Home Surgery

When Peanut was born in January, I discovered, by accident, that there was in fact a legitimate reason whereby I could kill a man and hopefully, be acquitted on the grounds of 'Fair Enough'.
I remember that when the Ratbag was but a wee babe, Mr Mangroves would wake up in case I needed something every time the baby was at the midnight milkbar. I found this very annoying after a while, and told him to roll over and go back to sleep. I was very possessive of my time with the baby, being a bit insane and all. Since then, Mr Mangroves and I have had an understanding that as he was having to get up for work and as I was breastfeeding, it would be his privilege to not have to come to full wakefulness any time that she awoke, and in return, I would get to whinge and carry-on about how tired I was, and to have a teary at any time and with but a moment's notice. This worked for us with the Ratbag as well, and to be honest, I loved getting up to feed anyway, even though I was a zombie for the first 3 months. I took it on the chin, and I will always have fond memories of those times.

Peanut vs Pumpkin

Anyhoo, I digress. After Peanut was born, I discovered that even though I was dog-tired, I couldn't just pop off back to noddy land without any trouble. I discovered that it was not uncommon for me to lie awake in bed and basically wait it out for the next feed. The result was that not only was I walking with the dead, I was also dangerous on the road and not to be trusted with anything more complex than a fork. I realised things had to change, and looked desperately for an answer as to why I couldn't get back to sleep in between feeds.
And then it came to me.


Mr Mangroves' snoring wasn't just snoring. It was more like a giant walrus in heat, calling out for a mate. A swamp monster from the black lagoon, looking for a mate. Or like a rusty chainsaw, looking for a mate. Or like a plane taking off, looking for... you get the point.

The Constant Gardener

Interspersed with the loudest snoring I ever heard, was the distinct sound of NOT BREATHING, scientifically known as sleep apnoea. He would actually cease to breathe for anywhere up to 20 seconds, and then let rip a monster snore as his lungs faught for air. Fascinated by my discovery, I listened for a few nights, and noted several types of snores, and how the different sleeping positions affected them. He snored on his back, on his side, on his front and whether he was sleeping in bed or on the couch didn't make any difference (that blew my simple fix out of the water). My research would have no doubt continued until I drove my car into a power pole, or served molten plastic straws for dinner, if it wasn't for the video camera. One night, I decided to tape him.


Upon viewing the 5 minute tape, Mr Mangroves became quite alarmed. We've both always known that he snores, but somehow, over the years, I'd become so used to it, I didn't hear it anymore. Over those years, it has steadily gotten so bad, that I'm surprised his head hasn't caved in from the resonance stress. I realised that I always tried to get to bed first, so I would be asleep by the time the snorefest began. But now this wasn't possible, because I was breastfeeding and up all bloody night anyway. He agreed that something would have to be done, and before he woke up with a knife in the eyeball.

And so, TA TAAAA ! Presenting, the snorkel. Or, the CPAP machine, whichever you like. I prefer snorkel. The Ratbag calls it Daddy's Mask, and has become quite obsessed with it. No doubt, to him it looks more ilke this.

And so, he tried the snorkel. I can honestly say that it made a huge difference. It has actually stopped his snoring. Now, the only thing that I have to do, is to get him to KEEP WEARING IT, which he bloody well won't. It's uncomfortable. He can't get any sleep with it on. It slips off his face. THe alarms go off all the time. . blah blah blah, whinge, whine, bitch. I think we have to have a serious talk, because as far as I'm concerned, the only other option is surgery, and if he won't have it done, perhaps, one day, he will wake up with a knife in the eyeball, but only because I needed somewhere to rest it after performing said surgery.

Scienceworks Meltdown

Better late than never ! Here, finally, after promising them over a week ago, are pics of Peanut wearing Leni & Rose's divine slippers and bib. Aren't they fantastic? And a bargain too. Thanks again Mich ! I got a bit upset when a stream of pumpkin-coloured puke shot out immediately after taking these two pictures, but I'm OK now.

We've had an amazing couple of weeks, the ankle-biters both having colds and still suffering what can only be described as hacking 'almost puked lungs up' coughs, which have successfully deprived us all of any kind of sleep. It has been particularly difficult on Peanut, and she has reverted to having night time drinks, probably just to wash down the goobers.


