had some local anaesthetic. The doctor didn't mention my pubes.

The collection itself wasn't pleasant but it wasn't terrible. It was uncomfortable and there was some pain but overall it was better than I'd expected. Excitingly, they collected 10 eggs. It's always a subjective matter. They collect the eggs on the basis of follicles, but not all follicles contain eggs. 10 seemed like a good number. I was wheeled off into recovery for a bit of a snooze, although I came around pretty quickly and was able to read my book. While Mr G went off for his testes to be manhandled I had a nice cup of tea and a muffin. Apparently the specialist and the nurse both copped a feel and admired Mr G's manhood. They both expressed admiration of his appendages although he didn't let them take photos. His procedure was quick, they gave him local anaesthetic and syringed out some Secret Sperm. They then went back for some more from the same testicle. They thankfully didn't need to interfere with his other testicle.

He's lucky really. Most men have to pay not one but many visits to the Clinic Masterbatorium. It's the room where they get sent by women in nursing uniforms, also known as nurses, to jerk off on demand in a cup. Several samples are normally needed on an infertility and ivf journey. The nurses (ok, so probably one) wait outside (or nearby). Apparently 'materials' are provided. The nurses are not allowed to enter to assist but pornographic material of every kind is available to cater for a wide range of tastes. My brother in law described the bredth of material as fascinating, although he wished he'd snooped through the gay porn after he'd filled his cup, as the images meant he was unable to get it on with himself for quite some time.

It's a funny thing masterbation. I think I've realised the real reason it is frowned upon by the Catholic Church: not because it is unhealthy or in reality sinful, but because it gives priests an opportunity to talk dirty. I suspect this is the real reason why confession is taken in adjoining cubicles, and why the priest wears a dress. I can only imagine them requesting the details from innocent wee boys and worse, the priests taking confession from one another. "Go on, my son, tell me what you did next?" "Oh really, show me". But I digress in a matter not meant to cause offence to Catholics so I apologise. But I do wonder.

After a wee while, Mr G had a cup of coffee and a muffin, we went home. It was quite an uncomfortable day for me but Mr G felt much better that it was all over. He was relieved to get out of there with a working penis and get the scary part for him over and done with. He recovered. I took a good few days! My swollen abdomen stayed very uncomfortable until Saturday and it seemed to prop itself up under my ribcage. A day on codeine caused havoc with my bowels and I've wished ever since I wasn't allergic to kiwifruit. I suspect hormones also have something to do with my constipating problem.

Apart from feeling not so good, the news the following day was encouraging. From the ten eggs collected, 9 were able to be fertilised. Because we were using Secret Sperm and not Masterbatorium Mustered Ejaculates, each sperm needed to be injected into each egg. Apparently for the natural fertilisation to occur, 50,000 sperm are required to party in the petrie dish. Secret Sperm are a far more select group. By Saturday morning, 8 fertilised eggs had survived. It's amazing how maternal I suddenly felt. Basically I was the new Octomum, it's just that my babies were chilling in a petrie dish. Due to the successful fertilisation (a romantic joining of eggs and secret sperm) I was told Monday would be the day of implantation. Let the impregnantion begin!

Another little update...

Another little update as I'm still feeling a bit battered and bruised...

From the 10 eggs I had collected, 9 were successfully fertilised and this morning there were still 8 going strong. Implantation of one lucky embryo is scheduled for Monday. I am hoping that there will still be 7 to freeze but of course anything may happen!

I am hoping that I'll feel much better in the morning and will be able to tell the tale of designer pubic hair, a druggy procedure and Mr G's escape from the masterbatorium but in the meantime I'm off to put my feet up.

I am feeling a wee bit excited!

Quick Update

Right so I'm pretty tired and uncomfortable so thought I would sign in quickly. All went well this morning, I had 10 eggs collected (which is a great starting point) and Mr G did indeed have some secret sperm. This afternoon 10 lucky little fellas will hopefully be injected into the 10 magic eggs and we'll find out tomorrow how many, if any, embryos are formed. I'm feeling very hopeful and positive that ONE will become a baby!!!!

Thanks you for all your kind messages, I'll blog an update tomorrow!!!

Ovidrel Nipples

So I woke up this morning with very big nipples. Breast feeding nipples. I'm guessing it's the Ovidrel because it's been more than three years since I had a breastfeeder, NOT that she wouldn't start up again if given the choice. At 5.

I also have a bloated, bruised tummy, my skin is quite hideous and I am ever so emotional. I am so hoping that this is all worth going through and I get my baby. Our baby. An online friend I made in the Adenomyosis group, who was a month ahead of me in IVF treatment has been unsuccessful. I am so upset for her. She has been a strength for me and a great source of knowledge. I so hope she is successful when she and her husband try again in June. It's days like this when I remember how very lucky I am to have one baby!

So today I'm focusing on miracles. I have one VERY cute IVF nephew, he makes his Mummy very, very happy. She wanted him for a long time! I have a friend who ten years after she was diagnosed as being in early menopause (she was 26) has twin boys. She carried them full term after IVF treatment with her husband and an amazing woman who donated eggs. They are so very much my friend's precious babies!!! I have another friend online who is pregnant despite huge endometriosis complications and fascinating anatomy ones. She has two uteruses (uteri?) amongst other difficulties but she has a second miracle on the way after years of trying for each. The world is filled with miracle babies.

Infertility sucks. It's a silent heartbreak where no one knows what to say. I used to think everyone who wanted one desperately should be blessed with one baby. I'm being greedy. Now I'm going for two. I also hope everyone going through IVF and looking at this blog are successful. Hang in there and have faith xxx

Talking Birds and Car Washes

I'll never forget the day my Dad came home, in his suit, dripping wet from head to toe. He tried not to mention it but it was impossible to miss. "You'll never guess what just happened to me" he said "I've never been so embarrassed in all my life". He was not a man who seemed to get embarrassed very often, although I can't say he hasn't been central to many embarrassing occasions.

There was one time when he struck up a conversation with a bird at the supermarket that remains in my mind as my greatest embarrassing moment. I don't mean a woman, I mean a bird. One of those birds in the cage where you put money in and an egg with a toy in it drops out. One of those birds that whistles at you as you walk past and says "ello". My Dad said "Hello" back. It was a bargain supermarket called Dollarwise which ran the bulk promotions that Dad couldn't pass on. We could have called in for something to cook for dinner and we'd leave with 18 cakes of soap and 10 frozen chickens but little else. Once he went in without his shirt on and a girl from school served us. He always used to arrive with music booming and park straight outside the door with all his windows down. He never really gave a care for what people thought but he always seemed to gain attention. He walks with a limp, tends to whistle as he walks, has always been just as likely to tell someone to get fucked as he is to ask them how their day is going. I've never been one to like people looking at me. But I went out with him often. On this occasion I'd wished I hadn't.

