Sorry I have worried some of you

Not ready to blog yet but please email me and I will let you know I am ok! xxxx Thanks for the messages.

Tired and will blog again soon

Sudocrem

Today was Alice's first day back at pre-school after the summer break. As our childminder has swanned off to New york for a week (something wrong here, we haven't made it to New york yet!) I was the one doing 'first day back'. Now this is even bigger than it seems. I took it into my head 2 days ago that it was finally bye-bye dummies for Alice.

Good grief, some people are thinking - isn't Alice 3 1/2?. Yeah, she is. But something fabulous has happened in the last year or so. I have broken free from other-mummy-induced guilt. Am I the only one that succumbed to this? It started for us from the get-go with Alice. I had pre eclampsia and whilst my body coped remarkably well with galloping blood pressure, kidneys having a protein-fest and not even recognising the epigastric danger sign I was meant to call an ambulance for, Alice came out a scrawny 4lb 11oz at 38 weeks. Obviously she was a little dot. And she fed like one. Always. No sooner did I get together with other IVF new mummies than we were onto ounce-age, and nap-age, and WEIGHT GAIN. I felt such a failure, I clearly couldn't stuff more milk down her throat, and short of strapping flesh-coloured bean bags to her for clinic visits, her weight was her weight - 5% centile, all the way. I am sure this was complicated by unacknowledged and undiagnosed post-natal depression, but seeds are sown.

I then dug even deeper into this, and it reached climatic proportions with Florence. Florence could not move herself to a sitting position until she was 13 months old. Florence didn't crawl until she was 13 months old. She didn't pull up, she didn't bum-shuffle. She did nothing except sit flat on her bottom once you'd put her there. The Health Visitor confirmed my worries and referred her on for investigations into developmental delay. For anyone who knows the UK health system, referral is serious business because it's serious money. The day I found out I went online, floods of tears to talk and find support from online friends. One of whom I spoke to was very sympathetic. And then promptly sent me a video of her child (younger than Florence) toddling along and tryng to climb the stairs. I am sure those of you who have had those bizarre conversations with people who know you're struggling to conceive, but expect you to turn cartwheels with their 'I only have to look at him' pregnancies will empathise with how this felt.

A door closed in me that day. I vowed to judge my kids absolutely in their own right, to never compare and to never feel pressured into doing something just because other people think you should.

So, Saturday night, after 5000 delaying tactics, of which 'another dummy' featured high on the running order, I just quietly said 'we're giving the dummies to the dummy fairies now, Alice'. And took them. A few tears, promises of her very own make-up and off to sleep. We've had a few little wobblers (openly from her, mentally from me) but tonight the only mention of them was to 'take Florence's dummies away' (oh, feel the sisterly love).

This morning Alice was as good as gold, getting herself dressed, uncomplaining, undemanding and I took my eye off the ball. I forgot my own science rules. I ignored the silence.

I went into my bedroom to collect something and Alice is sat on the floor holding the Sudocrem tub. I quietly took it off her and happened to glance down to THICKLY COATED SUDOCREM LEGS. And carpet. And dress.

It came off her legs very easily, and luckily mostly off her dress. And off to school we went. Alice sporting her new lipstick, and very soft legs.

Does anyone know how to get it out of a carpet.

Gardening Toddler-style

Oh dear. I had another one of those bright ideas this morning. See, this is what happens when I am home from work too much.

The day promised dismal cloud, showers and blustery wind. Even dim me knew that trying to stay in and avoid it would be a recipe for lunacy, initially of the mad-playing-screaming-wrecking variety from my 2 quiet, shy, retiring flowers, and then the full-on get that nice, strappy white coat variety from me.

I know, thought I, we'll plant some spring bulbs. We'll all enjoy that. Off we gaily went to our local garden centre, and once I managed to drag limpit-like Alice away from the 'press-a-button-to-hear-a-sample-of-hippy/sea/ancient chinese/meditation/just bloody weird music we made it to pick some bulbs. Here's where I clearly forgot I am a mother to 2 energetic, VERY opinionated toddlers. I buy the biiiiiiig bargan bag - loads of varieties, and visions of a Wordsworth-esque spring in my mind we head home. Lunch and a nap and we're all set.

