Making Mountains out of Toadstools

It's been another jam-packed week, wall to wall with watching TV, playing games on the computer, making meals in cauldrons so they last a few days and trying to hold back the urge to do more washing. I resisted the urge to a point, which I'm very proud of. There are only 4 garments hanging on clothes hangers off the hallway door frame, instead of the 12 that were there last week when I succumbed to overwashing.

Also, I went to the Quack, hoping for a quick-fix (you can hear the naivety, right?) to a recurring annoying problem that has recurred recurrently since I've had the kids. Prior to kids, it didn't happen, so I can certainly blame them. I got a quick-fix alright, and it involves eating no carbohydrates for a week. As a Pole, I don't really understand food without potatos. This could be a problem, I thought. Following this stinging slap, the Doctor hit me with a cricket bat; No sugar. Of any kind. You understand what this means, right? No chocolate. I really was just hoping for a pill. I may have been willing to have minor surgery instead of this. And it follows that I've just brought home a box of Fundraising chocolates home from Kinder last week. RIPPED OFF.

And the worst part is, if this fixes my problem, then I obviously have to stay away from sugar. Like, forever. F O R E V E R.

Oh yeah, that and also a referral for an ultrasound to make sure that my benign ovary lump friends haven't returned, just in case. Oh, the fun.

I'm really only worried about the chocolate.

Here are some pics from a Mushrooming expedition to Macedon on Thursday; I forgot my camera and had to make do with Dad's point'n'shoot, which is a great little camera but I didn't know how to use it properly to get the best out of it, and I find that the images aren't the best.

Mushrooming is an annual event in my family, and Dad knows all the plantation forests where the pine trees make a perfect habitat for the kids of European mushrooms that he uses in all the traditional cooking.

It's the end of the mushroom season, and Dad's already been a number of times, and has a massive haul of mushrooms at home, all drying on their little ropes in front of the heater, making their place smell divine. We really went so that the kids could have an adventure, and that they certainly did. The Ratbag traipsed around that forest for over 3 hours with Dad, he was red-cheeked and bright eyed, and had a wonderful time stomping around in his gumboots. Coupled with the fact that he was allowed to rip his pants off and wee ANYWHERE, he was the happiest he'd been for ages. Peanut was the quietest I've ever known her to be, she was completely enthralled with the silence in the woods, and her eyes were huge, drinking in the experience. We only ran into one other set of persons, and of course, they were Polish, looking for the same mushrooms. Damn Poles, we run into them every year, though not the actual same ones. That would be creepy. We eventually got back to the car, had a picnic on the grass (where THESE were a major hit, as they always are),

and both of the kids were so buggered that they crashed the moment that the car started moving again on the way home.

I spent the whole evening peeling the skins off the Mushrooms that we'd picked, cleaning and chopping them into pieces for drying, so I too could come home to that smell I remember from my childhood. However, the wind was taken out of my sails a bit when Mr M came over to the kitchen and asked me why I brought home all the Toadstools. Seriously.

I know they're not toadstools, and I've been picking and eating them since I was a girl, but what the hell are they? In Polish, they are maslaki, but can anyone identify them in English?

I took great pleasure in pointing out that he'd actually been eating them for years, in every friggin' meal that Dad's ever prepared. And he's not even dead or anything.

Unexpected Return

Bloody hell, she's posting twice in one month!

Well, you're right to be shocked and dismayed; what could it mean!

Digging

Normally it would take me weeks to recover from the rants of the previous post, but being fired on Wednesday has invigorated me in strange ways. I definitely feel that it was for the best, much like falling out of a bird's nest and landing softly in a cat's lap; the adrenalin has kept me running. I've been busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.

This is my digging hand.

Putt Putt Bang

I've done about 40 loads of washing, and will have to re-wash most of it, as it done gone sour before space became available on the drying rack.

Mr M, kicking 'er in the guts

I've washed both of my dogs. Trust me, that's a big deal.

Oldtimers, waiting for lunch

I finally watched Twilight. Seriously, I felt like I was 16 years old, sneaking fags and asking my friend to ask his friend if he'll go out with me. I knew it was cheesy, but I brought the crackers and dug that cheese baby. I immediately went over to my sister's house and borrowed all the books.

Artistic shot of old tin full of fusty old oil. Sorry.

There's an Emu on the other side of this fence.

I followed this by Let The Right One In. It wouldn't play on my DVD properly. There were no subtitles. I watched it in Swedish. It was one of the best movies I've ever seen. I couldn't understand a word. I never got to watch the end though as it crashed my player, so I reserve the right to change my mind upon watching the whole thing, but I have a good feeling. What I did see, rocked my vampire world. Not like Blade or The Hunger, but in it's own freaky Swedish way.

Eyeing off some spanners while the big boys aren't looking.

I've laid rows of bricks around the garden beds which had an annoying habit of spreading onto the path. This meant that the dogs thought it was garden, and dropped nuggets all over it, so we were constantly traipsing around in dog turds and washing it out of our shoes. ANNOYING.

YYYEEEEAAAAWWWWAAAAARRRRRRRR

Happiness is a Chocolate Muffin

And on Sunday we packed up the kids, the snags and the camera and loped up to Bundoora Park, where Mr M belongs to the Eltham Steam and Stationary Engine Preservation Society (their clubhouse is on the grounds - all the above photos were taken there on Sunday). It was a last minute decision to ease our cabin fever, and I took one for the team, knowing that Mr M and the kids would love it. It turned out that the price was fair; I did have to watch putt-putt-bangs being started up, but I also got to eat sausages in bread with old men, so... win / win, right?

