In June 2003, my 13-month-old baby boy stopped trying to walk, stopped cruising, stopped crawling, and started crying and clinging.
So began our journey with juvenile idiopathic arthritis, or JIA – a long, hard, often lonely road, with no end in sight just yet.
We'd known since he was six months old that something was not quite right; at that time, he'd been diagnosed with iron-deficient anaemia and cow's milk protein intolerance.
Then, at 13 months, our son's left ankle swelled up right before my eyes. But it wasn't until B was 19 months old that he was diagnosed with JIA, which the doctors in hindsight say was probably causing his symptoms when he was six months.
B didn't start walking until he was 21 months old. Now, nearly five years later, we are still treading carefully with this disease.
JIA is a cruel, chronic, sometimes crippling childhood illness. The term refers to all types of arthritis that affect children.
Too many kids with JIA are written off as being whingy, lazy, or slow to grow. JIA is often misdiagnosed as 'growing pains'.
At first, B was diagnosed with 'pauciarticular' juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, a type of JIA that affects four or fewer joints. His diagnosis has since been upgraded to 'extended oligo JIA', since the disease has spread to more joints.
JIA is felt by every member of the family. The affected child often cannot describe what they are feeling, since the average age at onset is just two years old.
Parents may go through a guilt and grieving process as they blame themselves for either causing it, or being unable to cure it.
And siblings have their own emotional rollercoaster ride as they see their brother or sister getting extra attention for their pain.
But since JIA is not hereditary, it has the added effect of making one feel incredibly alone.
Now, I am not one to sit back and suffer in silence – I want to know the answers, and will keep asking until someone can give them to me. I want to share my knowledge and support with others too.
If I did not turn the despair that I have sometimes felt into positive energy, I would just be a little saline puddle on the floor.
I'm still trying to find the answers to many questions, but I've spent a lot of time on the phone sharing what I do know with other parents of newly-diagnosed children (what can I say, I like to chat!).
And I've set up an Australian online support group for JIA, which now also has members from all over the world. Anyone, at any time of any day, can post a query, or have a cry, and someone is 'listening'.
There is little real awareness of JIA in our community, either among the general or medical population. So I designed a logo with the message that "Kids get Arthritis too!".
We wear it every day, as a kind of walking billboard. It starts a lot of conversations!
When I learned that JIA is actually more common than type 1 diabetes, cystic fibrosis, or cerebral palsy – yet was not automatically eligible for the Centrelink Carer Allowance like these other illnesses – I fought for it to be so.
When I realised there was no branch or organisation specifically to help JIA children and their families, I bothered our state Arthritis Foundation until there was one.
When I saw how far many families have to travel to get treatment, I started working with my state and federal politicians and our local children's hospital, to get regional JIA clinics operating.
And when I heard about some awesome parents in the United States who'd set up the American Juvenile Arthritis Organisation (now JA Alliance)– which has an annual conference that brings together families from all over the USA – well, I knew we had to start fundraising and get a passport!
Our trip to Pennsylvania in June-July 2007 convinced me of two things:
• Australia is not so far behind in its medical management of JIA – in fact, in some ways we are ahead. (B's health team is fantastic!)
• We still have a way to go to get a national organisation and conference such as the AJAO happening here.
(I also learnt that five-year-olds are intrigued with public rest rooms, but that's a whole other story!)
In amongst this advocacy, I work two other jobs, and I have the everyday demands of being a wife and mother.
I dread having to give B a needle in his little tummy every week, and struggle with the fear of side effects of the various medications he must take.
I hate having to hold him down for blood tests and other medical procedures. I get tired of rounding up the kids for yet another trip to hospital. And I despair at the stares in the street, and the bullying that B suffers at school.
But while I absolutely despise this disease, I will not let it stop us from loving life.
I try to enjoy every day. I relish every time I hear my kids laugh, or see my son try to run.
And at the end of the day, I feel a kind of humble pride that I can make a difference.
Jx
©2008
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Gone Fishin'
Whoever claimed that fishing is a relaxing pastime has never been fishing with our family.
My Beloved got to do that activity a lot as a child- with the added luxury of his father owning a small runabout to run about in- so he’s a big supporter of the sport.
On the other hand, the closest I ever came to dropping a line was ‘crawbobbing’ in the creek behind our campus, and only did that once or twice throughout high school. Oh and unless you count the plastic fish with magnets-for-mouths that the kids used to cast about in the bath, they’ve never had a crack at it either.
So it was with much excitement and a little trepidation that we ventured forth the first time with our entire entourage in tow (consisting of 2 adults + 3 kids, yet strangely, enough food to sustain the SS Minnow on its three seasons lost at sea…you get that when you let kids pack the picnic).
Ironically, in spite of the fact that my Beloved had grown up with a boat in the family while I originally sat the test to impress him, we discovered that he had inadvertently let his license lapse so it was up to me to chart our course across the lake for a local fishing spot rumoured to be brimming with biters. Or so we’d heard.
Yet since it was his area of expertise, and I was worried about impaling myself on the hook given my history of hand-eye coordination, my Beloved was in charge of preparing the lines. Never mind his bait of choice was prawns and he happens to suffer an allergy to shellfish, he stoically sat and speared the soft flesh while the rest of us got our sea legs (or sea butts, to be more precise- the boat was way too small to stand up in).
We’d barely dropped anchor when the first cries of “I’m hungry” started across the stern, and barely had my Beloved got one rod ready before the chorus changed to “I’m bored”. But I was enjoying the sunshine and saltwater lapping at the sides and tried to engage our offspring in some bird-watching and sea-life spotting. That lasted about as long as it took for my Beloved to bait the next hook.
Seems the gentle bobbing of the boat was relaxing enough for our daughter at least, and she crawled under the wheel for a small snooze while the grownups tried to encourage the remaining two children to drop a line and please try not to scare the fish away. Easier said than done, especially with sons.
On the upside, we had a lot less weight to carry back across the lake as the boys proceeded to empty the esky of all edible contents, and made a small contribution to the waterline (not quite so easy for we females to achieve given the space and the circumstances). Our youngest even managed to reel in a bream and a whiting (both of kiss-&-release size) before deciding he’d had enough of this fishing stuff and was again calling for anchors aweigh. Ignoring his best efforts to frighten away anything living in the lake, we pressed on for a little while longer (if only to get our money’s worth out of the bait).
Unfortunately, in the process of catching and casting, my Beloved and I got a little too close for comfort and I ended up with a hook in my finger anyway. What’s worse, he also suffered a mild reaction to having his hands in a bucket of prawns (but then slept very well that night thanks to the combined effects of the sun, the sea, the stress, and the antihistamines).
Having dozed through almost the entire excursion, our daughter crawled out from her hidey hole just as we were making the return journey, and in the confusion that followed, our son lost his hat, which made like the waves behind us and was merrily bidding farewell until I caved in to his cries and turned the boat around, went back, and scooped the soggy cap out.