He didn't stop at "Hello", he was far too taken with the talking bird. The bird said "What's your name?". I wanted to die when my Dad said "Billy". He could have said "Bill" or even "William" but he didn't. He said "My name is Billy, what's yours?" I don't remember what the bird said, it could have asked him if he was having a nice day. He could have said his name was Polly. All I could hear was my Dad calling out "look darling, this bird can talk". "No it can't" I muttered under my breath. "It can, it can" he called out, loudly, "look, it's a talking bird". "It's not a real bird Dad" I said, wishing people weren't looking. "Yeah, it is, it's a talking bird, isn't it beautiful?" He may as well have had a megaphone. Everyone was staring. Customers, ALL the check-out chicks, I think even the food and trolleys were staring at him. And at me. "Dad" I said in my most teenaged "are you fucking kidding me" undertone, "Dad, it's not a real bird, it's a pretend bird, a plastic bird". He looked at me like I was the idiot. "No it is..." and then it dawned on him. He'd been talking to a plastic bird. In front of people. People who were staring. "Ha" he said, having the good grace to be at least partially as embarrassed as I was "I thought that bird was real" he announced to everyone "but it's not". People were too dumbfounded to speak, they laughed nervously as Billy and I made a quick getaway with our trolley full of frozen chickens.

I still remember that burning feeling or embarrassment. But I laugh. And I laugh about the time he came home wet, whereas he still gets embarrassed. I've mentioned he liked to drive with his windows down. He also had a sunroof he liked to have open. One day he went to the car wash. I suspect you think you know what happened? Think again. Apparently, so my dripping wet father said, the car wash makes him feel sea sick. Apparently he used to like to get out of the car before the washing cycle started and get back in at the end. I am very glad I wasn't there on this day. The day he had exited his car before the wash cycle started and then noticed he'd left his sunroof down. Apparently he made a mad dash to get back in the car to shut it when whoosh, the water started.

So the story goes, at the very moment my Dad found himself getting sprayed with water, outside his car, in the car wash, some people walked past. They weren't the sort of people not to point and stare, apparently they laughed their heads off, pointing at the idiot in the car wash. My dad was humiliated. He was also very, very wet. The people moved on, Dad got himself in the clear and the car got a good clean, on the inside and out. It was when the dryers on the car wash started that my very wet dad had a brilliant idea, he was dripping wet, the giant blowers were on, he would stand in front of them and get dry. Simple. He had this funny notion that he'd be able to carry on with his day and no one would be any the wiser. It's just that the people who had seen him caught in the car wash, the ones that had laughed and pointed and gone on their way obviously got a minute up the street and thought to themselves "I wonder what that idiot is doing now". The people came back to find that the man, who seemingly thought he was a car, was standing in the car wash still, getting dried. And they couldn't have found that more hilarious!

There are a million other stories I could tell about my Dad and often I do. He only has one leg, having been run over by a train when he was twenty. His ginger hair has been falling out for as long as I can remember and he's always been notoriously colourful. There was the time he was walking across the road from the pub when a policeman stopped him and asked for his keys. "What are you talking about?" my Dad asked. "Come on mate" said the cop "I've just seen you walk over the road and you're all over the show". "I've only got one leg you cunt" my Dad replied. "Oh come off it" the cop said. Some other people's fathers may have found another way to prove it. My Dad dropped his trousers. The policeman was nearly speechless and highly embarrassed. "I'm sorry mate" he said "I'll leave you to it". "So you fucking should" replied my Dad. And he got in his car and headed for home. Drunk.

It wasn't the only time he dropped his trousers. There was a meter maid who challenged his right to park in a wheel chair park. Speechless. It wasn't the only time he used colourful language. We grew up being allowed to say the words "bloody" and "shit" because he always said they weren't swearing. I learnt most of my swear words from him. There was the time when I was 9 and he was deconstructing the garage when he dropped the central beam on his big toe, his only big toe. I learnt a lot of words that day. And there was the day when I was twelve that I tried to ring home from the movies to get a lift home. There were new payphones that I didn't know how to use. You needed to push the "hash" key when the person answered but I didn't know that. I tried about three or four times and kept getting my younger sister. I could hear her but she couldn't hear me. I tried again. This time my Dad answered. He still couldn't hear me but his sentence started with "Now listen hear you..." and finished with a diatribe of words which I would still never dare to repeat. I went outside the phone box and found someone to show me how to use the phone. When he answered the next time I was able to squeak "um, Dad, that was me". He still gets quite embarrassed.

He is a Dad that has always been bigger than life. He is the funniest person I have ever met in my life. No one has ever made me laugh so much. He is the most gentle and sensitive man in the world and he is also rather volatile. He has always been difficult, strict and angry. He is a million different people rolled in one. He has always been my hero and always someone I have feared. He has always fiercely defended his children, always entertained us, always been involved in our lives, always dominated us. He has always been very complicated. I always adored him. For my mother he has been not the easiest husband but she loves him too. I haven't mentioned the million things he has done that make her a saint.

My Dad has severed the arteries in his arm as a child, been hit by a train as a young adult, lost a leg. He has had three heart attacks. Twenty one months ago, after his third heart attack, he had a major stroke. He now has epilepsy and struggles to balance his medication between being too sedated and dizzy or having grand mal fits. His neurologist thinks he has frequent petit mal seizures. He has had to learn to talk again, it is still extremely difficult for him. Initially he learnt to speak in numbers, his grandchildren were "3", "5" and "7", being their ages at the time. "1","2" and "3" were the heart attacks, "4" was the stroke. "1" and "2" were the nurses and doctors. "2" also meant headache. He then moved through the alphabet, needing a letter and sound to start a word before he could say it. Now he can talk pretty well, although he stutters and is slow.

The brain is an amazing thing as it tries to heal itself. While Dad has learnt to speak, mostly, sort of, he can read but he cannot spell. He cannot write. And he has lost his aliteral comprehension - colloquialisms confuse him as he now takes everything by it's literal meaning. Like we're speaking a foreign language. If you speak too fast he can't follow and he can't follow two people speaking at once. If two people are having a conversation next to him he has no idea what is being said. He gets angry and frustrated and upset.

Sometimes the hardest thing is the overwhelming grief in having someone who looks like my old Dad, and thinks he is my old Dad, just not being him any more. I want to scream at him that I don't want him, I want my Dad back. I want the Dad that I could talk to, the Dad who made me laugh, the Dad who understood me, back. And sometimes I want this stranger to not be here anymore. It is hard to reconcile the new, just as angry, just as volatile, just as difficult but far more vulnerable man with the man who was my Dad. He doesn't make me laugh anymore and I can't tell you how much I miss him. But he is still here. He's 63. Maybe he'll keep getting better or maybe he'll have another great big heart attack, we all wait in fear of him not being here anymore. Every time the phone rings my heart leaps. It's also so hard to comprehend that someone so much larger than life has found himself so small. And it's hard to remember that this man who we miss so much is a man who needs us more now. Even though he is so freaking difficult.

