Catch up

It’s been fairly busy around here lately, what with the new baby and all.  So just to catch you up, here’s a sort of montage of what I’ve been up to lately.  Admittedly most days are blurring into each other, but there are some memorable moments.

Out and about, showcasing our impeccable manners.

Out and about, showcasing our impeccable manners.

Thanks, kiddo, shout that out, nice and loud.  Make sure she hears you.  *sigh*.  But overall, one day is pretty hard to distinguish from the next.  Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t “lost” myself.  I am still the same as ever.

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I wish I… nah, forget it.

I have to admit, though, less days start like that now.  I save it for weekends.

Now, most days start more like this:

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She said, knowing full well they would ignore her.

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He asked. When he could have been dressing the children.

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Tried it the other way around but my toast got soggy in the shower.

Some days we stay in…

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This happens about 10 times a day, but out of kindness I’ll only show you once.

Some days we go out…

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To splash about in puddles, one inch deep…

And to keep sane, every now and then Mr Bodysoluble and I enjoy an occasional date night.

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We could do with a bit more practice.  But we try.

A bit.

Or we will.

When we get more time.

Maybe.

In the meantime we get to enjoy this:

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And this…

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OK twice. I changed my mind.

And every so often, this…

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So that’s me, in a nutshell.

No, that’s not quite true.  THIS is me in a nutshell:

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Looks quite comfy really… A nut is as inviting as an armchair, to the woman who has no time to sit down.

And on that note, I’d best get back to it.  If I get all the chores done, I might have a few minutes to myself, to work on another post, or play a computer game, or even, if I get lucky enough, chill out in an oversized walnut shell.

It will always be the dream.

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Food Fight

Food and children is a battleground.  Well, maybe not for everyone.  But certainly for my kids this is true.  I want them to eat properly, vegetables and everything, with a knife and fork.  They want to eat garbage.  With their hands.  On a beanbag.  While yelling at maximum volume.  Upside-down.  With their mouths full.

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Pictured: the natural state of a 5 year old.

So when the opportunity comes up to go out for dinner, I have mixed feelings.

See, at our house, I do almost all of the cooking.

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Takeaway pizza notwithstanding.

I have learned over the years that cooking for others can quickly become a soul-destroying experience.

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Even if it is something they actually like, there is always one fussy eater who won’t co-operate.

I drew your face wonky because I don't like what you are saying.

I drew your face wonky because I don’t like what you are saying.

This is why I love restaurants.  I’m not responsible for what everyone eats for a change.  That, and the hugely rare experience of someone else serving me.  Whenever anyone else brings me food I have to fight to hold back my tears of gratitude.  You could serve me tepid microwave quick-oats but it will still feel like I’m being served seared unicorn cutlets garnished with the hanging gardens of Babylon.

Actually in all honesty I suck at microwave quick-oats.  They always seem to climb out of the bowl.

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Is it cooked or is it… sentient?

But while I may love going to restaurants, I was still apprehensive, because I have memories of the last time we tried to take the kids to a nice restaurant.

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It didn’t end well.

OK I’m exaggerating.  But not much.  So this time I thought we’d better get in some practice first.  Take them out for lunch at a regular café, get them practised at sitting still, eating with cutlery and so on, eating from their own plate and nobody else’s.  That kind of thing.  Things I am actually always trying to do anyway, but that become infinitely more important when eating in public.

We found a small fairly casual café, and were seated amongst other people.  Right there, that puts us at a disadvantage.

There were no other children in sight.  This is a blessing and a curse.  On one hand, other kids means other parents, who will commiserate and who understand and who won’t judge and hate us for ruining their day.  Probably.

The downside of having other kids nearby is that within about ten minutes this:

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Becomes this:

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So we sat, and opened our menus.  And our eldest daughter, let’s call her Sonia, starts getting antsy.  Not about the food, which is guaranteed to be a struggle at some point, but about the table (too wobbly).  Then the cutlery (too heavy).  Then it’s the seat (too high).  Then the fact that she has to sit still for more than 2 seconds at a time.