During the clean-up once safely back on home soil (which also did not appeal to the children, for some reason), my Beloved and I reflected on the whole experience:
All I managed to catch was a hat.
And all he managed to catch was me.
As for our daughter, she just managed to catch a few Zs.
But you know what, we just can’t wait for the next time we can all go fishin’!*
Jx
©2010
My Beloved got to do that activity a lot as a child- with the added luxury of his father owning a small runabout to run about in- so he’s a big supporter of the sport.
On the other hand, the closest I ever came to dropping a line was ‘crawbobbing’ in the creek behind our campus, and only did that once or twice throughout high school. Oh and unless you count the plastic fish with magnets-for-mouths that the kids used to cast about in the bath, they’ve never had a crack at it either.
So it was with much excitement and a little trepidation that we ventured forth the first time with our entire entourage in tow (consisting of 2 adults + 3 kids, yet strangely, enough food to sustain the SS Minnow on its three seasons lost at sea…you get that when you let kids pack the picnic).
Ironically, in spite of the fact that my Beloved had grown up with a boat in the family while I originally sat the test to impress him, we discovered that he had inadvertently let his license lapse so it was up to me to chart our course across the lake for a local fishing spot rumoured to be brimming with biters. Or so we’d heard.
Yet since it was his area of expertise, and I was worried about impaling myself on the hook given my history of hand-eye coordination, my Beloved was in charge of preparing the lines. Never mind his bait of choice was prawns and he happens to suffer an allergy to shellfish, he stoically sat and speared the soft flesh while the rest of us got our sea legs (or sea butts, to be more precise- the boat was way too small to stand up in).
We’d barely dropped anchor when the first cries of “I’m hungry” started across the stern, and barely had my Beloved got one rod ready before the chorus changed to “I’m bored”. But I was enjoying the sunshine and saltwater lapping at the sides and tried to engage our offspring in some bird-watching and sea-life spotting. That lasted about as long as it took for my Beloved to bait the next hook.
Seems the gentle bobbing of the boat was relaxing enough for our daughter at least, and she crawled under the wheel for a small snooze while the grownups tried to encourage the remaining two children to drop a line and please try not to scare the fish away. Easier said than done, especially with sons.
On the upside, we had a lot less weight to carry back across the lake as the boys proceeded to empty the esky of all edible contents, and made a small contribution to the waterline (not quite so easy for we females to achieve given the space and the circumstances). Our youngest even managed to reel in a bream and a whiting (both of kiss-&-release size) before deciding he’d had enough of this fishing stuff and was again calling for anchors aweigh. Ignoring his best efforts to frighten away anything living in the lake, we pressed on for a little while longer (if only to get our money’s worth out of the bait).
Unfortunately, in the process of catching and casting, my Beloved and I got a little too close for comfort and I ended up with a hook in my finger anyway. What’s worse, he also suffered a mild reaction to having his hands in a bucket of prawns (but then slept very well that night thanks to the combined effects of the sun, the sea, the stress, and the antihistamines).
Having dozed through almost the entire excursion, our daughter crawled out from her hidey hole just as we were making the return journey, and in the confusion that followed, our son lost his hat, which made like the waves behind us and was merrily bidding farewell until I caved in to his cries and turned the boat around, went back, and scooped the soggy cap out.
During the clean-up once safely back on home soil (which also did not appeal to the children, for some reason), my Beloved and I reflected on the whole experience:
All I managed to catch was a hat.
And all he managed to catch was me.
As for our daughter, she just managed to catch a few Zs.
But you know what, we just can’t wait for the next time we can all go fishin’!*
Jx
©2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Food for Thought
I had a most interesting and entertaining burp the other day.
Long after I had consumed my modest little banana sandwich for lunch, but mere moments after a swig of icy cold Coke™, I was blessed with the belches (soda sadly always has that effect on me). For a change, instead of having gas with some unpleasant palate there was quite the unusual and dare I say tasty combination of flavours of aforementioned banana with the undertones of that fizzy caffeine taste we know so well.
It’s not a partnership one would normally contemplate, and correct me if I’m wrong, but no one has come up with this one before. Which is kinda odd considering the amount of edible offerings there are in the world.
Humankind sure puts a lot of thought and effort into eating doesn’t it?
Think about all the restaurants, books, blogs, magazines, and TV shows on the topic. I mean to say: last night Australia set a new record in ratings for the final of Masterchef – an estimated 4 million+ Aussies watched (that’s about one-fifth of the population!). For some it’s almost a religious experience; how many times have we heard about the face of Christ or the Virgin Mary appearing on a toast, or tortilla, or taco somewhere (and subsequently seen selling on eBay)?! I for one am certain at least one of the corn chips in my nachos platter had more than a passing resemblance to a higher power (pity I didn’t make the connection before I chowed down, or my financial prayers might also have been answered, but there you go).
It’s true, food is one of the basic needs of life, and aside from that little necessity for our daily bread, it’s kinda hard to escape on a day-to-day basis. Every 2nd ad on TV is selling some kind of food, you can’t drive anywhere without seeing eating establishments or their signs promising faster tastier treats (now with even better value meal deals!), or feel the urge to detour via a drive-thru. It’s the universal language of love and loss (comfort food anyone?); and way, way before we were being asked if we’d like fries with that, mankind was preoccupied with the art of eating.
The French emperor Napoleon 1 recognised that “An army marches on its stomach.” (And not just because his own was so close to the ground, either.)
Confucius say “the way you cut your meat reflects the way you live” (what does it mean if you pick up the whole steak and just chew- which I have seen someone do- I wonder?)
Even Voltaire back in his day declared that “Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” Hey, I’ll drink to that.
And who hasn’t heard the old chestnut 'the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach' (but did you know who said it first? Someone by the name of Fanny, apparently, which is also a proven method for attracting a male, if you know what I’m saying…)
Nearly all the top rating television shows are food based, or feature at least one scene per episode where the characters are gathered around the table... there’s always some gastronomically-inspired movie on the menu… you got celebrity chefs right up there with sports stars spruiking this, that, and the other… so is it any wonder that cookbooks on average outsell sex-books by about 3 to 1? (Which always reminds me of the wit who wrote how he replaced sex with food to the point where he can’t even get into his own pants anymore.)
Fair dinkum.
Now, just think that all this started because of an involuntary bodily reaction to my choice of fuel for the day.
And just like that mysterious yet contagious yawn factor, all this talk about food seems to have somehow got the grehlin going in my gut and I’m now feeling decidedly peckish. Best go see what other culinary combinations I can come up with before the Borborygmus brings the house down.
We’re out of bananas as it happens, but methinks there’s a little more Coke in the fridge.
Oh, and just quietly, if a new flavour of Coca Cola turns up on a refrigerator shelf near you, just remember, you heard it here first.