The Ratbag has been seen wandering down the hallway at night like a little lost spectre,
so I've put his old potty next to his bed, to save him bumping into doors and trying to wrestle the stool under the toilet so he can have a wee. I'm pretty sure he would normally hold on until morning, but the coughing next door has been keeping him awake as well. I was basically imagining having to explain suspicious bruises as 'he walked into a door, doctor' and being placed on a watch list of abusive parents. So, potty it is, for now.
Boomer 'Knucklehead' Mangroves has had a relapse, as apparently a tiny scratch that was missed at the Vet's last time, has since developed into a new ulcer on his face. I think that it was probably kept at bay by the antibiotics I was feeding him, but since the course finished, it hasn't healed properly and just closed over to form kind of a pus-filled second head. I'll save you the pictures. Basically, he looks like half of his head has been removed, and his haircut has gone awry. Very embarrassing for a cat. No wonder he has been spending all his time sleeping on the Ratbag's bed, and skulking out for toilet breaks at night-time after all his friends have gone to bed.
We went to Scienceworks on the weekend, and the day started out like magic. Nanna and Poppa decided to come, as did my sister-in-law and family, including the Ratbag's two cousins. The boys were very excited, as the special exhibition at Scienceworks included an antique engine rally, and my Ratbag loves his 'putt putt bangs'. Here is a pic of my Ratbag and his cousin, who is a little older, and in his first year at school. These two are great mates, and share a love of all things Thomas The Tank Engine. They are holding hands, which very cute, and still OK to do at this age.


Mr Mangroves' engine club had some engines in the exhibition too, so it was actually a really nice day out. UNTIL... the boys spied a little ride-on train. The kids looked at the train with desperate wanting, and the adults looked at the line of people waiting to get on with a visible sag in their demeanour. We did our best to convince the boys that the line was too long, and that there were lots of other things to look at. As it was, we should have just got in the bloody line, because by the time we saw everything else, the boys had not only not forgotten about the train, but were even more desperate for a ride, sensing that our day out was coming to a close.


So, off we trudged, to join the line. magically, it appeared much shorter than before, and we thought ourselves very lucky indeed, but that's because we didn't read the sign which said 'Breaking for lunch at 1pm'. By the time we got to the front of the line, the train driver had disappeared and the place was deserted. The kids were inconsolable, especially the Ratbag, who promptly sat on the wet grass, and refused to move. We had a few words, but nothing stopped the refrain of 'we have to ride the train now mummy', which was getting louder and more piercing each time it was uttered, cutting through the noise of the spluttering engines and directly into the inner ear of anyone within a 100 metre radius. Even his two cousins stood back and watched the spectacle, as the Ratbag became the classic tanty-kid, going limp in my arms and falling to the ground, screaming and generally flapping around like an untrained seal.

Eventually, I managed to deliver him into the arms of his father, who picked him up and immediately made off for the car, as per our agreement that we would never bargain/put up with/tolerate THAT kind of behaviour in public. I apologized to the rest of the family for cutting our day short, and promptly followed him out of Scienceworks, hoping that I remembered where we parked our car so I could catch up with them. I need not have worried, as I continued to follow the screaming banshee all the way to the car without any problems. We had to listen to the refrain all the way home in the car, and even as we bundled him into his bed, he was still pathetically crying about getting on the train. Poor little beggar, he had completely lost it. I put it down to being 3 and a half years old, and tired, and still a bit sick, but Mr Mangroves thought it was because I had mollycoddled him into a whinger. Our conversation went in a direction which I will not recount, and then we were back to entertaining the rest of the family, as they arrived back from Scienceworks for lunch at our place. I was just starting to calm down, the Ratbag had gone to sleep with a teary trail on his cheeks, and the family were sitting down to a Chinese extravaganza, when I was bailed up by the Ratbag's slightly older cousin, and had the following exchange:

'Has (the Ratbag) gone to bed without any lunch?'
'Yes, he has. He was very tired and needed a sleep.'
'Is that because he wanted to ride on the train?'
'Yes.' I replied, absentmindedly.
'And then he got a bit sad and lied down on the grass?'
'Yes. He was a bit naughty.'
'And then he was yelling and shouting.'
'Yes, he was very upset.'
'And then he was rolling on the grass.'
'Yes.' I replied, wishing there was a way I could disengage from this interrogation.

'And then Uncle had to carry him back to the car, and then he was crying and then he was shouting and kicking and then he didn't want to go to bed and then he was crying and shouting some more and kicking and throwing things.'
YES. MY SON IS A MONGREL, PLEASE GO AWAY, I thought.

