I have an auto immune disease...

But I can't tell you about it.  I don't want to tell you the specifics - the name or what the diagnosis process was like, and going through those appointments by myself (well, Miss 1 just screamed any time anyone touched me when she had to come along; and dear husband had to take time off work to care for her when I just couldn't handle trying to settle a screaming toddler while absorbing life-altering information). 

But I do.  Because it's huge and it's impacting my life every day and forever.  It's incurable.  It's a disease that can, at best, be managed.  But it's still my body attacking itself.  And it's scary - your body isn't supposed to do that to itself!  And it's uncommon, so who knows how long 'this' has been attacking my body and been missed or dismissed.  But an earlier diagnosis wouldn't have changed anything anyway.  Incurable. 

I don't want to give the specifics because I don't want someone to Google it, and see pictures of what my body looks like, or what I am going through, because even for this over-sharer (hello?  Read any of these blogs!), it's too much, too personal.  But I feel so alone.  I want someone to talk to about this.

So.  I have an autoimmune disease.  And that's all I feel comfortable enough to say.

My broken brain

It seems to me there’s a new movement – though perhaps not so new – of people leaving Facebook.

I left abruptly a couple of months ago with a quick status update one morning (that it turns out most people missed), because I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I was wasting too much time on Facebook, always reaching for my phone, not paying enough attention to the baby wiggling on the floor or the jobs that needed doing, until I HAD to face them.  But funnily enough, I was sick of Facebook too – always reading the same kinds of status updates, getting the same ads clogging up my feed, not seeing anything from the people I wanted to hear from, but not being bothered or forgetting to look for them or change the settings so they’d pop up again.  And increasingly, I was living my life ‘out there’ and it was really messing with me.  I needed to bring my focus, my attention and my love ‘back in’ – into myself, my own family, my own house, and my physically-present and oft-neglected friends.

Living my life ‘out there’ (with gesticulating hands) was causing discontent in my life.  I have a wonderful husband who loves me more than I confuse him these days, which never ceases to amaze me.  I have two beautiful, happy, healthy children.  We have a mortgage, which means we both have good jobs to buy a house in the first place.  WE are healthy.  Our family members love us and are healthy too.  I have a handful of true friends I love dearly, some close, some on the other side of the world.  But I’d see status updates about someone with a nicer/bigger house than ours, or in a better suburb, or doing renovations to make their dive their dream home.  I’d see how well other new mums were doing at life, while I felt like I sucked at all of it.  I’d see others travelling the world, seeing places I can only dream of visiting.  Discontent.  Discontent. Discontent.  So I left Facebook to bring my focus back ‘in’ and on all of the many, many, many ways we are blessed.

While I’m not in the typical Post Natal Depression phase anymore, given Baby is now almost 10 months old, my brain isn’t working quite the way it should – quite the way it used to.  Things really bother and get to me now that didn’t rattle me Before Baby.  I have a very short fuse.  I can’t stand crowds or noise.  I have an overwhelming desire to control as much of my surroundings as I can.  I calm myself down with cleaning and organising and getting jobs crossed off lists.  If I can see that I’m making headway on my list of things to do, I feel a sense of peace – I haven’t totally lost myself, I’m still capable and my world isn’t falling apart.  The Black Dog stays in its kennel.  But when the house gets too messy for my unease, or the pile of papers on top of the everything-out-of-date, totally disorganised filing cabinet starts to lean dangerously, I feel anxious.  And not anxiety like, “I hope I get home before it rains or we’ll have no clean underwear tomorrow”, but anxiety like “I’ve let it get out of hand; I’m losing control; I suck at life” and my heartrate goes up.  But get stuck in and tidy/clean/organise something, and my soul exhales. It can be as simple as the shelf in the bathroom where we keep the medicine.  Or clearing off the dining table.  Or scrubbing the kitchen.  “I’m okay, I can do this, I’m still ‘me’.”  I’m sure there’s a name for what I’m doing now, but I’m fine not knowing!

And while all of this started after Baby was born, I think it has grown bigger than that.  This isn’t about Baby anymore because Baby is awesome – loud and wakes way too early for all concerned, but awesome.  I’m not sure what it IS about though.  Sometimes I think of it this way - my brain was broken for a while, and it has healed a little misaligned, like a broken nose.  Or like when you’ve had a stomach virus and have thrown up for a few days, that first day when you don’t feel like vomiting, you feel better but also very ‘fragile’.  Maybe my brain is still fragile after months of throwing up.  Awesome.  Isn’t that a nice image for you!

Apart from trying to use ‘control’ as a tool to make myself better, I tried really paring back my life to give my brain the space/time/energy it needed to get to the root of some of my issues – even if I couldn’t fix it, maybe understanding what Square One was would help.

1) Get off Facebook.  Stop living and focusing ‘out there’. 

2) Not going online as much as I used to and avoiding all negative stories (*though not possible to do in my line of work)

3)  Reconnecting with friends by picking up the phone or making coffee dates and Skype dates with far-flung friends. 

4) Being around genuine people.

5)  Not watching commercial TV anymore and avoiding shows with dark or ‘on the edge of your seat’ content…

 

I’ve also tried to mend some long-broken fences in the hopes that that will give my head, heart and soul more peace after months of nightmares.  I pulled away from a great friend for a while, too, because I just never felt like I was ‘doing a good job’ on the occasions I did talk to them.  Our conversations felt weird and strange to me and I didn’t understand why.  So I pulled back to try and figure it out.  (Turns out it simply had to do with the changing shape of our friendship – of all my friendships – because of all that’s happened this year and how our lives have both changed this year.  I don’t cope well with change sometimes, so throw my broken brain into the mix and you know I’m about ready to curl into a ball with a bowl of leave-me-alone ice-cream!)

 

But despite all this, I fear I may never quite be myself again.  I’m trying everything I can to get myself back, but I’m not sure yet if it’s working.  I clean and organise and cross things off lists one week and I feel a bit like ‘me’ again.  But the next week is busy and I’m more exhausted than the week before, and the house gets messy and disorganised again (to my irrational eye) and I lose it again.  I use my cranky voice with Kid Wonder (age 4) faster and with more force than is warranted.  I feel heart-aching guilt over things I have no control over.  I worry.  A lot.  I get angry at things I have no control over.  Then I push myself to try and get something done to make myself feel better – sometimes that works but sometimes it starts an avalanche of other things I see that need doing.  It. Is. Exhausting.

 

But I will keep trying.  Because at the start of this year when it felt like I was laying on the seabed, I wasn’t sure I would be able to swim up.  But I did.  I’m adrift in the ocean, perhaps, but I’ve learned I may not stay out here.  Maybe I’ll find driftwood to keep me afloat and give me rest.  Maybe I’ll manage to find an island to sustain me for a while.  Or maybe I’ll be rescued and taken back to the mainland and I’ll be ‘me’ again and stay ‘me’.  I will keep swimming.

 

 

PS:  You know how there was that lady in the US who created brutally honest greeting cards for people with cancer that the world went crazy about because nothing like it existed before?  Someone needs to start a line of "I'm sorry your brain is broken" cards for people to give to loved ones with mental illness.  Because sometimes people want to reach out but don't know what to say.  I'll take a simple 'finder's fee' for the idea!