When her food arrives she eats about two mouthfuls then loses interest.  It’s impressive to me that my children never seem to eat anything throughout the whole meal, yet always manage to have their mouths full when talking.  I don’t know how they do it, it shouldn’t even be possible.  It’s as if the natural rules of physics are something you have to grow into.  Like, up until the age of 8 they are more guidelines than laws.  It rubs off on me as well.  I find myself saying nonsensical sentences like “I put nothing on her plate and it’s all still there, she hasn’t even touched it.”

So anyway.  She says she has “finished” eating.  She makes herself comfortable.

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While my lunch is going cold, we have an exchange of words.  She resumes her relaxed state.

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By now, the warmest thing on my plate is the salad.

Just to get her off the wall I suggest that my husband take her to view the cake display and choose a dessert for the kids to share.  This goes off without a hitch.  Until it arrives, with a huge mountain of cream on the side of the plate.

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Sonia doesn’t even blink, just dives on in and scoops up a handful of cream.  That’s not a figure of speech.  I mean an actual handful.

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Even the 3 year old was shocked.

At some point in the carnage that was them eating cake, someone spilled a drink.

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The liquid streaked across the table, and began pouring over the edge, straight into my handbag.  I was holding the baby, and I think I shrieked, when I saw my bag filling up with juice.  I reached down and grabbed the handles, and swung it upwards away from the juice, straight into the back of the head of the man behind me.

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Me, smugly saving the day.

He turned around to get angry, but deflated a little when he saw me.  I imagine it was seeing the  look of complete horror that was on his face, perfectly mirrored on mine.

It’s around about then that we left.  It’s possible the room applauded our departure.

Actually feel like applauding our departure myself.

Actually feel like applauding our departure myself.

So that was practice.

As a result, I am far more anxious about taking the kids to a restaurant.

Full House

They say that the biggest change for parents is going from having no children to having children.  The birth of that first child is the biggest learning curve parents will face.  This is very true.  That first child is akin to trial by fire.  But what is less often talked about is how the third child impacts a family.

Back at the start, immediately upon becoming parents, my husband and I both found ourselves in situations we were ill-equipped to handle.  We were challenged in ways we’d never imagined.

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Sometimes we took it out on each other.  OK, I lie.  It was most of the time.

It always reminded me of that old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”  I could see where that was coming from.

Also, I used to find that I was one arm short.  I have two hands, one was always holding a baby.  In general, I think that nature caters beautifully for everything.  However in the case of human parents, I suspect that nature got it wrong.  With the birth of any child, to better manage the new workload, both parents should each grow a new arm.  It’s only fair.

For example, after your first child, you should have three arms.

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Er… little help?

Then simple things like laundry wouldn’t completely paralyse me.

And, by simple extrapolation, after having three kids, you should have five arms.  Because after having three children, two arms is laughably inadequate.

Before we had three children; I used to think that this was a mess:

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Now we call this a slow day.

These days I practically have to rely on sonar to find my children.

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Even though one of our kids is completely immobile, I am hopelessly outnumbered.  The overall effect is that I have downgraded my expectations of my day significantly.  I used to think it was reasonable to expect the house to be clean (ish), dinner of some sort to be prepared, and that I would get a shower daily.  Often I would also get plenty of sleep, find time for a haircut when necessary, and have a few hours each week to play computer games or get a shoulder massage or something.

Parents of three or more children will find this hilarious.  Some may even by crying by now.

These days my expectations of every day are simple: Get through it.

That’s it.  Survive.  That’s all I can aim for.  Anything else is a bonus.  If I get some laundry done, then I give myself a big gold star.  I stick it on my baby-vomit-stained shirt and wear that bad boy like a medal.  Do you know how long it takes to get three young children dressed, breakfasted, and all their teeth brushed?  Saturday.

After three kids, your days are never, ever productive.  They are not even predictable.  Heck, they are barely tolerable.

I will give you an example.

This afternoon, I accidentally dropped my keys in the toilet.  (I will spare you an illustration of that.)  Yet I can honestly say that this wasn’t even the worst part of my day.

