Reality Check

It's a funny life. I don't recall ever wanting to be anything in particular, other than a mother. It's what I've always wanted to be when I grow up. I'm not sure that I've completely grown up yet, at 37, but I do know being a Mummy is the most amazing part of my life. The Rabbit is my every dream come true, except that she's a million times more perfect  but not remotely as easy to control. I made her once by accident. She's my best ever work of carelessness. The road to number two, however, should I be so lucky, will be anything but an accident. Baby number two needs to overcome polycystic ovarian syndrome, severe endometriosis and adenomyosis AND a vasectomy. The Rabbit inadvertently overcame most of these things, not to mention a single mother who never had sex. Well ok, very almost never. Number two will hopefully be created by virtue of a series of self given injections, complicated ovarian extractions, more complicated extractions of a testicular nature and needled combinations in a test tube before being implanted in a less than romantic setting in a room full of onlookers before the waiting and testing games begin. This is if we are blessed enough to get this far.

Today I began watching a DVD describing what I am in for. I feel a little faint. My stomach is in my throat. It's hard to remain focused on the process and accept that a simple act of drunken rumpy pumpy is NOT going to get me a baby. Well it might, depending on the success of a vasectomy reversal and whether or not I,without a complicated regime of pain killers and hormone suppressants, am at all willing to go anywhere near an impregnating penis. I fear it unlikely for very many attempts, so the very unsexy, multi party approach is what we will go for. As a pathetic fainter over most things medical, I turned off the DVD at the 'egg retrieval phase'. I have spent much of the past year in and out of hospital in varying states of consciousness, in and out of lithotomy. Accordingly I'm going to accept that I can do that part, but watching someone else do it is not going to help. Instead I'm going to take one step at a time and READ about what I'll need to go through. This is right after I go for my 'drug education appointment'. That's right, I'm going to learn how to inject myself in the stomach. What's more, I'm off to learn about how to do this, on a daily basis, this afternoon. Reality is a difficult thing to face sometimes.

I understand that this is a choice I am making and that if I want to have a baby I need to do it one of two ways, and fast, prior to a much needed hysterectomy, which I am fighting so desperately. It seems absurd that ivf is the more pain free, stress free option. Reality is that adenomyosis is a freaking nightmare. So drug education (Operation Inject Myself) here I come!

Hanmer Springs: bodies, body art, cold bacon and a stray pubic hair...

To celebrate the serious ageing of Mr G, the family set out on Saturday for a night in Hanmer Springs, a few hours out of Christchurch. Hanmer is one of those places which reminds you that living is good, that the pace of life doesn't need to be fast, that relaxing doesn't need to be difficult and that every day is a beautiful day, no matter what the weather.

Hanmer is also the sort of place that makes the world seem very small: no matter what day of the year you go, you'll always get caught in your swimming togs by someone you know. There is no place to hide cellulite bitten legs, lopsided bosoms or artistic birthmarks. It's a place where somebody always knows your name, and they also get to know everything there is to know about your body that can't be hidden by swimming togs. Sadly lycra cannot be renowned for discretion.

It is impossible not to have a jolly good gander at the great array of body shapes traipsing from pool to pool. Although the atmosphere is bliss, it is impossible to look one's best. Steam and lycra combine against you like a conspiracy, although there is ALWAYS someone in worse shape nearby. There are families of them actually, nutrition averse chubbas crying out for their own reality television program. I laugh, but I find it really sad. Where is Jamie Oliver when you need him?

I'd love to join the fight against childhood obesity. Actually I'd love to save the world. Most importantly, I'd also like to draw attention to an outrageous phenomenon, certainly New Zealand wide: White men, not only can you not jump, you shouldn't be getting tattoos! It is like inking oneself with gaudy works of art is the new cigarette, I expect it is saving the health system millions but the damage to bodies everywhere is oh so apparent at Hanmer Springs. I'd like to see a law passed that requires all tattoo holders to keep their bodies in shape or cover them up. And sagging is only one problem, age inappropriate art works are abound in Hanmer: they outnumber manboobs two to one. And manboobs aren't scarce. Mr G has himself just a little pair but in Hanmer he is but a filly, or should I say colt.

I have to say it, as male specimen go in the Canterbury alpine spa retreat, I've snagged myself quite a fine one. Thankfully in his younger years he resisted the urge to tattoo his guns with multi-coloured dragons and Gaelic, Russian, Chinese lettering spelling out his love of, or his mating cry for, chicks gone past. You never know, there may come a day when an elderly, toothless Sonny Bill puts his head in his hands and utters "I just wish I'd thought about my sex appeal before I turned myself into a colouring book."