Frist off Alice poked half-heartedly at the turf, and when a hole didn't magically open in front of her, threw a wobbler and stalked off back into the house (grumpy from nap). Florence, very earnestly and eagerly allowed me to dig a little hole which she then filled in. Again and again. After about 30 minutes (and 2 rain showers which Florence and I steadfastly ignored) Alice relented and actually became quite helpful. Then it was Florence's turn to have a paddy. Obviously I was not meant to fill the holes until we had put the whole SACK of bulbs in, as opposed to my artistic 2/3. Alice and I were going great guns by this point, me digging, her fetching bulbs, me filling and her stamping. As I dug the next hole (we're only halfway down one side of the garden at this point) I feel something sharp on one finger, and carry on. Move onto the next hole and I raise my hand to see that finger covered in blood. Wonderful. By that point boredom has set in with both girls (there's an awful lot of garden, and an awful lot of bulbs left) so all 3 of us retire hurt.

I think there's about 150 bulbs left to do. Bright ideas, someone stop me.

DYE=LIE

Some people I work with are becoming accustomed to me moaning about my hair. or being called my children's grandmother. Or my DH's Mum.

In one conversation I gave a monologue about my grey sprinkling, how aging it was and how mine was happening earlier than anyone elses. I paused and looked up sorrowfully at my colleagues and said 'perhaps I should dye it....do YOU ever dye your hair?' Their faces were incredulous, then laughing 'OF COURSE WE DO!'.

So, today I snuck into avery quiet supermarket and appropriated a pack of semi-permanant dye 'Dark Honey Blonde'. I was feeling younger and foxier just reading the packet (and naturally, looking at the 20 year old model I would of course resemble following applying the dye).

Here's the blurb:


Long-lasting, beautiful colour full of depth, dimension and shine.


Works with your tones and highlights for the most natural colour for you.


Covers grey completely, even on the most resistant grey hair.


Healthy Shine Conditioner for vital moisture and shine.

Most resistant grey?????? MOST RESISTANT GREY?????? I think bloody not. Mine have obviously been through SAS dye-resistance training because they are blithely and merrily not only unaffected, but completely unconcerned by the assault mounted on them today. DH's verdict was 'it looks darker'. But this was seeing it in our 1930's tiffany lamp lighting. And he's male. So hardly a glowing review.

As a consequence of this I have been forced into eating mode and have consumed today:

A submarine made out of french stick, salad and beef. Trident Missle carrier, I think.

A doughnut which nearly had me passing out in ecstacy.

A Jacket potato and bolegnaise sauce the size of a small, Eastern European country. I may have even seen a couple of Russian tanks loitering around the edges - that sodding stopped them - haven't had the place you'e tried to invade EATEN in front of your eyes before, have you??!!!

An obscene chocolate eclair. My mouth wanted it, my stomach is softly complaining 'enough, enough, we surrender'

And my hair is still full of pigging GREY.

Florence

has turned into a naughty little beast.

Florence drew on the sofa in the playroom. Then her face. Then the doors.

Florence grabs anything Alice has, runs off with it and stuffs it anywhere she can at speed.

Florence goes into white-out meltdown if she's thwarted.

Florence yells 'IDON'TWANNIT' if...she doesn't want it.

Florence pulls at anything Alice is wearing and runs off with it.

Florence yells 'I WANT TO TALK' in the car, and then refuses to talk

Florence deliberately throws cereal all over the house then walks in it on purpose to crush it into the floor.

This is all from 4.30-7.30 tonight.

Naughty step??!!!! Don't make me laugh!! She'd eat it.

Life since Friday...

or...'How Bunny dropped off the face of the earth'.

So...Friday was my birthday. Spent it in a way I am happy with, but probably not the most conventional. A friend's husband had died and Friday was his funeral. I am glad I went, for her. Not so glad at the DH off nights who INSISTED on coming. And didn't sleep. At all. And was a hideous, growling, snarling bear with a sore head by the time we got back. Then passed out in the lounge.