Crafty Wonderland and Other Stories

Bless me Blogland, for I have lived. It's been a month and two days since my last post. In that time, I have not dyed my hair, and decided to acknowledge that I'm going grey. In fact, I went grey some time ago, and have been unsuccessfully hiding under a cloak of Supermarket Darkest Brown. I am 36. So what. Next.

I've rediscovered that my body has it's own cycle, outside of the pill-enforced one. It might be lopsided and go up and down like a whore's drawers, but it's a cycle never the less. Live with it. Next.

I've come to the conclusion that I like skirts. I've started wearing them more and more, and am rethinking my entire wardrobe philosophy. I would like to own more skirts. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner, but now that I have, I plan to revisit all the local Op-Shops with this new skirt head on. I may have missed great skirts just because I wasn't looking for them. Skirts are my new shtick. Next.

I've discovered that even though the Ratbag is generally entirely unconcerned with any art or craft activities (that is; if I want a drawing out of him, I have to put the pen in his hand, and jerk his arm around so that the pen connects with the paper, and quickly too, before he realises what's happening and piffs the pen across the room), he is suddenly interested in learning how to spell and write his own name. He picks up a writing instrument of his own accord, and painstakingly writes his name on stray bits of paper. This is really great, because I now don't think that I will have to strap pens to his fingers ala Edward Scissorhands in order to teach him before he hits High School and it becomes embarrassing. He still grips it like a monkey holding a spanner, but at least now he's discovered what it's for. Next.

I've noticed that Peanut has an immense vocabulary for a little girl not quite 18 months old. She repeats words like some kind of gorgeous blond parrot, and is starting to put words together to ask for things. This morning when I picked her up out of the cot, she reached out for her Iggle Piggle and quite clearly said "Got Him!". When we got home after a day out, she said "Made It!". It's wonderful that she speaks so well, but it's probably not necessary, as she has an amazingly expressive face, and she's able to uplift you or wither you with but a single look. Her auntie picked her up for a cuddle over the weekend, but made the mistake of smoking beforehand. The evil eye she received was enough to make her take a step backwards and blink as if she'd been slapped with a dead fish. No words necessary. Next.

Lastly, I've been away for the long weekend. The whole experience was so good for my soul; I rediscovered that I am a person outside of Mum, Mrs and Employee. I made lovely things in the company of great women, I ate meals that I didn't have to think up and prepare, and I slept until I woke up of my own accord and not because a little boy wiggled in under the doona at 6.30am. I drank a glass of wine not as a desperate escape but just because I wanted to taste it, and ate chocolate with no guilt. I stayed up late, not because I was desperate for 'me time' but because I was inspired and wanted to create.


What was this mythical experience? Why, a craft weekend of course, with like-minded people, at a lovely country cottage, where the winter fog didn't lift for three days, and where the craft studio was warm and well-lit, and full of women creating and working, chatting and swapping, helping and learning.


I made this suede Ladybug which I hadn't planned but which just came together so well,
Peanut's little skirt - see above - she's wearing it although you can't really see what it's like, unfortunately it's the best pic of the day (my first ever functional garment - using pattern, corduroy fabric, overlocker and binding-making skills of OneGirl - (Thank you so much, notice how I stayed fairly close to you all weekend? Was hoping to learn more by osmosis- Sorry, signed; Your Stalker).

Thanks to all the ladies who made it such a great weekend, including Jenny of the fabulous dahl and wool tunic, wool-spinning Suse who makes her own kick-arse socks for God's sake, Sooz - you aren't very scary at all, although you are frank, funny and extremely helpful and Thank You for my Ladybug's eyes among other things), hat-making Ellen all clad in denim, and super-nice pyro Eleanor who praised everyone's efforts, even my first-time hack ones. How good was it to finally put a face to the Blog? I'm sorry for all the times that you may have walked past me and had your olfactories assaulted, it was all the meat.. and lentils. I think your delicious soup should have a name Janet, and that the name should be Fart Soup. I was also treated to a Tap Dance performance courtesy of Stomper Girl, who was working on choreography on the veranda, stomping away on her Tap Board all weekend, except when reworking her Mum's old skirt into a specially-shiny book cover. I happened to walk past from house to studio while she was in full flight, arms swingin', feet tappin' away in a complicated routine, and couldn't walk away - she was mesmerising! What a fantastic thing to witness, thanks for the treat!


And Julie, guess what! Remember how I didn't know what Charm Squares were for? Well, I used the ones I bought from you in the making of my Peanut's quilt !!! It took me all of Sunday to do it, but the front is almost done, and so different to what I expected! Instead of trying to replicate symmetrical patterns I went native and made a patchwork of completely incidental pieces to create a bit of a freeform quilt. Off to Spotlight on Friday to get the wadding and there might even be a quilt-shaped rainbow at the end of the tunnel, who knows... still, I have made it over 2 metres each way, because as I said to Stomper, when I fail, I like to fail spectacularly.


The next craft weekend is a whole year away, but I've written it in my diary, with preceding weekly reminders, starting today. NEXT!

On a completely unrelated note, how's the 'Followers' widget? Does anyone else wait and wait and wait and wait until someone has pity on them and 'Follows' them? It was getting a bit embarrassing, wasn't it?


Oh, and finally, I got sacked yesterday. That took the warm glow off my weekend somewhat. I was 'escorted' out without saying a word let alone telling them how I really feel, which pissed Mr M off no end. He likes the big fanfare at the end and once had a screaming match with a boss over who was going to kick who's nuts harder.