Down the rabbit hole

So, after two years of trying to get pregnant, then finally hitting the jackpot and carrying our little squish to term, our newest daughter was born on New Year's Eve via c-section.  It was a wonderful birth (compared to her big sister's arrival in the emergency version) and she was perfect - everything present and accounted for, her dark grey-blue eyes blinking in shock and awe at me from my chest, weighing in at 3.860kg (8 pounds, 8 ounces).  I was taken up to the ward, with my new daughter tucked under my blankets, with a grin from ear to ear.  I was absolutely elated.  She was here.  She was safe.

But things started to go downhill for us the following day when she wouldn't attach to breastfeed.  After trying to attach, my baby would get worked up and then fall asleep from the battle of trying to feed.  This went on for days with no help from the ward midwives because A) public hospital, B) public holiday period so skeleton staff numbers meant nobody had time, and C) being my second child, they figured I was fine.  But I wasn't fine.  My baby developed jaundice so was sleepy, lethargic and almost impossible to wake, which made our feeding/attachment challenges even harder, which in turn exacerbated her jaundice because she wasn't getting milk to help flush it out of her system - the only thing more difficult than trying to feed a newborn who can't/won't attach, is trying to feed one who keeps falling asleep!  I would keep trying, but was torn about whether or not to let her keep sleeping... because all newborns sleep a lot, right?  Right?  I would get upset and frustrated when she wouldn't attach despite her showing interest.  And she would get upset at not being able to get to what she wanted and would turn beetroot red, arch her back and stamp her little feet into my very tender tummy.  And we'd both be in tears.  And then we'd both give up and fall asleep. And around and around we'd go.

But on the afternoon of the fourth day, one midwife took charge of the situation and an anxious and engorged me, and told me to express and feed my daughter with a bottle of my expressed milk "because she's hungry, she's lost more than her 10%, you've got the milk so let's just get it into her".

"But she can't be that hungry because she isn't crying," I said, to try and reassure myself that we were really fine.

"Well, to a point," she replied.  "But newborns get to a stage where they just give up and will sleep."
Queue anxiety point #1 - my baby has given up trying to feed and is now sleeping until she dies!

Despite that 'throw-away' line, I am thankful that that midwife made a call that I was incapable of making at that stage - express every two hours and feed her that way - and we were able to go home from hospital the following day with that plan.  But in the wee hours of our first night at home, I remembered I had nipple shields from my first daughter that I never ended up using with her (and let me just say, I appreciate my oldest daughter's breastfeeding success so much more and on a whole other level now!), and she attached and was swallowing!  Cue choirs of angels!  No more bottles and pumps!

But a new battle was beginning.  She was still sleeping around the clock (11am to 7am the following day, I kid you not!), so we'd have to wake her every two hours to feed, but most times she wouldn't stir enough or long enough to either attach or feed for longer than a few minutes at best.  We would strip her off, wet her face with a washer, blow in her face, bath her and even putting ice cubes on her feet in an attempt to feed her!  She'd even do the same with a bottle, so it wasn't just my boobs!  One night we took her to the emergency room because we hadn't been able to wake her at all!
Queue anxiety point #2 - something is wrong with my baby because she won't wake up, and it's because she's not feeding enough to get better/stronger!

So despite her somewhat success at feeding from me with the shields, my anxiety started to grow around her feeds.  She was so sleepy all the time that she wasn't feeding often enough to be getting enough milk to flush out the jaundice, or to play catch-up on her weight gains. So she didn't have the energy to feed enough.  So she was sleepy all the time.  So she didn't have the energy to feed enough. And around and around and around.

Every feed that wasn't what I considered "successful" would have me in tears.  Every feed that she'd try to attach (even with shields) but couldn't/wouldn't because she was too tired, would send my anxiety skyrocketing, and I'd get angry at her and frustrated with both of us for not getting it right!  In the first two weeks, I had to put her in her bassinet twice after failed feeds because I was just too mad at her and myself.  Then I would collapse in tears and hysterics and rant and rave about how much I hated it all.  My poor husband tried to pick up the pieces - a wife sobbing on the floor, shaking, in the small hours of the morning.

"I don't understand!  Why won't she feed!?  I hate her!  I wish I'd never had her!  I want to quit!"

It hurts to write those words.  I should be basking in her newborn glow.  I should be thanking God for giving her to me.  I should be relishing these newborn weeks because they'll be over soon.  But my brain doesn't work that way right now, and quite frankly I can't think of anything I want more than to fast-forward six months to when this phase is over.

I've sought advice from two GPs (my usual GP seemed to be more stressful than helpful, labeling my daughter a "lazy sucker" and saying things like, "she'll probably never feed very well."  Great. Thanks). Queue anxiety point #3 - it will always be this hard.
A paedetrician told me she has a short tongue and nothing can be done but to keep trying and waking her every two hours to feed (yeah, how?!?).

And in all this, there was always 'advice' and 'warnings' to stop using nipple shields as soon as I was possibly able.  "They disrupt your supply."  "You'll get blocked ducts and mastitis because the baby can't drain the breast with nipple shields on."  "The baby won't get enough milk because they disrupt the let-down and flow." Etc.  So on top of the anxiety about feeding enough/often enough, her sleepiness and jaundice and never getting better, I felt immense pressure to give up the one thing that was making her feeds possible.

I've seen four lactation consultants, who've all given me difference advice.  But when the third one at the hospital said, "Oh, she's just content to starve" (the single worst thing she could have said given my anxiety triggers!), it started the gush of water out of my sanity dam.  I'd tried to feed my daughter in her presence so she could help us, but my daughter once again fell asleep and wouldn't feed.  I started to cry.  I started to cry harder.  I started telling her how much I didn't like my daughter; how if someone wanted to take her away, I'd happily hand her over.  Between handing me handfuls of tissues, the lactation consultant asked if I would mind if she called the Perinatal Mental Health unit to see if someone was available to come and talk to me.  I was embarrassed, but relieved that she did.  The next day, I talked to a mental health nurse over the phone, who arranged to come and visit me at home a few days later.  In the meantime, I had another massive meltdown at home about being worried my baby wasn't getting enough milk.

When the mental health nurse arrived the following day, I spilled my guts!  I told her everything I'd been struggling with, thinking and feeling - and not feeling (love, attachment, protective of my baby).  She told me I had Post Natal Depression, and that medication would be a good first step of several to help me get better.  I started to relax.  I had a plan.  I had help.  I was going to get better.  But then she, the GP and the pharmacist told me about the side effects of the drug I'd been given (the safest for breastfeeding mums), and that scared a good chunk of the crazy out of me!

"Your mood will get worse initially before it gets better, and this can sometimes include suicidal thoughts or tendencies, so if you feel that way, put the baby somewhere safe and either call 000 or go to a neighbour's house for help.  It can also disrupt your sleep, so take it first thing in the morning so you can get some sleep at night.  It can make you feel sick - like morning sickness - so try to have it with food to ease the sickness.  And it can also pass through the breastmilk to the baby and make them sleepy (like we hadn't struggled enough with that!).  But don't stop taking it - we have to wean you onto it, and wean you off; suddenly stopping it can do more damage."

F#*@!

So after battling my thoughts, I decided not to take it.

• I felt so low already, I didn't think I could cope with being made to feel any lower and still function on any level - even minimal.  
• Suicidal?!  Suicidal?!  Taking a drug that came with a warning to call an ambulance?!?!  Why are they even making it then!?!  
• I didn't want any drug in my new baby's system unless it was for her needs or benefit, but certainly not one that was going to make an existing problem even bigger!
• I was exhausted already and didn't think I could cope with more sleep disruption.  
• Not being able to stop taking it once I started, even if it made me crazier?
• And feeling nauseated on top of insomnia and suicidal?  Hell no.  All kinds of no!