So, I busy myself with some planned phone calls...or so I think. The phone is down. As is the internet. DISSAAAAASSSSTER. I thought it would be a right laugh to spend the evening on my mobile to the BT Call Centre in India and get told off by an operator with an attitude. Oh yeah, happy freaking birthday to ME.

Saturday was better, my best bud Pig-Dog arrived for the weekend (long story, needless to say she wasn't christened that) and a jolly time was had by all. Her and I went out for dinner in the village and had a fab time over a bottle of wine.

Sunday I dregged her to church with me and the girls, left DH doing some DH sulking stuff at home (he periodically turns into a pouting 14-yr old who doesn't want to get out of bed, or have breakfast with everyone else...only I can't ground him) and we came back for a huge sunday lunch and a snooze.

Hurrrrraaaah today they fixed the phone...and the interweb, oh joy, oh me.

And my teenager is out on the mean streets and will love love love his family again.

So, don't desert me, faithful few..

Science for Mummies

1. Newtons Law - for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For mummies this means that every developmental step has a DARK side. Ooooh, yippee, he's walking already. Oh holymotherofgodandallthebiggysaintpeople he's walked right out onto the road.

2. Magnetism - this works in two ways: the first that a baby/toddler will be irresistably attracted to anything dangerous - if it's there, they'll find it. The second is magnetism from dirt - your child will suck it onto themselves. This last one grows in strength according to how recently you have changed them into that 'darling little outfit'.

3. Gravity - especially strong around toddlers, what goes up, or actually is even pretty happy level, will come down in the hands of toddlers. This is especially true of breakable items r messy things (then revert to rule 2.).

4. Thermodynamics - a young child will increase their ability to kick off covers in a directly proportional measurement according to how cold it is - and conversely, will manage to wrap themselves up in every scrap of their bedding, toys and mattress if they try really hard, as the weather gets warmer.

5. Energy can't be destroyed. No, it can't. Honestly. Trust me. It may be temporarily delayed, but then only to appear in a different form shortly afterwards. Usually centering around the magnetism rule.

6. Matter can be destroyed. Very easily. And quickly.

7. Nature hates a vacuum. So do young children (not only the vacuum cleaner as in my little eccentrics) Toddlers don't long tolerate a vacuum very well either. And will usually fill it according to the other laws.

8. The speed of sound. Actually the speed of silence and just how much can be accomplished by little hands in that silence. Beware quiet.

9. Babies and toddlers are secretly nocturnal creatures and it would do us good to adapt to their natural tendencies - dark doesn't mean sleep.

10. The law of infinity - They will take you to your limits - and past them. The biggest of these is just how much you can love another being. It just keeps on growing. And growing.....

Who KNOWS what you'll get on here tonight. Don't ask me.

I quite often have some buring issue that I just HAVE to share with my blogosphere friends but tonight....I dunno. Burble time.

We had a fab day. Fab in the ordinary sense of having the family together. Not something that happens to often with police-officer-Stay-Late-DH. Nothing mind-blowingly extraordinary went on.

We did yesterday's grocery shop. With no queues (Hey - Legoland - check Tesco out - no queues!!) We had a gloriously huge sunday lunch at an odd little pub in the village.

I say odd, not because it didn't have a roof, or you had to join an arcane relgious sect to enter, but odd in the British way of oddness.

This pub has 'gone under New Management'. And flaunted this change into a 'dining experience' in all our local publications (ok The Stotfold monthly 'we have a bring and buy' magazine, the 'buy your trotters from Skudder's butchers' magazine...you must know the type) so we thought, yes, let's give it a go.

So we go into the tiniest bar in existence. There was no childrens room - the whole place was a children's room due to its size. No family friendly drinkies, just big peoples juice in big glasses. A giant stags head on one wall (virtually taking up the wall) (The pub is called The Stag so we should have expected it) which matched the flatscreen in the opposite corner perfectly. Such a nice touch.

In to lunch. Guided in (please don't think I am being uncharitable but...) by...I have to say it...an anorexic (literally) biker-chick-boy-I-don't-know. Wearing a baseball hat. She had the charisma of plasticine and the smile of...oh, wait. That's right. She didn't smile. (Frowning uses more calories) That was the last of any waitress we saw. We did eat, because it was a 'carvery' - in this case it meant a giant chef trapped behind a teeny counter sporting a buffalo-sized piece of beef and some chickens. And vegetables.