My Dad, I think, is the toughest man in the world. And I love him and I am incredibly proud of him. But I miss the man who thought that the plastic bird was real and the only man in the world who could get caught in a car wash. I miss him like crazy, even though there is a new man, who needs me, in his place.

Eggly Update

So the verdict is in, egg collection is scheduled for Wednesday! So excitingly I have only one more injection to give myself, Ovidrel, and it has to be given at EXACTLY 10.15 tonight. It must help ready the eggs for collection. I am a bit excited. I'll be going first and then Mr G will be getting a syringe in his testicles to extract the secret sperm. Clearly this means that even though I have been injecting and having internal scans and am going to be partially sedated and have eggs collected "upwards" from my ovaries way, way upwards and still have to have the embryo put back inwards, upwards, it is much, much worse for my husband. Clearly.

Thankfully I love him lots and he is doing this for me, reluctantly, so I forgive him. And it should be a wee lesson to him not to let a surgeon take a scalpel to his freaking testicles in the first place! Hopefully we have a nice baby so he won't hold it against me for the rest of our lives.

Me, the Baking Egg Souffle

I am now 11 injections down in the Maybe Baby crusade and despite the fact I have a week or so before I have an embryo, hopefully, inserted in me I feel about 8 months pregnant. All my insides feel swollen and banging into one another and it's not my favourite feeling. While I don't look pregnant I don't feel like there is much room left in there for a baby to fit...hopefully this changes.

Doped up on codeine and panadol I had my second scan today. Due to the ill effects of the last scan and the likelihood of slow growing eggs, I got to skip the usual monitoring scan on Saturday and go straight to today, Monday. Thankfully the doctor's estimates were right and a scan on Saturday would have been a lot of pain for no gain. As it was Wednesday's scan had me miserable until Saturday anyway. Today's was uncomfortable and unpleasant but, thanks to the pain relief on board, wasn't so brutal as the first. Things are certainly happening in my ovaries!

I now have 6 eggs on my right ovary maturing and 5 on my left. The perfect number I reckon. They are "borderline" in size apparently which means that they need to consult with the doctors and my blood test results to decide if egg collection will be on Wednesday or on Friday. I'm guessing they don't do Thursdays! Unfortunately they're not that teeny bit more ready as not only does the thought of paying for more Gonal F injections make my heart race, it also throws up the question of whether I need another Zolodex injection. It's a down to the day question. If Wednesday no, if Friday maybe. And I don't know what happens then because Zolodex lasts a month and implantation is supposed to take place 5 days after collection. So I'm not going to think about it and find out when I get a call this afternoon!

I did go to acupuncture on Friday as I was so sore still from the scan and my ovaries have the odd scream at me. Everything is uncomfortable. I honestly can't believe how much better it made me feel! I had needles sticking in my feet, legs, tummy, elbows and the top of my head (yep, seriously) and I lay, fairly unable to move, relaxing for over an hour. I walked out no longer feeling like I had been violated with a baseball bat and a lot calmer. I'm going to go back before egg collection and before and after implantation as I think I now actually believe it may be of some help. Before I was sceptical and anxious not to spend any more money than we are already having to. Surely we must win lotto soon!!!!!

The injection giving itself has been going well. They're pretty easy and almost painless to give and except for the nano second before they go in, I don't give them a seconds thought. They are turning me into a bit of a hormonal wreck on the rampage but then they also provide an excuse for me feeling crappy. I'm a little irrationally emotional and I want to cry at the tiniest of things. I'm like a baking egg souffle. I also want to kill my step daughter, but then maybe that's not an unusual state of affairs. I'm going to hibernate when the Rabbit is a teenager. And maybe the new maybe baby will be a boy? I don't like teenaged girls! It's even worse when they're not your own. It's where me and her mother have it back to front - she's all fault no responsibility. I get the poxy responsibility stage with no fault. I struggle to find a silver lining with the Contessa too. Maybe it will be grandchildren?

The  Rabbit asked me yesterday morning if "I'd ever lain on Daddy or if Daddy had ever lain on me". I braced myself. I said that we had. I couldn't at the time be certain if she was talking about sex as she's usually A LOT more specific. She then asked me if I really loved Daddy. And I said I really, really did, which is why I married him. She got so excited and grinned from ear to ear. "That means I might get a baby sister or a baby brother and that is so exciting." she said. I wanted to say "talk to the petrie dish" but instead I said "maybe Darling, but remember Mummy has a very, very sick tummy so it might never happen." I let myself get a bit excited though!

 So that's me: bloated, sore, moody, murderous (in respect to the teen) and excited, a bit. Scared a bit. EXHAUSTED and waiting for a phone call to let me know the plan! I'll let you know.

Theft and Pet Ownership

It has been a most exciting week in our household, we have two new family members. We have two new pets. My nieces also have a new pet. They have a new, bouncy puppy with floppy ears and a waggly tail and an awful lot of energy. We have caterpillars. Two caterpillars. Their names are Squiggles and Tayla. I stole them off my nieces when they weren't home. I am a terrible Aunty.

I've touched before on the problems of caterpillar ownership. Having planted swan plants a few weeks ago in spite of my apprehension, no butterflies have seen fit to lay eggs on our plants. The Rabbit's excitement was waning and the plants, ever since she got her rabbity little paws on them, have been struggling too. The swan plants at my sister's house, however, have been a hive of activity. For weeks they have had eggs, caterpillars and butterflies. We have had none.

The theft happened when the Rabbit and I called in to meet our new niece and cousin, the dog, and take her for a walk. The kids were away with their Dad and my sister was at work. The puppy is a handful, she exhausted us both, despite her cuteness. As we were about to leave the Rabbit noticed the caterpillars. There were four small ones and one dying larger one. As the Rabbit stamped her foot and said "but why don't we have caterpillars" I noticed the condition of the swan plants. All three plants were looking well and truly nibbled upon. The leaves were few, the caterpillars plenty. I decided to indulge my grizzly daughter and steal from my wee nieces. Of course I justified my decision.

Clearly I needed to save the lives of some caterpillars and save my sister some money. I knew the mental anguish that a caterpillar owner goes through in the mad hunting down of additional food sources for their pets to avoid the heartbreak of the children. I have before joined the queues of mothers grabbing swan plants at ever increasing prices to avoid the mass starvation of disastrous proportions. I knew my nieces and sister were preoccupied with the puppy dog. A puppydog that would probably savage the caterpillars. I knew my daughter wanted caterpillars. As only a terrible Aunty and an even worse mother would do, I picked a couple of caterpillars off their plants and I demonstrated stealing to the Rabbit.

Unsurprisingly my daughter embraced her new life of crime. She certainly didn't defend her cousins' property rights. Her excitement wiped out most of the guilt I had. "I've ALWAYS wanted to own caterpillars" she gushed "and now I do." "And they're so, so cute". And a lot less trouble than a puppy I thought to myself. Or are they?