If you're lucky enough to go to Hanmer without children, it can be a very romantic place. It can also be a very fun place if you have the kids in tow. There is a number of large hot pools and rock pools of varying warmth and depth. There are three very hot sulphur pools, a lazy river, a large fresh water pool and a great kids pool. Not only that there is a superbowl ride and two hydroslides AND there is a toddler water play area, although the person who designed it could never have had toddlers. It is in the most exposed area of the park, way beyond the cold water pool and the bitter winds (they're all bitter when you're wet) and lack of warm shelter or submersible warmth for wet parents means toddlers can find themselves paddy throwing and dragged towards warmer waters. There are also three 'adult only' pools with various therapy jets to soothe your aching muscles. It has to be mentioned, however, some of the jet streams are really a bit cheeky and can take you by surprise. A disturbing look around a few of the faces explains why the pools may be 'adults only'. I wouldn't be surprised if somewhere a poor, innocent wife isn't explaining to her tall, dark and handsome husband why their baby has just popped out obese, ginger and covered in tattoos. As a word of warning, if you are not on the contraceptive pill you may want to make sure that you spray yourself in sperm repellent before entering the adult pools. I also recommend NOT making eye contact!

Hanmer Springs is a wonderful retreat for travellers and quake wary locals alike. We've stayed there a number of times in the last year (NOT because of the adult pools) and lately we've stayed at a few different motels. Our favourite by far is the Alpine Springs Motel as they have a feel of luxury and are a wee distance from the heart of the village so you can enjoy the serenity. The managers are lovely and relaxed, towels for the pools are free, the spa baths are fantastic (if you haven't spent the day at the pools) and the welcome basket is a ripper. They have a two night minimum stay, however, if you book on the internet, including Whatif.com so we've sought out alternatives in silent protest. The Aspen Lodge Motel is, as it turns out, a fraction cheaper and the managers seem lovely. It is central, clean and tidy but the teal carpet, old brown curtains and dated bathroom look much better in the picture. Through no fault of their own, a smoking tourist sullied the air that blew through our open door and made me turn up my nose. Both motels have wonderful DVD libraries for adults and children alike. When I say adults, I don't mean 'adults only' although they may have a selection available for those that way inclined. I don't know, because I am not.

We've also stayed at Alpine Garden Motel. It was nice enough but the four star rating is a surprise. It too was rather dated. I was also accused of getting the room key dirty, although I'm unsure how I managed it. I was also a little perturbed that the pot had called the kettle black as I'd had the displeasure of showering with a pubic hair that had most definitely not travelled with me nor my kin. The walls also seemed a little thin in a fashion a little less voyeuristic than ablutionary. They did have a comfortable bed, a central location and a cheap 'whatif' rate and were otherwise happy accommodation. I prefer them to the night we spent on Flybuys at Greenacres Chalets and Apartments, although that night itself was great. We were lucky enough to be on our way there when the earthquakes of 23 December 2011 struck, the kind of free flybuy price tag was a treat and we were upgraded, thank goodness, to a two bedroom apartment and got a shake free night's sleep. The apartment could only be described as rustic but it was very spacious. We were a little plagued by flys, however, and late night neighbours made so much noise unloading their car we couldn't believe it when they left the next morning and didn't stay for a month. Greenacres has a lovely view of the village and a 'camping feel' setting, both inside and out. It just doesn't compare, however, to the cosy Alpine Springs Motel.

As we tend to come for the pools and the night away we don't often try everything Hanmer has to offer although we never leave not having sampled the Tasting Wheel at Monteiths Bar and Restaurant (Highly recommended) and the Rabbit does LOVE the Lolly Pot lolly shop. This past weekend, however, we not only enjoyed an evening at Monteiths, we made the mistake of attempting to have breakfast there as well. Never do this until Gordon Ramsay has paid a visit. After a truly disappointing and bitter set of coffees and nearly an hour of waiting in a pretty quiet restaurant we were served, ten minutes apart, a meal of barely cooked, cold bacon on burnt toast with cold poached eggs and cold hash browns. After waiting so long and having watched others enter after us, order after us and be served before us, we weren't prepared to wait for another lot to be cooked and the waitress was so freaking haughty that you'd have thought it was her who was expected to eat and pay for the atrocious meal. If only we'd changed our minds and chosen to eat elsewhere when we saw there was no 'girls option' (pancakes or french toast) on the menu. Categorically the worst breakfast I've ever been served and the only meal I have EVER walked out on. I'm not even certain I'll be back for a tasting wheel...

So that was our weekend. Mr G is much older and at 41, well into his forties. The Contessa came along and didn't infuriate me once nor horrify me with teenaged 'tude and the Rabbit was pretty darned cute, most of the time. The pools were relaxing, the bodies were a fascination, we left steamed and yet weary, looking forward to returning one day in the near future. The Monteiths breakfast, however, is strictly off the menu!

Happy Birthday Husband!

Today I woke up knowing that it was my husband's 41st birthday. I spent much of yesterday running around shopping for it. I spent some of last night wrapping presents with the Rabbit, hidden away in the back room trying hard to do things quickly. I had a pile of small items for my daughter to give her Daddy and a bigger pile of items for me to hand over. Well that was before the kleptomaniacal but generous 5 year old rearranged the piles. You can imagine her excitement this morning when she screamed "Happy Birthday Daddy" and announced that there was one gift of gifts from her, and another from Mummy AND her. "Isn't that right Mummy?" she manipulatively questioned. What could I say?