I guess I was caught off guard a little bit but the thought of not having to go back in there lifts my spirits a bit, because quite frankly, I wouldn't give them the steam off my... shit, is that the time? It's cuppa o'clock, and I've got the Tim Tams to prove it.

And One Was Not Enough After All

And so, firstly, let me say that on reflection of my previous post, I painted it pretty black. I wrote it the way I remembered it, which wasn't nice. And I didn't lie when I said it took me a while to get over it, but honestly, now that I read the way I remember those events, I reckon I was a bit of souk. Really. In fact, I think that every mum's birth story is just as dramatic and unbelievable, and just as interesting as all the others. If it wasn't for the last minute change from 'engaged' to 'breech', I think I would have done alright. It undid me a bit, that did. And I've never been to that Schloctor again, and I never will.

So, when we realised that I was pregnant for the second time (and let me just say that Mr M is a dead shot, as we didn't get to have any 'fun trying') I was in a bit of a quandary. To VBAC or not to VBAC? To go Public or to fork out for Private? In the end, we went Private, with the surgeon who chopped his way in during the emergency to retrieve the Ratbag. I figured if anyone knew his way around my bits, he certainly did.

There were a few dramas in the beginning, when I suddenly stopped feeling sick. Basically, I went to bed nauseous, and woke up fine, which was kind of odd. My GP did a blood test to make sure I was actually pregnant, and this came back positive, so she thought it was a good idea for an ultrasound to be performed straight away to determine how pregnant I actually was, and whether or not the 'foetus was viable'. What cold words to mean ' to see if your baby is alive'. The ultrasound showed that I was actually about 9.5 weeks pregnant (see what I mean? I thought we tried a few times, but in fact, I'd been knocked up at first go), but that this couldn't be said with certainty, and that a heartbeat could not be detected. Basically, I was told to wait and see, and if I had miscarried, then my body would act out the last part of the drama itself. And if it didn't, then I would be off for a curette. I realised at this point that I actually REALLY WANTED to be pregnant, and the thought of carrying around a dead baby made me very emotional and easily upset. My vocabulary decreased and consisted mostly of 4-letter words, there was road-rage, I almost got fired for being a complete bitch, and we still couldn't tell anyone what the hell was going on. We had a strange couple of weeks, waiting for a miscarriage, or for the 12 week ultrasound, whichever came first.

Point Cook Beach, November 2007

In the absence of a miscarriage, I fronted for the 12 week ultrasound. The baby was alive, and a heartbeat was detectable. Immense relief was followed by anxiety when the sonographer announced that the baby was uncooperative and an exact age couldn't be determined, nor the nuchal test. It was apparently refusing to budge from it's comfy burrow in order to be properly measured. Again, I should have seen this as a sign of things to come, because as everyone knows, Peanut is a complete wench.

Anyhoo, I digress. Another ultrasound had to be scheduled, so that a more experienced sonographer could have a go at working out what the hell was going on in there. She also had problems getting a good reading, and I alternated between drinking gallons of water to peeing half of it out (this didn't hurt AT ALL), walking briskly up and down the corridors and generally behaving in an unstable manner in order to get that little bugger to move around a little bit. But finally I was told the definite story; the baby was fine, it was about 11.5 weeks old. All results were good. The pregnancy could proceed.

Everything was much easier after we could tell people, including my boss, what had been making us (I mean me) so irritable and distant. I enjoyed pregnancy, and again, I had few problems, except that the inconveniently placed varicose vein (hereby to be known as Vince for short) returned much earlier than expected. Last time, it appeared when I was about 7.5 months, but this time, at about 4 months. Overstaying it's welcome, like most unwanted guests.


The 18 week ultrasound was amazing, and this time, the technology at the hospital had improved, because we got a CD to take home. The sonographer told us that the sex was clearly discernible. We already agreed that we had to know - we are planners, Mr M and I. There were 8 kids on his side of the family, his sister and brothers have all procreated, and produced a total of 7 boys, plus the Ratbag, so 8 little boys on his side. My side hasn't had any other kids, so we just had to know if we were on the way to the family footy team or if we would be mavericks. And apparently, amazingly, we were about to have a baby girl. I was at a bit of a loss. Mr M claimed that he just knew it was a girl, and to be honest, he had been saying it all along. I wasn't so sure, and almost wished for another boy that I would know what to do with. Perhaps there were girl-nappy-changing classes that one could take.

At about this time, I decided that I would chicken out of the VBAC, and booked myself in for an elective C-section. Mostly, I figured that this way I knew what I was in for, and it couldn't be any worse than last time, but also, I just didn't want to bother Vince.

As the months went on, I almost regretted that decision, there was a bit of guilt associated with ripping a baby out of it's hidey-hole prematurely (if you elect, they try to do it at about 38 weeks to lessen chances of going into labour spontaneously). I was healthy and strong, there was no reason why I couldn't do it, and I should try - that was the general consensus. At about 30 weeks, I was wavering between the choices, and still couldn't make up my mind. Delivery at 38 weeks put me smack-bang on New Years' Eve, and although this could be done, I didn't want the baby to take a back-seat to an annual celebration for her Birthday. Superficial much? Hm.

So we (yes alright, me) decided to meet nature half-way. I would go longer, until the 4th of January. If I went into labour beforehand, then I would go the VBAC. If not, then the C was scheduled for 9am. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't care for the VBAC, because I'M A GREAT BIG COWARD. There you go Peanut, Mummy chose not to Force You Out through her lady bits, in favour of Chopping a new hole in her guts to bring you into the world. Because that would be less painful.