That was just over a week ago.

• So now I'm seeing a psychologist, and I have my second appointment with her tomorrow, and she's going to give me tools to help challenge my anxious thoughts.
• I'm going on walking dates with a beautiful neighbour at least one night a week after our kids are asleep, so I can get some fresh air, exercise and a change of scenery (and gas-bagging helps too).
• I will be able to drive at the end of this week (albeit a few days earlier than the recommended 6 weeks), so I've planned to attend a breastfeeding mothers' group (oh Lord, I hope they don't judge me for using shields) to meet some new people and get out of the house for a hour or two, and meet up with my sister-in-law for coffee once a fortnight, and also just get out and feel alive and independent again.
• And I've also found ONE, international board certified lactation consultant to talk to for advice, to cut out the crap-load of mixed-messages I've been given to date.  And you know what she said?  "So what if you need shields?!  They're working.  I've had clients who've used them for two years!"  And if nothing else, I am embracing that one sentence from her whole two-hour visit.  I don't have to ditch the nipple shields.  It doesn't matter if I keep using them - they are my security blanket because I know feeds work with them; bub is getting lots of milk; she's gaining weight back.  My anxiety is lower when I use them.  When I try to feed without them, my anxiety is up from the start, and bub doesn't feed as well or for as long, if she attaches at all.  Decision made!

I have Post Natal Depression, and it's going to take time and effort to get better.  There isn't a quick fix, like "Just eat better" or my favourite, "Fake til to you make it!  Get dressed, put make-up on and smile, even if you don't feel like it, and you'll feel better".  Bwaa haa haa!

I am a nipple shield mumma and I will not give them up.  My baby has issues with feeding and needs help.  I don't know why.  It doesn't matter.  I will do whatever I need to do to make sure she's okay, and if that includes washing a piece of silicone after every feed for six months, Lord knows I will wash that piece of silicone after every feed for six months!

Feeding issues is just part of our journey and my daughter's baby story.  I will tell her all about it when she's older - and ask for an extra big bunch of flowers for the next Mother's Day.

I am getting better.  I am getting stronger.  I am beating this.

I believe in Santa

I believe in Santa.

Well, I did as a child, until I busted my grandmother being the tooth fairy when I was about 6 or 7 and the whole fantasy-land part of my childhood died in seconds.  No Easter Bunny.  No fairies.  No Santa.  It was sad because it was the end of a really special part of my childhood, where magic was not just possible, but REAL - where I'd stare up in the sky on Christmas Eve just willing myself to see Santa's sleigh; where I could barely get to sleep the nights I lost a tooth because a REAL toothfairy was going to visit my room that night to take my tooth away and leave me 20 cents (it was the 80s and I was cheap to please).  I think once I even made a little 'bathroom' out of my doll's house furniture for the toothfairy in case she needed to use the toilet, wash her face or have a drink of water on her rounds!  I was a sweetie.

 

My mum did a wonderful job of nurturing and growing this fantasy land part of my childhood.  She wrote a letter from the toothfairy for every tooth I lost (until I busted grandma), sprinkled in some glitter and came up with beautifully magical names, like Moonbeam and Twinkle Toes (well, they were beautiful and magical to me at the time!)  She diligently ate half the raw carrot we put out every Easter for the Easter bunny.  She drank the milk and biscuits left out for Santa (an easier task than raw carrot) and even let me collect lawn clippings to leave for the reindeer and sprinkled them down the hallway and out the front door to make it look like the reindeer had to eat it on the run.  I cringe at the mess she made, all to make my Christmas morning that year more... magical.  I think my oldest sister and brother even got in on the action one year and rolled their bikes back and forth on the front yard to make sleigh tracks in our dead, brown and crunchy North Queensland drought-affected lawn.

 

My childhood rocked in that regard.

 

So let me tell you why I will be working my butt off over the coming several years to make sure my darling daughter and her little brother/sister have that same magical wonder I enjoyed, thanks to my mum and despite the scoffing of my dad (and no doubt others).

 

That age of magical wonder and innocence is so freakin' short!  Poof - gone!  All too soon, my babies will be grown up and slowly understand the realities of life and being a human in this world.  They will know that bad things happen all too often, and to good people.  They will know that people can be mean.  They will learn about poverty and homelessness.  They will know they will be expected to work hard at school, only to leave school and work hard in some area to make a living and pay a never-ending slew of bills.  They will have their heart broken.  They will make friends and lose friends.  And yes, they will fall wonderfully in love.  They will see real miracles happen, and how kind and wonderful people can be.  As well as the ugly in the world, they will see the beautiful, too, I know.  BUT, that magical wonder - the magic and fantasy and innocence and excitement and wonder of childhood - only lasts a few precious years.  I want my children to have that.

 

Hearing a five-year-old tell my two-year-old, "Santa's not real!  It's just mum and dad!" makes me sad.  So while you may teach your child/ren that Santa isn't real and Christmas is just about presents and food and being with family (and the fact that the whole reason for Christmas is to celebrate the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ - that's a whole other blog), please also tell them to keep their mouths shut when they're playing with other children.  You might not want to "lie to them and deceive them", but I bloody well am and will continue to, to foster my childrens' wonder and imagination and excitement and magical view of life and the world for as long as I can.

 

The world needs more magic and wonder.  Not less.

Mumsy's the word

Mumsy. adjective. Giving an impression of dull domesticity; dowdy or unfashionable. 

I've always been a bit of a dork.  I've never had much time for make-up and usually only wear it when required - whether it's work or blemishes or late-night dark circles.  I have never been able to style my hair past the ponytail or tussled-dry looks so I steer clear of hairstyles that require appliances, and the greys are starting to take over.  We don't have much money (especially now that we're expecting our second baby and will be dropping to one income soon) so I don't buy clothes for myself.  New injections to my wardrobe come via two means - hand-me-downs from my beautiful sisters, and things my mum buys me out of pity (bless her!), which are usually smaller versions of the clothes she buys herself. These aren't usually clothes I would buy myself but I really do appreciate them.  And while I could buy myself quality pieces as the budget allows, I find myself overwhelmed and lost, so by default go back to the same dorky options from the same cheap shops.

Last year I went to a friend's hen's party and there was nothing, a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y nothing, in my wardrobe that was suitable to wear out to a bar or nightclub.  Not even a top to pair with basic jeans!  Not even with accessorising!  And earlier this year, my husband and I were able to get away for the night to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary at a very swanky hotel and I had nothing suitable to wear to waltz through the doors of said swanky hotel and sit stylishly in their marble and polished timber foyer.  I put on the dress I chose, looked in the mirror and asked my husband, "Does this look too mumsy?"  He shrugged, meaning "Yes, I agree with you that it is but I can't really say anything about it."  He's a smart man.  I looked like a haggered mum from the suburbs wearing a dress she got from a $2 clothes swap.  Because I was.

Mumsy. adjective. Giving an impression of dull domesticity; dowdy or unfashionable. 

While I've always been a bit of a dork, I seem to have gotten worse in the last six or seven years, since I've been with my wonderful husband.  Now, my current 'mumsy' appearance has nothing to do with him (he doesn't have anything to do with what's in my wardrobe!), but I think the reason behind the change in my appearance just happened to coincide with the time he entered my life. 

Let me explain.