Jx
©2010
Long after I had consumed my modest little banana sandwich for lunch, but mere moments after a swig of icy cold Coke™, I was blessed with the belches (soda sadly always has that effect on me). For a change, instead of having gas with some unpleasant palate there was quite the unusual and dare I say tasty combination of flavours of aforementioned banana with the undertones of that fizzy caffeine taste we know so well.
It’s not a partnership one would normally contemplate, and correct me if I’m wrong, but no one has come up with this one before. Which is kinda odd considering the amount of edible offerings there are in the world.
Humankind sure puts a lot of thought and effort into eating doesn’t it?
Think about all the restaurants, books, blogs, magazines, and TV shows on the topic. I mean to say: last night Australia set a new record in ratings for the final of Masterchef – an estimated 4 million+ Aussies watched (that’s about one-fifth of the population!). For some it’s almost a religious experience; how many times have we heard about the face of Christ or the Virgin Mary appearing on a toast, or tortilla, or taco somewhere (and subsequently seen selling on eBay)?! I for one am certain at least one of the corn chips in my nachos platter had more than a passing resemblance to a higher power (pity I didn’t make the connection before I chowed down, or my financial prayers might also have been answered, but there you go).
It’s true, food is one of the basic needs of life, and aside from that little necessity for our daily bread, it’s kinda hard to escape on a day-to-day basis. Every 2nd ad on TV is selling some kind of food, you can’t drive anywhere without seeing eating establishments or their signs promising faster tastier treats (now with even better value meal deals!), or feel the urge to detour via a drive-thru. It’s the universal language of love and loss (comfort food anyone?); and way, way before we were being asked if we’d like fries with that, mankind was preoccupied with the art of eating.
The French emperor Napoleon 1 recognised that “An army marches on its stomach.” (And not just because his own was so close to the ground, either.)
Confucius say “the way you cut your meat reflects the way you live” (what does it mean if you pick up the whole steak and just chew- which I have seen someone do- I wonder?)
Even Voltaire back in his day declared that “Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” Hey, I’ll drink to that.
And who hasn’t heard the old chestnut 'the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach' (but did you know who said it first? Someone by the name of Fanny, apparently, which is also a proven method for attracting a male, if you know what I’m saying…)
Nearly all the top rating television shows are food based, or feature at least one scene per episode where the characters are gathered around the table... there’s always some gastronomically-inspired movie on the menu… you got celebrity chefs right up there with sports stars spruiking this, that, and the other… so is it any wonder that cookbooks on average outsell sex-books by about 3 to 1? (Which always reminds me of the wit who wrote how he replaced sex with food to the point where he can’t even get into his own pants anymore.)
Fair dinkum.
Now, just think that all this started because of an involuntary bodily reaction to my choice of fuel for the day.
And just like that mysterious yet contagious yawn factor, all this talk about food seems to have somehow got the grehlin going in my gut and I’m now feeling decidedly peckish. Best go see what other culinary combinations I can come up with before the Borborygmus brings the house down.
We’re out of bananas as it happens, but methinks there’s a little more Coke in the fridge.
Oh, and just quietly, if a new flavour of Coca Cola turns up on a refrigerator shelf near you, just remember, you heard it here first.
Jx
©2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Naked Truth
I don’t know about others, but if there ever was 4 little words that worried me it’s: “Have you lost weight?”
Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”
Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).
Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!
One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.
I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.
Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?
Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).
And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!
So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.
See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.
And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.
Jx
©2010
Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”
Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).
Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!
One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.
I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.
Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?
Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).
And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!
So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.
See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.
And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.
Jx
©2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Mind over Matter
It seems like such a simple concept.
Leaves on a stream.
It’s the basis of this technique in relaxation that's been suggested for people like me who can’t seem to shut down their thoughts long enough to get some decent shut-eye.
‘Mindfulness’ it’s called.
What you have to be mindful of, is that you don’t let your mind run away with you, and by imagining leaves gently floating down a stream, you’re on track for some quality meditation. When you get that going, you imagine that each leaf is carrying an unwanted or unnecessary thought, which you pop on the little bits of foliage and let them just drift away. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.
Now, the problem I have- and have always had- is that I overthink things. So what seems a simple application of imagination becomes a full-scale exercise in geography, botany, and logistics.
Here’s the thing…
I start out well enough: there’s the stream, here come the leaves, and here I am standing by to plop my errant thoughts on board.
But then I start wondering where I am to have such a verdant setting – it’s obviously not the drought-stricken paddocks I’m used to seeing here in Australia, as the area is lovely and lush and the water is running clean and fresh at a cracking pace. If I can get beyond my initial mind meanderings, I start to wonder what sort of leaves they are. What kind of trees or plants are nearby that are dropping their vegetation at a constant rate? And simply because I have that creative streak in me, I conjure up many different species of shrubbery, just for variety, which only brings me back to the original musings of where the heck I am to have such diversity?!
Can you see my problem?
OK, so if (and I do mean if) I can get through all that without totally stuffing up the whole relaxation mode I’m meant to be in, I then seem to have a bit (ok a lot) of trouble with placing aforementioned thoughts on aforementioned leaves in order to let them drift off down aforementioned stream.
The idea is, it’s ok to have thoughts pop into your head, it’s only natural in our conscious state after all…but for the sake of this exercise you need to learn to let them go again. I seem to have some issues with letting them go before I have reached some conclusion depending on what is warranted by the thought at the time. Not to mention the decision of which leaf to use (don’t want some flimsy little frond sinking under the weight of a life-changing concern now do I?)!
A good place to attempt this whole Mindfulness technique is the bath or shower, according to the good lady who gave me the exercise. Apparently the water (running or otherwise) helps create the metaphor of the stream. Unfortunately, I’m too mindful of the water bill to stay under the shower long enough to get the process going properly, and if I lay in the bath too long I start to get distracted by the renovations still required in the room. Not very conducive to relaxation, wouldn’t you agree?
You can also do it in bed. The nice lady also gave me a CD with a softly-spoken bloke talking me through the exercise. Trouble is he has a really unique accent so the first few times I heard him I was busy figuring out his ancestry and missed a whole lotta leaves. I finally decided that he was probably born in Liverpool (UK) but has spent some time in Australia. Turns out I was right. So at least the next time I laid back and listened I could put that particular idea on a leaf and wave bye-bye as it sailed off into the sunset.
Now, if only all the other thoughts that stray into play while I’m standing near my metaphorical stream could be as easily resolved and relegated, I’d be laying ‘em on leaves like nobody’s business.
I guess that’s what you’d call mind over (leaf) matter.
Jx
©2010
Leaves on a stream.
It’s the basis of this technique in relaxation that's been suggested for people like me who can’t seem to shut down their thoughts long enough to get some decent shut-eye.
‘Mindfulness’ it’s called.
