No. Apparently the dirty washing pile is the best place for a nap.
He slept for almost two hours.
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Isaac
Not a literal bus, a metaphorical bus.
It could also have been a metaphorical UFO, or a metaphorical flying cow – I was too busy crawling towards the safety of my bed to look closely at whatever it was that hit me.
Regardless of metaphorical object, I am finding week 9 of pregnancy very exhausting and very very nauseating and something horrible keeps happening with my blood pressure. All of this means that I have spent a lot of this week sleeping, trying not to puke, or laying down with my ankles firmly above my head.
Pregnancy is so attractive, don’t you think?
In lieu of a proper post, I present you with photos of my children.
Because they’re cute.
In other news, it is Frogpondsrock’s birthday today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!) and she is going to be shaving her head in the Leukaemia Foundation’s World’s Greatest Shave.
She would LOVE if you could donate a few dollars towards the cause, because as we know, Cancer is a Bastard and deserves to be cured. Until then, the Leukaemia Foundation is using the money to fund research and to help out patients.
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Don’t tell my husband, but I just stole his last pair of clean trackpants to wear. Not that I should be needing to steal his trackies at this early stage of pregnancy – no, my belly is not large enough to make my pants uncomfortable yet. The problem is that apparently, I keep buying comfy “round the house” clothes for my family and forgetting that maybe, I need some pajama pants of my own.
WOE IS ME.
As I was stripping off my skirt and leggings in the bedroom, Amy was chatting to me and I told her she absolutely was not allowed to tell her father that I was stealing his pants.
Of course, she told him. I think I’m quite proud of her honesty (considering he would have noticed in a couple of minutes anyway).
So, there. My daughter doesn’t lie all of the time (thank god) and I am wearing stolen pants.
This is my glamorous life.
***
I am coveting a wheelbarrow load of chook poo.
I KNOW, INTERNET, POO AGAIN.
My garden is looking a little worse for wear, so today, we braved Bunnings with two children to firstly, buy new septic joiners (MORE POO) so that we can move our toilet inside (EVEN MORE POO) and secondly, buy mushroom compost (MUSHROOM POO!) and potting mix.
Now all I need is Nathan to walk to the other side of the paddock with a shovel and the wheelbarrow and return, bearing gifts of chook poo. (POO)
It’s not even like it’s hard – the chooks rather nicely piled it up for him. Of course that was before the dog tore them all to shreds, leaving only one chook alive, but you get that. (Now I’m adding DEATH and GORE to the mix.)
But it’s raining and sadly, there will be no garden safe manure for me today.
***
We were in the Supermarket after Bunnings, with two bored and hungry children. This could have been a recipe for disaster and whining, but, it was … okay. Not fantastic and not amazing, but okay.
Yes, they whined (pleasepleaseplease can we have blueberries? please mummy, look, there are grapes!), but the content of the whinging was wanting fruit. You know what? I can deal with that.
For the record, they got what they wanted.
At the same time I noticed, just how nice it is to have kids that are reaching the older end of the “little kid” spectrum. Five and three? So much nicer than three and six months old. Really really.
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Tomorrow, my son turns three.
This is a huge milestone for me, as well as him. When I was 24 weeks pregnant, I got an infection and started to bleed. After a positive fetal fibronectin test, I was given steroids to mature his lungs just in case.
Nothing else had gone right during my pregnancy, so I had no reason to believe my pregnancy would. I distanced myself from him, even as I sobbed in the hospital room at 2am, trying to breathe through the crampy contractions.
Eventually the antibiotics did their job and Isaac stayed in utero for the recommended number of weeks, before being born in a hurry, screaming his displeasure at the world.
Oestensibly it was a happy ending, but the months of my pregnancy had been spent so close to cancer and death that I couldn’t quite convince myself that it was all going to be okay. I spent a lot of time waking up with a racing heart, before laying my hand on my sleeping son, holding my breath and feeling his chest move.
Five months after he was born, my grandmother died and for a time, it felt like the spectre of death was hanging over us. There was no rhyme, nor reason to death, so why should I expect to be spared any more heartbreak?
It took a long time to stop worrying that Isaac was going to die, even longer to accept that it was my anxiety and depression causing the fears, not anything realistic. Of course, it didn’t help that he was a boy, prone to breaking his bones and smashing his head against sharp objects.
Three years later and finally, I’m pretty sure it’s all going to be okay.
My anxiety and depression have eased and while I can’t predict the future, I can stop myself imagining everything bad that might possibly happen.
It feels like we’ve finally reached a period of calm.
It’s rather nice, actually.
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