I've written previously about how before I was a Christian, I slept around because a) I didn't know any better and b) I just wanted someone to love me so badly and thought that's how I'd find it. After all, sex = love, surely!  (http://beingjenkerr.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/dear-20-year-old-me.html) So after almost 10 years worth of letting myself be treated like a play thing and of dressing to attract the opposite sex (albeit in a relatively modest fashion compared to what you see these days), I found God.  Then I found real love with my now husband.  And then I unconsciously started to go out the other side - waaaaay out the other side.  I chose and accepted clothes of a style too old for me, that were ill-fitting, ultra conservative, boring.  And floral.  Lots of floral.

I realised this morning that all of this was a reaction to - in retaliation of - those 10 years of dressing for attention.  I was dressing to hide. To repel attention.  To blend into the background (of a couch from the 1960s?)  Almost like women who've been abused who put on weight as a way of protecting themselves and making themselves feel invisible.  I started dressing in a way that wouldn't draw any male attention at all.

But now I catch sight of myself and wonder where the hec I've gone! "Where's the Jen I feel on the inside, and why doesn't she show on the outside?"  Now more time has passed and I'm stronger and in a better and genuinely loving place, I want to find the new me.  We still don't have the money for shopping sprees and wardrobe make-overs, but I could at least clean out my cupboard of the worst offenders.  I could start looking through magazines at the dentist or hairdresser (actually go to an actual hairdresser) and get ideas of what style could suit me.  I could start paying attention to women around me who are my age to get ideas.  I could go into shops and try lots of things on to find out what does suit me.  And I could start loving myself more and realising that I am worth a $100 dress or pair of shoes every now and then - hec, anything from a shop that doesn't have shopping trolley bays at the entrance!

I am beautiful.  I am worthy.  I am forgiven.  I am safe.  I am loved.  It's okay.

Okay, GROUP HUG!

Mr Judgey McJudge

The great thing about living in Australia is that our Federal Government can pay the primary caregiver of a new baby (born or adopted) up to 18 weeks Paid Parental Leave (PPL) at the national minimum wage rate to allow them to be home with and spend time with their new little one.  What a blessing.

The problem though, is navigating the MINEFIELD of paperwork and questions and forms and links, tucks and half-pikes with a double twist required to submit your application!  So I had a little vent on Facebook (as you do) about equally needing and loathing applying for PPL.  Paperwork and I hate each other, but I'm the only one who ends up in tears!  It's a dysfunctional relationship.

So how very dare one childless Facebook 'friend' judge me for applying for the government's PPL!  A man who has no idea what it's like to have a mortgage and raise a family and make ends meet!  A man who doesn't think twice about money!  How very dare he look down his nose at me for applying for government assistance so I can spend more time with my new baby!

I sure do envy those women who either have a big fat savings account and don't need PPL, or who have a partner who earns enough money that they don't need it. We, however, need it! We need it so badly that if the government didn't offer such a great deal, I would have to go back to work very shortly after baby's birth just to afford our modest mortgage, rates and insurance bills. And I don't want that!

I want to be home with my new baby for as long as I possibly can so I can bond with them, love on them, get to know them, encourage them, and spend time with them while I have the chance - for them and for me. I want that block of time to be as big as financially possible. And as stressful and anxiety-causing as this financial position may be, I wouldn't change having our baby for the world. The Lord knows we wanted them!

Yes, it's my choice to have a baby. Yes it's my choice to have a mortgage now instead of rent because I grew sick of the uncertainty, instability and hoop-jumping of renting. And yes it's my choice to take advantage of our Federal Government's Paid Parental Leave scheme to help me stay with our new baby for 18 weeks longer than I would normally have been able to, because I want to be a good mum, which to me equals time.  Before I turn around twice bub will be cared for by someone else three days a week so I can go back to work to keep paying off our worst-house-in-the-best-street, in-need-of-renovation house, full-of-love, warm and cosy little house that I hope to grow old in.  And I'm blessed that I can choose to go back only part-time, even though it means our life in simple and not extravegant.

The mean and nasty side of me hopes Mr Judgey McJudge, who took a dig at anyone who needs any government assistance, one day finds himself standing in line at Centrelink in need of help, advice or guidance like me, and he can see with his own eyes that he's no different to anyone else there. But the kinder part of me... shoot, she hasn't shown up yet!  But I'm sure it's something along the lines of I hope this man is blessed enough that he can continue living life to the level he's become accustomed, and that he never knows what it is to be in lack.  I hope that when he's one one of his international holidays and sees people in need and expresses compassion for them, he realises tha tthey're just like some people in his own country who are also in need, but are blessed with a governmental system who can help them.

Don't ever judge another's journey unless you've been there too.  Hec, even then!  Don't ever judge someone if you're not willing to talk to them and find out their story.  And certainly, don't you dare look down on anyone, unless you're helping them up!  WORD!

(Note: Yes, I do know there are people who rorte the system and that's not fair and I disagree with that too.  But for the purposes of this post, I am referring to people who are genuine.)

Hey, baby!

My goodness it has been a long time between drinks, and there is much to catch you up on.

 

My last post was about going for our last and final round of IUI because I couldn't keep putting myself and my marriage through the financial and emotional stress of it all.  But by the grace of God, that last attempt worked and I'm now 31 weeks pregnant with a beautiful baby we're calling 'Titch' for now because we've chosen not to find out the sex - how I do love surprises!  It was a conception unlike our first - very unfun and unromantic - but at least my husband was in the room with me!

But as soon as those two pink lines appeared, I started freaking out.  About everything!  "Am I really ready to do this?" "What was I thinking!!?!" "I've waited so long for this, I just know something is going to go wrong"!  I didn't write an update before now because I was worried (read: convinced) something was going to go wrong; and then I just got busy with life and ignored my online journal journey. 

And honestly, it's only been recently that I've started to chill out a bit (a bit) because I can feel baby moving around, and if they needed to be born now, there's a really good chance that they'd be okay (though I am glad I live in a big city, with my hospital only 20 minutes from home... and I reckon an ambulance could do it in under 15).  But I know I won't truly relax until I'm holding Titch in my arms, happy, healthy and strong.  That is my prayer.  My due date is in early January, so we'll wait and see when Titch wants to arrive!

It's been a bit of a rough ride, but nothing compared to some (hello long-distance friend! You know who you are) - faint and light-headed spells, hip pain, back pain, insomnia, muscle cramps, anaemia, low blood pressure... you know, the usual.  But carrying around an extra 12kg will do that to a person.  

I make noises when I sit down and stand up now.  I have to sit on the bathroom floor to brush my teeth because my legs get too tired to hold me up.  I can't stand too close to the kitchen bench to cook comfortably, and need to sit back from the dining table to make room for my tummy.  My feet swell and ache on my busy home days when I do my washing and cleaning jobs.  I've had to take my wedding rings off because my fingers swell so much in the heat I fear losing my ring finger due to lack of circulation!  But I'm embracing all of it (so far) because I'm pretty sure this will be our last baby.  There is no way I am going through that fertility doctor process again (to a sigh of relief from my husband and our bank account), but I think we're going to save a lot of money on birth control from now on!  Ha!

So stand by as this blog changes direction again - from struggling with wanting to study but not knowing what (definitely settled on social work) or having the money (still waiting for that lotto win!); to whether or not I'd lose my job through 'future proofing' the company (didn't happen and thankfully no new rumblings among the water-cooler whisperers); to struggling with infertility; now pregnant; and hopefully out the other side to being a mum of two on maternity leave, navigating the world of cloth nappies and how not to lose my mind, while Miss 3 starts kindy and I try to take my baby back to work with me!  Yep, wish me luck on that one!

