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.