What you have to be mindful of, is that you don’t let your mind run away with you, and by imagining leaves gently floating down a stream, you’re on track for some quality meditation. When you get that going, you imagine that each leaf is carrying an unwanted or unnecessary thought, which you pop on the little bits of foliage and let them just drift away. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.
Now, the problem I have- and have always had- is that I overthink things. So what seems a simple application of imagination becomes a full-scale exercise in geography, botany, and logistics.
Here’s the thing…
I start out well enough: there’s the stream, here come the leaves, and here I am standing by to plop my errant thoughts on board.
But then I start wondering where I am to have such a verdant setting – it’s obviously not the drought-stricken paddocks I’m used to seeing here in Australia, as the area is lovely and lush and the water is running clean and fresh at a cracking pace. If I can get beyond my initial mind meanderings, I start to wonder what sort of leaves they are. What kind of trees or plants are nearby that are dropping their vegetation at a constant rate? And simply because I have that creative streak in me, I conjure up many different species of shrubbery, just for variety, which only brings me back to the original musings of where the heck I am to have such diversity?!
Can you see my problem?
OK, so if (and I do mean if) I can get through all that without totally stuffing up the whole relaxation mode I’m meant to be in, I then seem to have a bit (ok a lot) of trouble with placing aforementioned thoughts on aforementioned leaves in order to let them drift off down aforementioned stream.
The idea is, it’s ok to have thoughts pop into your head, it’s only natural in our conscious state after all…but for the sake of this exercise you need to learn to let them go again. I seem to have some issues with letting them go before I have reached some conclusion depending on what is warranted by the thought at the time. Not to mention the decision of which leaf to use (don’t want some flimsy little frond sinking under the weight of a life-changing concern now do I?)!
A good place to attempt this whole Mindfulness technique is the bath or shower, according to the good lady who gave me the exercise. Apparently the water (running or otherwise) helps create the metaphor of the stream. Unfortunately, I’m too mindful of the water bill to stay under the shower long enough to get the process going properly, and if I lay in the bath too long I start to get distracted by the renovations still required in the room. Not very conducive to relaxation, wouldn’t you agree?
You can also do it in bed. The nice lady also gave me a CD with a softly-spoken bloke talking me through the exercise. Trouble is he has a really unique accent so the first few times I heard him I was busy figuring out his ancestry and missed a whole lotta leaves. I finally decided that he was probably born in Liverpool (UK) but has spent some time in Australia. Turns out I was right. So at least the next time I laid back and listened I could put that particular idea on a leaf and wave bye-bye as it sailed off into the sunset.
Now, if only all the other thoughts that stray into play while I’m standing near my metaphorical stream could be as easily resolved and relegated, I’d be laying ‘em on leaves like nobody’s business.
I guess that’s what you’d call mind over (leaf) matter.
Jx
©2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Singing in the Car
I think adults have a lot to learn from children.
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Insect-o-cide
Insects outnumber humans by at least 100,000,000 to 1.
And I think that their bid to rule the world has begun. Right here in our home.
If it wasn’t bad enough that I recently had to stop a speeding funnel-web spider heading towards our front door, with just the tread on my car tyre... the rain and changing weather seems to have brought an onslaught of other arachnids and cockroaches into the neighbourhood.
Can I just say I am sick to death of them popping in for a cup of sugar!
I don’t know about you but I think Cockies are the worst. If it’s not bad enough that they pre-date humans by about 225 million years, they’re reportedly going to be around long after we’re gone... quite possibly the only living creature to survive a nuclear holocaust (or an avalanche of trash, if you go with the WALL•E theory).
Dirty evil little critters that they are, they have no qualms about scuttling across the kitchen when one wanders in for a glass of water in the night. And nothing says the kids have spotted one in the bathroom quite like the bloodcurdling scream they’ve both got pitch-perfect (does wonders for tinnitus in confined spaces, I can tell you).
Even my Beloved fell prey to one such killer insect last weekend while working in the backyard… he picked up some sort of shrapnel that had been laying around since the last time he was so inspired, and this rusty-coloured creature dropped straight down his shirt.
Call me cruel but the “get it off me” dance that followed was quite comedic, especially since my Beloved professes to move like an epileptic spider at the best of times. He was most definitely unamused at my mirth when he informs me that the little bugger apparently emptied its bladder on him in its fight-or-flight manouvre.
I shouldn’t have laughed. I really shouldn’t. ‘Cause, boy, didn’t it come back to haunt me.
A couple of days later, there I was in the wee small hours (literally and figuratively speaking) trying not to disturb my significant other in any significant way whilst tiptoeing to the toilet in our ensuite in the dark. I had barely assumed the position when something dropped off the ceiling directly above the commode - straight into my lap.
So startled was I that I forgot where I was and what I was doing and leapt off the lav with an involuntary shriek. The cold feeling of fear was soon almost immediately replaced by the warm trickle of something else. Yes, seems I reacted in much the same way as the bug my Beloved battled just a couple of days before.
However, recovering both my underwear and my wits at roughly the same time, I managed to flick the offending insect off and half squished it as it made good its getaway. I also managed to do so quite quietly as my Beloved slept soundly through the whole scary scenario!
But since it’s apparently true that cockroaches can live for up to 9 days without a head, I will be turning on that light and checking carefully around the porcelain before pulling down the panties, for at least another 5 days yet…
And as for the adult-incontinence thing, let’s just keep that between you, me, and the wall, mkay? We don’t need the insects knowing just how much control they have over us (or, rather, how little we have over our bladders).
Jx
©2010
And I think that their bid to rule the world has begun. Right here in our home.
If it wasn’t bad enough that I recently had to stop a speeding funnel-web spider heading towards our front door, with just the tread on my car tyre... the rain and changing weather seems to have brought an onslaught of other arachnids and cockroaches into the neighbourhood.
Can I just say I am sick to death of them popping in for a cup of sugar!
I don’t know about you but I think Cockies are the worst. If it’s not bad enough that they pre-date humans by about 225 million years, they’re reportedly going to be around long after we’re gone... quite possibly the only living creature to survive a nuclear holocaust (or an avalanche of trash, if you go with the WALL•E theory).
Dirty evil little critters that they are, they have no qualms about scuttling across the kitchen when one wanders in for a glass of water in the night. And nothing says the kids have spotted one in the bathroom quite like the bloodcurdling scream they’ve both got pitch-perfect (does wonders for tinnitus in confined spaces, I can tell you).
Even my Beloved fell prey to one such killer insect last weekend while working in the backyard… he picked up some sort of shrapnel that had been laying around since the last time he was so inspired, and this rusty-coloured creature dropped straight down his shirt.
Call me cruel but the “get it off me” dance that followed was quite comedic, especially since my Beloved professes to move like an epileptic spider at the best of times. He was most definitely unamused at my mirth when he informs me that the little bugger apparently emptied its bladder on him in its fight-or-flight manouvre.