That’s what having three kids is like.  You fish those keys out and keep going.  You have no choice, you HAVE to keep going.  While quietly making plans to buy a new car and move house, because now you can’t bear to touch your keys.

But seriously, my day was actually fairly typical of this “new normal”.  It began as they always do.

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I am not a morning person.

I was feeling a little extra flat than usual, so I thought I would have a second cup of coffee.  By now the baby was awake.  So I put her in the sling, thinking that this would free up my hands at least enough to make more coffee.  The older kids were playing quietly together, and I got all ambitious and decided to make real coffee.  Because I will never again have time to buy it in a real café.  So I fired up the machine and went at it.

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My first mistake was thinking I could steam milk.  I used the hand furthest from baby, because safety is the cornerstone of success.  Or at least, safety is the cornerstone of not spending the day in an intensive care unit.

For a brief, shining moment I actually believed I could achieve my aim.  But then I realised I couldn’t use the other hand to feel if the jug base was warm.  And I had no way of turning the steam off, without either nearly scalding the baby or actually scalding myself.

While this dilemma played out in my mind and I grew more and more anxious and the milk steamed hotter and hotter, the baby began to fuss, the kids erupted into a huge brawl which tumbled into the kitchen, and the phone rang.  All. At. Once.

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Also, my nose began to itch.

I only got out of it when realised I could turn the power off at the wall, using my foot.  So I gave myself a gold star for making to 9:00 am without giving third degree burns to anyone.

Soon after, my husband took the older kids to the park.  Because I told him to.  One might even say I begged.  So in those quiet moments after they’d gone, I decided to take the baby for a quick walk.

It took an aeon to pack the baby bag, dress her warmly, find my walking shoes, find myself some clean clothes, wrangle the enormous pram out the back door and down the steps while holding the baby in the sling.  All of those things combined took longer than the walk would take.  Even then, as I was about to place the baby in the pram, I realised that the tyres were flat.  And the rear of the house is kind of, well, cat-litter-y, so I had to keep holding the baby while I pumped the tyres back up.  Using one hand and two feet.

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Another gold-star moment.

When we got back my unfettered hausfrau ambitions prompted me to begin making pumpkin soup.  With the baby nestled comfortably in the sling.

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OK… now what?

I did not get very far.

My husband and older kids eventually returned.  I realised we need a few things from the supermarket and I said as much to my husband.

He got all excited, because going to the shops is a legitimate reason to escape from the house for a time, and get some relative peace and quiet.  We tend to squabble over those small opportunities for solitude.  They are rare and precious… so very, very precious.

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I’ll give you $100 if you’ll let me do it.

After his offer, I pointed out that the kids already knew about it, and were insisting that they be allowed to come too.  Suddenly it lost all its appeal.

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I’ll give you $1,000 if you’ll do it.

I love my husband.  And I know it’s true love, because even after three children, when he leaves his dirty laundry beside the laundry basket instead of inside it, when he doesn’t change a toilet roll, or forgets to put the rubbish bins out, or uses an entire packet of wipes on one (one!) nappy change, I still haven’t divorced him.  THAT is true love, right there.  Either that or it is fatigue.  I am too busy to know the difference any more.  Or to care.

So anyway.  I am certain that we’ve all, us parents, had the moment where we are changing one nappy/diaper too many, and our spirit is just starting to flag.  There is something about the monotonous inevitability of someone else’s endless stream of poop that can really wear you down.  I really felt myself really sagging today, over this one soiled nappy.

OK to be fair it was REALLY soiled.  I mean, there was a deep end, just like at the local swimming pool.  Looking at it, I felt all the fight in me just draining away.

So I changed the nappy.

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Even at the best of times, it’s still the worst of times.

Except it wasn’t like this.  This picture is positively serene.  This picture shows a person who can achieve their aim.  This picture shows a woman in control of the situation.  The reality was a tad more… dynamic.

First, there was another person around.  With other-person type demands.

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Cos I just love thinking about food while handling poo.

And another person with a whole different set of problems.