Pause.

'I would never do that.'

I watched his back as he proudly walked away, speechless probably for the first, and hopefully for the last time in my life.

More adventures of Anti-Mum

Firstly, let me thank Mich from Leni & Rose for the beautiful slippers and matching bib that she made for my Peanut. I absolutely adore them, she did an excellent job, and they were a bargain. Thanks heaps lovely, and I promise that I will take a pic of her wearing them this weekend to post here and show everyone! I have been working all week, and haven't had a chance to scratch myself but this is only an indication of slackness, and not that I don't love them :) And now here's one I prepared earlier:


The amazing journey from a rosy nappy swathed baby bottom to young man independence has taken some unexpected turns in the last few months. There have been highs, and there have been messy bloody lows.
Last night, there was a high on a new level, but also tinged slightly with nostalgia, for the days when I was in control of a nappy change. You might think this is stupid, but dim the lights and imagine this scenario...
(Magic teleportation music, picture wobbling like when a drop hits still water, the following appears in thought bubble)

You are on the couch in your pink terry dressing gown and pink furry slippers, feet tucked under you in a lady-like fashion (possibly the only lady-like thing you will ever do), make-up removed, hair relaxed, all this after a day of (choose one option here): arguing over whose TV time it is and yelling at kid A to be quiet while kid B sleeps, OR, sitting under an air-con vent in a rabbit-warren office and dealing with wankers all day, pen blister throbbing on your ‘Puck You Miss’ finger. So, a laaaaydy, relaxing after a hard day. Add to this picture a bar of chocolate on the coffee table, little slivers that haven’t quite made it to your mouth melting beguilingly in the cleavage of your nanna-nightie. Possibly a little smear on the corner of your mouth, from the first piece that you fairly threw down your throat, in your rush to bliss. Add to this picture another ingredient; evening TV, featuring graphic, bloody, gory and really quite disturbing images of the handiwork of Jack The Ripper (disappointing show but I’ll leave the critique for another time). The scene is set: a laaayady, relaxing after a hard day, indulging in un-ladylike behaviours, reserved for when the kids are tucked up in bed, not to be seen again until morning. OR ARE THEY?

You hear a door opening somewhere in the house. Your first reaction is to hide the chocolate, followed by grabbing a heavy blunt object in case it’s an axe murderer. Nothing quite prepares you for the sight of your 3.5 year old out of bed at this time of night, padding sleepily down the hallway from bed to toilet. He’s actually wearing a nappy, so he could have stayed in bed and pretended like he was taking a dip at the pool, but no. He chooses to get out into the cold night so he can expose his boys to the night air. Two things happen here; incredulity that his bladder is communicating to his brain while sleeping, and regret that your evenings (I actually mean that precious 45 minutes between when you clean the kitchen, put away toys and get everything ready for the next day and when you nod off on the couch with drool trailing across your cheek in the middle of CSI) of guaranteed mythical ‘you time’ are about to come to an end. This is because HE COULD GET UP AT ANY TIME. Just because you’ve tucked him in, read the story, kissed and cuddled and closed his door, doesn’t mean he’s going to stay there for the whole night. Insert shocked expression and ‘Psycho’ music here.

To bring this home, he also gets up at 4am, and wakes you up to let you know that he needs to go to the toilet. After helping him wrestle off his nappy, he sleep-pees and goes back to bed, refusing to put the poo catcher back on.
The thought bubble bursts and you crash back to life.
My man-cub is growing up. I’m getting a little bit teary just thinking about it.
I’m getting a little bit more teary as I review the above picture and realise that I was wearing PINK, my least favourite colour. And then I realise that this is because I didn’t buy those things for myself. OTHER PEOPLE bought me the pink dressing gown, the pink slippers, and the pink bloody nanna-nightie. I think perhaps there is a pattern here, of systematically trying to make me more lady-like, or status-appropriate. It sure isn't Mr Mangroves, who would be happy to see me fit back into the black young-person wardrobe that I wore as a 20-something to all those pub gigs we attended together, and which spent more time on the floor by the bed than actually on me. We used to call it the floordrobe in the youthful flush of being in love.

I won’t stoop to naming names. I’ll just continue to live in sin, scratch my butt and pick my nose like a truckdriver, swear like a sailor, watch sci-fi like a nerd and draw naked people like a student, let my kids eat dirt with their worms, and simply say; Fat Pucking Chance Mum! But thanks for trying.