The problem with five year olds and pets, particularly caterpillar pets, is that it is difficult to balance showing love and affection with squashing them to death. Keeping the Rabbit's enthusiasm for Squiggles and Tayla from ending in carnage is not so easy. It has taken many stern words for the game of moving them from plant to plant and dropping them to stop. "But I LOVE them" only excuses so much. Not only that, due to the precarious existence of our swan plants, it is of huge concern that the plants will not last long enough for Tayla and Squiggles to make it to butterflyhood. Not because of the caterpillar's appetites, but because of the Rabbit's involvement with the planting. The plants seem to be dying from the roots up. I am having to be very attentive in my watering. Pet ownership is riddled with anxiety.

I am hoping that Squiggles and Tayla survive long enough to be able to make a flapping escape from our home. And hopefully they stay clear of the vegetable garden of death (200 snails in less than three weeks have met a grizzly end). Hopefully my little daughter enjoys watching the cycle of life as much as she has always anticipated she would. And hopefully my nieces are way too busy with their puppy to notice that they have a most terrible, and despicable, bad example setting Aunt!

Slow Eggs and Baseball Bats (warning TMI)

I always knew there would be tough days during the IVF challenge. Yesterday was one of them. Not such a battle emotionally but physically it was a bit rough. It was one of those days when Adenomyosis and Endometriosis sucked the big one...some diseases are difficult to explain. Some symptoms and side effects are not the sort of thing people discuss. They're kind of hidden secrets we keep to ourselves.

Yesterday was a day I'd been looking forward to - it was when I was to had my first scan and first blood test since I began self-injecting. I have been excited to see how many eggs I would have and hopefully be able to get a date to have them collected. It didn't go quite how I'd planned. I always knew that "egg production" was a subjective thing depending on how each person responds to treatment. The rough figure they give is 7 to 14 days for eggs to be ready. The number of eggs is equally subjective - you may get 11, you may get 7, you may get 0. They may stop treatment if you are getting to many. Each egg represents a chance at an embryo, or a chance at a baby. Of course not every egg fertilises, not every embryo makes it to implantation and not every implanted embryo results in a baby. Actually more don't than do. But hope keeps you going. I was hoping to be one of the people who had 8 eggs ready for collection in 7 days. But it looks like I'm at least a 14 day person.

All in itself, being a 14 day person isn't so bad. Except that every three injections cost us $800. Every injection rings chi ching. Every drop of Gonal F is precious. I'm not too bothered by the injections themselves. For some bizarre reason I faint at the sight of blood and wounds and mystery body fluids. I faint at the thought of them. In fact my mother describes me as the only person she has ever met who can faint while lying down. She's a nurse. It's amazing this doesn't extend to needles. Most people are the opposite. I also don't have a major objection to pain. I live in pain. My threshold is pretty high. Far from being wimps and pansies, endo and adeno girls are tough. Far tougher than most people will ever know. These diseases suck. I have both of them. Badly.

Quite aside from the fact I am a slow responder to the Gonal F, it appears I am developing 6 eggs. I know it is better than many people going through IVF. For some people one is amazing. I can't help but feel disappointed. And a little anxious. Because we are obtaining our sperm via a syringe we aren't going to get too many. And one little sperm needs to be injected into each egg. And during the course of this, some eggs will be lost. I need to focus on how it only takes one little embryo to make one little baby but yesterday I got that little more anxious. But I think it'll be ok.

That wasn't the worst part of yesterday though. The worst part was the scan. A simple ultra sound that shouldn't have been a problem. But it hurt so much I almost vomited. And I've been sore ever since. Ultra sounds in IVF clinics are internal ultra sounds. They stick a phallus shaped wand in your lady place to get a clearer picture of your uterus and ovaries. I have poly cystic ovaries, endometriosis and adenomyosis. I'm no stranger to these kind of scans. They are always invasive and they can be uncomfortable. This one was a nightmare. Maybe because the Gonal F has flared up my oestrogen levels and therefore my endo and adeno are flaring, I'm not sure. All I know was I was left feeling like I'd been brutalised with a baseball bat and I'm still pretty uncomfortable more than 24 hours later.

It may be too much information. But Women's Problems are always TMI. And for every bit of information given, there is so often way, way more that we women hide. Even from each other. From our partners. From our gynaecologists. Even from ourselves. I'm one of the lucky ones. I haven't suffered horrendous pain for years on end. I was almost symptom free despite an abdomen quite extensively riddled with disease. When the pain starts, however, it doesn't tend to stop. It isn't monthly but daily. 24 hourly. All year long. I spent a year 8 years ago battling extreme pain, undergoing multiple surgeries and a myriad of drugs and got better. And then it came back last year. Worse. Again I am one of the lucky ones. Most of the time I can have a happy sexual relationship with my husband. So many women with endometriosis and adenomyosis cannot. It can hurt like hell. I can get a lot of 'after' pain. I don't know why as I rarely get any 'during'. Often, as my husband is snoring away happily, I need to take pain killers and heat the wheat bag. TMI I know, but like I said, many, many women get it far worse than me. I get to enjoy sex, just not always the fact that I've had it. And that's just one of the secrets endo and adeno women keep.

But back to IVF. It looks like I have 6 eggs developing, 4 on one ovary, two on the other. I need hundreds of dollars worth more of injections to get them ready and the money side of things is making me queasy. I'm feeling bruised and battered and emotional but I'm also doing ok. I'm going to book an appointment with an acupuncturist for tomorrow to see if my inflamation levels settle and I'm still pretty excited  that I still might get a baby. And I actually feel even better about my decision to have IVF instead of going for the Vasectomy Reversal and coming off the Zolodex. Believe it or not, the sex free option in the long run sounds way more fun.

Utter Peanut Butter Nutters

There are a million topical debates in Mummyhood that polarise parents as they rise on their high horses and soap boxes. I have a million different opinions on some if not all points of parenting difference but few that I can't for the life of me understand both sides of the argument. I anticipate, in the coming life of this blog, I will touch on one or two of them, even though I can usually be found resting my horse as I sit upon the fence. There is one matter that arose again in my life today, however, which is ping ponging about in my head as it does every time I hear the matter mentioned. It is a simple matter that raises outrage, cries victimisation and abuse in nonsensical volumes. It is one that reeks of irony. It is a matter where the people crying foul are anything but the victims they claim to be and the outrage is always so foully on the wrong side of the fence. It is none other than than the utter freaking nuttery of the peanut butter debacle. Nut allergies. Not a laughing matter.

"When he was at preschool" a mother said to me recently "of course the politically correct police wouldn't let 'em 'ave 'is peanut butter sandwiches. Which is all very well for the kid with the allergy to them but what about my boy? It's unfair, because 'e likes 'is peanut butter." It's a point of view that comes up time and time and time again. "I can't see why my kid can't have nuts in her lunch because of one kid out of thirty four." "It's so unfair because where does it stop? They should keep them at home if it's unsafe at school. It's not fair on our kids." I'm not entirely sure on the blogging rules of foul language but seriously, are you fucking kidding me?