Werribee Mercy Hospital, my lovely room. 8.30am, 4th January 2008,
waiting to have a baby removed.

But in the end, I had a lovely Xmas and NY because I didn't worry about it anymore. I was too heavily pregnant to care. I had a 2.5 year old toddler toddling around my feet, and I worked almost until Christmas, so relaxing was high on my priority list, and pretty high on the Buckley's Chance list too. We took the Ratbag off to his Family Day Care Lady's house (he knew there was a baby sister coming, and he kept asking when we would get her, like we just had to pick her up from the shop), and we duly fronted up to the hospital on the 4th of Jan at 8am, took occupancy of our room (things had changed in the hospital - I now had a room to myself to recover in, and didn't have to put up with the other patients inconsiderate and noisy visitors - there was one lady who had her entire extended family in our room, kids running around, old men stinking of cigarettes, the works - surely she didn't really like this either??) and waited until we got a baby to take home.
There wasn't even a queue.

I recognised some of the midwives from last time, and surprised myself by realising that I didn't hold anything against them, and that in fact, I was apologising to them for the way events unfolded. I was apologising for the crying, and the swearing, and all the other bad behaviour, and just for holding them all responsible for the way events unfolded last time. And they were all lovely and kind, and the Ward Supervisor held us up on the way into surgery so that she could give me a kiss on the forehead and wish me luck. I loved her for that. Her name is Jenny. Thank you Jenny.

It really was completely different, although just as surreal. The epidural was quick and didn't hurt much, and because I wasn't in labour pain or contracting, it just felt like my legs had gone to sleep. It was very quiet in the surgery and very relaxed, and no-one was running around in a panic like in ER. The only thing that made me uncomfortable was that everyone around me just talked among themselves like I wasn't there. AGAIN. Is there a common thread here? I really think that this should be Surgery 1.0; Let's not talk about our own affairs over the head of the patient like she is not there. It is rude and unnerving, and makes her feel like a production-line car being assembled. Seriously. I think they were discussing their Golf day or something, the unfeeling bastards.

Our Family made larger at 10.02am.

I asked them to let me know when they were about to start, Mr M and I looking at each other, smiling nervously. "We're half-way there already!" Was the answer. So, after a relatively short time on the chopping block, there was that same sensation of limbs being born, and the body, and the head.. very surreal. No pain, just the pulling and lifting out. Everything was quiet, and calm, and we waited to find out if she was okay, this little baby, another child to add to our family.

We couldn't decide on her name for a week, ergo; Peanut

She made little sounds as she came out, not like the lusty scream that erupted out of the Ratbag. It was like a little kitten mewling. We were desperate to have a look at her, and after Mr M deftly cut the cord, they lay her across my chest, and we had a lovely, quiet cuddle. I was desperate for this, because I didn't really get to do it with the Ratbag, and spoke to the midwives about how I could achieve the least time away from her after the C. I knew it would still be recovery time away from them, but I just wanted more time with her before they took her away. I think the surgeon actually paused for a minute, and I thought it was to let me have this special time. I noticed how tiny she was - so much smaller than her brother. She was 6 pounds 4 ounces, compared to his 9. I noticed that she didn't have any eyebrows or eyelashes, and I was so disappointed for her, because I remembered that her brother had lovely, girly long eyelashes, and here was my girl, and she missed out on them. She had the finest, downy hair on her little head, and it was blond. I compared their looks, and they were completely different - he was just a big, robust boy, and she was so tiny and fragile and slim, it made me feel even more guilt over ripping her out of my body too soon. I thought she could have done with more time in the oven, and I said this to the theater midwife, but she just smiled, and stroked my hair, and reminded me that we had a few days in hospital with all the help around me to make sure she was fattened up.


And then, after a brief few minutes together, Mr M and Peanut left the surgery, to wait while I was returned to one piece. I expected the same as last time - a quick stitch-up, and about an hour before I could see my baby girl again. But in a very calm and quiet voice, the Surgeon said; "I'm going to be as quick and neat as possible, but I need to let you know that I'm about to remove two lumps from your ovary. This could take a little while."


You what now? That's not on the menu is it? It's not something you really consider - when you think to yourself "I hope they don't find anything strange in there" usually means that you hope they don't find another baby hiding behind the uterus.


He elaborated by saying that he thought the lumps were not cancerous. He thought they looked like harmless lumps, but they would be going off to biopsy anyway, and it would not take long to find out. He was really quite good and very fast, because a few short minutes later he announced that the lumps had been removed, and he was well on the way to stitching me closed. I asked how big they were, wondering how he had found two little lumps on my ovaries through the surrounding blood and guts. "About 5 centimetres across." He said. Oh well - no wonder he had no trouble finding them. Maybe they were my secret testicles.



So, in fact, it wasn't just a short hour before I saw my new baby again, it was 2.5 hours, and Mr M hadn't been told about any of this, so they had a very anxious time waiting for me back in our room. Apparently Peanut cried at first, and then fell asleep in her Daddy's arms. But he was worried sick, because I was gone for a long time. We deliberated the lumps together, but forgot about them as the hour-to-hour care began. Peanut was a great feeder, and although I still had trouble with her latching on (the same as her brother), I brought my trusty nipple shields with me, and then we got off to a good start.