As I said, I woke up knowing that today was Mr G's birthday. I was most bemused to find during the course of what a crazy great rush on my part, that it was also Useless, Old Chubba Day at the local supermarket. Never before have I seen so many wide backsides, so many purple rinses, so many ancient people going slower and taking up the aisles when I couldn't have been in a bigger hurry.They all seemed to be searching for biscuits in anything but the biscuit aisle. I needed cake ingredients and I needed them fast because having spent an hour and a half at the school helping the five year olds with mathematics and getting into and out of swimming togs my day was getting shorter and shorter. Typically it has also been a day where the Eftpos has been down. "I can hold your items for you and you can come back later or go for cash" droned the check out chick who could have told me sooner. I went for cash, came back to find myself at the end of the queue again - a queue of bemused old chubbas not knowing that they would be unable to pay for their biscuits. When I finally managed to pay for my goods and get out the door I'd been laden with how terrible the day had been for everybody in my way. I'm rather proud that I got out the door with telling them all I couldn't give a fuck.

So I have made a cake. A carrot cake. Mr G's favourite. I have yet to ice it, I have flown into town (in the car, at roadwork pace but my mind was racing) to pick up a prescription, chatted to my mother and returned to find I have 27 minutes to let my darling husband know that my fingertips have exploded and I'm blogging our lives for the world to see, but that I love him and I shall try and tidy the house before he gets home for his birthday dinner. Which he is cooking himself. I would of course offer to cook for him, but he's chosen a barbecued meal, and I am not allowed to touch the barbecue. Because he is a man. And I am not. And that is really all I have time for before the school bell rings. I just wish it was time for a wine...

Injections and Test Tubes

Funnily enough, my daughter's desire for a sibling coincides with my own desperation to give her one. Now that she knows not only that it takes an egg and a spirit, but how the two shall meet, she has decided her Mummy and Daddy should start immediately on production. It is difficult to explain to her the myriad of complications such production would entail. She has at least stopped suggesting, when told that Daddy doesn't want one, that I find someone else to get a spirit from before running off and saying "um sorry, actually I'm with Daddy". It is not so easy to explain, however, that Daddy so didn't want a baby that he let a man stick a scalpel in his testicles just 6 or so weeks before we met. It is harder to explain that while my uterus did an amazing job of making her, it is now filled with adenomyosis and covered with endometriosis and the reason I was so grumpy last year was the fact my pain levels were barely tolerable, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It is harder still to explain to a 5 year old that the only way to get rid of the pain is to undergo a hysterectomy. And it is even harder for me to face that myself.

2011 was a year to top all years in the misery and pain that it caused. In Christchurch the earth rocked, ground turned to silt rivers, buildings toppled, our lives would never be the same again, 185 people were not so lucky. It was a year for me that was ever so hard. In the city that rocked, pelvic pain took over my life. Two surgeries, hundreds of pain killers of every strength, herbal and vitamin potions, unthinkable sanitary nightmares, months of stomach injections and induced menopause, one reality. I had never heard of adenomyosis although had had numerous surgeries for endometriosis. The only surgery and cure for adenomyosis is a hysterectomy. Once the luckiest Mummy in the world to have one perfect wee rabbit, I felt like the unluckiest of mummies to not be getting one more. In a head battle the size of Goliath and a medical battle the size of his more evil twin, I clung to the hope that if I would just get the pain under control, I could convince Mr G to reverse the vasectomy, another picture in the puzzle. Just a chance is what I asked for. Just one more baby is the dream.

I find it hard to believe that last week my husband and I, me almost pain free, he reluctantly resigned, attended an appointment about a reversal. The reality remains, I am reliant on Zolodex injections and amitriptyline to get through the day. I need a hysterectomy. I want a baby. If the reversal was successful I would need to come off all medication and we would need to get shagging like rabbits and praying to the universal gods that a pregnancy would occur before the pain and menstrual dilemmas return in full force. I'd like to think we had months. The reality is the pain would be back in a matter of hours, the window of opportunity would be small. Mr G isn't leaping for joy at the prospect of any of it. For me the nightmare of agony is a scary thing to return to but a chance is what I am clinging to. What I didn't expect and what I can't quite get my head around, is that the specialist suggested we try IVF.

I've never actually suffered from infertility. I once accidentally fell pregnant, all but single and scandalous. We haven't been trying for years to conceive and my husband in fact has had himself sterilised. The idea that sperm could be retrieved and an embryo could be implanted inside me was something I hadn't considered. That it could happen in a matter of weeks is quite scary. That I could remain on the injections throughout the process, however, was an invitation that simply couldn't not be considered. In Mr G's words "it's a needle in the testicles no matter what you decide". The fact it comes down to a window of opportunity and percentages of possibility is something I am getting my head around. What is certain, however, is that it is looking like the chance that I have been begging for, is about to be realised.

The truth is I am not young. At 37 the tick, tick, tick  was always getting louder. I have one perfect child. I have an abdomen riddled with disease and a beautiful husband who has had a vasectomy. He doesn't want a baby. But he wants me to be happy. He is the not often proud owner of one very difficult at times teenager. She should have put me off wanting to have a baby with him, he says. She has most certainly put me off the idea of having one with her mother. I have been the solo parent of one very sick little girl and at the time I met Mr G, I most certainly didn't want to be the solo parent of two. Whilst the vasectomy was a reality, it was also a relief. In the years that we have been together, however, it has caused me much grief. I could handle it a lot more easily when I thought I had a choice. When given the choice of pain or being barren, however, I'm not ready NOT to take the pain. I cry when I see pregnant women. I think of names, I am desperate to be pregnant. I think of very little else.