I should make it clear. I don't have a child with allergies. She's perfect. She's amazing. She can eat anything I'd like to feed her and even if she doesn't like it, it's not going to hurt her. On the entire spectrum of food products available there is not one thing that I have come across that she is intolerant to or allergic to. Name a food group. I can feed it to her. She is like most children on the planet when it comes to food. There are things that are good for her and foods that are bad for her. But in moderation, the food world is her oyster. The simple thing this boils down to, is she can go without a peanut butter sandwich in her school lunch. Even if she wants one. It boils down to another simple thing: since when is a peanut butter sandwich worth more than a kid's right to live? Allergy kids are perfect and amazing too, it's just their world is a little more nuts!

It's a funny thing with allergies. Many of them are life threatening. Nuts in particular are a nasty thing to have in your allergy compendium. One of the things they have the potential to do, in a person allergic, is close off their airway. Anaphylactic shock isn't a joke. And it isn't a question of freedom of rights. On more than one occasion parents have marched in protest for their child's rights to a peanut butter lunch. I've seen it on the news. I stare in disbelief. Newsflash: since when do people have a right to do anything that they want? Since when does "but he likes them" become more important than "but it could kill somebody."

Your kid might like peanut butter in their sandwiches. My kid might like taking a gun to school. Uncle Ted may like masturbating in church on a Sunday and Cousin Jethro might like lighting fires in forests. Your kid might not like wearing a school uniform, using his manners or eating her vegetables. But last time I looked,  it wasn't that cool to bring up your children to be indifferent to the needs of others and it sure as heck isn't cool to encourage that indifference to a point where they may just kill their classmates and if you think I have my knickers in a twist, how about we consider the facts? Rules exist for everybody.

Allergies are real. Some allergies are lethal. We're all in the human race together, only it's not actually a race. Or a competition. Or a free for all. We live in a community. There is a saying "it takes a village to raise a child". It could be said, it takes a peanut to kill one. Collective responsibility and respect for differences are concepts we should be teaching our children. Your kid has the freedom to eat peanut butter at home. Nut free policies exist not to inconvenience you or upset you or to disindulge your child. They're simply there to save the lives of ordinary, regular, could have been yours, kids. Kids that have as much right to be at school and preschools as your kids.

Kids, particularly little kids, are messy little things. It seems they always have sticky little hands and food spilled down their fronts. They stick their sticky little hands on everything they can get those little hands on and what ever it is that has made them sticky, goes everywhere. Peanut butter hand prints can cause peanut butter anaphylaxis. It doesn't take a shared sandwich. It isn't about hurting a kid's feelings. It's about avoiding that conversation in years to come "remember when you killed little Tommy Brown?" More particularly, "remember when you killed little Tommy Brown because I believed in your right to a peanut butter sandwich, because I didn't want you to be a victim" Funny old thing, perspective, isn't it?

Allergy mums don't send their children to preschool and school to risk their lives. They send them so their children have lives, real lives, lives that they get to live just like your children and my children. Lives where they don't have to stay home, isolated and imprisoned because of a peanut butter sandwich. The efforts an ordinary parent needs to go through to give their child something OTHER than peanut butter in their lunch are NOTHING compared to what an allergy parent goes through each and every time they allow their child to put something in their mouth. Most of us have no idea what it is like for our children to go into anaphylactic shock in front of us or what it is like to scramble for that adrenaline. How much worse can it be to let them go to school where you can only hope that someone gets that Epipen on time?

I've come to the end of my ranting and raving but it had to come out. For all those who think they're hard done by and their kids are hard done by and missing out on a God given right to nuts in their lunch, I say grow up, get over yourselves and think about the messages you are giving to your children. Quite frankly, a peanut butter sandwich isn't worth it.

Ode to Google

Although it is up for debate, I do believe the most important invention in the modern day housewife's life is a miracle. No, although undoubtedly crucial, it is not wine. Wine is up there on the list. Especially if you are a step mothering housewife. It is not a refrigerator, an oven, it is certainly not an iron and you may be surprised to know after my purchase this week, it is not the Bissell Powerwash Powerbrush Carpet Cleaner. It is something far more simple, yet far more world conquering. It is something I use every single day without fail. I promise you it is not wine. It is not chocolate. It is something that starts with 'G' and rhymes with frugal. It is the housewife's guide to EVERYTHING.

Many people out there will remember, through the haze, life without the internet. It is hard to remember now, but once upon a time Google was something we lived quite happily without. It's amazing we have survived. If I could have a cyber raising of hands from all of you who do not use Google on a daily basis, I will stand open mouthed in disbelief. How on earth can you function without Google?

In the course of one day Google can mean oh so many things. It can be a saviour, an informant, a mystery solver and the root of all evil. It should really be named 'A Housewife's Greatest Companion'. Next to one's favourite husband, of course (sorry Darling, it's not all about you). No other, for want of a better term, Appliance, can help you as frequently in your day. It can aid you in child rearing, spot cleaning, curtain making, soul searching, problem solving, recipe creating, argument solving and general "well I never knew that" insights into absolutely, freaking everything. At its best, Google is the modern day heathen's bible. At it's worst, Google is the cause of more angst and mental furore than the devil himself. There remains one thing that Google is always consulted for but should very never, ever, ever be. You guessed it. Medical diagnosis.

Google and sickness should never ever meet because no matter how many medical sites and forums there are on the World Wide Web, Google will always insure that what ever symptoms you have, they will always be construed into some form of illness far, far worse than the one you actually have. Simple prickle in a finger becomes a super bug infested certainty for amputation; indigestion is quite obviously an indication of cardiac failure and possible leprosy; an itchy knee can only mean an impossible condition to pronounce but when left to fester will lead to bowel cancer; and what have previously been known as "women's problems" suddenly become clear cases of infections of the prostate gland brought on by syphilis caught from a middle eastern scarab beetle's semen, caught under the fingernails, most likely in the post office. It would seem that just as Google is ever so helpful, it also diagnoses 80% of its users, on a weekly basis, to some condition no matter how benign the symptoms, to something obscure, carcinogenic, absurd and life threatening. Doctor's rooms around the world are filled with jittering, panicked hypochondriacs self diagnosed, with the help of Google, though ultimately in need of a sticky plaster. It is amazing that a tool so reckless is what helps the world go round.

As I have mentioned, I consult Google religiously. The door to door salesmen of the 80s and 90s, pushing Encyclopedia Britannica like cocaine on "Good Parents" everywhere are now unemployed. In the past week I have used Google to prove to my wee Rabbit that no matter what her friend So-and-So says, she did NOT see two eagles in the school field at lunch time. They were magpies. They were so. I have looked for books, researched facts about important celebrities, stalked a few randoms, diagnosed myself with lopsided testicles and hunted down a local Pippins group for the Rabbit maybe to join. I have also trawled the recipe blogs of many a better mother in the hunt for things to bake for school lunches: primary ingredient: oats.