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Pictured: A complete representation of the body’s relationship to solids

Oh yeah, and we weren’t at home.  We were in a car park.  And this particular explosive nappy situation was a bona fide poop emergency.

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And I needed to pee.

Still not stressful enough?  Did I mention the rain?

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There you go.

Whatever you think you can handle, kids will always, always¸ find a way to make you handle just a little bit more.  And then a bit more.  And then a bit more.  And then nature comes along to finish you off.  And there you are, soggy and defeated in a car park.

But that wasn’t the worst part of my day either.

The worst part was after the evening kafuffle to get the kids into bed, complete with demands for extra stories, the frantic cleaning to find the floor and the cat once again, wiping the slime off the sofa, washing all the dishes and tidying everything up, I had enough time to watch a movie we’d rented.  And to make my aching old feet more comfortable, I removed my shoes, stood on a splinter, and spent the entire film trying to extract it.

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Too grumpy to cry.

I am lately feeling rather like a cautionary tale.

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Or perhaps someone out of a nursery rhyme.

I am really starting to understand what that old woman in the shoe was about.  I don’t know what gruel is though, and it sounds like something made by wringing out a water rat.  I wouldn’t want to eat that.  So instead I road-tested a microwave brownie-in-a-mug recipe, which lived up to the hype.  So I can thankfully say that the day ended on a high note.

Who can even imagine what tomorrow will bring.

I am living in interesting times.

Hospital Stay

Having a new baby makes doing anything (ok everything) more difficult.  Having three children, one at school, is an absolute hand full.  The day I came home from hospital, I was wishing that I had stayed longer, because they take care of things like meals and cleaning, and I didn’t have to do very much.

But then I remembered what it was like being in hospital.

For starters, labour sucked.  I mean, it was REALLY painful.  To be fair, that isn’t the fault of the hospital.  Mostly it was about me, and my inability to handle the huge amounts of pain I was in, partly from being already very tired, but mostly because, well, it’s a huge amount of pain.  I’ll spare you the details, but it felt a little like this:

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There is no labour, only Zuul.

Once that was all dealt with, and I had a wonderful, healthy little baby, I was still very tired.  Suddenly the little things that usually just irritate me, began to grate on my nerves at a whole new level.

There is the hospital attitude to linen.  I can understand with newborn babies, the need to swaddle.

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See? Makes sense.

New babies like to be swaddled.  New mothers, however do not.

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I’d press the call button, but I can’t move my arms.

As if being strapped down by bed linen isn’t bad enough, the toilet paper in my bathroom was installed to run down the far side of the roll, against the wall.  This is an abomination.

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YOU’RE KILLING ME!!

But the thing that stands out most is the interruptions.  I was there for about 48 hours, during which time I should have slept for at least 16 hours.  I think I may have managed 14 minutes in total.  I wish I was exaggerating.  It wasn’t because of any noise.  (Not like last time).  But because of constant interruptions.

There was the nurse who kept coming in to ask if I had been to the bathroom yet.

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She will lose that enthusiasm when I tell her what I think of the toilet paper situation.

Then the people related to the new mother in the next bed, who kept passing me by and peering in.

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They were super excited. And apparently unaware of the notion of peace and quiet. Or privacy. Or coloured fabrics.

The ritual of the breakfast tray lady, ridiculously punctual, serving breakfast at the crack of dawn.

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GOOOOOOD Morning Sunshine!

By this point I was trailing a sleep deficit of about 3 weeks, due to the end of pregnancy generally sucking and pre-labour going on for the two days prior to labour actually kicking off.  Eventually I cracked under the strain of fatigue.  I asked the midwives to take my baby to the nursery where they would mind her for a few hours, so that I could get a little rest.

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I want it back in one piece, you hear me?!

This apparently prompted more people to ooze out of the woodwork.  Like the nurse who came in 20 minutes later, JUST AS I WAS FALLING ASLEEP, and said “I’ll just give you this before you take your nap”.

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I named her “Nurse Deathwish”

Apparently word of my nap was getting around, because she was followed by another midwife who wanted to see if I needed any pain killers (paracetamol, sadly, not the cool ones) in order to help me sleep.

