Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • I want…

    I want to run myself a bath.

    Slip under the water and feel it swirl around me.

    I want to lay there, in the warmth and day dream, imaginary conversations between me and people I’ll never meet. I want to let my imagination run wild and emerge, warmed through and ready to write something, anything.

    But, it’s the middle of the day and Isaac has just woken from a nap. Amy is asking for food and Isaac is laughing at me.

    There is no peace, not for baths. Not for daydreaming or imaginary conversations.

    ***

    Everyone is talking about Haiti.

    And I want to ignore it.

    Because after getting emotionally involved with Black Saturday, with Hurricane Katrina, with the Tsunamis, with everything, I just can’t.

    It comes on the news and I purposely zone out.

    I can’t think about it, I just can’t.

    I need to protect my emotional integrity, in order to have enough for myself.

    I can’t take on board the suffering of hundreds of thousands of strangers.

    Not this time.

    ***

    It’s been almost 7 months since Nan died and I miss her more every day.

    But it’s been 7 months and it’s harder to say that I miss her when I’m having a bad day.

    It’s not an excuse.

    It just is.

    It’s also the reason I can’t look too hard at the eyes of the Haiti victims.

    Because I need my emotions for myself.

    And I’m sorry.

    ***

    I thought I was over the bitterness that trying and failing to conceive brought out in me.

    I thought I had lanced that wound with the successful birth of a healthy baby boy, who seems to have made it unscathed to his first birthday (more on that tomorrow).

    I’m not though.

    The announcement of a pregnancy this last week, from a girl who I will say should not be pregnant again, has me bitter all over again.

    That poor child.

    The mother, and the baby to be.

    She sounds pleased about it.

    I can think of people who would better deserve a child.

    And I’m a bitch to think that, I know.

    Who am I to say that she shouldn’t have a baby? Who I am to judge?

    I’m no one.

    I don’t get a say.

    But I still think it.

    And I discovered, from this, that having trouble conceiving a baby leaves wounds.

    It leaves wounds, that while they might disappear under the surface, they never really heal.

    So I can safely say, that while I am happy now, I can still be bitter.

    I want to not be bitter.

    I want to read her pregnancy announcement and be simply happy for her and not terrified about what it means for everyone else. About what it means for a system already clogged with women like her, babies like hers.

    It’s a horrible thing to admit.

    ***

    I want to curl into a ball, and hibernate for a while. I want time to be sad, to be bitter, to ignore the world for a while.

    There is no time, not for me.

    Eventually.

    Maybe.

    I’ll be less busy.

    I’ll have more time.

    ***

    There will be a doctors appointment soon, where I discuss my panic attacks and hopefully, get something done about them.

    Because they’re crippling.

    And horrible.

    But I have a tendency to be matter of fact about things.

    And doctors don’t take matter of fact seriously.

    ‘Oh that? I just dislocated my shoulder. I’ll be okay.’

    ‘It’s just my knee. Hang on, I’ll put it right.’

    ‘Meh, it will be okay.’

    I want to say –

    I hurt and

    I keep panicking

    and I’m not sure it’s normal to wake up at 3am and not be able to breathe because you have something sitting on your chest.

    But meh.

    I’ll be okay.

    I just won’t look the Haiti victims in the eyes.

    At least,

    not until I’ve got my head back together.

    ***

    Isaac turns ONE tomorrow and I will certainly have a post celebrating that. We had a good day today, with my parents coming over to visit and gift him with a wooden train. It was a good afternoon. I’m just a little flat this evening.

    If you want to donate to Haiti you can click here to donate through the Red Cross. Just because I can’t watch them, doesn’t mean they don’t need helping.

  • Different

    A phonecall this afternoon:

    Hi, I’m calling about your appointment on the 19th?

    Yes?

    It’s been cancelled. He needs to see a Paediatric Opthamologist, not the regular one.

    I think: You knew how old he was when this appointment was booked. You knew he was a baby, why all of a sudden did you realise the need for a Paeds Specialist?

    I say: Oh, okay. That’s fine.

    It doesn’t matter, we still have to go into the hospital that day anyway, both children are having blood tests to test for the gene that causes Coeliacs. A minor annoyance, compared to the Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, but one they want to follow up with.

    A letter in the mail:

    When I first saw Isaac, he was sitting at the 10th percentile for gross motor development.

    That number, 10th percentile kicks me in the guts. I knew he was delayed, but 10th percentile?