There is a thing I love about Google and recipes. Even though I am by no means a master of culinary activities, with Google I can find a recipe for ANYTHING. I simply type in whatever list of ingredients I happen to have in the pantry and refrigerator, even if they are crying out for restocking, and without fail even the least complimentary of ingredients can be found in a recipe SOMEWHERE listed on Google combined. You should try it. Say celery, bananas and cinnamon. Say mince, blueberries and stale bread. There is always something that comes up. It is Google that makes baking quite fun. It is Google I blame when my baking doesn't turn out right. Quite clearly it is never my fault.

Last night, for example, I baked muffins with bananas and oats and I mixed a few recipes, because I didn't have all the ingredients for either, and they came out ok but not perfect. I also set out to make some biscuits without oats in the search line, but it would seem my search engine assumes oats as one ingredient regardless. Quite aside from my baking incompetence, Google unfortunately isn't indiscriminate when it comes to choosing which recipe it gives prominence. Some recipes just don't work. I'm quite certain my biscuits would have been a disaster even if I hadn't overlooked the egg, then added it to the mixture later, with some milk to make it less globby, and some additional flour and more milk and more flour. But funnily enough they kind of worked out as biscuit typed bun things. And I have Google to thank. Google feeds my family. Google helps housewifery happen. So in conclusion to my ramble I salute Google and Googlers. And school lunch healthy eating policies, where duty teachers patrol lunch eating children and force them to eat everything in their lunch boxes. Oats, Google and all.

Flushing and Peeing: in no particular order!

Unbelievably, my days are now counted by evening injections. I have now given myself four. The first one had a tiny prick, the next two went in without me feeling much at all. The fourth one I put in down a little further to avoid the bruise that was forming. It hurt a lot more. I got a little giddy. I think all future injections I will aim for the fattest part of my tummy, bruise or no bruise!

I am feeling really good. Well, really good all things considered. Remembering of course that I have been in daily pain for over a year. I actually think that, after 4 Gonal F injections, my pain levels may have decreased. I am getting infrequent, what I assume is, ovarian pain but it isn't at all bad. Having been on medication to shut down my ovaries and oestrogen levels for 10 months I expect the stimulating they are now undergoing has sent them into a frenzy. Hopefully only a frenzy enough to produce the perfect number of eggs in as short amount of time as possible. Not because of the injections but rather the sheer cost of them. At $800 a pen and each pen only containing 3 injections at my current dose, our bank manager won't talk nicely to us for long if my ovaries don't cooperate. And Mr G will stop talking to me and I shall stop talking full stop. Although that would be a challenge.

What I am suffering from is excessive night time thirst and hot flushes. I'm no stranger to the flushes as I've been in a state of medically induced menopause since I started on Zolodex. I've found that while the first week or so and the last week or so of the injections (given either monthly or three monthly) are flushing horrible, the rest of the time is fine. I have more energy and less pain...it seems I function better without oestrogen. The Gonal F flushes are different. Rather than being overwhelmed with a full body flush they seem to start with my face turning bright, bright red and the flush starts from the top and goes down. My blankets each night don't know if they're coming or going. When my mother hit menopause she used to be terribly noisy about flushing. She'd grunt and moan, grab anything she could to start flapping it about as a fan to cool herself down. I have witnessed many of my friend's mothers do the same thing. I find it much better to stay as still as possible (subject to removing blankets or items of clothing) and wait, silently, for the flush to pass. I'm certain energetic flapping must make it last longer. And the grunty groan thing is disturbing.

One thing which has come to my attention, through the kind advice of others who have been through or who are going through IVF is the need to drink copious amounts of water a day. As I have mentioned previously, IVF wasn't a long thought out process for us, we haven't been on a waiting list or trying previously for a baby, it was suggested as an alternative to a vasectomy reversal because it enabled me to stay on Zolodex for pain relief. The kind of pain relief that allows me to function, without it I can barely do so. What it means, however, is that I haven't researched the best way to go about things and I haven't put in months of bodily preparation. When you want a baby desperately and can't have one naturally (or in my case without extreme pain) then you don't overly listen to the medical risks, you just think baby. I made assumptions that the biggest risk, ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, was something that would mean my ovaries may need removing. I was thinking this isn't such a risk for me as I'm in need of a hysterectomy anyway, and due to my endometriosis extremes there's a good chance my ovaries will have to come out anyway. But apparently I assumed wrong. OHS is something quite different and can result in fluid retention, despite gross dehydration, and can , from what I can figure out result in kidney and liver damage and make you seriously ill. It can kill you. Whoops. I've been told drinking 2 - 3 litres of water a day and drinking gatorade can help prevent this.

I'm not quite sure why this isn't drummed into you by the Clinic if this is so important but googling has reinforced the importance of this one. In all the information I have found from my clinic, there is one sentence buried in a large booklet of information. Certainly no one has mentioned it. I do think there is a far greater need for a "How to make this less risky and more happy" booklet. So maybe, if I successfully go through IVF I might write one. I'm trying not to dwell on what happens if I am not successful on getting a baby this way. I am now drinking 2 - 3 litres of water and one bottle of electrolyte filled drink a day. Which means when I am not sleeping, I can be found on the toilet, peeing. Which does seem like preparation for pregnancy in itself. I'm looking forward to my scan and blood test on Wednesday morning (two more days) and am trying for the most part of my day not to think about babies and hysterectomies at all. And for the most part, I'm doing quite nicely!!!!!

But I needed one. Honest.

I'm not entirely certain how I became a housewife. Well I know how it came about, but I am quite certain it isn't a natural state of affairs. Perhaps what I mean, is it is just not something I am very good at. Well the parenting thing is all good, I don't think on the "Terrible Parent" list I tick too many boxes. On the "House Wifery Wonders" list I unfortunately don't tick too many boxes either. I don't manage to do a whole lot of cleaning, I'm not the best cook, I suffer terribly from procrastination and quite frankly I get overwhelmed with cabin fever. Not only that, but I only have one kid. And she goes to school.

Technically speaking I should have a lot of time on my hands, a sparkling house and a well fed family, all dressed from head to foot in home crafted, crocheted, sewn and knitted items that make them the laughing stock of the more jealous, less loved types and people with taste. But instead I seem to be fighting a battle with piles of washing, dirty windows, cobwebs, dishes and intolerable piles of things to do. When I say piles, I mean literally, my house is covered in piles and piles of things to put away, things to file, things to discard, things to claim and quite frankly I am running out of spaces to place, or should I say hide, my piles. And the days keep disappearing.

There are days, however, when the housewife within comes screaming out with a vengeance and a halo of clean and sparkly hovers above my head. It is not so often that this occurs on an ordinary day but every now and again a miracle happens. As it happens, however, clean and sparkly usually takes place immediately after I exercise complete and utter lack of restraint and indulge what seems to be an addiction of concerning personality conflicting Obsessive Compulsive Disorderative Collecting of Housewifery Appliances (OCDCHA). Put simply, I have been shopping. I have a new toy. Housewifery is expensive. My new Bissell Powerwash carpet and floor cleaner was quite a bargain. Everyone should get one. I got mine at the Powerstore. Mr G bought it for me.

