Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • Not recommended: Getting stoned before visiting a medical professional.

    It’s not a new thing for me to get carsick when we travel. What is new is the increasing severity of my motion sickness and the limited amount of travel it takes to make me want to puke. When I was a kid, provided I had eaten breakfast and we weren’t driving for more than an hour, I would be fine.

    Post third baby however, I feel like throwing up a mere 10 minutes into our drives. Bear in mind that we live at least 30 minutes from the supermarket and even further away from our myriad of doctors. You can imagine where this is going, can’t you?

    Yesterday I knew that we needed to travel an hour into the city to see Isaac’s dietician for the first time. He’s starting a low FODMAP diet for various issues and we needed to put a plan in place. I was already feeling queasy at the thought, so I made myself eat buttered toast and a piece of fruit – my go-to cures for a wobbly tummy. I also rather sensibly took a maxalon (anti-nausea tablet) that I’m prescribed.

    But then, I was stupid.

    Self, I thought. Self, you’ve got some travel sickness pills in the medicine cabinet.

    I really didn’t want to be puking sick for the first time meeting a professional (I save that for visit three) so I read the directions. “Take 1-2 tablets 30 minutes before travel.”

    Seems sensible, right? I popped two tablets (my first mistake), finished my cup of tea (probably my second mistake) and finished getting ready (definitely my third mistake.)

    By the time we were thirty minutes into our car trip, my mouth felt weird. My fingers were tingling and I had the driest throat, ever. I was having a hard time resisting the urge to squeal “WHEEEEE!” around all the corners and my inner ears were so messed up that while I had a headache and a bit of dizziness, I was not feeling sick in the slightest.

    By the time we parked the car and headed to our appointment, I was smashed. I wanted to giggle at everything. EVERYTHING. THAT TREE IS SO FUNNY OH GOD KILL ME NOW.

    Our wait time was 30+ minutes and I was hoping while we were waiting that I might start to come down. Oh yeah, laugh at the stupid stoned girl. The baby was fussy so we paced the waiting room – Evelyn sadly chewing on my shoulder (omnomnomnomnom) and me trying not to walk like an astronaut during the moon landing. I also had to bite my lip to keep from dying laughing when Evie grabbed Nathan’s cup of water, spilling it all over his pants. It wasn’t really that funny, in hindsight.

    During the appointment I tried to keep my brain on task, carefully listing all of Isaac’s liked foods and listening intently to all the things he can no longer eat. I promptly forgot everything. Luckily she wrote notes for me all over the information package she handed to us.

    In the car on the way home, I fell asleep. I haven’t slept in a car since I was ten years old (and thinking about it, probably high on the same travel sickness pills).

    I was in bed at 7.30pm last night, unable to stay awake any longer. Things weren’t funny anymore. Actually, things were decidedly unfunny. (GO TO SLEEP CHILDREN, FOR THE LOVE OF GAHHHHHH MUMMY IS DYING)

    This morning I have a hangover.

    But hey, I didn’t puke in the car.

    Next time though, I am taking half of ONE tablet. Stupid tablets.

    Internet, you’ve been warned. I do these things so that you don’t have to.

  • My house is being invaded by chickens

    There’s a certain sound a chicken makes when it walks onto a linoleum floor. It’s kind of a cross between a nervous cluck and the sound of their tiny little chicken brains exploding because of the cracker crumbs on the floor.

    I was curled up in a chair earlier reading while the baby napped when it happened:

    My kitchen was invaded by chickens.

    We’ve been on a month long chicken training program, which sounds stupid – but trust me, if you start shooting your chickens with a pump action water pistol every time they come near your back door, they’ll train super fast. Anyway the training program was going swimmingly, until today, when I was invaded.

    I bounced out of my chair, which was no mean feat considering how contorted I was, and shooed them outside, wishing for a secondary water pistol. They ambled out slowly, acting like they own the place. And really, if you poop on something, I’m inclined to let you keep it. Unless that thing is my kitchen floor. Or my shoe. Ask me how I know.

    Five minutes later,  they were back inside looking innocent and pecking at a tuft of hair that had collected in the corner. Postpartum hair loss is a very real thing you guys and I’m kind of happy to be shaving my hair off just to combat it. Even if I am worried about bald patches.