    Since then, he is crawling and pulling to standing. He is now at the 30th percentile for gross motor skills.

    30th, I think, that’s better, right? It could be worse.

    Then I kick myself for thinking that it could be worse, because for some people, it is worse. Some children are off the charts, never to fall back on them again. Some children are at the 1st, 5th, 10th percentile still.

    I was warned that both children would be slow with their gross motor skills. I know that Amy was, I watched Isaac lag behind his peers also. It didn’t bother me, knowing that walking would be late, that things were going to be a little harder for them.

    Seeing it on paper however, 10th percentile, 30th percentile, even as I tell myself that the numbers mean nothing, that hurts. Because on paper, all they are is a number. No one sees how well Amy talks, or how Isaac is clever and works out how to do things differently, that he is determined and that she is amazing. They’re just a number somewhere, a statistic.

    Traversing the realm of doctors and genetic testing and blood tests and physio is harder than it sounds. It’s a stretch of my already limited energy, but it’s something that needs doing. They need the physiotherapy and the follow-up care and the specialists.

    And I’m grateful, I truly am.

    I’m grateful for a diagnosis, I’m grateful for the Australian Medical System, that means this, all of this, it costs me nothing. I’m not likely to go bankrupt providing the children the care they need.

    I’m grateful for the quality of care we are receiving, even when not enough is taught about EDS in med school.

    But sometimes, I wish that the children didn’t have to be just a statistic. Even if that statistic is, in my opinion, deeply flawed.

  • It’s been a long time.

    I started this blog in August 2007, when Amy was almost 1. I was lonely, living in the middle of nowhere, with no adult conversation.

    I am positive that blogging saved my sanity, more than once.

    This little space, it’s been my safe haven. My place to hide, a dumping ground, somewhere to write out my thoughts and stresses, deal with them and move on.

    When I started, I had no readers, except my mother. For months, no one was reading here, until I participated in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I picked up a few readers over the course of that month (Hi Marylin!) and slowly, my readership grew.

    Blogging is fluid. I’ve gained readers and I’ve lost readers and 2 years later, aside from my regular commenters, I have no idea who reads here anymore. I’ve got less time to comment now, although I’ve probably got more blogs in my reader. Nowadays I tweet as much as I blog and I enjoy every second of it, even if the social media moguls are sure that I’m ‘doing it wrong.’

    It’s funny, I still check my Feedburner numbers most nights to see how many subscribers I have (in the scheme of things, not very many) and I will check my stats and referrals to see where people are coming from, at least once a day. Some things never change, and my obsession with stats is one of them.

    I think, after all this time that things are starting to fall into place for me.

    I’m a little late I know, but today is Delurk Your Lurkers day and I would LOVE to know who is reading here and a little more about them.

    Who is your favourite blogger (while I’ll be thrilled if you say me, I know that it’s not true across the board, so be honest) and who was your first blog read?

    My first reads were Lotus when she was still on Myspace (Gasp! I know!). Once I’d moved away from Myspace and convinced her to come too (aren’t you glad I did?) I found MiscMum and promptly lurked all over her blog roll.

    And 2 years later, here we are.

  • Dear Facebook:

    Dear People of Facebook:

    If all your photos are of you (topless) with your mates (also topless) I’m going to start to wonder if you’ve become a male stripper. Please, stop my wondering and fill out the Work part of your profile. I don’t care if you’re working for Manpower, I just need to know whether or not to avoid Manpower shows.

    Also you? Yes, you. Your breasts are lovely. I’m not offended, although I didn’t really need to see them. I’ve got photos of my breasts up too, of course, my breasts had a baby attached to them, but whatever. You know what made me want to stab my eyes out? The terrible photoshopping job that was done on your ‘model’ pictures. Please, have a look at your legs and then look at the way the reflection is sitting. The angle is all wrong and it’s making me stabby. Ask your photographer to either a) photoshop well or b) don’t photoshop a reflection in. The photos are of you, a bad job of them looks bad for your portfolio. And makes me want to stab things.

    You there! Group creator! Stop using the word ‘retard’ as an insult. It is offensive and it makes me cringe inside. Stop it, or I’ll start flagging you as offensive. Actually, I’m going to do that anyway.