For the most part I started this blog because quite often, if I say so myself, I can be terribly, blatantly funny. Sometimes others find me so. I have a life which gives rise to many a laugh and a perspective which is bluntly honest and occasionally offensive. I have a husband I adore, a darling daughter who is a dream come true and a step daughter who tries every ounce of patience I have, but is a good hearted kid who I am trying to love. I am hoping also that I can face the funny sides to embarking on a journey to getting pregnant to a test tube and hoping that our lives gets some fairy dust sprinkled on them and that we get to juggle a baby between us. I know the Rabbit will delighted. I know Mr G will be amazing and completely won over. I know the teen will be mortified but she'll cope and probably even love it. I just hope that my chance gets me a poppet I can share with you. To be honest though, I'm also really hoping it's not a ginger.

Adulterous Jigsaw Puzzle Connections.

The problem of discovering that your 5 year old knows about the fitting together of body parts is knowing what to do about it. The sheer horror of finding out from that 5 year old that her six year old cousin had passed on the knowledge doesn't stop at the fact that both of them knew (although the 6 year old's mother was adamant in denial). Aiming to be the perfect parent I agonised how I should now approach the subject with my daughter, given in particular that it was a topic I was not and have never been happy discussing. Given that the child knew SPECIFICALLY that in order to make a baby, the penis goes into the vagina, and given that she was aware that I had completed the disgusting act, and not only that that I had been so disgusting with essentially, in her mind, a complete and utter stranger, the workings of human relationships had skipped to a whole new level. I googled "How to make a baby" books with the view to go shopping and buy one. What was I going to do, I wondered, to 'normalise' the terrible, disgusting, for adults only thing I had done? Aghast at the cost of the books and uncertain of the child's level of interest I headed to the public library to find a suitable publication. I felt like a coated, nude flasher sneaking into the "Children's Special Interest" section in search of child pornography. I was not far wrong.

Children's educational sex books, as it turns out, are technically the opposite of child pornography: they are filled with pictures of grown ups doing unspeakable things with each other for children to see. Children, like my beautiful sweet daughter, a child whose favourite animal is a unicorn. I decided that what she needed to know was that simple, quick jigsaw puzzle connections were indeed what it took to make a baby and that focus would then be placed on eggs, 'spirits' and babies growing so that she would not only know the basic facts but she would also accept them as fact and move on. I buried myself in the few books I could find, trying to decide which book had the right amount of information without letting my daughter know that her parents were filthy, fornicating, sex maniacs whose lack of night clothing on various mornings was not in fact 'because it was hot' but because they'd been interlocking like rabbits for the sheer blinkin' joy of it. Not that we do that of course.

I don't know what it is about librarians that makes them lecherous, but being caught in the child porn section by a softly spoken man asking if I needed HELP as he looked over my shoulder was another part of the whole freaking situation I did not enjoy. 'No thank you" I said as I tried to cover the dirty pictures with, well essentially my breasts. I wanted him to fuck off really but instead he went on to tell me that there were just too many books in the section so they were going to send some of them to different libraries. It was at this point that I turned my back on him and grabbed all of the options available, lest I chose the wrong one and then lost the opportunity to come back for an alternative. This was how "being the perfect parent and providing some information" turned into "going way over the top and setting myself up for sharing way too much information". Said my husband "don't you think you've gone a little overboard?" That was after I'd explained my predicament to the teenager who came out of her bedroom with copies of more literature on the subject saved over from her own educational enlightenment. All in all I had five books on the subject. One would probably have been sufficient. The teen did say, however, that she thought finding out sooner rather than at 9 or 10 when she did was a much better, less shocking time for discovery. Certainly Miss 5 is not traumatised, I can't necessarily say the same for myself.

Thankfully, the Rabbit was thrilled to have some new books from the library. Books are one of her favourite things. I am very proud that her reading level is way, way beyond the 10 weeks she has spent at school. The reality that I couldn't pick or chose what I shared with her, however, flushed wildly all over my face. The level of intrigue was high. I did wonder if maybe I would rather walk naked through a crowd of strangers than show pictures of interlocking grown ups making babies to my new entrant aged daughter. We read "Who has What? All About Girls' Bodies and Boys' Bodies" by Robie H. Harris. We shrieked with laughter (did I say we, I meant she) at the existence of the scrotum, although we can't really deny it is a funny looking body part. We examined penises, on men, boys and dogs, and we cringed (well she laughed) at the existence of vaginas. The book skipped happily into resulting babies, not one penis entered a vagina and it concluded most nicely that everybody is different and there is only one 'me'. We moved on to a comical approach taken by Babette Cole in "Mummy Laid an Egg" which had two parents explain all the ways they wished children could believe babies were made before the children took over the explanation and explained, more specifically, the real sexual jigsaw and, I swear not, that child of mine could NOT get her eyes off the page which had pictures, albeit cartoon pictures, of no fewer than four couples engaging in acts of acrobatic fornication and I needed to wrestle the book off her to get to the end. It finished with two embarrassed parents (not to mention me) and a room filled with animals and the admission that all animals 'got it on'. Thankfully the pictures were not graphic.