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Actually, yes, can I please have 500mg of Get The Hell Out Of My Room?

Curiously-Prompt Lunch Lady then came back.

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Seriously, is there a queue outside my door?

At which point the midwife brought back my baby because she was starting to get hungry.

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OH FOR THE LOVE OF – oh it’s you.

Well, that was thoroughly pointless.

Later in the day, a midwife asked how I was feeling, and I said “tired.”  I saw no reason to hesitate.  She said “we could mind your baby in the nursery for a while if you like, to let you get some peace and quiet.”  I said, honestly, “the baby isn’t the problem.”.  I did not take up the offer, I couldn’t bear to get my hopes up again.

However the day ended well, and eventually there was one interruption I was very pleased about.

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That sound you hear is my heart melting.

Although I never did get a wink of sleep in that hospital.

Pregnancy Moods

I am so glad to be post partum.  Pregnancy was getting me down.  I mean, it’s physically really demanding to be all unbalanced, overweighted, your centre of gravity is not where it used to be, your ligaments are all loosening up and your skeleton feels like everything is moving around.  Then there’s baby kicking and punching… it’s hard work.

But what is less obvious is the emotional side.  The ups and downs, the weird logic that your pregnant brain cooks up for your own retrospective humiliation and your friends’, colleagues’ and families’ bewilderment.

Let me furnish you with an example.

Some years ago I worked in a small office, and a colleague there was around 6 months pregnant.  She had been there for many years, she was a very loyal and hardworking employee.  This was her first pregnancy.  She was thrilled.  But she was also a basket case most of the time.  She started coming in to work an hour or two early, and sitting alone in the conference room, watching and waiting for the other staff members to arrive.  She never said anything, just watched in silence.  Which it turns out is far, far creepier.

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I like to think she was also patting a cat while in there.

This was weird behaviour, especially for her.  But we grew accustomed to it, and eventually nobody noticed any more.

Then one day she went to the bathroom.

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She was gone for ages.  People were practically lining up to do that “did you fall in?” joke when she came out.  Except when she came out she was pretty much crackling with fury.  She stormed down to her office, grabbed her things, and then stormed even harder into the CEO’s office.

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She resigned, on the spot, and went home.  She meant it too, she did not come back.

Later that week, someone asked the CEO what had upset her so much.  He said that there had been no toilet paper in the bathroom.

So, you know, totally worth throwing 8 years of loyal service away.

The fact that there were around 50 rolls in the store cupboard right beside the bathrooms apparently didn’t change things.

Anyway, that’s one of the more extreme instances I can think of, where I have been on the outside looking in, and it looks very much like the proverbial basket case.

However, when you are on inside of that amount of crazy, it’s very hard to see it as anything but logical, rational sense.

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Of course, I am above all that.

You just can’t understand why nobody else thinks the same things are as important as you do.

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In my defence, I was really, incredibly thirsty.

All I’m saying is, I’m glad that is behind me.  I can go back to being my normal amount of insane, instead of the super-pregnancy-hyper-insane that can cost you your job.  Or your marriage.

Now if the oedema would just go away, I could start to feel like my old self again.

Fear

I am 39 weeks pregnant today.  I’ve gone past the ‘wishing pregnancy was over” phase, and I’m now firmly in the “Oh I give up, this baby will never be born” phase.  I’ll just be pregnant forever.  (Actually a friend just pointed out that this can occasionally happen, but it’s an extremely rare, and rather grotesque, occurrence, known as a lithopedion, or a “stone baby”.  DO NOT Google this unless you have a very strong constitution and a high tolerance for some extremely macabre facts of life.)

However in my case, by turning my back on labour,  think what I’m doing is protecting my delicate psyche from the idea of labour.  Because labour is, let’s face it, hard damn work.  And it’s painful.  And there are many unknowns, all sorts of things can become urgent and complicated with no warning.  There are things the baby may present with that haven’t been picked up on ultrasound.

In short, if I think too much about it now, I will be a bundle of nerves.