With all good addictions, justification is an important component. I am an exceptionally talented justifier when it comes to needing cleaning appliances. Despite the fact my husband is aware of my OCDCHA and has banned me on several occasions from extending my collection, he has today been my enabler. His problem is that he apparently lacks evidence on a regular basis that I know how to use any of my cleaning equipment. He has long since believed that my days, and the days of any Housewife, are spent drinking coffee, gossipping, and lying about masturbating and eating chocolate. He lives in a fantasy world. I think the problem lies in how our roles would be reversed if I went to work and he took charge of the house. Let's substitute coffee with beer and gossipping with watching sport and I don't want to know where he reaches his conclusions. I am fairly certain his standards would be a darned sight more flaccid if our roles were to reverse. And we would have to buy A LOT more chocolate!

But I've gone on a little tangent. Justification for needing yet another cleaning appliance: my steam cleaner (for floors and carpet) died in the December 23 earthquakes. It suffered a fall. Onto my car along with a bike and a queen sized headboard. I didn't notice for quite some time that it no longer worked, because our floors don't get steamed nearly as often as they should. But let's not pick on our housewife. Our carpets are in need of a good steaming. They haven't been done for a while. We have a cat. Actually we have two. One has long, greasy hair which he leaves everywhere and the other one's name is Stinky. They were both part of Mr G's contribution to matrimonial property. There are also the coffee stains for which I have long since blamed on my stepchild. The streak down the carpets on the way down the hall. It turns out they were left for me to clean by Mr G himself. If I want a hot coffee in the mornings, he says, there may be spillage. Clearly I need a carpet cleaner. And I promised the teen, his teen, that should she clean her stench pit, I would replace her broken, mouldy blind and I would clean her stench filled carpet. She was required to attend to all other bedroom surfaces.

I can't explain the smell that emanates from that room and I refuse to accept it is "normal" for teen aged girls, no matter what my mother in law says. Let us say the Contessa is special. She takes stench to a whole new level. A level only previously achieved by flat fulls of filthy all male students, competing for most despicable flat in all of the most decrepit hovels of Dunedin. She competes well. So CLEARLY a carpet cleaner was needed in the form of a paid cleaner, a hired rug doctor or a new appliance. In the interests of "saving money" and future cleaning ability, we spent lots of money. We got a great deal though, $299 (down from $499) for the Bissell Power Wash, and $45 worth of cleaning solutions (down from $63). Everyone should get one!

So far I have cleaned one rug and one lounge. Going by the filth that I tipped down the drain the appliance does a VERY good job. The carpets didn't look nearly as bad as they should have, going by the colour of the water and I'm not the world's worst housewife. I vacuum often. Remind me to tell you about my new vacuum cleaner. Despite the fact we had to put the Bissell Power Wash together - and screw in three screws - and we are not the best couple to undertake assemblies of tool requiring kind - it is very easy to use. The carpet looks fantastic and it is not too wet. I can't wait to use it on the hard floors and the rest of the house and we already have the Contessa under instruction to clean the pit to prepare for a midweek carpet cleaning. She doesn't know that I am planning to surprise her with a new (homemade) blind, matching duvet cover and some wall art to TRY and encourage her to not be so freaking slovenly. But I fear she's years from a cleaning epiphany. In the meantime, I am one very happy housewife.

Me. The Drug Addict.

So yesterday I collected a bag filled with extraordinarily expensive drugs and last night I started injecting myself with them. Funnily enough, I got a bit of a high. Two highs really, first was when I walked out of the Clinic with my bag of drugs, second was after my first self given injection. I was so excited I wanted to do it again. I never thought it would be a process that would give me a feeling of elation but not only is self-injecting a little empowering, the promise of a maybe baby is just so very exciting. For anyone who has happened upon this blog I'm afraid it's not the candid confessions of a druggie but rather the beginning of my IVF journey.

The emotions and nerves and promises and risks and potential for devastation in baby making, the test tube way, are difficult to get a handle on. Unlike most IVF patients, my husband and I haven't been trying to make a baby the old fashioned way. This is our first go and maybe our only go. Because IVF was an option only presented to us a few weeks ago, I am all a little Deer in the Headlights. I'm also a bit Bull in a China Shop. The nurse I saw yesterday at the Clinic must have participated in every rise and fall possible on the rollercoaster of IVF. Her patience was amazing as she showed me though the drug pack and explained the procedure to ensure I could follow it. Timing, it seems, is everything. Imagine a job where you get to help people make babies and achieve their dreams. Imagine knowing also that so many hearts will be broken. Thankfully she shared my enthusiasm and calmed my nerves. She sent me on my way on a happy wave of hope.

The drug bag itself is like a wee refrigerator pack. It contains nearly two thousand dollars worth of drugs, some cleaning wipes and my very own 'sharps disposal' container. The bag is bright green. Strikingly green. "Here I am" green. It was, I thought, an unusual choice of colour but I realised it must have been well thought out. It's not like you could randomly hand out a blue or pink bag without kind of implying the bag contains a boy or a girl. I only hope green doesn't mean a goblin. It seems a bit silly to think like that but the promise of a baby contained in that bag is almost akin to raising a tamagotchi. If you follow the instructions and nurture the contents of this bag it is almost a baby. Almost. If only that was all there was to it.

I was so excited I couldn't wait to start. But of course I had to wait. My first injection session and each subsequent Gonal F session is to take place at 9pm, on the dot. I have set my alarm to give me a reminder that it is injection time. Nerves are troublesome things. Mine made the needle preparation stage all a little more difficult. It wasn't so much the needle itself and what I had to do with it but the insane cost of the medicine it contained inside. It is not something I can afford to spill! The injection itself was nearly painless. It was exciting. Elating. I wanted to do it again. I have to wait until 9pm tonight.

So my journey has begun. I have 5 more injections before my next blood test and a scan to see how my egg follicles are doing. In the meantime I need to wait for the side effects to kick in. "Do you think in the morning I'll have ENORMOUS breasts?" I asked my husband as I climbed into bed. "Ah no" he said, not even thinking about it, like it could be a possibility. Which is a step less reassuring than a scoff. I guess I could dream that they might grow. "Perhaps" he said "I should inject some into my testicles and my penis could be enormous?" he said. Not, of course, that it isn't already an incredible penis, I say, as I'm not entirely certain I have permission to discuss our marital phallus. I told him that the 'egg stimulating' hormones would be more likely to shrivel his entire package and not only that, it is such an expensive drug that it simply wasn't worth experimenting with. He didn't look disappointed.

And so we wait, on breast watch, mood watch, and in my case pain watch, and look forward to 9pm each night when I can inject myself again. My life as a drug addict has begun!