    I digress.

    They wandered back inside and out I chased them, again, slamming the door in their little beaky faces.

    I swear, they fluffed their feathers and looked at me like “FINE” before they wandered off in search of bugs and beetles. Which is exactly what good chickens would have been doing in the first place.

    Stupid hens.

    buff pekin bantam hen

    Fine. You’re not going to share your kitchen? We’re going to hide our eggs where you’ll never find them.

  • Postnatal depression is kicking my arse.

    Postnatal depression is kicking my arse. I’m medicated and things are brighter, yes, but they’re not brilliant. I’m learning to accept that this is what is it, at least until this particular downswing passes.

    I keep dreaming that my grandmother is alive. Technicolour dreams, full of details and realities. It started with one a week and now it’s every night. Some nights it’s just like things were before. Other nights, I’m watching her die, over and over again. Last night my pillow was wet when I woke up. I’d been streaming tears in my sleep.

    It’s weeks like this past one that I’m grateful that it’s still Summer outside. The greenhouse is full of pumpkins and tomatoes and I can hide in there for long minutes at a time, tying things up and training them to run along a string. Gardening makes sense and you can see the results of work in the garden.

    Some things are better and some things are worse. Until I can get my brain working again, I’m in a holding pattern and that’s okay.

  • Developmentally Delayed

    “She’s doing quite well you know. I’ve seen babies who’ve had cytomegalovirus and they were blind, deaf and seriously disabled. There are so many encouraging things about Evelyn here.”

    It’s at this point that the CMV, which I’d dismissed, becomes much more real to me. I’d been told, months back, after her CMV urine tests came back positive for recent infection antibodies, to not concern myself. Most babies who have CMV don’t have any issues you see. Especially babies with clear brain ultrasounds and a clean MRI.

    Later, the physio mentions to not expect Evelyn to do anything on a normal time frame. That she’s happy, she’s gorgeous (everyone loves my baby) and she’s easily pleased. What does it matter if she doesn’t crawl or walk within the average ranges? I’m warned to “warm the baby up” before we attempt anything. Evelyn needs more tactile stimulation before she will engage. Her hands need to be touched and stroked and made to feel things before she’ll use them of her own accord.

    I’m told again, that she is gorgeous and happy and a lovely baby.

    I’m also told that she is acting somewhere around the three month mark, despite being six months corrected and almost seven months old. Later, I will realise that she’s been acting like a three month old baby for the last three months and that it’s okay, it really is, but what happens in another six months, when progress is this slow?

    Still.

    We walk out of there knowing that this baby, our darling smooshy cheeked infant, she needs lots of therapy to learn to use her body properly. That there will be a specialised highchair in our future, and lots of exercises and busyness.

    I cuddle my daughter and kiss her cheeks and listen to her giggle in delight. I watch her chew on her feet (“look at that! That’s age appropriate there, feet chewing. She’s interested, isn’t she?”) and coo at her brother and play with the new baby toys I bought her to encourage more tummy time and rolling over.

    I look at her and she’s just delightful. Delay or not.

     

  • Everybody needs an Evelyn

    This is Evelyn.

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    She has the biggest gummy grin and the smooshiest cheeks. She likes cuddles, her siblings, nectarines, boobies and attention. She is pretty much the cure for everything that ails you (except PPD – but we’ve already told that story). I applied Evelyn to the angry six year old and five minutes later, it was all giggling and kisses. I applied to her to Frogpondsrock who had just been told that she is a massive troll online [Digression: I KNOW. How dare they. I have lots of thoughts and feels about this] and it made things better. Or at least more baby smile filled.

    She’s pretty amazing.

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    We have struggles still, yes. Everyone tells me how good she looks and I know that. She is fat and smooshy and adorable. She does not look sick, or weird, or like she struggles with mobility. But that’s okay. We see the physiotherapist this week for a comprehensive development assessment. That should be interesting.

    I spend a lot of time just kissing her and enjoying the fact that she is small and smooshy and likes to snuggle with me. Also that she doesn’t have pokey elbows or knees, like her siblings.

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    Evelyn! A cure for all your ills. Even if she is a bit worried about the clicky sound that the camera makes.

    PS, my Evelyn can only be borrowed. If you want a smooshy baby, you’ll have to procure your own.