The food was stunning - plenty of it and well-cooked. But it left us with a soft-sad giggle at just how 'wrong' these places sometimes get it.

For some reason, in England, we take great pride in not taking great pride. It's kind of a 'oh, I am bored now, let's just leave it like it is'. There doesn't seem to be that 'finish', that 'attention to detail'. We like doing things half-assed. Let's spend millions on re-vamping something then staff it with 14-year old cheap couldn't-give-a-shit-what-day-is-it-gimme-my-minimum-wage 14 year olds. We employ the most unimaginative, unskilled drones to decorate our 'adventure' parks, who think 3 plastic tigers will give an aura of 'jungle world' to visitors. Our Ghost Trains have dodgy painted figures and models that don't scare my kids plunked awkwardly along a part-decorated line with 4 bits of string to dangle on you in the not-even-complete darkness.

We like doing it not quite good enough. Which is exactly where this pub hit. They've really got it with the food, it was superb, and could be a real money-mine, especially with all the new yuppy housing going up locally (of which, yes, we've bought into some environment-spoiling too). But no. We wont think it through. We'll just add food onto what was going anyway. It'll be fab.

So, anyway (You did have good warning I could whinge!) after lunch everyone collapsed with huge bellies (waitress excepted). Later a trip to the park followed by a visit to Old McDonalds (the girls think it's called that) and bath, books, bed.

Things that made me laugh:

DH in the spinny-inertia-play thing at the park. I am used to the girls saying 'STOP STOP STOOOOOOP IT NOW' when it gets going, but DH, legs a-dangling. Let's just say my reactions delayed a little.

Florence bursting her balloon from Old McDonalds (junk food and unpredicable toys - super). She insisted on banging it on the one thistle that keeps on growing in the garden and BANG.

Alice bursting her ballon on the exact same thistle 5 minutes later.

Unconnected to any of this, please check the labels. I am thoroughly enjoying the strange searches on Google that bring people here, and am now experimenting. The most bizarre and banal words will give you a page 1 Google placement.

Legoqueue

Today I had a bright idea.

Says me to DH 'I know, why don't we take advantage of the one good day's weather this long weekend, bin the grocery shop, bin the new carseat hunt, and go to Legoland'

Without any deeper thinking. That maybe, just maybe, the rest of the country was tihnking the same thing. And maybe, just maybe the M25 would be an exercise in staring into the car of the people in the next lane, starting to smile, point at each other's kids, exchange addresses/phone numbers, and arrange to meet up on the way back.

We eventually got there. Probably about 2 hours later than anticipated. And with me desperate for an alernative phrase to 'no, we're almost there, please stop dismantling your seats/toys/each other'.

I am not saying it was overcrowded. But Legoland is in Windsor (Hi Queen) and I think we parked in Devon. Alice insisted in going in the emergency pushchair so that was fun, pushing her weight over hill and under dale, or whatever it is.

And we get in there. Well, we could have been anywhere. HOW many people. One ride. That's all we managed. One ride. Oh, and when I say 'we', I mean Alice and DH - Florence, after almost 25 minutes queuing announced she needed changing and so I went and QUEUED at the nearest babychanging. Excellent.

Luckily, the day being so dragged out and extended, the girls weren't really aware that they hadn't actually got out of it what we intended and stumbled gladly into their carseats for the very quiet (sleeping) journey back.

And we didn't meet our traffic jam buddies again. ;-)

Spiders

I was mocked today. Mocked to within an inch of my life.

I hate hate hate hate hate detest really don't like spiders. They appall me. My shoulders are shivering even typing about the beasts.

So, at coffee this afternoon, at work, the conversation moved to spiders (no, I have no idea how, especially bearing in mind the previous topics - paedophiles, easy-on-the-eye police officers...and...I forget) I voiced my opinion of them and shared a couple of facts (having conkers around the edges of the room is meant to deter them).