I didn't have the same anxiety and attitude as the first time, and I think that this reflected in my behaviour as well, and the midwives could see that Peanut was feeding well, putting on weight and getting stronger, and by the time I left, I was feeding her on demand and expressing copious amounts of milk as well. This was boding quite well, I thought. The midwives were all fantastic, and I had a bit more confidence about me as well, so we all got along. I was healing really well too, and unlike the first time which took forever and was very painful. This time, I was up and about in no time, and didn't have any of the pain and trouble I had with the first. I suppose it's because of the stress your body is under when you are in labour, and the bruising, etc. It all takes so much longer to heal.


I loved being in hospital this time, and made the most of it. Mr M and the Ratbag came in every day, but the big brother wasn't very happy with me, and behaved badly. He liked the baby, and held and cuddled her, but didn't speak to me, and didn't want to spend time with me at all.
When I came home, it took a couple of weeks before I could worm my way into his affections again, and was allowed to read his bedtime story. He didn't want a bar of me for a while, but loved his little sister, isn't that strange?


And so, this really was a completely different experience; calm and happy and completely planned, as opposed to hysterical and awkward. But, in the end, the boy whose arrival was heralded by so much friggin' drama is a loving and affectionate clever boy, and the quiet, unassuming girl has since turned into a headstrong, wilful, evil genius, capable of destructive Godzilla-like tantrums. Go figure.

Warning: Rated M for Mucous and T for Too Much Information

I like to read this blog by Laura-Jane, as she is a midwife, and often posts about her experiences on the wards. My mother-in-law was a midwife, and has also told me some amazing stories. It made me respect her even more, if that's possible. There is something really compelling about birth stories, and I'm a sucker for them. Also, I'm fascinated by the use of professional terms, such as primip. I don't know what they mean, and I'm too embarrassed to ask, but never the less, they impress me. Then, last week, I was just having a look at a home birth video featured in an Ad, posted by Blue Milk, and started reminiscing about my two birth experiences. And then I though; 'What the hell! Let me post about my births, and let my future-adult children cringe as they read about it!'. Feel free to switch off here..

The Ratbag's First Photo. We told everyone we named him Norbert.

Actually, I was always fascinated by stories of my own birth, is everyone, or is it just me? Maybe I'm really posting this so that my kids know what really happened before it grows any more foggy in my already scatty mind.

So, the Ratbag was due, conveniently, on Mother's Day, 8th May 2005. I waited for him patiently all day, talking to him, very excited and feeling quite good. Being an amateur, I actually thought he would arrive on the due date. I should have know better of course, as he was male and not to be scheduled. I don't remember being nervous about the birth itself, only about how I would do as a Mum. I had gotten myself into a state of sure confidence about the birth, following my dear friend recently giving completely natural breech birth to her first child (what a legend!). I knew I could do it, my friends had done it, it would be natural. Being 'a pregnant' was great too, only a very short period of all-day sickness and an inconveniently placed varicose vein dampened the experience over that whole 40 weeks. Oh, that, and feet swollen roughly to the size of watermelons. Oh, that and a REALLY LARGE BABY who was apparently trying to get out by kicking a hole through my ribcage. In short, I loved being a pregnant.

Happy, carefree, very pregnant, all good, super duper all-natural birth coming up, tra la la

We waited all that day, and the next day, and the next, until the Doctors appointment on Wednesday. Doctor says: baby engaged (had been told this for about 4 weeks by several different midwives on the team), heart strong, all good. Will be induced next Sunday if nothing happens in the meantime, as they would not let me go past 41 weeks. So, at this point, I would like to testify that sex, hot curries and walking a lot does not really bring a birth on. And if it does, I was doing it wrong, wrong, wrong.

So, on Sunday evening, 15th May, we reported to the hospital for an induction. By then, I really was a bit anxious, because my perfectly natural birth experience was about to be interfered with. Oh, that and the fact that come hell or high bloody water, I was going to have a baby tomorrow. I remember talking to Mr Mangroves about this in the car. He seemed remarkably calm for a dad-to-be. It was odd really, all the surprise-ending was taken out of it. There really would be a baby tomorrow, and apparently, I would be giving birth to it. In fact, I was willingly going to the hospital right now, to have my cervix stimulated. My naive, pretty birth dreams were evaporating with the snap of a latex glove.

Still happy, just a bit more pregnant, if that is at all possible, tra la la

And so, cervix duly (painfully, stingingly) gelled-up, we went home again, to wait. A telling start to events that followed, because this was my first 'internal' of any kind. I had been palpated by lots of different people on the outside of my enormous guts, but no one ever did an internal. I spent pretty much the whole night in contractions, watching shit TV (didn't have the capacity to actually watch it, but I think I may in fact have watched a whole episode of This Is Your Life with Benny Hinn - NOT PROUD) and doing a crossword. I sent Mr M to bed, as I didn't want him watching me squirm all night, and to be honest, I wanted at least one of us to have had some sleep before The Baby came, just in case he needed to be look after or something. So, with Benny Hinn and The Age crossword as companions, and having contractions every 5 minutes (I noted them down on the edge of the crossword) to make sure I stayed awake, I waited out the night. Then, at about 4am I noticed that the contractions were slowing down. Bummer.

By the time I got into hospital at 9am, and got more gelled-up (excruciating just about covers it - I was told that 3cms dilation had occurred through the night following the first gelling), they had slowed right down to about 7-8 minutes apart. As I was going through the public system, my gyno-trained GP came in to have a look at me around 10am. Again a popping of latex after the most cursory hello (he was always an arsehole, but the hospital-based team of lovely midwives would be delivering this baby anyway, so I let him get away with it) followed by an announcement that he wasn't thrilled with my progress. He decided that he would liven up the action with a nice syntocin and heart-rate monitor cocktail. Oh, and a coat-hanger. Err, I mean the hook for breaking your water membrane.