Yet this is not my first pregnancy.  Which actually doesn’t help much, because the other two had their extreme moments, and some of those I would rather never repeat.  Most of it has been blocked from my memory, so I am eternally grateful for post-partum amnesia.  It is my happy thought.  Which is weirdly ironic.

I keep reminding myself that this is not the scariest thing I’ve ever done.  Not even by a long shot.

For example, when I was about 3 years old, I was given a dolls house.  It was huge.  And this was back in the 1970s when things were made solidly, built to last.  That dolls house was only wood, but it would have easily withstood an apocalypse or two.

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In fact, better built than many houses these days.

This dolls house was taller than I was at the time.

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I didn’t catch up until I was four years old.

Given that it was so large, it was probably just a matter of time before I decided to crawl inside it and pretend to be a doll.

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Three weeks, to be precise.

When I was three years old, I crawled inside the “living room”, reached out and closed the door.  I quickly decided I’d had enough, so I reached out, up and around to the clasp, and pressed the button.  The door swung open and I crawled out again.  Nobody any the wiser.

However at the age of four, in a moment of blind, childish insanity, I did it again.

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The fact I couldn’t breathe even at this point should have been a warning sign.

The door clicked shut.  On the old 1970s clasp.  This was before the invention of the consumer watchdog, and that clasp was solid as a rock.  This would never happen these days, as modern dolls houses only have magnets to keep them closed.  Easily pressed open from either side.  Not to mention they are mostly pretty flimsy.  But not back then.  Not my dolls house.  I would bet t was strong enough to withhold an angry wombat tripping out on crystal meth, if such occasion ever arose.  It was certainly strong enough to hold a panicky, four year old nitwit.

I was bigger than I had been the first time I did this, and I couldn’t get my arm around enough to press the release button.

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I should never write children’s stories. They would be like “BURIED” for the under-8s.

I also couldn’t really breathe, as my legs were competing with my lungs for real estate, and my knees were somewhere around my ears.  And I was alone in the play room, two rooms away from the nearest adult.  I didn’t have the air to scream, so I began to whimper and make small sort of infantile mammalian panic sounds.  In times of doubt, I find it helps to stick with what you know.

Thankfully it worked, and my mother eventually came in.  Presumably to find out what the weird scratching animal noises were.  I can barely imagine what the scene must have looked like.

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Left: My mother, struggling to decide whether to laugh or flip out.

From that day onward, I have held a soft spot in my heart for Alice in Wonderland.  Alice may be the only other girl to have ever experienced what I went through that day, although she had the good sense to stick a foot through a window.   And in all honesty, if a drugged up caterpillar had shown up and offered me half a mushroom, I would have devoured that bad boy in a heartbeat.  Whole mushroom and possibly the caterpillar along with it.  ANYTHING to shrink even just a little bit.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.  One that has held me strong for the past 30+ years.  That lesson is: don’t ever lock yourself in a dolls house that cannot be opened from the inside.  We could all take something from that.

A few years later, I found new a way to humiliate myself.

The high diving board. It’s my white whale.

By attempting to overcome my fear of heights.  On the high diving board.  In public.  In a swim suit.

With a queue of increasingly irritated people waiting behind me.

The biggest psychological difficulty was that it never seemed that high from the ground.  And once up there, I would become so startled by the height, that I would freeze up for a moment.  That one moment was long enough for my imaginative little brain to construct a few worst-case-scenarios for my extended contemplation, as I stood there, alone, and exposed, several metres from the ground.

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I really should write advertisements for Australian tourism.

Most of the time when we visited the pool, I would just swim about and ignore the high diving board.  But on at least ten separate occasions throughout my youth, I climbed that board and stood there, drying out in the sun, holding up the queue while I fantasized about my impending death, and the sun slowly set in the west.

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I once heard water is ‘hard’ depending on how far you fall before you hit it. That fact alone fed my anxiety for 6 straight years.