The next fact not only horrifies me but bloody annoys me. The UK house spider (all 6 of its varieties - not bird eating spider size, granted but enough to make my insides recoil when one skitters across the floor....or worse...sits looking at you, and you catch it out of the corner of your eye) - come into the house to DO IT. I wont use any other word to describe it as having way too much knowledge of what certain groups of people do to search on google I dont want one of those words and toddlers in the same blog.

Yes, they come in for THAT. The CHEEK of it. Not only are they utterly unwanted (oh go on, give me all the baloney of how they eat flies etc - if they were so bloody useful, come in during the summer when we might have the odd fly, not sodding autumn when it's getting colder and not a fly to be flown) but they have the NECK to frolic in my home (do spiders have necks? not for long in my house, I assure you. Or thoraxes. or legs that work). I don't wish to watch anyone up to shenanigans, least of all revolting spiders.

So - to all of you hideous spiders lurking wherever - Bugger off to Spider Speed Dating, Spider Romance Night.

It ain't happening in my house. And to those of you who mocked (you know who you are) just think of what they're doing the next time one sashays across YOUR lounge, waving its spider g-string.

The prosecution rests, Milord.

Well, yes

You had the excuses yesterday - now here's Bunny.

Oh, my online friends, it's been a surreal couple of weeks...I have Georgia on my mind.

We're kinda at overload with it - can't truly see what is to stop the russians doing exactly as they want. DH's family are safe so far, anything else is out of our hands. I have been doing a lot of praying and just hope there's a peaceful final resolution to this. I want to have faith, but I have doubts, and hope there's a 'plan'.

What else has kept me from doing what I love?

4 sodding HEEEEYUUUGE essays that I finally scraped up the discipline to sit down and do them the last 3 nights. Self-development - is there a module on making yourself get on with things you know will make you feel crap every night you put it off.

Now, after having a 3-night marathon on them I am so tired my eyes are bleeding, too tired even to feel that little glow you have when you've got the work out of the way.
The horrid thing is, because I didn't get onto these assignments when I should (not slapping myself too hard, am only a week late) I now have to skip right onto the next workbook...and you guessed it - yeah the NEXT essays. Why do I do it to myself?!

Studying has been my life. I literally have never stopped. And now it's out of control. I am pretty much decided ramping down the career is the next plan, to be around for schoolt-times, homework and lively little girls growing up, but still I pile into getting more qualified.

Does it keep my brain alive? Well, yes - to a point. But I seem to be able to only pour in one direction at a time - when my work is up to date, I blog. And love it. When the studying cranks up my creative brain goes blleleeeuuauahhhfhfhhggh and I literally have nothing.

I like having somewhere to be 'myself', to reflect, ramble and rant. I like having so much of me left at the end of the day that I can burn off neurons on here. But I like learning too.

So, I guess, until the learning bug burns out I am stuck with all-nighters on late essays - I may not look like I am still at college, but part of me still acts like it!

I'm here

I promise I will be back playing very soon - like tomorrow, start of 'ICOM' week.

DH's parents are ok so far, thank you all of you for your lovely messages.

I have been busy with a big investigation, and also catching up on some essay-writing (boooo) but looking forward to some more blobbity blog blog.

Kisses

Now this is good

Click here

Tales from the far side

I may be one miserable son of a gun, ever poised to leap upon the potential negative in any given situation, but I am also very good at stepping back and seeing the bizarre humour in them too. Well, I think so, in fact, I make myself laugh myself silly. And that's good, right?!

So....yes, it has been a horrendously tense week for us. DH has been watching the news in utter disbelief as the situation grows ever more worrying. DH is seeing streets he's walked down, buildings he recognised and what's heartbreaking, he looks out for faces of the dead/injured he might know. We've been talking to his parents daily and have put in some very fragile contingency plans should things really get horrific (or more so)

But....before you close this and tihnk 'nooooo, seen enough of this on TV, thanks, don't want depressing in my blog-time' - well, we have had a couple of moments...

On Monday I came home from work early, having read about the Russians knocking out a telecoms tower, panicking that our link with DH's parents was broken, and that maybe the russians were heading into Tbilisi.