Happy friggin' days, when's that kid coming?

And here is the thing, I somehow expected for there to be a neat gush that would be caught by whatever towel was neatly placed under me. What actually happened was that after an initial not-so-neat gush, I leaked steadily for the next couple of hours. All over my specially-bought birth pyjamas, which in my planned dream birth were going to somehow stay clean throughout the whole ordeal, several towels, many a maternity pad, and finally, me and anyone who came close to me. Why doesn't anyone tell you that? Well, if you've not yet had the pleasure, I'm telling you. Giving birth is a messy, bloody, mucousy, wet, undignified business.

Once the synto kicked in, those contractions went up faster than a speeding meth-head. Seriously, from 8 minutes apart, I went to 2 minute intervals that just about gave me concussion. It was absolutely intense, and not at all like the gradual build-up I expected. Mr M commented on the change in my demeanor, from 'Me In Pain' to 'Banshee from Hell'. My sister arrived at about this time, all rosy-cheeked and armed with a deck of cards (who else thought that there would be fun and games while waiting for The Baby to gently plop out onto a waiting blanket? Damn you Cosmopolitan Pregnancy Issue). This was shortly followed up by a midwife calmly informing us that as they were short staffed and as a couple of women were in more advanced labour than myself, the synto would now be turned down, and my labour would be postponed until a more convenient time, or until the midwives were available again to monitor me properly.

Well BUGGER ME, I though, I wish someone had told me we could do that! I would have asked to go back next week to give me more time to prepare and perhaps wash a few more floors. And maybe hold off the mucous for a few more hours, I could definitely have done without THAT.

And so, we listened to a woman next door giving birth for the next couple of hours, while going back to pain every 5-6 minutes or so.

We eventually heard the labouring woman next door get down to the business end, and listened fascinated as her baby was born, healthy strong lungs announcing his arrival. The tensions eased for a while, and strangely, for a few seconds, I thought it was me. The relief was indescribable. And then, a contraction came on and I was back to reality. At least the midwives were off high alert now, and back with us. The synto went back up, and off I went into shock again, with how fast and strong the contractions were all of a sudden. I went from the bed to the floor, from the floor to the giant ball, from the ball to the shower, and back to the bed again, starting to feel like things were really out of control now, and completely different to what I had imagine, and hoped for. And where the fuck were my lovely midwives, who were supposed to be gently but firmly coaching me into giving birth? I felt alone and getting desperate for someone to tell me what the hell was going on. They were pretty casually walking in and out of the room, checking the monitor, telling me everything was fine, and then leaving again. What the hell did that mean? Nothing was fine, and I wasn't fine, but I didn't even know it.

It was probably about 3pm (approx 5 hours since I first got jabbed with the synto, and remembering that I'd been contracting since 7pm the previous night ) that the Doc popped in again, casually asked how things were going, and an equally casual midwife answered that everything was on track. He then announced that he would be back in another hour or so to check on me. I really had hoped that someone would ask ME how things were going, and I could then tell them that I WAS NOT HAPPY with the proceedings. But instead of telling them, I burst into tears. I was so emotional, in pain, uncomfortable and TIRED, that I just wanted to cry. I remember that Mr Mangroves stood up, and firmly announced that something was wrong, and that another internal exam should be done to find out what was happening. Begrudgingly (or was that my overtired imagination?), the Doc snapped on another glove, and with a dissatisfied look, calmly announced that I had not progressed past the previously announced 3 cms. And he wasn't even looking at me, it was like a private chat with the midwives. I was completely horrified. The past few hours of pain had produced nothing, and my Doctor was an arsehole. I wondered how much longer they would have let me go without checking the dilation if Mr M hadn't stepped in.

But alas, that wasn't even the worst news. He was suddenly very attentive and to describe it quite frankly, having a really good feel-around. He was very quiet, and everyone stopped talking and looked at him expectantly. Seriously, there wasn't anything he could have said that went down like a lead balloon quite so much as "I hope that's not a bum I'm feeling..." Except perhaps if he had said that there were three of the little buggers in there. Anyhoo... there was Stunned Silence.

All of a sudden, there was a flurry of movement, I've never seen anything like it- midwives running around, people snapping at each other and my sister and Mr Mangroves both suddenly at my side. I thought I hadn't heard properly. "Did he say bum?? I thought it was engaged!"

I was quite sure that this massive baby hadn't performed a sneaky back flip while I was asleep, since I was also pretty sure that I hadn't slept for the last 2 months. Everyone had been assuring me that they could feel the baby was engaged, they could feel his body and knew where he was. And suddenly he was breech. Perhaps 'stunned' isn't the right word.. perhaps 'Fucked Over' describes it better.

The next couple of hours are a bit of a blur. I was whisked off in a wheelchair to have an ultrasound and make sure that it was true, and yep, he was definitely breech. What I thought was kicking on the ribcage was actually headbutting. I was promptly fitted (a loose term to describe shoving in forcefully) with a catheter at which point my poor Sis passed out for a minute - it was quite funny watching all the nurses administering to her while the labouring woman looked on. Then a visit from the emergency anesthetist to have the dreaded epidural fitted (there's that term again), and the most memorable words yet from my arsehole Doctor: "Don't worry, it's OK now, your labour is over".

Really? Thanks.