 

I hope you still want to join me on the ride. Peace out.

I want myself back!

I’m really struggling at the moment.  I feel like crying most of the time, which is not like me.  I’m not always rainbows and butterflies, but I am usually more upbeat and get-it-done than melancholy and down-in-the-dumps.  It could be the fertility drugs I’m on, which have an impressive line-up of side effects, but it’s also circumstantial.  More baby announcements, hearing a pregnant work colleague talk to another, whose wife is expecting their second baby, about feeling the baby move and how exciting it all is.  At my desk.  I had to get up and leave with the plan of having a good cry-it-out in the ladies, but given the acoustics in the bathroom I opted for a quiet office to take some deep breaths and pray.  They were gone when I got back – praise Jesus!

Usually going for a run helps me when I’m feeling down or upset or angry, but I’ve been advised not to while we’re trying to get pregnant – and after all the effort everyone’s going to to try and get me up the duff, I dare not.  After we’re done I can go back to it with wild abandon.  But I could really use a good 5km right now.

Another fact getting me down is my past.  Every so often the choices I made and the things I’ve done rear their ugly heads in my ‘new’ life.  I usually push it out, but given my current mental state, those thoughts have been lingering and are getting harder to shut out.  Sometimes I let myself dwell there – to feel it – but then I feel worse than before.  At the Good Friday church service today I was reminded that Jesus died on the cross for my sins, and my slate has been wiped clean – white as snow – but instead of feeling uplifted, I feel unworthy.  I just feel so sad.

Without running, and with my current shitty mental state – sadness, anger, shame, loneliness, jealously – I’ve noticed I am eating more than I should too, and eating things I usually do well avoiding.  I could write the book on comfort eating!  I feel like I’m eating hand over fist to try and make myself feel better, when really it’s only going to make me feel so much worse because my clothes won’t fit anymore, I won’t like my reflection and my self-esteem will take a nosedive, and getting back into running will be a longer and more painful (and jiggly) process.  To boot, one of the side effects of the drug I’m on is weight gain.  Freaking. Awesome.

I just can’t seem to shake this funk.  I almost can’t wait to stop going through this fertility treatment process so I can get off those drugs and get myself back.  But I want to see out our three attempts.  I want to give this everything I’ve got.  I told our specialist on Tuesday that when we've done our three attempts, we're going to call it a day, and he said he really respected that choice.  He is a beautiful man.  So when/if it doesn’t work, I will still hate hearing pregnant women talk about their pregnancies, seeing or hearing birth and pregnancy announcements, ultrasound photos and general baby business.  Why WHY can’t it be me?  I will still cry – I’m a crier from way back – but at least the cocktail will be out of my system, and I can run again to shift my mood.  At this rate, I’ll be set for my first marathon later this year!

Roll the dice!

So if you’ve never read a post of mine before, let me catch you up.  I’m Jen, I’m a wife and mum of one beautiful three-year-old girl, I’m a runner, I work part time, I have a cat, pretty cool friends and family, my workplace has been a bit unstable in the past but the dust seems to have settled for now – I’m even fishing for a pay rise (Brave?  Stupid?).  And we can’t have any more children.  Without a doctor getting involved anyway.

After trying for a year, my husband and I sought help.  Nine months later (ironically enough) we tried our first “assisted cycle”.  It didn’t work.  But we’ll try again twice more before “hanging up the ovaries” as it were.  Because I’m 35.  Because it’s so bloody expensive and we don’t have much money.  But mostly because it’s a crazy hormone-fulled, pill-popping, blood-test-jabbing, doctor-jumping, legs-in-stirrups rollercoaster ride that we can’t sustain.  And because, while I would love a whole minivan full of kids, I love my husband more than a dream of what should have been.

When I first asked for a referral from my GP a year ago, he said “Buckle up!  This isn’t for the faint hearted”. And Lordy was the man right!  The side effects of the fertility drugs are crazy!  One woman described it as “PMS on crack” and I think that’s pretty accurate!  Then add in back-to-back doctor’s appointments starting as early at 6.30am, daily blood tests for four days in a row, early-morning dashes into the city and the anxiety and anxiousness you try your best not to feel during the two-week wait to find out if it’s worked or not.  ANYONE would be a basket case.  And I don’t want to live like that.  I don’t want my husband to live like that.  I love my husband and choose to protect our marriage rather than force it through this process of trying for another baby that God might not have for us.

I have been thinking a lot lately about fostering children in need.  I believe God keeps showing us things that He wants us to pay attention to, and for me that’s been news articles about foster children, the system, the global need.  And I can’t ignore that!  Perhaps God’s answer to us having more children is no, because He wants us to help children who are already here who need love, security and opportunity. Even if it’s for a  weekend, a week, a few months or years.  But I know it’s not the season yet. Our daughter is still so young and I’d like her to be older before we start this process because it will involve her greatly.  I just get so impatient sometimes!

Getting back to running has been a big help in shifting my focus and de-stressing about all of this (focusing on moving your legs, breathing and not falling over or passing out will do that to a girl!), but during the next two rolls of the dice, I have to stop to give everything a good shot.  I miss it, but I’m not going to waste $800-a-shot and all the jabs and pokes for a few early-morning runs!  My sneakers and the marathons of the world will wait for me.  I’ll be back.

“I’m sorry baby”

When I was about eight, I was really into gardening – for some strange reason, because I kill everything now and couldn’t be bothered with plants.  Mum gave me a small garden bed near the back door.  I grew lettuce and radishes and marigolds and all sorts of things that weren’t ever eaten or useful.  And I kid you not, I read to my plants because I heard that plants thrived with attention!  I sat on the back steps and read my stories to whatever was growing at the time.  I was a strange child!  But awesome!

One weekend morning, barely out of bed, mum started yelling at me for moving a tomato plant that she’d planted in my garden.  I didn’t, and told her I didn’t.  She didn’t believe me, continued to yell at me – now for lying to her – and threw in a good smack or several.  It wasn’t until dad walked in and asked why I was crying that mum said “SHE MOVED MY TOMATO PLANT!”  Dad replied, “No she didn’t, I did.”  Silence.

I turned tail and ran to my bedroom to cry into my Cabbage Patch doll, expecting mum to come in and apologise or hug me to make it all better.  She didn’t come. She didn’t mention it again.

I had “one of those days” last week, and my three-year-old daughter and I had a Mexican stand-off in the bathroom.  I wasn’t backing down; she wasn’t backing down.  I was tired.  She was tired.  After repeating a direction for the thousandth time in a very cranky voice, she sobbed, “I just want you to hug me.”  Ow!  Deep, painful, mum ow!  I realised that I was pushing an issue to an unreasonable level.  I got down to her level, held her in the biggest hug and told her I was sorry for being cranky when there was no need to be.  She went to her room and brought me back her favourite soft toy to cheer me up.  And gave me toilet paper to wipe our eyes.  “Don’t cry mummy.”  She really is the most beautiful little kid in the whole wide world.

Anyway, I was relaying this saga to my mum a few days ago, and when I told her that I apologised, she said, “Oh, never apologise!  They need to know you’re in charge.”  Right.  The tomato plant story came back and it all became clear.  She thought that if she apologised to me, my young self would think she was weak.  However, the eight-year-old me actually would have really loved to hear ‘sorry’ – that she knew I was a good kid who always tried to do the right thing; that I was telling the truth.  And not hearing mum say sorry for yelling at me, smacking me and not believing me, really hurt then and it's stayed with me - though I'm definitely over it!  My mum is awesome!