I did not get to the book "It's NOT the Stork" also by Robie H Harris, which was the most detailed of the library books I found and really covers far more detail, although skips the graphic pictures in favour of an embracing, blanketed couple in bed. I left it available for my Rabbit to have a look at in her own time, if she so wanted and was really quite relieved and pleased that I had got through the topic without dying from embarrassment, nor being asked any uncomfortable questions. That was until one of the teenager's old books was brought to me for reading a few hours later, the age old "Where Did I Come From" written by Peter Mayle. It seemed quite innocent, I recalled the book from way back in my own childhood and having flicked through now three alternatives without once discussing pleasure, hornyness or filth, I remembered the approach I had intended to take with educating about baby making: making sure the information I was giving matched up with what I thought she needed to know. How I wished I'd read the book BEFORE I found myself reading the following words to my FAR TOO ATTENTIVE small child: the man's penis becomes stiff and hard and much bigger than it usually is...the best thing he can do is put his penis inside her, into her vagina...this is a very nice feeling." As my voice got higher and higher and my stomach climbed to my throat and my legs crossed and my face burned, the tiny child on my lap was engrossed. It went on to 'wriggling', to 'moving up and down', to 'tickling' and it seemed to go on for way, way longer than almost any of the sexual encounters I have EVER had. It discussed orgasms, and spurting sperms and lovely shivers and I swear and I have NEVER been so pleased to see my husband come home early so that we could put the book down and NEVER go near it again. I have hidden it and sworn off sex. I swear I am scared she'll look at me funny or ask specific questions or worse, ask her Daddy. Already she has shown me a wriggling finger and asked "what is this?". No I didn't guess. It was a sperm.

One good thing to emerge was that fact it is clear now why "no, Rabbit, you will not get 'your spirit' to make babies with from Daddy." I think also, for the most part life, has moved back to the way it was before my niece shared way more information than I ever anticipated. But it also clear that my little deep thinker has gone on to give the matter some further thought. Both Daddy and I froze, blushed and gulped on Sunday when a little voice from the booster seat called out  "Daddy, so how many spirits have you used up?". "Just the one Darling, just the one" was the lie. "That's fantastic" replied the cherub, "that means that you've got a thousand left and you'll be able to give one to Mummy so that she can have another baby". "Um humph" said Daddy "look at the clouds."

               Just making it clear: "Mummy Laid an Egg" by Babette Cole

The Birds & the Bees & the Missing Freaking Stork.....

I'm not sure if I've mentioned the fact I'm a prude, but you heard it from me first that it is most definitely the case. I have one small daughter, a work of perfection, a very deep thinker and quite something at 5. I would like to think that I made her myself, her Daddy would like to think that we made her together. The fact is that he met her when she was two; once upon a time there was another someone, a someone who shall be known as the Caped Crusader. Whilst my daughter knows of the existence of the Caped Crusader, they have never met, and he lives, with his head in a hole, on the other side of the world. The Caped Crusader is the person who helped make her, but her Daddy chose to be her Daddy. And she chose him.

I'm afraid I digress, but a few background facts are necessary to tell the story. The story of the Birds and the Bees and the Missing Freaking Stork. The fact that my daughter is 5 and that already she knows more than I ever wanted to discuss comfortably with a five year old. It all started some many months ago when, after a bath, my daughter made a discovery. A Hole in Her Bottom. Quelling the panic I told her quickly that the hole was indeed supposed to be there, it was something called her Middle Bottom. A speedy explanation followed which mentioned the Front Bottom and the Back Bottom, which she knew about and the Middle Bottom which was newly discovered. I told her, scrambling for words, that her Middle Bottom was a thing that all girls and women had and that it was the very place that babies, having grown in tummies, needed to come out of. She knew babies grew in tummies, she'd told me often there were several in hers, I'd casually laughed, told her that she'd have to wait until she was a grown up and she'd argued that there were babies in her tummy and we'd both left it at that. The look on her face this time, however, showed the relief that her Middle Bottom was quite thankfully normal coupled with the curiosity of shock that I might in fact be telling the truth. She put her hands on her hips, looked me up and down and said "Really?". I told her 'most definitely' and we carried on getting dressed and I thought that was the end of the matter.

I couldn't have been more wrong. I also wished at one point of time in the questions that followed I hadn't used the words "the babies have to get in your tummy first" before mentioning the place in which they came out. There was a convoluted discussion about eggs and sperm mixing to make a baby, confirmation of the great path outwards, an intrigued four year old, a scrambling mother and thankfully a large pile of washing that needed doing. It was some hours later when Mr G and I were sitting in the living room, chatting about our day, when the Rabbit with a thoughtful look of purpose interrupted the conversation with a question and statement of fact: "Mummy," she said "If the babies are going to come out of my middle bottom" she said as I sucked up air and readied myself for the question "Do they get in my Back Bottom?" she asked.

