Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • When is sunshine not really sunshine?

    This morning I woke up when Alfred, the half grown cat who ought to be grateful that I didn’t leave him to die of starvation in the middle of winter, bit me on the elbow. Hard.

    It was unexpected, and I yelped, loud enough to wake Evelyn, who looked less than delighted to be awake, and promptly crawled over to take advantage of my boobs. She was nearly back asleep when Alfred nibbled on her fingers, making her yelp, and waking us both right up.

    Alfred is not meant to sleep in my bed. Sometimes though, he sneaks in stealthily, and curls up like a hot water bottle at the base of my back, which feels so nice that I am loath to throw him across the room. He’s like a boomarang anyway, in that he always comes back, and he’ll probably take my face off when he does.

    So we were awake, and the sun was streaming in through the window. Well, that part is a lie. I could see that there was sun streaming outside, but my window faces the wrong way for morning sun, which is probably a good thing. And anyway, it was windy, and cold looking, despite the sunshine. You should never trust sunshine that you can’t feel on your skin because it’s probably only pretending to be warm.

    I checked my clock, expecting – because of the sunshine, and the eager kitten, and the awake baby – it to be at least 7.12am, owing to the clock change last weekend meaning Evelyn wakes up at a time that isn’t horrendous on the clock.

    It was 5.58am, which, if this had happened a week ago, would have made it 4.58am, the thought of which made me cry.

    But onwards and upwards.

    I’d like to say I threw myself out of bed with vigour, greeting the sunshine (that isn’t really sunshine, because it’s not warming anything up) and grabbing the day by its testicles.

    I’d be lying, again, because instead I pulled the covers up to my chin, tucked Evelyn into the curve of my body and mumbled into her head in the hope that I was actually chanting some mystical spell that would put her back to sleep.

    It didn’t work, and she let me know it wasn’t working by gleefully trying to feed me a feather that she’d picked out of my ageing doona, before poking me in the eye and wiggling so much that at one point, she was sitting on my head and bouncing.

    The day continued to be daylike and I was forced out of bed.

    The benefits of being out of bed include: the ability to sit in a puddle of false sunshine, music, hot tea, and the fact that none of the cats urinated in the basket of washing that needs folding before I had a chance to throw them outside.

    The downsides of being out of bed include: I am awake and so are all my children.

    I fully expect the day to improve with the application of brownies and tea. Probably.

    In the meantime, Alfred is meowing at me from the kitchen window and I think Evelyn might be trying to eat her brother. I can’t see from here. The false sunshine is blindingly bright.

    Evelyn chaos creator

  • In my defence, I didn’t mean to throw a spider at him

    Two nights ago, I was feeding Evelyn at some godawful hour, when I felt the pitter patter of tiny feet scurry across my forehead. I reached up and grasped something with too many legs and way too much exoskeleton for my liking. With minimal freaking out because Evie was asleep on my chest, I grabbed the spider, flinging it across the room.

    Or at least, that’s what I tried to do.

    Instead of the spider flying across the room, I threw it onto the bare chest of my almost sleeping husband, making him do the spider dance in the dark.

    It wasn’t my finest moment.

    On the bright side, neither of us got bitten and in the light of day, it’s amusing me. Even if I am now checking my bedding for stray spiders more than is healthy.

    —

    I’ve been writing a lot of things lately.

    At Ramp Up:

    My Disabled Body, My Choice

    Family photo 039

    Although eugenics is widely condemned today, the practice of shaming disabled women for having babies continues.

    Recently I was the victim of a comment implying that because I am disabled, I should not have had children. I’ll leave aside arguments like the fact that I also pay taxes, and instead focus on the implication that I should not have had children because I have a genetic mutation that causes issues with mobility. Read more.

    At The Shake:

    Perception is more important than reality.

    A few months back, I set up a new account on twitter, in order to promote some of the genre fiction I’m writing under a pen name. It’s been a hard slog, but today I can let you know that my pen name has twelve followers. Thirteen if we count the one tumblr follower I have. Read More.

    Breastfeeding and Supplemental Formula.

    Two weeks ago I put my fourteen month old daughter on supplemental formula under the guidance of a Dietician working through the Royal Hobart Hospital.

    I remember reading somewhere, back when I was pregnant with Evelyn still, that formula will not poison your child and breast milk will not make her fly. I chanted that as a litany in my head when, as a neonate in special care, she required formula through her NG tube as my milk came in. Read More.

    What are you afraid of Mr Prime Minister?

    Tony Abbott’s behaviour is not that of a man confident in his leadership, or his power. He’s been elected to the office of Prime Minister, but instead of grabbing the job with both hands and doing it for Australia, he’s been hiding away in an office, refusing to let the people of Australia see him have an opinion on anything. Read More.

    —

    How are you, Internet? Any spider stories to share?