I managed to actually jump a total of four times.  Spread over a period of almost ten years.  To this day I still cannot tolerate heights very well.  That is, specifically, I do not enjoy being up high, I do not get a pleasant rush from it.  And the idea of climbing up high specifically to hurl my squishy little breakable, water-based body downwards, still fills me with dread.

As I grew, I found new things to be terrified of as a teenager.  That is, along with the usual bag of horror goodies, the things everyone is scared of, that comprise most of hallowe’en and Tim Burton movies.

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Meh, I’m more freaked out by dolls houses and diving boards.

Through my love of reading, I learned new things to be afraid of by proxy, like yowies, yetis, pookahs, mummies, wendigos and investment bankers.

But it wasn’t until I was about 14 that I saw my first wild snake.

Not in a sterile, manageable way.  Or even in that sleepy-and-doesn’t-give-a-damn kind of way that you hope for, when you see a wild snake.  No.

Allow me to set the scene.

I was swimming in the dam behind our house, with my brother.  It was a hot day, very bright and sunny, most importantly there were no diving boards in sight, and things were fine.  My brother and I were just chatting and floating about and doing nothing much, which anyone can tell you, is great fun.

We were only about a metre or so apart.  (That is 3-4 feet by way of reference.)

And a brown snake just swam right between us.

Didn’t say a word, didn’t look at us, just swan straight down the middle of the dam, from one side to the other.

snake 1

Hey look! Who even knew snakes could swim? … Wait, AARGH!!!

We stopped, and watched in silence as this snake passed between us, long, lean, elegant and terrifying.  The colour of sand, twigs and clay.   It moved just like the “charmed” snakes in the cartoons, it’s long body fishtailing along behind it, and it’s beady little eyes never moved from its destination.  It was horrifying and magnetic.  And it passed us without incident.

snake 2

It was a magic snake too, because at that moment, we both suddenly realised we could walk on water.

That is as close I have ever been, and ever want to be, to a brown snake.  That was enough.  I’m done.

There is really only one other thing I am scared of.  And for me, at least, it’s a big one.  Which is ironic, because in reality it’s tiny.

leeches

Just drawing this filled me with dread.

To be honest, I am more afraid of the one on the right than the one on the left.  I realise the foolishness of this phobia.  I mean, I’m an intelligent, tool-wielding human, standing around 5’6″, and the thing I’m most afraid of is a 2″  swamp-dwelling invertebrate.

I mean, gosh, it’s not like I couldn’t just out-run it.  Even 39 weeks pregnant, I’m pretty sure I’m faster over land than a scrawny vampiric slug.  OK so my top speed at the moment is about a 4km waddle per hour.  That’s still faster than a water-dwelling oligochaete.  (This is a family that includes earth worms.  Also not widely known for their speed.)

There are no leeches where I live, and this is entirely intentional.  Because if there were, I would not live here.  I would move.  I fantasize sometimes about living in the middle of the desert, where I have 800km of hot, dry sand in every direction to ensure that no leeches ever come near me.  And even then I would still want to sow salt in the earth and carry a flame-thrower, just to be certain.

And yet here I am, at 39 weeks pregnant, and the thing that most fills me with dread at this moment, is this:

hospital

IT’S A TRAP! DON’T DO IT!! THOSE DOORS WILL CLOSE BEHIND YOU!!

 

So I am sort of thankful to my brain for trying to shield me from anxiety about labour, by throwing up memories of the scariest moments from my past.  Sort of, kind of, maybe, thankful.  Because there’s nothing like a good old dose of terror to make some common anxiety look utterly mundane.

So I’ll stop worrying about labour now, and wrap myself in a comforting psychological blanket of dolls houses, diving boards, brown snakes and leeches, and – wait.

Well, at least at the end of labour you get a cute little baby to play with.  That’s more than you can say for the diving board.

Hair

The girls were very excited to see the babysitter yesterday.  They adore her.  The toddler was so excited, she completed skipped over saying hello.  She dived straight into discussing the trials and torments of her day.

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Which is fine.  After all, she’s only 3.  Which may account for what she said next:

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I was stuck somewhere between laughing and envy, over the fact that she can actually kick her own face.