I don't believe I've ever said "NO" as many times, nor as rapidly in succession. I also believe I have never felt myself quite as lucky as when my small child accepted the answer "no" and never pressed for the how any further. In the weeks following she made many other mentionings and murmurings, seemingly forgetting the parts about the babies coming out and skipping to the part where they were in fact happy growing babies mixing eggs and 'spirits'. There was the awkward moment when she insisted she was going to get her spirit "from Daddy" and there were also tears about how unfair it was that she couldn't start growing babies NOW because grown ups always get to do everything. Humph. Happily our lives slipped back into comfortable innocence and the little one's thoughts on the matter seemed to dissipate. Until a few weeks ago.

It seemed to start with the question, while were were out walking, "how do you tell girl cats and boy cats apart?" Daddy kept walking, maybe a little faster, while I replied "by looking at their bottoms". The response was laughter and more laughter, the child is now 5 and nothing, no nothing is funnier than toilet humour. "No seriously" I said, although why I persisted when we could have delved into a discussion purely about poohs and blow offs I may never know. "No they DON'T" said the five year old, muffling her giggles, "what do you MEAN?". "Well how are boys and girls different?" I asked. I was proudly told that BOYS have PEE-nises (just in case the neighbours hadn't been eavesdropping) and girls do not. "Exactly" I said "And so do boy cats." At this point it became clear that Mr G had NO idea why I hadn't just said "Boy cats play cricket and girl cats do ballet" as I was being met with the same reaction. "Boy cats do have penises" I insisted, they're just really small and they hide". Finally, FINALLY, the giggling stopped, the child was quiet and the walk continued. Then the question came: "Do the boy cat's penises hide in the day and come out at night?" said the 5 year old. "Hum, something like that" replied Mummy and Daddy.

Once again, I had a lucky escape. We kept walking, life kept moving, innocence was bliss. I did, however, begging to ponder the question of what to tell little children about 'the Birds and the Bees' as I knew my little deep thinker would eventually ask about how babies get in Mummies' Tummies. I asked a few of my online Mum friends when they thought the discussion might come up and what information we should arm our children with. The general consensus was that 5 was still very little, that information should gradually be built up, and that it was not a discussion any of us were looking forward to. One friend said her 9 year old had no idea and another mentioned how she'd found out at school and remembers being shocked. I myself don't remember the great reveal so I'm thinking I found out either too young to remember or I did in fact have the gradual discovery I hoped to allow my daughter. I did recall my mother giving me a book filled with details when I was around ten to answer any questions that might come up but they were in fact details and not basic facts. I remember LOVING that book, or more specifically, loving my mother. Exactly specifically what I loved about my mother was the fact that she knew that the last thing in the world I wanted to ever discuss was sex, and what's more, the last person I wanted to discuss it with was her. Few things have changed, except the very, very, very last person I ever want to discuss sex with is very specifically my daughter. The five year old. The Rabbit.

As a coincidence, a friend the following week posted a link to a very funny article on the subject on Facebook. I attach a link here and couldn't recommend it more. While I did a wee bit of thinking, considered maybe thinking that maybe soon I should be looking for a book that introduced the topic, the birds were very much singing in my ears and the world of my daughter appeared still to be a pink one, filled with fairies and dolphins and unicorns. I can tell you that nothing, nothing about the question of babies getting into tummies and how clever mummies are for making perfect babies and how wonderful a Mummy I hope to be in being open and discussing Birds and Bees and not Storks would prepare me for the statement that was soon to come out of my dear little daughter's mouth. "So" said the chirpy wee voice in the booster seat in the back of the car "Apppparently" she said, as I waited innocently, trying to be attentive. "Appparently to get a baby" she said, as the alarm SHOULD have gone on, "Apparently, to get a baby, Mummy, the PEEnis HAS to go IN the VA -GI-NA" was what she said.

I could have screamed to a holt. I could have casually pointed out a shape of a cloud in the sky that looked EXACTLY like a stork but instead I sort of squeaked "hum, yes, well, um, that would be right." Her turn to be silent. Mulling it over. Clearly she had anticipated denial, maybe laughter, probably not confirmation. "Oh" she said eventually. "So" she hadn't finished and I completely hadn't anticipated this level of depth "Is that what happened?" she asked "Is that what happened with YOU and the Caped Crusader?". I could have crashed the car. I could certainly have leapt from it and run but instead I heard the words come out of my mouth "Um yes....because um darling, that is how you get a baby". I admit my voice was really by now quite squeaky. "Oh" said the five year old. "Well I think that its GROSS" she uttered, clearly a bit disgusted with me. "GOOD" I said, that's just as well because Children SHOULD find it disgusting, it's something that only adults do."

Thankfully, for the time being anyway, THAT was the end of the matter.

The Wedding Speech

On December 3 last year, Mr G and I were married in an intimate garden ceremony on one very HOT day. After saying "I do" and my daughter displaying some of her most terrible ever behaviour, we drank wine in the sun, chatted with our closest friends and looked forward to spending the rest of our lives together. As we said in our vows, I had waited all my life to meet and marry the man of my dreams; for Mr G it was a question of truly believing in the saying "third time lucky..."