I shouldn’t have laughed. I really shouldn’t. ‘Cause, boy, didn’t it come back to haunt me.
A couple of days later, there I was in the wee small hours (literally and figuratively speaking) trying not to disturb my significant other in any significant way whilst tiptoeing to the toilet in our ensuite in the dark. I had barely assumed the position when something dropped off the ceiling directly above the commode - straight into my lap.
So startled was I that I forgot where I was and what I was doing and leapt off the lav with an involuntary shriek. The cold feeling of fear was soon almost immediately replaced by the warm trickle of something else. Yes, seems I reacted in much the same way as the bug my Beloved battled just a couple of days before.
However, recovering both my underwear and my wits at roughly the same time, I managed to flick the offending insect off and half squished it as it made good its getaway. I also managed to do so quite quietly as my Beloved slept soundly through the whole scary scenario!
But since it’s apparently true that cockroaches can live for up to 9 days without a head, I will be turning on that light and checking carefully around the porcelain before pulling down the panties, for at least another 5 days yet…
And as for the adult-incontinence thing, let’s just keep that between you, me, and the wall, mkay? We don’t need the insects knowing just how much control they have over us (or, rather, how little we have over our bladders).
Jx
©2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
It’s Life, Gym, But Not as We Know it
Some might call it a mid-life crisis.
Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.
I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.
And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.
Now all I have to do, is go!
The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.
There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.
Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.
There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.
Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.
So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.
After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.
Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.
After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.
Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.
*sighs*
Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…
Jx
©2010
Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.
I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.
And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.
Now all I have to do, is go!
The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.
There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.
Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.
There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.
Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.
So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.
After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.
Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.
After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.
Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.
*sighs*
Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…
Jx
©2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Men oh Pause
All of us have heard the startling fact that men think about sex several times a day. Every 52 seconds, if you can believe this report.
We are all well aware that most women do not.
I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.
By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.
I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.
If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).
I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.
So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.
It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).
It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.
Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).
And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.
I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?
After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.
If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.
It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.
At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).
So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.
That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!
Jx
©2010
We are all well aware that most women do not.
I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.
By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.
I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.
If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).
I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.
So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.
It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).
It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.
Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).
And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.
I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?
After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.
If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.
It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.
At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).
So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.
That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!
Jx
©2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Ten Green Bottles
My children have enough drink bottles to slake the thirst of a thousand camels. If camels were to actually require water bottles, that is.
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
67 Friends
The world is a Global Village.
Just ask anyone who’s signed up for Facebook (or as those in the know call it, fb).
After years of being invited to join, asked if I have joined, and outright told I’ve gotta join, I finally did.
Less than 24 hours later, I have ‘67 Friends’.
Wow, I didn’t think I actually knew that many people, let alone have the kind of relationship to call them “friends”.
But there you have it. 67 people thus far have decided they’d like to be in touch with me in a virtual manner. And like The Carpenters sang, we’ve only just begun!
I haven’t managed to do any in-depth searches for long-lost buddies as yet.
Not to mention the requests from people who know people who know me, or requests from people no people I know has ever heard of!
Now, I’m kinda new at all this, but what is the protocol for confirming friend requests, I wonder…
Can you platonically rekindle old flames and run the risk of getting burned by your current S.O. (that’s significant other, for those not up on the shorthand)?
Will you suddenly become super friendly with an ex-colleague who you only ever said “G’day” to if you both happened to be by the watercooler at the same time? Or will you develop a cyber friendship with the one who stole your job?
Do you accept a relative just because you’re related? Despite the fact that you a) have never met them, or b) have not clapped eyes on them for many years- maybe since the last big family reunion or funeral. And how many generations do you go back, or forward, in the name of friendliness? (Don’t tell me that you adore every member of your extended clan…blood may be thicker than water but some folk are thicker still, if you get my drift.) (I’m speaking hypothetically of course – there’s no one in my family to which I’m referring, honest.)
And how does one go about finding people, exactly?
Just on spec, I typed in a few names, mostly of people who have been asking me when I’m going to show my face on Facebook, and darned if the search engine didn’t want me to have practically every bit of their intimate details upfront! I mean to say, if I knew that much about them, surely I wouldn’t have to resort to getting/staying in touch over the information superhighway. I’d be gas-bagging on the phone, or catching up for cuppas like nobody’s business, am I right? We’d certainly be exchanging Christmas cards, to say the very least.
As far as female friends are concerned, most of them have gone the traditional route and changed their surname to their previous (or past) partner. Some of them have done it more than once, so how’s a person supposed to keep track of what name they’re going by these days? It’s even worse if you only ever referred to someone by a nickname (or in the case of our radio pals, had a fictitious name altogether)…fb being as formal as it is, a first and last name at least is required.
So I probably won’t find a few old friends anyhow. And some I sure as hell hope don’t find me (I’d feel terrible hitting the Ignore button).
Due to work and the way my life has progressed, I have been known by a number of names. And I definitely don’t look the same at almost-40 that I did in high school (I wish)!
Oh and don’t even get me started on the barn raising, sorority parties, aquariums, and adoptions of every kind that pop up on my page whenever I find a few minutes to log on. One of the reasons I held off joining the FB revolution for so long was that I simply don’t have the time to sit at the computer for too many hours, let alone play games. My Beloved, on the other hand, has all but made a career out of it (I tell you, if those doubloons translated into cold hard cash we'd be rolling rich).
No I’m flat out figuring out how to set my privacy settings so that every Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet doesn’t get to see my every thought. And nearly every time I’ve tried to upload a photo our computer has ‘detected a malicious program’ and shut me down.
Meanwhile the rest of my 67 Friends (whoa, make that 75 now, I just checked my profile) are busily hatching sheep and building chickens and selling chocolate bars for the seahorse sorority.
*sighs*
If the world really is a Global Village, I seem to have taken up residence as village idiot.
Which reminds me, I best go update my status.
Jx
©2010
Just ask anyone who’s signed up for Facebook (or as those in the know call it, fb).
After years of being invited to join, asked if I have joined, and outright told I’ve gotta join, I finally did.
Less than 24 hours later, I have ‘67 Friends’.
Wow, I didn’t think I actually knew that many people, let alone have the kind of relationship to call them “friends”.
But there you have it. 67 people thus far have decided they’d like to be in touch with me in a virtual manner. And like The Carpenters sang, we’ve only just begun!
I haven’t managed to do any in-depth searches for long-lost buddies as yet.
Not to mention the requests from people who know people who know me, or requests from people no people I know has ever heard of!
Now, I’m kinda new at all this, but what is the protocol for confirming friend requests, I wonder…
Can you platonically rekindle old flames and run the risk of getting burned by your current S.O. (that’s significant other, for those not up on the shorthand)?
Will you suddenly become super friendly with an ex-colleague who you only ever said “G’day” to if you both happened to be by the watercooler at the same time? Or will you develop a cyber friendship with the one who stole your job?