     

     

  • Walking, oh my god, someone hold me please because WALKING

    Two nights ago, Evelyn took her first unassisted steps, walking two steps between the coffee table and couch. She looked incredibly proud of herself and while, two days later, she’s not running around the house, she is moving easily between furniture that requires only a step or two to reach.

    She’s 14 months old, and taking her first steps months ahead of schedule.

    I am so proud.

    Yes, we still have challenges, but she walked, you guys. She WALKED. By herself! Without help! SHE WALKED.

    Yeah. I’m pretty thrilled.

  • How much fat does an apple contain?

    pediasure

    Do you know that a lot of yogurts only have 4% fat?

    Gippsland Dairy is better, they have 6.5% fat. Ski Divine has 7.8% according to their website. Danone is even better – less sugar than Gippsland and Ski and 8% fat. But Farmer’s Union Greek Yogurt has a total amount of 9.7% fat and no sugar at all.

    Unfortunately the lack of sugar makes it almost unpalateable for Evelyn, unless I add things to it, which negates the fat percentages. If half the yogurt eaten is actually applesauce (made from pure apples, high in vitamin C, containing carbs and energy, but not enough nutrition to live on), then it’s less beneficial than 4TB of plain Danone yogurt.

    This is not a sponsored post. This is just where my head is at lately, while keeping a food diary for Evelyn and trying to add Pediasure to all the things. This morning I made whole egg custard because Evelyn both enjoys the taste and can swallow it. I added Pediasure to the end product and voila, there was three tablespoons of highly nutritious food for morning tea.

    I cheered because she managed 5 tablespoons (FIVE, count them, FIVE) of thin porridge with yogurt and pediasure this morning for breakfast.

    Why yes, I am going a little insane, obsessing over everything Eve puts in her mouth. But that’s my job. I’m her mother and a toddler cannot live on breastmilk alone as our (new, lovely) dietician pointed out to me the other day. So I’m keeping a food diary, writing everything down and trying to replace day feeds with pediasure bottles.

    You wish you were me right now, don’t you.

    Mothers of toddlers everywhere are attempting to get their special snowflakes to eat sandwiches at lunchtime. I’m feeding my child ice-cream and custard. It’s a big perspective shift for me, who originally felt that toddlers should survive on everything that isn’t sweet, unless it’s fruit and then, go for your life.

    Welcome to Reality, Veronica. Here, have a cookbook, a list of fat percentages, and a can of nutritional supplement. YOU’RE GOING TO NEED THEM.

    We’re lucky. Evelyn enjoys food still. She likes to taste everything, even if she cannot swallow a lot of it. This is a good thing, I’m told. She’s just as likely to eat a piece of steamed cauliflower, as a spoonful of ice-cream (even if the cauliflower doesn’t have nearly enough fat), and she adores cheese cubes (better) and rice crackers (eh, practically empty nutrition).

    So here we are.

    Bottles of partially tasted supplement litter my kitchen sink and I’ve taken to wondering if syringe feeding pediasure would be easier than giving bottles. I make them up in 50ml lots now and throw out 45 ml when after two hours Evelyn has had three sips. Maybe it’s the bottle, maybe it’s the taste, maybe it’s that Evelyn doesn’t seem to get hungry.

    Who knows?

    It’s complicated.

    Until something changes, I’m making custards, ice-cream and bottles in equal measure.

  • My creativity well runs dry

    If you walk out through my kitchen door and keep walking, down to the end of the semi-enclosed barbeque area, you will find a shed. Full of odds and ends – old shelves, Christmas decorations, kittens – it is the perfect size for an office, and I spend long minutes dreaming of the day when it’s cleaned out, revamped and mine (MINE!) to write in. There’s a small window, looking towards the poppy fields.

    I want to write. I wake up and I juggle fiction around breakfasts and school lunches, showers and dishes.

    Shush children, Mummy is writing.

    I wonder if I’m doing them a disservice by keeping this small part of me intact, unsullied by motherhood. But I think I’d be doing myself a disservice if I give everything I am to my children.

    I have projects on the go everywhere, and nothing is getting my full attention.

    Before Evelyn, I used to write best of an afternoon. Now we start our days at 5am and by 8pm I am dead on my feet.

    But isn’t this the refrain of tired parents everywhere?

    Children are demanding, housework is insidious, creativity drips from the end of our washing up gloves until we’re dried out and used up, unable to do much more than read a bedtime story and fall into bed ourselves.

    Yesterday I sent all three of my children outside to frolic in the mid-afternoon sun while I locked myself in my bedroom and wrote the things I needed to get out of my head. Writing is like that. I can’t ignore it, even as I procrastinate around it.

    NaNoWriMo is looming on my horizon and I’m torn between wanting desperately to participate and knowing how good it is for me, to dreading feeling the pressure. But then pressure is good. I work best under pressure, right?

    Right.

    Basically, to summerise: My life is hard, fiction is hard, children are hard; I wouldn’t change a single moment.

    Stamen