I always knew that I was destined for true, romantic love.

My Grandad and my Old Nana here met as penpals during the Second World War, where he was a young soldier. As I know the story, they wrote for many, many months before his letters stopped. My Nana, being my Nana, and knowing there was a war on, assumed he had met someone else. Unbeknown to her, he had been taken captive by the Germans, been put on a ship that was torpedoed, and survived to be sent to a Prisoner of War camp. It was after the war when he sent a telegram on his release, it said “Will You Marry Me?”. She said yes and arranged to meet him in New Zealand at a train station. The train arrived, my Nana followed a young soldier around trying to get his attention, all the while my Grandad, a different soldier, was watching her, amused, from a far. They were married for 50 years.

My own parents have been married now for forty years. They met after my Dad had been in a collision with a train, he was the gravely ill patient and she was the trainee nurse on night shift. As I understand the story, he told his nurse she wasn’t experienced enough to look after him. He told his mother, on the other hand, that she needed to go home; he needed to get some sleep so he could be awake for his night nurse. They married on a whim, had three daughters, have four beautiful grandchildren and despite what some may call ‘all odds’, they remain married and in love with one another today.

Which brings me to my original point; I always knew that I was destined for true, romantic love.

                                                                                           

I think we can safely skip to me being 34. It still hadn’t happened, but still I held hope. I was the very proud and doting mother of one Rabbit, a little dot who every day still amazes me, and while she was and is still my world, I found myself wondering when the true, romantic love story of my life would begin. How can you not all be expecting this: cue music, cue romance…in walked GG.

As some of you may know, and some of you may not, and all of you should agree to never talk of this moment again, GG and I met on Trade Me. I had just listed myself, as a photoless, curious, wannabe romantic. While I received many “Hey there baby” messages, there were two that stood out, MAYBE one that little bit more. It was day two of being online. I received a very lengthy email which essentially said “I really like your profile, I’m really interested in everything you have to say, you sound exactly like the sort of person I want to meet”. It was quite some time after that I found out it was his “catch them every time” stock standard letter that he sent to all the girls.

After some days of emailing back and forward, chatting, and complimenting each other on our grasp of the written English language, including grammar, punctuation and spelling, GG suggested we talk on the phone. I told him that I might call when I felt brave. His words were that he was the nicest guy in the world and we’d be good friends at worst. I called, he answered the phone straight away, we chatted for some time. We arranged to meet. We even arranged to meet at what I thought was a café of my choosing, at a time suitable to me, on a day even that I was free. The Rabbit and I arrived late, my perfect little angel proceeded to lie on the floor and embarrass me no end but I have to admit I thought GG was lovely. We had coffee, he gave me a peck on the cheek, we left, my phone buzzed a message from him within 20 minutes and I began to panic a little that he was actually interested.

It is here the story gets a little bit curious. While I went home, thought meh, and wondered how to get out of the whole thing – to be told by my friend Kim that she would babysit, I would be free on Friday night and it wouldn’t be her fault if we didn’t get married, GG was going through his own scenarios: texting the other girls that he had met on every other day of that week, at the same time, at the same café. What I hadn’t realised, and thankfully for both of us I didn’t realise until many months had past, that I hadn’t actually just been on a ‘date’ I had been for an audition, for a position that had recently opened up on GG’s social calendar, a position that might have been known to others as “GG’s Girlfriend” but one that he himself had taken to refer to in terms of ‘the seasons’. Not the weather, but the football seasons. To be clear, I was auditioning for the role of “Off Season Three” and to make matters worse, it has since become apparent that not only did I go on to fill the position following Seasons One and Season Two, but all the Off Seasons not to mention the Pre Seasons and countless intermissions in between, which had previously been allocated on a strictly short term or should I say seasonal basis. I won’t mention wives.

But back to the romance. Our Friday night date wasn’t that good. It was ok. I had to leap out of the car to stop him try to pash me and I wasn’t that enthusiastic in relaying to Kim how the night had gone. I didn’t really think I’d hear from him again, but for a man with queues of single women lining up at his door, he was extremely persistent. I did quite like him. I was concerned when he turned up with a huge stack of presents for Charlotte for Christmas, within a few weeks of meeting, that I had in fact met a stalker. But I have to say it was very soon after that, that he charmed the pants off me.

I don’t know if my story to tell is one of true romance or if it quite lives up to the stories that went before me, but I do know that GG, now Mr G is most certainly for me, and for the Rabbit, a dream come true. We met after a time where I was a solo Mum to a frequently very sick little girl and not only did he love me and make me laugh, and make me love him, he formed a bond with my daughter that is really so special. It was not terribly long into our relationship when Charlotte asked GG if she could call him Daddy. While I turned into a crazy fruitloop of a worried thing, GG didn’t blink. It was like they had a need and a love for one another, that it wasn’t really about me. There was always a promise that he would be the Rabbit’s Daddy and I think that watching GG with my daughter, is one of the things that makes me love him the most.