Do you accept a relative just because you’re related? Despite the fact that you a) have never met them, or b) have not clapped eyes on them for many years- maybe since the last big family reunion or funeral. And how many generations do you go back, or forward, in the name of friendliness? (Don’t tell me that you adore every member of your extended clan…blood may be thicker than water but some folk are thicker still, if you get my drift.) (I’m speaking hypothetically of course – there’s no one in my family to which I’m referring, honest.)
And how does one go about finding people, exactly?
Just on spec, I typed in a few names, mostly of people who have been asking me when I’m going to show my face on Facebook, and darned if the search engine didn’t want me to have practically every bit of their intimate details upfront! I mean to say, if I knew that much about them, surely I wouldn’t have to resort to getting/staying in touch over the information superhighway. I’d be gas-bagging on the phone, or catching up for cuppas like nobody’s business, am I right? We’d certainly be exchanging Christmas cards, to say the very least.
As far as female friends are concerned, most of them have gone the traditional route and changed their surname to their previous (or past) partner. Some of them have done it more than once, so how’s a person supposed to keep track of what name they’re going by these days? It’s even worse if you only ever referred to someone by a nickname (or in the case of our radio pals, had a fictitious name altogether)…fb being as formal as it is, a first and last name at least is required.
So I probably won’t find a few old friends anyhow. And some I sure as hell hope don’t find me (I’d feel terrible hitting the Ignore button).
Due to work and the way my life has progressed, I have been known by a number of names. And I definitely don’t look the same at almost-40 that I did in high school (I wish)!
Oh and don’t even get me started on the barn raising, sorority parties, aquariums, and adoptions of every kind that pop up on my page whenever I find a few minutes to log on. One of the reasons I held off joining the FB revolution for so long was that I simply don’t have the time to sit at the computer for too many hours, let alone play games. My Beloved, on the other hand, has all but made a career out of it (I tell you, if those doubloons translated into cold hard cash we'd be rolling rich).
No I’m flat out figuring out how to set my privacy settings so that every Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet doesn’t get to see my every thought. And nearly every time I’ve tried to upload a photo our computer has ‘detected a malicious program’ and shut me down.
Meanwhile the rest of my 67 Friends (whoa, make that 75 now, I just checked my profile) are busily hatching sheep and building chickens and selling chocolate bars for the seahorse sorority.
*sighs*
If the world really is a Global Village, I seem to have taken up residence as village idiot.
Which reminds me, I best go update my status.
Jx
©2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Potty Time
There’s a lot of things I love about being a parent.
There are also things I’m liking not so much.
Without a doubt, the thing I would gladly never go through again: is toilet training.
I now know why some call it potty time. Because it certainly gave me a case of potty mouth a time or two (under my breath, mind you, I’m not that bad a parent).
And it’s true what they say that boys can be trickier than girls. While it took my son a good few months to get the hang of it (and let’s face it, any female who cohabits with a male of any age knows that some never really do), my daughter decided that nappies were sooooo last season, at roughly the same time as that. Two for the price of one. Bargain.
But the departure from diapers only brought about a whole new chapter- the fascination with public toilets. What is up with that?
I swear, even if the kids have gone before we left, we can never go anywhere without at least one of them desperately desiring a dunny. More often than not it’s both, oh and not necessarily at the same time either.
Normally it doesn’t worry me (I just have to get my gag reflex in check before entering the public domain): I’ve got the anti-bacterial spray for the seat, a tissue or two in hand if there’s not enough loo paper, and enough energy to assist the littlies as they go about their ablutions.
Yes every time we have to use a loo or two on our travels I am reminded yet again of my enduring preference for the bathrooms at home. Bit difficult when you’re off attending a medical conference about your child’s condition, held in Hershey Pennsylvania.
I call it The Great Toilet Tour of 2007. With good reason.
On a 15½ hour flight, my son and I managed to squeeze into the aircraft toilet no less than 14 times. And he was asleep for about 7 hours! I have never been on an international holiday before, and had no idea about what joys awaited me in that cramped and stinky little room. Nor just how cramped and just how stinky that little room would feel about 10 hours in.
*shudders*
Things didn’t get any less claustrophobic once we touched down in the US of A either. Oh no, not when there were soooo many new and exciting things about North American amenities, we just had to try them all. Automatic opening doors, interchangeable seats, infrared flush, remote action soap, water and hand dryers are just too awesome for a 5 year old. A little less awesome but equally as, shall we say interesting for mothers of same, I can assure you.
Yes we hadn’t even been Stateside for 3 hours before we were calling for maintenance of the Holiday Inn nearby LAX. Aside from that old anomaly of the water going down a different direction (it really does seem to, you know), my son was transfixed, and just a little concerned that the water level is quite a lot higher before you even begin to contribute. I have to admit to being a tad wary myself, lest I inadvertently get the bidet effect whilst parked on the potty. What isn’t supposed to happen, apparently, is for that water level to get higher still, until the bathroom floor gets an impromptu wash. A performance that was to be repeated again at a brand spanking new Church just outside Atlanta Georgia, when my son with due diligence ensuring his hiney was shiny accidentally overloaded the porcelain with paper.
Yes there I was, on my knees in the lavatories, muttering holy hell about having to clean up the mess, lest the preacher think any less of his Aussie guests.
But the best was yet to come.
The CNN Center is equipped with some of the most breathtakingly brilliant technology in the modern world. And it most certainly took my breath away. Especially when my son decided to disengage the doorlock while I was still posed kangaroo-style over the toilet bowl, moreso when amidst my shrieks for him to “Close the door!” I moved slightly out of the line of sight of the automatic flush infrared beam, and got to experience what a bidet would feel like after all. Our local tour guides said in spite of the noise levels inside the centre, they distinctly heard my squeal from where they waited outside. (I’m surprised they didn’t hear it back home in Australia, just quietly.)
So whilever I’m waiting for one or the other or both of my offspring to offload at a bathroom stall somewhere, I try to remind myself that they’ve reached a very valuable milestone by being able to do by themselves (and with the door properly locked too, I might add).
Now I get to be one of the mums nodding in sympathy whenever I witness those still in toilet-training mode.
Been there, done that, not going back.
Jx
©2010
There are also things I’m liking not so much.
Without a doubt, the thing I would gladly never go through again: is toilet training.
I now know why some call it potty time. Because it certainly gave me a case of potty mouth a time or two (under my breath, mind you, I’m not that bad a parent).
And it’s true what they say that boys can be trickier than girls. While it took my son a good few months to get the hang of it (and let’s face it, any female who cohabits with a male of any age knows that some never really do), my daughter decided that nappies were sooooo last season, at roughly the same time as that. Two for the price of one. Bargain.
But the departure from diapers only brought about a whole new chapter- the fascination with public toilets. What is up with that?