Now, it was the 80s and things were different then – like kids digging in dirt and getting smacked – but now I’m a mum, I feel very differently to my mum.   Mum was quite famous amongst us kids for not apologising or admitting she was wrong.  But I’ve apologised to my daughter twice so far, both times for handling something really badly (usually a direction for her to do something that she ignores on a day/at a time we’re both tired).

I want my daughter to know I’m human, and that it’s okay to make mistakes and be wrong.  I want her to know the power of apologising when it’s warranted.  She knows I’m the mum and in charge, and that she needs to do as she’s asked, and use kind words and be kind to others, to use gentle hands with others (and the cat).  There are firm rules and boundaries in our house, though she does a good job of being three and tests them often to make sure the rules and posts haven’t changed or moved. She gets it.  She knows who runs the house – mum and dad.  But I don’t want her growing up thinking grown-ups never make mistakes and are infallible.  I’m human.  I make mistakes.  But I try to make it right when I get it wrong.

Sometimes I think “I’m sorry” can be as powerful as “I love you”.

Ever wanted to run away and join the circus?

I want to run away and join the circus.  Well, I did when I was little – swinging around our Hills Hoist washing line, pausing every few rotations for a dramatic sequence on the trampoline, wearing my swimmers and sparkly headband and some stolen smears of mum’s lipstick.  I was going to be scouted from over our back fence.  I was rehearsing.  I was in the centre ring with all eyes on me.  These days, that dream has been replaced with running away to another country for a while, with my little family, for some adventure and memory-making.  The dream and destinations might be different, but the motivation is the same for 35-year-old me as it was for five-year-old me.  Adventure and excitement.

When I’m really feeling like running away, Canada is at the top of my list.  Montreal or one of the Maritime provinces that are like my other home.  In my head, I think I’d like to learn French (though I got kicked out of Japanese class in high school because I was so bad, so perhaps the only place I will speak French is in my imagination!)  The snow, snow mobiling, trying to out-run the summer-time bugs, beautiful autumn colours, pumpkin pie, learning to ski and ice-skate...  When I’m feeling poor and a little less dramatic, my picks are Toowoomba (two ours west and up a mountain) or Tasmania at the southern tip of Australia – an old stone cottage with fireplaces in the bedroom, summer high temperatures of just 25 degrees and the chance of snow in winter.  Heaven.  In my head.

I think many grown-ups want to pack up and run away as often as we did as kids, only the destinations are further afield than the neighbour’s cubby house.  And not being allowed any dessert because you didn’t eat your peas doesn’t feature so much anymore.  We eat it anyway.

I want to run away sometimes because I get bored and don’t’ want to be boring – I want to be the hit of the nursing home with lots of stories to tell!  I want to run away sometimes because I want to be able to say, for better for worse, “Yep, I did that!” – either with a proud grin or a face palm!  I want to run away sometimes because I crave adventure – even though it scares the bejeepers out of me! I want to run away sometimes because I don’t want to get to my 50s and 60s and THEN decide to do something when money might be more relaxed but mobility and stuck-in-the-mudness has set in.  And I fear it might for me.

But thankfully my husband shares this dream, too.  When we’ve had a bad day at work or things are just generally ‘grey’, we start talking about moving overseas or building our own hay bail house in Tassie and what it will look like, or talking about whether or not we’d get a car if we lived in a snowy country (God help us and others on the road!).  We Google real estate and job ads.  We’ve even got as far as being fingerprinted at the police station for our security checks.  But that’s as far as we’ve gone.  All talk and gusto and not enough gumption.

I used to be brave.  Perhaps I need to do a few small-scale, local brave things to get back up to speed.  Now, anyone in Canada need an editor, page designer or IT professional?  Anyone?  Anyone?  *crickets*

Let me tell you a love story

Let me tell you a love story.  Get settled – it’s a long one.

This isn’t a “Once upon a time” kind of love story, and it’s not the kind of story that Hollywood script writers will come chasing.  But this is a love story about two people who, despite a (pardon me) shit storm swirling around them, managed to stay together, get married, have a baby, scrape enough money together to buy a house and fall more deeply in love with each other as time passes.  It is not always a pretty love, but it is deep, it is real, it is honest, loyal and unwavering.

This is my husband’s and my story.

2007 was a horrible year.  I won’t go into details, but my heart was broken, abused and used by more than one person that year.  I was pretty damaged.  But one good thing from 2007 was Facebook, and a new  friend at work called Mitchel (not his real name because I haven’t told him I’m writing this!).

I’d just come back from Canada and had written a series of travel stories on a clunky old laptop my best friend in Canada had given me for the purpose.  I went to the IT department at work searching for a “floppy disk” (hold the laughter, thanks!) to save the stories on so I could move them into the system.  And the cute IT guy I had seen power-walking around the office for the past year just happened to be the kind gentleman who helped me.  He introduced me to the new and wonderful world of memory sticks!  And probably had a good laugh at my expense after I left the office.  And because he was the cute IT guy and I was interested, I made him chocolate muffins the next day to say thank you.  It took him three days to pluck up the courage to say thank you as he zipped past my desk!

Facebook was new, and a guy with an obscure profile picture sent me a friend request, and as we all did back then, I added him without a thought.  It was the cute IT guy!  We started to get to know each other online and became friends – at least in the online sense.  We actually didn’t talk to each other much face-to-face!  Being the classic over-sharer that I am, over time I managed to give him the cliff notes of my brokenness.  He didn’t run away.  He kept talking to me.  He was definitely confused by me and my over-sharing, but we became pretty good online friends.  Not long after, I wasn't "available" any more and because I'd decided at the beginning Mitchel wasn't romantically interested in me, we just became work buddies.

I was ‘Christian curious’ and it turned out Mitchel was a good and Godly man.  I didn't think they actually existed!  He invited me to his church a few times but I always turned him down.   Then in December the guy I thought I was going to marry broke up with me.  I just wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.  I felt more broken than ever!  I didn’t tell Mitchel because it was too big a piece of news for a workmate friendship and I didn’t want him to see or hear me that upset.  I fell into my family’s arms, particularly my dad’s.

Mitchel called me for the very first time just before Christmas to wish me a merry Christmas because he wouldn’t be in the office over the break.  I actually ran out of the shower to answer the phone and answered it sans clothing, dripping wet!  (Note to the reader: if you do that, be wise and bring a towel with you.)  Afterwards, I thought that was a really kind thing for him to have done.  But don’t guys only call girls they like?

In the few work days between Christmas and New Year, Mitchel asked me to come to his church again.  And this time I said yes.  I was so hurt, lost, confused and damaged I thought why not!  “I’ll just slip in, sit up the back and slip out again before he sees me.”  But it didn’t quite pan out that way.  I cried in church.  Really ugly crying.  All the hurt started to come out - of every facial orifice!  I didn’t bring any tissues with me and only had my glasses cloth (that got thrown away!).  Thankfully Mitchel missed the worst of it, but found me after church and walked the now-calm me back to my car, in the rain.  And he hugged me.

Around New Years, I told my sisters and brother about this cute guy at work that I kinda sorta liked, but that he’d never be into a girl like me.  And I’d just had my heart broken.  I thought I wasn’t “good” enough for Mitchel.  He was Godly and I was not. I was damaged goods.  He deserved a good woman without my station-wagon-load of baggage.  He deserved a pretty girl who went to his church every Sunday.   Then he sent me a text message at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and even though it was a group message, I thought it strange that he included me in it.  “I think perhaps he might like me,” I thought with an unsure smile before rolling over and going back to sleep.