I am going to get all sad and soppy now so I’m going to stop. It has been a very difficult year, for so many people, in particular the people that I have to thank. I want to say Ang thank you so much for getting me here and organising me, and supporting me and bridefying me, to J and P thank you so much for an amazing day, you have been so lovely to have us all here, to Mum and Dad for pretty much everything, to GG’s parents, to everyone else thank you so much for coming, to my little flower girls and boy, to my Rabbit, I love you so much baby girl and Mr G, thank you so much, for picking me out of all the girls you auditioned that week, I am very happy that you have given me the part!

Pubically Schick

I have to be honest about pubic hair, I have a lot of it. It has plagued me since puberty and proved to be difficult to control. I’m a prude of sorts, with forever ingrown hairs on my bikini line, and a battler to keep the area under management. I’m also a little old school: pre brazillians and landing strips, too prudish to display the problem to a beautician and too aghast to think that men would be after ‘little girl bottoms’. I have always aimed for the perfect trimmed triangle, battled for adequate and assumed it didn’t affect anyone but myself. Then I met Mr G.

Unlike any man I have ever met in the past, Mr G likes to keep his balls clean shaven. On occassion he’s even shaved his penis. He proudly told me he did it for me. I confusedly ask him why he thinks I’d find it anything but weird. And unnecessary. And dangerous. He stopped doing it quite so often. He’s a man who loves me to bits and whose love is returned. He can be a little blokey and laughs at my stuffiness. He’s often short of compliments but makes me laugh to the point I feel warm and content all over. He’s a wonderful Dad to my daughter and he’s down right darned sexy. Nothing quite prepared me, however, for the comment “Darling, let’s be honest, we need to do something about your bush.”

For I moment I worried he was a paedophile, then dismissed it. I explained I was a little surprised. I advised I would never have a full botty wax or trim beyond the triangle. I secretly surmised that the least area trimmed was more than sufficient for my ingrowing problem. I attacked his silliness in his own penile arena and quite frankly I put an end to the conversation. But a seed had been sewn. Oh how my curiosity sprouted when I saw the advertisement for the new Schick Quattro razor and bikini trimmer at supermarket prices. Oh, how I wondered if I could be pubically schick.

It’s about this time I need to cut a long story short. I bought the device. I know many others out there have one, as it took three attempts at scouring the shelves on three different occasions to find the very last one left. I snatched it up and looked the other way as it went through the checkout. I took it home to try it. It was fabulous. Not only was it fabulous, it was fun. It is a battery operated, shower friendly, sheering device that took my bush down to a tidy and clipped triangle quite devoid of savagery. There was no foreplay for me that night. The effects were instantaneous.

So proudly I regarded my new look privates. I even set out for a trip to the swimming pool, excited that there would be no little mound of concealed but abundant pubic hairs on display. I even dropped my guard from the area and relaxed into public swimwear appearance. I smiled as I engaged in cheerful phatic communion with passers by. It was then that made the mistake of looking down. Quite unexpected in my schickness  and quite unnerving in my public situation, a glint caught my eye. Hundreds of glittering, ginger, fairy light, sharpened pube ends were poking through the lycra.

Introductions

For the purpose of the blog, perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Alora and I am a talkaholic. I also like wine, have a 5 year old daughter, the Rabbit, and am married to a man I shall call Mr G. Mr G has a teenager who lives in our house nearly all the time. The Contessa. Before I met the Contessa I had no idea how intimate a relationship one could have with wine. I have lived with her now for some years. Chardonnay is my favourite. We have two cats, Tubby and Stinky, and we live in the suburbs in a house that is still standing, in a City that has fallen down. Christchurch New Zealand is where we call home.

I describe myself best as a Mummy and a Footballers Wife. My daughter is my pride and joy, my husband is an ageing goalie on a well aged team and a passionate supporter of Arsenal. I love him very much. My official role in life is Housewife, although on all official documents under occupation I write Solicitor. It seems hard to believe, but once upon a time I was one. Due to a series of life's unhealthiest hurdles I find myself in charge of a vacuum cleaner but without an office. I am searching for a new role in life, one with less cleaning duties and more pomp and ceremony but for the time being I intend to blog my life as it pops into my head. I hope to share a laugh or two, undoubtedly at my expense, with you along the way.

Hello Blog.

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions normally, I've always found they were like gym memberships: you start out with great gusto but within a week or two you have a packet of crisps in one hand, a wine in the other and you're a gym membership poorer. Not only that but on a monthly basis your bank balance tells you that you remain a paid member of the gym yet your bottom is still bulging. The moral of the story is that guilt immediately takes over from that pious 'why yes I do belong to a gym' feeling from the week you joined and shame will forever keep you paying the fees until you build up the courage to let the gym know that you have in fact quit. So I am self banned from joining gymnasiums and I usually have a blanket ban on New Years Resolutions, although that may be that for me, and 97% of the world's resolution making population, the two are in fact one and the same thing. Not this year. This year I am being resolute. This year I have officially resolved to commence keeping a blog. I am doing well. I have started. We shall ignore that it is halfway through February. Hello Blog, I am pleased to meet you.