    Right, now, the one who writes EvErYtHiNg LiKe ThIs, doesn’t it take 10 times as long to type a simple sentence? It makes your words indecipherable, not cool or smart. You don’t look awesome for doing it. You look like a fucking jackass who doesn’t know how to use a shift key. You could be talking french for all I know and it would still shit me. Stop it.

    Stop Capitalising Every Word Of Your Status Updates. It’s not a giant long fucking title, it’s a status update. Type it like a regular sentence.

    You! I went to high school with you. I KNOW you know basic grammar and spelling, use it. Apostrophes are your friend. So are commas and full stops.

    Text speak is for TEXTS. Not for status updates. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a qwerty keyboard in front of you (and if you’re updating FB from your phone, I will forgive you. a little) so USE IT. I’m not trying to learn another language, I’m trying to read through my timeline. If I friended you, likely I care about what you’re up to. Make it easy for me, please? Plus, it makes you look stupid, when everything lks lik dis, lolz epic fail /jk.

    Photos!!! Learn a basic fucking edit. If the photo is blurry, delete it. Sure your kid might be cute, but I can’t tell when it’s the doorway 4 metres behind him that’s in focus. On the same rant, if you’ve got 20 photos of the same thing, maybe you ought to only upload one? I don’t care that in this one you’ve got one eye squinted and in that one you’re looking to the left. EDIT. DELETE. UPLOAD ONE. I’ll care more if I’m not wading through 10 photos of you with your eyes crossed.

    For people with kids, I want to see the photo updates. I don’t want to click on an album and find 200 photos in it. My cousins wife has the right idea, she uploads photos in 1-2 month albums. It means that each album gets 20-30 photos and I actually look at them and CARE. (It helps that their son is a little younger than Isaac, actual family and rather cute.)

    Phew!

    I think I feel better now. Of course, feel free to add to my rather venty list.

    ***

    Disclaimer: Cos I need one otherwise people will whine at me about this: If you think this is about you, it isn’t. I know most of the FB friends who read here (they’ve either emailed or commented before) and they don’t annoy me. I will forgive a typo, I make them all the time. I will forgive a slight grammatical slip, although if you’re confusing your and you’re or their, there and they’re, I might get stabby. Fuck, I will forgive most things. Just please, at least pretend that you know how to craft a sentence? I’m pretty sure you can speak well enough, why can’t you write it too?

    Sigh.

  • Weaning

    Apparently we’re weaning. A nursing strike since early this morning and a complete breast refusal seem to have been the nail in the coffin and he just doesn’t want to feed. At all.

    It’s hot at the moment and normally, that sparks a day of near constant feeding. Not today though. Today, he hasn’t wanted a bar of me, except to wrap around my head and yell ‘AH AH AH’ as he pulls my hair.

    I’m finding it hard not to feel like it’s me he rejecting, rather than the breastfeeding. I knew that night weaning was on the cards sooner rather than later, and was planning on doing that sometime in the next few weeks.

    He’s beaten me to it though.

    Sigh.

    I breastfed Amy until she was nineteen months old and somewhere, in the back of my mind, that’s how I thought it would go with Isaac.

    I would say that I don’t mind and that he is almost 12 months old (a week until his first birthday) and that it is all fine.

    I’d be lying though, because I do mind.

    Even if I can see the benefits to weaning.

    It’s hard. I can’t force him to feed.

    And with how bitey he’s been lately I’m not sure I want to anymore.

    Anyway. However it goes, I’m taking the chance to nightwean now, while it’s being presented to me.

    It could be my impending period (#4 since they returned) changing the taste of my milk. I expressed a little into my hand and it does taste salty rather than sweet. Natural weaning process? Maybe.

    I’m rambling now. It’s hot and we are doing CIO. As much as he doesn’t want to feed (complete refusal), he also doesn’t know how to fall asleep without boobs.

    Sigh.

    SIGH.

    </end ramble>

    ***Update: A 2am screaming session + engorged painful breasts – meant I caved and fed him and he caved and fed. Not sure where that leaves us now, except for me, awake at 2am and finishing up expressing a breast. I think I’ll keep up with the weaning anyway, just slightly slower than I had originally planned. Weaning over the course of a fortnight, for my comfort.

    ***

    The nominations for the 2010 bloggies are still open for a little while longer. I would love love love if you could nominate this blog (https://somedaywewillsleep.com) for Best Australian and possibly my other blog for Best Writing or Best Kept Secret (http://veronicafoale.com).

    Please?

    Pretty please?