When work resumed a few days after New Year, he plucked up the courage to ask me more about what had happened before Christmas that had upset me so much, and I gave him the details.  And the end of that conversation went something like this:
“So, I have a really bad habit of talking a lot but I’m never sure if I’m actually making any sense or getting to my point, so let me just say, I really like you, and if you ever wanted to ask me out on a date, I’d think that was really nice and say yes.”  Smooth as sandpaper!  
And that night he asked me to coffee!  And on that coffee date, where we played a game of UNO (and I still remember exactly what I was wearing), he asked if he could court me.  Are you serious?!?!  This good and Godly guy wants to COURT… me?!?  Had I stumbled from 2008 to 1908?  Wow!  My knees went a little weak.

We started looking out for each other’s cars in the carpark at work, and my heart would do a little skip when I saw him walk in of a morning.  I felt like my day would be better if he was there.  He came over to my desk sometimes to chat and would blush horribly, or I’d make my jelly legs take me to his office.   We spent most of our first dates walking along the beach after work just talking.  They were fun dates.  They only last four weeks.

Then my world really did fall apart.  After 41 years of marriage, my dad left us for another woman.  I was on a date with Mitchel when my oldest sister called to tell me.  I just dissolved into tears, in public, with a new boyfriend I’d barely started seeing.  Bam.  I wanted him to take me back to the work carpark so I could get my car and go home.  But he drove me home, helped me up the stairs, made me tea, got me tissues and just let me cry and snot all over him.  I kept telling him to leave – this was too real, too big, too painful; he didn’t need to be a part of it and should run for the hills.  But he didn’t run.  He cancelled a weekend full of plans to drive me to the city to be with my family – across the other side of the city to pick up one sister, all the way back across the big city to my mum’s in the driving rain, squeezed my hand and quietly back his car away and drove off.  He would stay away until I called him.

And he came, held my hand and never let go – through all the mess, tears, snot, anger, confusion, hurt, hostility, he held my hand.  Back home, he kept walking with me on the beach, even at night through the sea foam to make me squeal and laugh.  I saw dolphins breach in the moonlight on the ocean.

I got a job in the city as soon as I could so I could be with mum, and just before I moved, he proposed, down on one knee, in the rain on the beach where we had all those wonderful first dates.  He asked if I would grow old with him.

On our second wedding anniversary, we left hospital with our beautiful daughter.  And today is our fifth wedding anniversary.  I can say unequivocally that I love my husband more now than when we got married.   He is messy, and grumpy when he’s tired or hungry or hasn’t had his coffee, but he loves me wholly and completely.  He’s seen me at my best and worst (and I mean worst!) and he’s never let go of my hand.  And you know what?  I’ve never let go of his either.

Infertility sucks

I suffer from secondary infertility.  

My beautiful daughter turns three soon, and we’ve been trying for 20 months to give her a brother or sister without any luck.  Unless you count an early-stage miscarriage as luck, because your doctor will count that as a win – like, “You got pregnant.  It just didn’t stick.”  Great.  Comforting.  Thanks.

I had never heard of the term “secondary infertility” until things just weren’t happening for us.  Infertile meant not able to have babies.  We had a baby.  We were going to have another one.  And another one.  And maybe one more.  We fell pregnant really quickly the first time, and quite naïvely thought it would happen that way again, which is why we didn’t start trying until our daughter was 18 months old.  I just wasn’t ready to be pregnant again before then.  Had I known I’d be turning 35 after almost two years of trying, I would have gotten it together right from the six-week all-clear! 

And this sucks.  All kinds of sucks that people don’t understand unless they are or have been where I am – or even harder, not having been able to have a child at all.  And that is the only bloody silver lining here.  My beautiful girl.  She is funny and smart, kind, gentle, sensitive, stubborn, shy and outgoing depending on which way the wind is blowing, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to love her any more than I do!  She’s a cool kid.  She keeps me going.  And smiling when I so don’t want to because I’ve seen/read or been given yet another freaking pregnancy announcement.  I have honestly lost count of the number of friends and acquaintances that are having babies this year.  Stab.  It seems everyone with a uterus (or even part of one) and a partner (even a sketchy one) is pregnant! Stab. People have had babies who are now celebrating their first birthdays in the time we’ve been trying. Stab.

I’ve received fertility advice from every corner and on every aspect of conception, and even on coping with infertility.  Depending on my hormone levels, it can be funny, appreciated, annoying or really hurtful.  (And for the record, whatever you want to tell me to try/not try, I’ve done it, got it, tried it or been told about it but thanks anyway).  We are seeing a specialist who tested us both for all the obvious issues (clear) and operated on me last Friday to try and figure out what was going on, and turns out he can’t find anything.  Awesome.

I am a woman of faith, and I have prayed so hard about this that I’m sick of bugging God about it.  I’ve had other people pray for me. And while I have my moments where I am happy and content with just one (and it’s not like I don’t get how blessed I am to have her!  Truly!), there are all those other moments.  I don’t drop my bundle every month anymore, but man those ultrasound photos on Facebook announcing an impending baby just rock me to the core.  My stomach drops and knots at the same time (who thought that was possible?).  And I drop my bundle.  For a few days.  

And I had been feeling really bad about that part – I should just be happy for them and not feel any sadness or grief for myself, but oh boy, do I! – until a beautiful friend pointed out to me that I am entitled to lose it because I’m on a journey.  A sucky, difficult, frustrating, confusing, painful journey of wanting more children but not being able to, which often involves tears.

So I will cry every time someone announces they’re pregnant and I’m not.  Again.  And I will be hurt and sad it’s not me.  Again.  And I will feel a stab in my heart every time I see a newborn because that woman has what I want.  And I will give myself permission to feel all those things because it’s the truth, it’s honest and it’s painful, and the only way pain goes away is to let yourself feel it until it runs out.

We’re getting pet chickens instead.  I want cats too but don't think the two groups will cohabitate happily.  I may only be a parent to one child, but I can at least try and do that job well.

No more Mrs Nice Jen. Well, not really...

It’s hard to pin-point when exactly this happened, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been a people-pleaser my whole life.  I will take the blame for just about anything and am always quick to apologise, even when I am not to blame, because part of me secretly thinks it could be my fault – "It probably is my fault," I think to myself – but also so things can get back to happy.  “Please still like me!”

I stand there and take whatever negativity is thrown at me most of the time because I don’t want to fight.  I HATE to fight.  (That, and I’m usually stunned into silence and don’t think of my awesome comebacks until hours later!)  I roll over faster than an obedient trick dog!  Hec, I’m the human equivalent of a golden retriever!  “Forgive me, forgive me, rub my tummy, food?”

This self revelation (well, long-known but long-avoided) came about recently in the most has-to-be-God way.  (As an aside, I have no idea why this life lesson #173 has popped up right now, but I have to believe there is a reason for learning it now because only He knows what’s around the corner that I need the armour for.  It could be God's answer to my last blog post about tip-toeing around issues, though this isn't what I had in mind... Ah, God's timing).  Anywho.  Where was I?

I had a falling out with a friend right at the time I was subbing an article about how dangerous it can be to be a “nice” girl.  The author wrote: “You see, nice girls don't talk back. Nice girls don't want to upset people because nice girls are, evidently, responsible for other people's moods.” 

Hello!  I’m that nice girl, dang it!  At 34, I hate that about myself!  I love lots of things about me, but the fact that I take everyone else’s crap on board and roll over so bloody easily to try and keep the peace is not cool.  I hate it even more than I hate to fight.  So this revelation heralds a new start for me.