The mystery taken out of the epidural

We waited in that room until 6pm for surgery theater to become available. I'm pretty sure that my body was still responding to the baby at that point, and I can distinctly remember that I was pushing down involuntarily.. is that even possible? I don't know what was going on, but I think that despite the epidural, my body was trying to birth that baby. I wasn't in pain as such, even though I was definitely still feeling the contractions. I remember that I was shaking and shivering, from the epidural I think. I remember that I desperately wanted to sleep. We spent another hour in the corridor outside the theater, waiting, all robed up, Mr M and I with our hair caps on, the theater midwife with us, rubbing my hand. The shivering was completely uncontrollable now, I was cold, depressed, crying, wanting it all to be over. You could say that this was the furthest from my birth expectations that I could have plunged.

Finally, just before 7, in we went, leaving my poor sister behind to look after our things, and move them from the luxurious double-bed birthing room to the communal Cesarean-recovery room. The surgeon and his team were ready for us, and the culmination of all this drama took a remarkably short time. There was a scary moment where I could suddenly feel the pain of the Cesarean as it was being performed, and my anaesthetic was hastily increased. At first they didn't really believe me, and insisted that it was just 'pressure' I was feeling, but Mr M stepped in once again and they reconsidered and upped the dose. What would I have done without him that day? I don't want to imagine it. He was a hero.

After all this, I could literally feel them pulling the baby out, it was all quite surreal. A leg, then another leg, and a huge release as they got his little head out. At 7.04, finally, out came the Ratbag.

Fresh out of the bag

All the blue and mucousy 9.1 and a half pounds of him. He exacted revenge on my observing Schloctor by immediately pissing all over him, which could not have been better timed. Everything fell away as we watched him being checked over, heard him cry out, knew he was OK. He was big, healthy and strong, He was beautiful. The feeling of touching his head for the first time will stay with me forever. He was just the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. He was my son.

My own baby, my child. There aren't words to describe that euphoria. I was in love with him, and it was immediate. It hit me like a brick. And then, suddenly, my boys were gone, ushered out of the theater. I later found out that they had an incredible, intense time without me, getting to know each other. I think it's an hour that my man will never forget. Not every new daddy gets to spend this magical time with their newborn son.

Our first meeting.. now we were a family

Afterwards, the waiting in recovery was torture. I just wanted to be with my new family, but I had to wait, alone, for an hour. The nurses watched me for any signs of shock, but talked over my head about their affairs. I don't remember what they were saying, only that one of them liked my toe polish. I had a pedicure that week as a treat, and had my toes painted blood red. Quite fitting really. I'm pretty sure that I was blood red everywhere, not just my feet. One thing they can never prepare you for is the mess, don't you think? The mess is incredibly.. messy. I was dry-retching from all the drugs, and shivering, despite all the blankets they piled on me, feeling very vulnerable and alone. And still they talked amongst themselves like I wasn't there. It was horrible. I don't remember the trip back to my room, and I don't remember that first night. My sister said I was talking to her, and gagging, and falling asleep mid-sentence. I never got to do that magical skin-to-skin contact thing, until the next day. I think they tried to put him in bed with me but I was in so much pain and couldn't get it right. It was all so surreal.

My two favourite men, mind-melding

I couldn't breastfeed properly, my boobs had swollen to roughly the size of a large-ish bag of hot coals, and endured all the midwives on shift hoicking a hot and rock-hard boob in one hand and the baby's head in the other, and bringing them together like clashing cymbals, hoping to somehow meld the two into each other. Obviously I had not endured enough, and had not felt quite enough pain. It wasn't until a male midwife suggested nipple shields that we finally got it right. The other (female) midwives tried to discourage me using them, but I was learning to stand up to them by then. There was one who came in to see us that I remember was in my birthing suite before all the drama erupted. She actually said 'You know, I though he was breech!' and was quite shocked and upset when I answered 'THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU BLOODY SAY SO', and promptly left the room, never to be seen in these here parts again.

Finally together, over an hour after his birth

I was a bit of a celebrity at the hospital for the next few days though, an undiagnosed breech is not an every-day occurrence, and there was much whispering and pointing. And for the next few months, I slowly got over it all. It was a bit of an ordeal emotionally, I never wanted to go back again, that's for sure. I was completely positive that we wouldn't be having any more babies, it was all too traumatic and I couldn't think about it without breaking into a cold sweat. The pain of recovery was much greater than I expected, and I fed the Ratbag holding him under my arm in the football hold, to keep his (quite bloody heavy) weight off my belly. He was a dream baby though, and there was minimal effort in loving him and tending to him.. I loved being his mummy. I will always love it.

1 Month Old, my magical child

Enough? Yeah.. I'm all hoarse and need a cuppa. Next time, the (entirely different experience of) the birth of the Peanut.

Congratulations Janet!

Your name was fairly and squarely drawn out of a bag, and you are therefore the winner of my Blogoversary giveaway :) I've decided on the prize now, but I want it to be a SURprise - let me know if you like it !

Thanks to all 7 of you who left me a comment, although I didn't make my quota, and was tempted to leave myself anonymous comments, offering myself genuine Adidas accessories. I don't usually need a reason to beat myself up, so this would have been hilarious.

On another note, Easter was pleasant, not too indulgent, and has left me with a reservoir of chocolately goodness that I can dip into through the next 12 months. This is my usual procedure, whereby I always have chocolate on hand to console myself if I've put on too much weight. No, I don't see the irony.