I swear, even if the kids have gone before we left, we can never go anywhere without at least one of them desperately desiring a dunny. More often than not it’s both, oh and not necessarily at the same time either.
Normally it doesn’t worry me (I just have to get my gag reflex in check before entering the public domain): I’ve got the anti-bacterial spray for the seat, a tissue or two in hand if there’s not enough loo paper, and enough energy to assist the littlies as they go about their ablutions.
Yes every time we have to use a loo or two on our travels I am reminded yet again of my enduring preference for the bathrooms at home. Bit difficult when you’re off attending a medical conference about your child’s condition, held in Hershey Pennsylvania.
I call it The Great Toilet Tour of 2007. With good reason.
On a 15½ hour flight, my son and I managed to squeeze into the aircraft toilet no less than 14 times. And he was asleep for about 7 hours! I have never been on an international holiday before, and had no idea about what joys awaited me in that cramped and stinky little room. Nor just how cramped and just how stinky that little room would feel about 10 hours in.
*shudders*
Things didn’t get any less claustrophobic once we touched down in the US of A either. Oh no, not when there were soooo many new and exciting things about North American amenities, we just had to try them all. Automatic opening doors, interchangeable seats, infrared flush, remote action soap, water and hand dryers are just too awesome for a 5 year old. A little less awesome but equally as, shall we say interesting for mothers of same, I can assure you.
Yes we hadn’t even been Stateside for 3 hours before we were calling for maintenance of the Holiday Inn nearby LAX. Aside from that old anomaly of the water going down a different direction (it really does seem to, you know), my son was transfixed, and just a little concerned that the water level is quite a lot higher before you even begin to contribute. I have to admit to being a tad wary myself, lest I inadvertently get the bidet effect whilst parked on the potty. What isn’t supposed to happen, apparently, is for that water level to get higher still, until the bathroom floor gets an impromptu wash. A performance that was to be repeated again at a brand spanking new Church just outside Atlanta Georgia, when my son with due diligence ensuring his hiney was shiny accidentally overloaded the porcelain with paper.
Yes there I was, on my knees in the lavatories, muttering holy hell about having to clean up the mess, lest the preacher think any less of his Aussie guests.
But the best was yet to come.
The CNN Center is equipped with some of the most breathtakingly brilliant technology in the modern world. And it most certainly took my breath away. Especially when my son decided to disengage the doorlock while I was still posed kangaroo-style over the toilet bowl, moreso when amidst my shrieks for him to “Close the door!” I moved slightly out of the line of sight of the automatic flush infrared beam, and got to experience what a bidet would feel like after all. Our local tour guides said in spite of the noise levels inside the centre, they distinctly heard my squeal from where they waited outside. (I’m surprised they didn’t hear it back home in Australia, just quietly.)
So whilever I’m waiting for one or the other or both of my offspring to offload at a bathroom stall somewhere, I try to remind myself that they’ve reached a very valuable milestone by being able to do by themselves (and with the door properly locked too, I might add).
Now I get to be one of the mums nodding in sympathy whenever I witness those still in toilet-training mode.
Been there, done that, not going back.
Jx
©2010
Renovation Rescue
Have you ever realized just what a messy business this tidying up can be?
I mean to say, we’re in the process of creating more storage in a house with a hitherto serious lack thereof, so our home at the moment looks like the proverbial bomb has hit it.
In fact, our lounge room (which has become the temporary dump site for the rest of the household items) has enough clear space for only two people to sit down at any given time…three if one of the abovementioned people sits on someone else’s lap (and depending on the people involved, you'd probably prefer to be the sitter than the sittee on the settee. Tee hee).
And we’re not done yet. Oh no, we are a looong way off, despite the blood, sweat, and tears that have brought us even to here.
So far the children have new wardrobes built into their bedrooms, we have gutted and retiled the main bathroom (when I say “we”, I mean the tiler of course, under my careful supervision), and are awaiting the shower frames, a glass splashback for the kitchen, and two new doors. Three, if you count the door that was installed only two months ago and has broken already (*you just can’t get good help these days can you?)!
But wouldn’t you know it, now the bathroom door won’t close properly, and we uncovered a bit of a mould problem in the toilet and laundry; where subsequently me in my enthusiastic removal of same, managed to poke my finger through the wall (pressed concrete wall my a$$). So there’s another repair and repaint job just waiting to happen.
My Beloved has had a little more success than I in the renovation department: he has tidied up the tiling in the ensuite (unfortunately our budget didn’t stretch to redo two bathrooms so we’re stuck with the 1970s shocker hidden within) and finally fixed the loo - fingers crossed (as opposed to legs while we were all waiting for an available lavatory in working order). He even got some help from our little daughter (our son preferred to keep his hands clean and play the Nintendo® instead). In fact, one could almost go as far as saying she did a better job than dad did. (One could, if one was game.)
See, my Beloved is not known for his motivation in being man-about-the-house, and somehow manages to mysteriously (or not, depending on your level of skepticism) misplace important parts of his power tools, right when he needs ‘em most. Oh he does a good enough job once he gets going. It’s just the getting going.
So there they were, dad and daughter up to their armpits in tile glue and grout, when I get called in to appreciate their handiwork. “Looks good,” says I, “well, as good as brown tiles can look, at any rate. But the tiling is fantastic!!” With this I flick a quick look towards my Beloved to gauge whether I have expressed enough exuberance in his efforts (wouldn’t want to scare him off now would I); it seems I have, as he nods approvingly at my approval.
And then proceeded to scratch his ear.
Now, if you haven’t ever experienced grout in the earhole, you probably don’t want to start now.
It doesn’t make the situation any easier if your wife and daughter start giggling at your expense. Insult, injury, and all that.
You’ll be pleased to hear (he was, get it?!) that the grout came out of where it wasn’t supposed to be, and stayed put where it was, and the bathroom is right on target for the shower frames…as soon as the ‘5-10 business days’ are up (and we’re only up to, oh, 28 days so far. Refer to the comment* above). So we’re stuck with the living room being mostly unlive-able for a little while longer.
Which only gives me more time to wander around looking at the place plotting what next needs a renovation rescue. Oh, that sound you hear? Just a grown man crying.
Jx
©2010
I mean to say, we’re in the process of creating more storage in a house with a hitherto serious lack thereof, so our home at the moment looks like the proverbial bomb has hit it.
In fact, our lounge room (which has become the temporary dump site for the rest of the household items) has enough clear space for only two people to sit down at any given time…three if one of the abovementioned people sits on someone else’s lap (and depending on the people involved, you'd probably prefer to be the sitter than the sittee on the settee. Tee hee).
And we’re not done yet. Oh no, we are a looong way off, despite the blood, sweat, and tears that have brought us even to here.
So far the children have new wardrobes built into their bedrooms, we have gutted and retiled the main bathroom (when I say “we”, I mean the tiler of course, under my careful supervision), and are awaiting the shower frames, a glass splashback for the kitchen, and two new doors. Three, if you count the door that was installed only two months ago and has broken already (*you just can’t get good help these days can you?)!