I wish I could be as dramatic as saying “no more Mrs Nice Jen”, but I will always be soft-hearted and kind.  That is one of the things I like about myself.  I will always forgive because that is how God wants us to be, and though I am a spectacularly flawed human, I will always strive to forgive.

But I will not carry other people’s issues anymore, or their choices, or their baggage, or the crap they throw back at me because of something going on in their lives.  That’s their stuff to get counselling for/sort out/process/or carry.  I will always be there to listen, or cheer them on if they ask for that, hug it out if that’s what they need, or leave them the hec alone if they tell me to.  And that’s fine.  I will be sad but I will not take the hit when it's not due.

I know me.  I like me.  If anyone doesn't like me, I’m cool with that too.

Tip-toe around the issues

So, don't you just hate it when you're the meat in the sandwich, and you could go a big old rant on Facebook or, say, a blog you happen to write, but the slices of bread and other sandwich filling would explode if you actually told the full truth and shared your true feelings and you're just trying to keep your shite together and keep the peace and everything's sunshine and rainbows?  Yep.  Me either. 

See, like the blog I wrote about being a different version of yourself when you're with different groups of people, it's the same with information and/or feelings.  There are times when you just have to keep your big mouth and heart shut!  And I struggle with that because I have both a big mouth (not in the blabbing-I-can't-keep-a-secret way, but in the I love to talk and share about my life way) and a big heart - and the bigger that is, the more easily it's trod on and hurt, and by age 34 that's happened a lot and surprisingly doesn't lessen with time... so far.  Yep, I'm a big old talking softie and there are lots of things I'd love to share with the world but in order to keep peace and unity, I have to keep it all inside.  And that's hard!  And it hurts!

I'm going to pray about this one, and try and be guided in the best way to handle it because I can feel myself changing into a cranky, snappy and cynical person.  And I don't like her.  Sometimes you just have to let it all out and let the cards fall where they may, because even though they might be a mess and will be damaged by the time they find their way back into the pack, at least you're not wondering and bottling any more.  The only thing worth bottling is a good beer.

Stay tuned.

Potty training blues

My darling daughter is determined not to potty train.  She's 2 and 7 months and doesn't want a bar of going to the potty.  It's not like she's never used it, or had nappy-off time and made messes on the floor, or been put in knickers to 'let herself feel uncomfortable' as a motivator.  We've also had the sticker chart that had been up on our wall for so long the BluTac lost its tac!  And lollies she chose as her 'poo reward' sitting in the pantry so long they're kind of gross-looking now.  And stickers for the aforementioned chart at the ready that are getting so old they're losing their stick too!  She knows what they're all for, how to get them; she wants them but not enough to use the potty for anything other than storage.  That connection between 'I need to go' and 'I'll go to the potty' is totally absent - either by design or by determination.  I even got my very first parenting book - the only book in the library about potty training, produced by a toy company!  But surprisingly, a lot of it made sense and showed me that the essential ingredients for potty training just aren't there with her yet.  And that's okay, because they will be.

In my mummy-mind, the fact that my more than 2 1/2 year old isn't potty trained makes me a failure because everyone knows girls should be toilet trained by age 2!  I didn't start early enough.  I've been too distracted.  I didn't try hard enough at the right time.  I'm doing it wrong.  I'm doing it wrong for her learning style.  The fact that I work and don't have the full-time availability to focus on potty training makes me a bad mum.  And on my days at home I'm running around trying to keep all the balls in the air, and because I'm not letting the washing overflow and the kitchen turn rancid to focus on potty training makes me a bad mum.  My child will not be allowed to go to kindy because she'll still be in pull-ups!  Bad mummy!

It might seem ridiculous when you read that back again, but that's the circular thinking I have going on most of the time these days.  I know she'll get there when she's ready and willing, like all the other milestones to date.  And if I try and force it beforehand, it turns into a battle of wills and not about learning to use the potty!  And with her heritage, she'll be wearing nappies into her teens just to spite me!

My husband and I have been on holidays this past week, and we had such great plans - one of which was trying out some of the new potty-training techniques in the book.  Perfect!  We're both home, nowhere to go, all the time in the world.  But then we all got gastro and have spent the week holed up in the house, feeling tired and 'delicate', riding out this virus!  Our next holiday is in January where we're going on a massive road trip!  Hardly conducive to potty training either!  Faaaa crying out loud! 

BUT!  She will get there.  When she's ready.  Like rolling over, crawling, walking, eating solids and using utensils.  She is a clever kid and I believe in her.

What makes a full life?

My beautiful mum turned 70 this month.  My sisters, brother and I are throwing her a big birthday bash on Saturday because she deserves it, she’s worth it, we love her to bits and want to make a big fuss of her, and making it to 70 is a pretty big deal!   It’s such a big deal that her sister, my aunt, flew into town earlier this week to help us get ready for the party (read: chill mum out and help her get ready for the party!).  After the initial excitement and fuss of seeing each other again, my mum answered my aunt’s exclamations of making it to 70 with “I’ve WASTED my life!” 

I was gob-smacked!  I was shocked at the time, but her words have been sitting in my mind since then like a stubborn bird on a branch in a storm.  “What do you mean you’ve wasted your life?”  Wind gust, lightening flash, rain dripping off beak.  She pretty much single-handedly raised four children who have grown into pretty awesome grown-ups.  She volunteered all through her life – from the school tuckshop and cake stalls and fetes, to fundraising drives and campaigns, to telephone counselling, which lead to her starting a university degree in her 50s and getting her Masters in counselling not long after.  “What do you mean you’ve wasted your life?”  Tree branch blown about, ruffled, soaked feathers, crash of thunder.  True my dad was a schmuck to her and left her for another woman, but she is now surrounded only by love - of family and friends and her seven beautiful grandchildren.  “What do you mean you’ve wasted your life?”

This got me thinking in the shower last night, where all good thoughts come and world problems are solved, what constitutes a fulfilled life?  Do you have to ride a bicycle around the world with nothing but a pump, spare tubes and a toothbrush?  Do you have to live on a remote Pacific island and build a school and teach poor children to read and write?  Do you have to go from rags to riches?   Do you have to foster 100 children and take in people in need? 

I’d never really thought about it before.  I like having adventures, though I’m getting more “settled” the older I get.  I’ve accumulated a few regrets in the first 34 years of my life, but I am content with where I am now – my beautiful husband, my beautiful daughter, our ramshackle house that needs work, my career (though I may still lose my job, I love what I do) and I have a small handful of awesome friends.   My life is small.  Meaningful and full of love, but small.   But since hearing my mum’s declaration, I’m starting to think…  Is that not enough?  Will I get to 70 (God willing) and be kicking myself for being so boring?

Maybe we should sell up and move to Tasmania to build that hay bail house my hubby and I talk about when we’re feeling crummy?  Maybe we should pack up and go live in a remote place of the globe and try and make a difference there?  Maybe we should throw caution to the wind and spend a year travelling around our own country?  Money, money, money!  Paper, plastic and coins run the world and we don't have much of it.  Dangnabit!

So what do you think constitutes a full and fulfilled life?  Is raising a family, paying off a house, working on your marriage, making friends, laughing and making memories and doing your part to make the world a better place (like having sponsor children, volunteering, raising your children well etc) not enough?  Or do you not figure it out until you’re 70?   I’ve only got 35.5 years to go!  Better get a wriggle on!