Also, I ate pickled herrings at Dad's place on Good Friday night, (which are not birds, as my sister-in-law hilariously thought - it explained the look of disgust she gave me, although it possibly would have disgusted her just as much if she knew they were fish), enjoyed a relaxed BBQ at my in-laws on Easter Sunday (could have done without the Ratbag being bullied by his eldest cousin - words might be had with his parents over this one), went to an excellent 4th Birthday Party on Easter Monday sans Man and Baby (just me and the Ratbag - which was really liberating actually), and also had time at home with the people I love most to recover from a cold (thanks to the bloke who sits next to Mr Mangroves at work, and thought it was really funny to cough all over him last week and probably sucked on his pens as well to make sure he shared the love).

Momentous new thing: The Ratbag has started to 'shush' us. Not sure how to handle this. A swift backhander probably won't help much, will it? Trying ignoring at the moment, might move onto taking things away if this doesn't improve, or possibly not feeding him (which is a laugh, as he doesn't eat). Maybe Wall-e will disappear, but them I might have to spend more time in his company, which perhaps defeats the purpose as he's likely to shush the crap out of me. He told me to go away this morning. I was a bit speechless. Quite frankly that was the bigger surprise of the two, even for him. He looked at me expectantly but I couldn't think of anything to say. Mr Mangroves think s that he has picked this up from an episode of Charlie and Lola. Could this be true? How could censorship let me down like this?

Communism might be the only answer (are you laughing Gerard?).

Oh, and most momentously of all, my gorgeous, cheeky little baby Peanut has taken her first steps. She walked two steps between her Dad and I, and has been practicing standing up on her own, balancing her weight. She is 15 months old, and although these events bring tears of happiness to my eyes, they also make me realise that the end of an era is nearing. She is our second and last baby, fast growing out of her babyhood. I would have another tomorrow.. I love babies. Without the night feeds, nappies, teething, night feeds, nappies and night feeds of course! Can that be done? Might look into that.

Comment Bingo

Being an intermittent blogger at best (and at worst a complete can't-be-fagged slack-arse), I am constantly amazed that someone reads the crap I go on about, especially as it's not crafty and clever like Leni & Rose, or funny like H&B, or talented like Stomper, or warm and honest like Muppinstuff, or socially enlightening like Blue Milk, or even important. And since I'm linking left, right and centre, I haven't had a chance to try your delicious-looking olive-and-basil bread yet Glass Half Full, but when I do, you'll be the first to know!

In Babcia's Garden, March 09

Basically, I keep writing here whenever the inclination arises, as I hope that one day when my kids are big, they'll find this stuff amusing, especially as most of it is about them. Maybe they'll giggle as they read about how I toilet trained them (or not - time will tell), guffaw as they read about the frustrating little maggots they were, or snort reading through my whinges about their Dad's god-awful snoring (I know it's not your fault honey, and I love you, but it's still shithouse. Although, your Faceborg profile does say you like tractors and midgets, so you probably don't care what people think of you, let alone your snoring).

I think that such an insight into my own Mum's mind might have helped us through the really hard years, where we had nothing to say to each other without wanting to rip each other's eyeballs out. I think it would be great to read through her experiences as a young woman (younger than myself when she raised her children) in another country, with different cultural emphasis on family, etc. Alas, Mum turned 60 last week, and I'm no close to any kind of understanding of her as a woman, although I think that the urge to physically hurt each other has passed, and we are able to actually have a conversation now without spitting.

I can write these things without being contested, as she will never read them, although I'm mildly expectant of some feedback from my two siblings who sometimes lurk here without leaving a comment. But if you're going to leave a comment to the effect that it was all my fault, then DON'T BOTHER - this is my whinging place ALRIGHT!? And anyway, she started it.


So, if you have stopped here, and gotten to this part by firstly reading the above tripe, whether you are a first time visitor or not, and if you leave me a comment to this post (except if it's about how you love my blog and you would love me to visit your blog where I can buy discounted sneakers or sweatpants, in that case, please don't bother leaving a comment as it might be replied to with expletives and fist-shaking and you will incur my general wrath and ill-will)... where was I?


Oh yes. If you leave me a comment, I will put you into a draw to win a prize in honour of my 1st Blogoversary, which is coming up next week on the 10th of April, as drawn fairly and squarely in front of independent judges, by the Ratbag, who loves games of any kind.

BLOGOVERSARY?? Believe me, no one is more shocked than me!

What prize, you ask? Well, I don't bloody know yet. I'm looking for inspiration. Maybe I'll make you something. Like a sock puppet. The rate of growth of the Ratbag's feet has surpassed expectations, and as a result, I can make a shitload of sock puppets from the ones that are now too small. Or maybe I'll make you an apple & berry crumble, like the one I made when friends came for dinner (you know who you are ingrates), and they didn't even touch it - it took me 6 days to get through the bastard, because bugger if I was letting THAT go to waste.

Weerama Festival, 28th March 09, Werribee

Maybe you can have my bagloads of fabric samples, that I was always GUNNA do something with. I'll think of something. I'm hoping to beat 11 comments, which was my highest number to date, for this post about my sister sleep-eating a spider which poisoned her, thought not fatally - added that for your benefit in case you didn't read it and thought it was very sad - actually, VERY FUNNY.

Weerama Dancers -nothing like a boogie in front of Dimmeys

And by the way, arachnid-eating must run in the family - my brother reminded me of the time when as a teenager still living at home, I took a glass from the shelf in the kitchen and drank a glass of milk, only to get to the bottom of it and see the remains of a spider that had long ago carked it in the glass, still attached to the bottom of it by the remains of the web. It appears as though I drank a few of his legs, though happily not the body/head. Might have puked if it was the body/head. Vincent Price-type nightmares there.

Weerama Elvis, rocking the spangly wrestler-belt look

See you on the 10th!