Oats and Notes and Impossible Standards

It's hard being the perfect parent. It seems no matter what efforts you make or standards you set, someone out there seems ready to judge you. By "someone" I mean 'other mothers'. By "out there" I mean 'other mothers generally going about their own lives in their own way'. So what I really mean by "out there" is 'in my own head'. And by "judge" I mean 'dare to mention what they have been doing in their parenting' or 'mentioning their child favourably' or 'having the audacity to ask me how I am'. And such is the life of a mother. It often seems to me that mothers should really learn to take it easier on themselves, not to mention easier on each other and just embrace each other in the knowing that we're all on a freaking roller coaster at the mercy of our children. When I say "at the mercy of our children" in my case one five year old who sometime in the last few months has gone from a grateful dependent to "the setter of standards much higher than my own."

Where do I start? It's easy to get lost in the perfect parent set up. We all carry parenting morals and goals instilled in us by our own parents, not to mention the deep seated resentments that we promise we shall never repeat. While we all strive to give our children the best childhood possible, balancing providing for with spoilt and balancing happy with disciplined. Most of us judge ourselves. Most of us secretly judge others, although I don't believe for judgey mcjudgerson reasons, more just to tick off, with relief, that you are NOT the worst parent in the world. Nothing really prepares you, however, for the day your child sets the standards. Not only does my five year old Rabbit set the standards it seems, she is all judge and jury and quite frankly executioner at sometimes the most surprising of times.

It's easy to get into the mundaneness of the school routine. I have been a 'school mother' for about 14 weeks now in total. I was dreading the abandonment of my child of the home, or should I say me, and I was tearful about her starting school for quite some months before she started. The rabbit was far more excited. I tried to be. She realised the problem after telling me soon after she turned four "Don't worry Mummy, I'll just go to school on Fridays." She did get a little anxious when I told her school was every day, all day, for the next thirteen years. It turns out she LOVES school and I love her being happy. I also like the routine school gives to our lives and the fact that routine gives my day a lot more purpose.

The Rabbit had always attended a preschool which provided all food. When she started school, my life as a lunch-maker also began. While other mothers detest this part of their lives, I am still fresh to the cause. I put thought into how on earth I can get enough nutrition into my child in a tasty way to ensure that she gets through the day without descending into a melting pot of temper tantruming horridness which would immediately show up my terrible parenting to unsuspecting teachers. She had never been the biggest of tantruming toddlers. Whenever her world came to an end in a screaming display almost always the problem was, and still is, a lack of food, which means almost always the tantrum was my fault. I now know a million ways to sneak oats into my child's lunch box without her turning into porridge. I am also very conscious that teachers go about checking the lunchboxes. I know this really isn't to check if the children have eaten everything but instead to judge the standards of their mothering. I imagine they give me a pass. I hope they don't go back to the staffroom and joke about what form the Rabbit's oats have taken today.

I digress a wee way. It is just that the point of my story begins in the lunch box, more particularly in a "How to be a Good Parent" newsletter from the school. It was about helping your child to learn to read and made suggestions for many great things a good parent could do. Nothing like some added pressure. One of the things the handout suggested was "putting the occasional note in their lunchbox." The odd note I figured I could do. I felt like a tremendously wonderful parent as I first slipped a wee note into the Rabbit's lunchbox and imagined with delight her surprise when she found it. I thought it might make her day.  I love her so much. I am her wonderful Mummy. The note said "Oh Rabbit I love you so much. Love Mummy xxx"

I hadn't quite anticipated the stern telling off that I got. I can tell you, I hadn't realised my pint sized five year old had turned into the Supreme Court Judgey Judge of Outrageous Parental Standards. Rather than the gushy sweet "Oh Mummy I loved my note" I most certainly hadn't expected "Mummy I was so embarrassed by the note you put in my lunchbox." My face fell, my child said what? "Um, Darling, I thought you would LIKE the note" I said. "Well I did" she said "it's just that it was embarrassing." "What was embarrassing?" I asked her nervously. "Well" she said, as she drew out her explanation, "It's because of the word "Oh"." "The word "OH" was embarrassing?" I asked, surprised. I could explain as an aside that it is a saying that has been around all the Rabbit's life, since before I was a Mummy and I trained my tiny niece to say "Oh Aunty I love you so much". The word "oh" wasn't something I expected to embarrass her. "It was the "oh" that I found embarrassing" she uttered "next time you just need to write "Dear." I didn't really have many words.

I hadn't anticipated 'a next time'. The "How To Be A Superior Sort of Mummy" sheet didn't say "every day" it said "occassionally". I tried to explain this to the miniture dictator but she said "actually" she'd really like them every day. She reminded me the next morning as I was cramming her oats in her lunchbox so I wrote a quick note. It said "Dear Rabbit. I hope you have a lovely day. Love Mummy xxx" On the front I drew a star. I again puffed out my Good Mummy chest. You can imagine how I sucked it back in when the five year old told me later that night that she doesn't really like stars and that her favourite shape is a heart. My mouth was a little speechless. My internal mouth, the one inside my head, however said "are you fucking kidding me?" I managed "Um, Darling, I don't think I'll write another note because you're rather ungrateful." She said "Mummy, please, please, please do because I do like my notes, I won't complain again." I believed her.

The note on the Wednesday said "Hi Rabbit, Have a great day. I love you so much, Mummy x" I drew a love heart on the front. Not a star. It isn't her favourite shape. I put it in her lunchbox, with her oats (and her fruit and sandwiches, I am not a mean Mummy, I am a Good one) and I hoped it had finally passed the little brat's standards. I was pleased at the end of the day that it had. You'd think all was ok. Instead I heard "Mummy, I really liked my note and my love heart...it's just that So-and-So said it was DUMB. Don't get me started on So-and-So. She is in fact a dear little thing that is gorgeous and sweet and clever. She is also, at 8 weeks older than the Rabbit, therefore 8 weeks ahead of her at school, the next thing to God in the Rabbit's eyes and the child that can do no wrong. She choses who she plays with, what they play and the Rabbit is all "But So-and-So says" and I get but a little frustrated. I believe sometimes that So-and-So corrupted my child's innocence in the workings of the school playground. But then I am also accutely aware that my innocent wee Rabbit has also more than likely told So-and-So that the Peeenis goes in the Va-GI-na and I am too embarrassed to mention this to her parents.

THANKFULLY, in my Good Mummy Wisdom, I realised, or at least I suspected that the reason So-and-So thought the notes were dumb (nothing to do with words like "oh" or shapes like stars) was because she was jealous. 5 year olds or in fact any children don't like missing out, especially when their own mummies haven't strived to follow the "Good Mummies Do This" list that the school has handed out. I don't for a second think that So-and-So's mummy is anything more than a very good Mummy but for once I knew what to do about it. Thursday's note said "Dear Rabbit and So-and-So, I hope you have a really good day. Have fun at school. xxx" Finally, I am pleased to say, I passed the child-set standards for Good Mummies. Every day with her oats, Rabbit still gets a note to share with her bossy little friend So-and-So. I am pleased to report that it is something they both look forward to each day. I am a little more wearied but I am still in the running for a Good Mummy self award.

Consenting to the Gay Gynaecologist, tick.

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