We decided me needed to try to do something concrete, and look into how we could try to get DHs parents over here. So, thus starts the round of phone calls. Ironically, Georgia is just so far off anyone's radar that no emergency numbers have been supplied and so you trawl through various call waiting options, gaily pressing '1 if you wish to track your application', '2 if you wish to start a new application', '3 if you wish to appeal a refusal', '5,6,7.....' '23 if you just like listening to automated messages'. No joy at any turn.

I finally decide to call the British Embassy in Georgia. To get a 'we're closed' answerphone message (with the implied 'there is a WAR on, old chap' However they do give a couple of numbers for 'distressed UK citizens' Yep, thats me.

The phone system in Georgia isn't the best. Actually, none of the infrastructure is the best. Everything is very unpredictable and sporadic. I eventually get through to a voice. Speaking Georgian - which is so vastly different from russian (they're not getting the capital 'r').

Me (in russian) Do you speak English?

Her (in russian) No

Me: (in russian) Do you speak russian?

Her (in russian, by now thinking she has got Dullard United on the phone) Yes, a little

At this point I realised what an utterly pointless question I had asked as my spoken russian is so rusty as to be virtually useless. I did manage to limp out enough to establish that I needed to try another number, but was mentally berating myself for even trying. Poor woman.

Later on DH tries the Georgian Embassy here. They answer the phone in Georgian. And what do I hear....

Him (in English) Do you speak English?

Other (obviously a yes)

Him: Sorry, my Georgian is a little rusty

We're not doing well. Later on when he was speaking to his Mum and Dad I had to remind him of words in russian several times as he had forgotten!

Oh, the joys of a multi-ethnic family!

A little distracted

Forgive me, friends.

DH is from Georgia and I don't suppose anyone has been able to avoid hearing what's going on there.

Please pray the conflict is halted immediately and have his family in your prayers.


Once I work through the oddness of thinking about family in a war zone I will be back on, promise...

xxx

DIY and career changes

DH had an idea. DH decided the door colour on our house (new build a year ago) wasn't to our liking (agreed) and it needed changing NOW. DH went and chose paint - a sedate navy blue.

And then it all went horrifically wrong. Why oh why oh why oh WHY didn't I remember. Remember the bouncy laminate floor. Rememeber the falling blinds. Remember the 'blackout' blinds that were more like 'blind spot' blinds as he cut them too small. Remember the wobbly brush painting I made good in the lounge.

It is horrendous. Started bad, next coat went spiralling downhill. Bumpy, loads of drips. A 5 year old with some random ideas of painting would have probably achieved a similar effect. I am not even at angry, it is so beyond belief my brain is still in denial and hasn't caught up. There's a crazy screaming 'MY FRONT DOOR' rant caged somewhere distantly in my head but so far the sheer absurdity of it is preventing this coming out.

Sharing this with some colleagues today caused much hilarity (yeah, not your bloody front door is it, ho ho ho) and of course there's always one with PERFECT HUSBAND (yes, you Sian, I know you're reading this!) and she related what her DH had managed the day previous with 3 kids in tow. Then she went onto mention how he has said he'd be quite happy to stay home with the kids permanantly if she could earn them £50K...

It got us all thinking. Our solution is:

Form a dominatrix team. No vile messy stuff, just basic getting housework done and yelling out any frustrations/PMT. Lots of volunteers immediately, one a male (?!).

We think we have it all covered (I will only put their working names to protect them):

Some Slut (her words not ours) - she will be in the black shiny stuff and pointy boots. Oddly enough, this wont require any company outlay as she already has the costume.

Bunty - will be in an upper class riding get-up, with riding crop (also has the kit)

Strict Schoolteacher (with a very strong Geordie accent) - not sure her current uniform goes for that one, and can see why she'd probably not wear it)

Rachel - the male. Costumes weren't mentioned as we didn't really expect his eager interest, and never got past our mouths dropping open.

Gretel - business manager. Spookily had an immediate and very fast reply to our idle wonderings at what to charge 'Definitely no less than £120 per hour'. Is blonde, delicious german accent and also possesses leiderhosen. It's always the quiet ones,

Me - I suggested my old Air Force dress uniform. People got a bit confused with my connection with Russian and decided I would presumably be dressed as Stalin. Ican see the discipline angle, but not sure I need a Trans-Siberian railway through the garden.

I just want my front door done nicely.

I was tagged!!!

Rules:


Answer each question with one word and tag four other people:

. Where is your cell phone? Briefcase

2. Your significant other? M

3. Your hair? Brown/grey!

4. Your mother? Confusing

5. Your father? more confusing

6. Your favorite thing? Clean sheets

7. Your dream last night? dunno

8. Your favorite drink? fat coke

9. Your dream/goal? sleep

10. The room you're in? living room

11. Your hobby? blogging

12. Your fear? family illness

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? retired

14. What you're not? laid-back

15. Muffins? CHOCOLATE!

16. One of your wish list items? less anxiety

17. Where you grew up? Devon

18. The last thing you did? confessed

19. What are you wearing? trackies

20. Favorite Gadget? laptop

21. Your pet? cat

22. Your computer? Compaq

23. Your mood? nervy

24. Missing someone? Faggy

25. Your car? VW Golf

26. Something you are not wearing? Hat!

27. Favorite Store? Vertbaudet

28. Like someone? Linds

29. Your favorite color? green

30. When is the last time you laughed? today

31. Last time you cried? day before holiday

OK, one word is hard to keep to...


I tag: Linds , Ronda , Keep , and Bobby

Thank you rm for tagging me, and you;ve saved me from my DH/DIY/Utter disaster blog until tomorrow!!! xxx

Infertility is for life, not just for Christmas

I am in the clearly enviable position of being a mother to 2 beautiful girls.

One of them didn't even require a herd of highly paid medical professionals. Well, not at the start, anyway.

So, isn't it strange how those few years of infertility out of my nearly 41 years on this earth are the ones I define myself by.

It comes out at me daily, still, from many quarters...when people comment about how close together I had my children, and nudge, nudge, wink, wink - have you realised what caused it now?! Er, well, actually THAT didn't cause it. Or not in any lasting sense. THAT bore no relation to the conception of our first child. We weren't even present for that conception. It happened about 40 miles away from our house, DH was at work and I think I was at home soothing large, throbbing ovaries.

Or in an idle conversation with workmates over lunch, when others talk of planning babies. Yes, we planned....and planned, and planned our little selves silly. But in terms of timing - Hell no! I mean, we didn't start the IVF thinking 'hmmmm...if we start on this date, the due date will be .... and that'll be lovely, in between ours and Christmas'. No thoughts like that whatsoever. I mean, we didn't actually expect it to work, or stay around if it did. So there wasn't even a ghost of thinking due dates. Even if that had been in our minds, anyone who's done IVF knows that there are so many hurdles before you get to the whole embryo/womb/2 weeks of madness part that even if you did go in with some vague notion of picking a starsign, you couldn't guarantee even being in with a chance of hitting it.

And little baby number 2 - planning?! after that little wrinkle, tear and angst inducing ride? Pardon me, but no, I didn't think of protection - would you?! I must admit to bizarrely feeling like some careless teen, going to ante-natal appointments with a burgeoning bump and a teeny just starting to crawl.

During one of these conversations I stepped outside myself, and was astounded at how far I have come. I honestly never imagined it would be possible to have these gossipy, lighthearted chats about what MY kids are doing. My kids, the ones I had genuinely got to the stage of not daring to hope for any longer.

I remember dreading going into work, hearing about yet another new pregnancy. Especially if it came bang on top of another failed month. I dreaded old friends or relatives phoning and would know instantly that they had 'news' for me. My mum had to gently break the news that my bro's girlfriend was 'whooops' pregnant with number 2, my DH spoke to his sister, and even the muffling effect of the words 'when is it due' in Russian were still another little knife into my heart.

And now I am in that 'other' gang. The one I was so, so desperate to join. And you know, I still feel so much empathy for those still wading through that swamp of hope/disappointment/hope/longing/frustration/hope...it keeps cropping up, doesn't it? that 'hope' thing. I really believe that's the human spirit. It makes infertility all the harder sometimes though, because the hope is what you have to crash down from every time it doesn't work.

This blog is for anyone who's been there or is still there. Be gentle to yourselves, it is hard enough without beating yourself with the stick that hits you from outside daily.