But wouldn’t you know it, now the bathroom door won’t close properly, and we uncovered a bit of a mould problem in the toilet and laundry; where subsequently me in my enthusiastic removal of same, managed to poke my finger through the wall (pressed concrete wall my a$$). So there’s another repair and repaint job just waiting to happen.
My Beloved has had a little more success than I in the renovation department: he has tidied up the tiling in the ensuite (unfortunately our budget didn’t stretch to redo two bathrooms so we’re stuck with the 1970s shocker hidden within) and finally fixed the loo - fingers crossed (as opposed to legs while we were all waiting for an available lavatory in working order). He even got some help from our little daughter (our son preferred to keep his hands clean and play the Nintendo® instead). In fact, one could almost go as far as saying she did a better job than dad did. (One could, if one was game.)
See, my Beloved is not known for his motivation in being man-about-the-house, and somehow manages to mysteriously (or not, depending on your level of skepticism) misplace important parts of his power tools, right when he needs ‘em most. Oh he does a good enough job once he gets going. It’s just the getting going.
So there they were, dad and daughter up to their armpits in tile glue and grout, when I get called in to appreciate their handiwork. “Looks good,” says I, “well, as good as brown tiles can look, at any rate. But the tiling is fantastic!!” With this I flick a quick look towards my Beloved to gauge whether I have expressed enough exuberance in his efforts (wouldn’t want to scare him off now would I); it seems I have, as he nods approvingly at my approval.
And then proceeded to scratch his ear.
Now, if you haven’t ever experienced grout in the earhole, you probably don’t want to start now.
It doesn’t make the situation any easier if your wife and daughter start giggling at your expense. Insult, injury, and all that.
You’ll be pleased to hear (he was, get it?!) that the grout came out of where it wasn’t supposed to be, and stayed put where it was, and the bathroom is right on target for the shower frames…as soon as the ‘5-10 business days’ are up (and we’re only up to, oh, 28 days so far. Refer to the comment* above). So we’re stuck with the living room being mostly unlive-able for a little while longer.
Which only gives me more time to wander around looking at the place plotting what next needs a renovation rescue. Oh, that sound you hear? Just a grown man crying.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Trash & Treasure
Some sod stole our garbage bin.
Seriously, why would you?
Of all the things to ‘souvenir’ from someone’s yard, why would you nick the wheelie bin?
I mean, anyone who has ever taken advantage of the Council Clean-up or ‘Hard Rubbish’ service knows that there are scavengers out there. In fact, some people seem to make a living out of cruising the streets on the lookout for the collection in question, and grabbing anything that looks like it could be worth a buck or two… scrap metal, old appliances, discarded furniture or children’s items, hell, they’ll even take the grass it’s sitting on, if you’re not careful! Don’t laugh, I have heard it happen. (Mind you, they wouldn’t take our bindi-eye infested excuse for a nature strip…there is method in our madness after all.)
It’s true: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Every time we’ve had the Council Clean-up in our neighbourhood, I’m not sure whether to be amused or bemused that in the time it takes to dump one load off and go inside for more, the first lot’s often gone before you get back! (Do they sit in their car staking-out the street, for crying out loud?)
And I just bet that you know someone (or someone who knows someone) who has done exactly the same thing- seen an item loitering on the kerbside that you’re sure you can get use or some money out of. My stepson used to do it all the time (unfortunately, he never seemed to score anything that didn’t end up going back out with the next load).
Go on, hit the local market stalls or check on eBay sometime if you dare, you might just recognise something for sale.
Heck, I’ve even ‘threatened’ to put the children out for collection during times when their behavior is driving me up two walls and down again…except I wouldn’t wanna risk that they’d get left behind. Besides, if ever we’ve used that particular ‘threat’ to our kids (champion debaters that they are) they simply come back with the fact that they do not, in fact, constitute what Council states may be left on the kerb. And they’re right. So they stay.
But it baffles me that someone would want our ancient, stinky, broken, really-doesn’t-deserve-to-be-called-a-wheelie-bin, as with the wonky wheels ours has, you have to drag the thing to the side of the road leaving divets in the ground en route. It didn’t even come from our council area, so someone’s already taken it on a road trip of approximately 720 kilometres (I’m not kidding) before we inherited the thing at our house!
The only endearing thing about our bin is that it came from a tiny little town where a couple of cousins happen to reside, and every time I’m taking out the trash I think of them. Not sure what they think of that little scenario, but there you go.
So it was a bit of a surprise when my Beloved went to bring the bin in on his way home from work this morning (after our regular weekly garbage collection) and came inside scratching his head saying “Someone’s nicked the bin!” (He also offered some insight into the possible parentage of said bin-thief, but we don’t need to go into that here.)
I’m a little cranky about it, to tell you the truth, because we’re in the midst of major renovations at our place, and I’ve been filling the thing up as soon as it is emptied, so I’m a little lost as to where to stash the trash in the interim (and here I too pause to reflect on the marital status of pilferer’s parents).
So with tile-cutters screeching, and power saws screaming, I can only sit and wait for our AWOL wheelie bin and hope that the prodigal refuse receptacle returns in time for next week’s collection.
Jx
©2010
Seriously, why would you?
Of all the things to ‘souvenir’ from someone’s yard, why would you nick the wheelie bin?
I mean, anyone who has ever taken advantage of the Council Clean-up or ‘Hard Rubbish’ service knows that there are scavengers out there. In fact, some people seem to make a living out of cruising the streets on the lookout for the collection in question, and grabbing anything that looks like it could be worth a buck or two… scrap metal, old appliances, discarded furniture or children’s items, hell, they’ll even take the grass it’s sitting on, if you’re not careful! Don’t laugh, I have heard it happen. (Mind you, they wouldn’t take our bindi-eye infested excuse for a nature strip…there is method in our madness after all.)
It’s true: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Every time we’ve had the Council Clean-up in our neighbourhood, I’m not sure whether to be amused or bemused that in the time it takes to dump one load off and go inside for more, the first lot’s often gone before you get back! (Do they sit in their car staking-out the street, for crying out loud?)
And I just bet that you know someone (or someone who knows someone) who has done exactly the same thing- seen an item loitering on the kerbside that you’re sure you can get use or some money out of. My stepson used to do it all the time (unfortunately, he never seemed to score anything that didn’t end up going back out with the next load).
Go on, hit the local market stalls or check on eBay sometime if you dare, you might just recognise something for sale.
Heck, I’ve even ‘threatened’ to put the children out for collection during times when their behavior is driving me up two walls and down again…except I wouldn’t wanna risk that they’d get left behind. Besides, if ever we’ve used that particular ‘threat’ to our kids (champion debaters that they are) they simply come back with the fact that they do not, in fact, constitute what Council states may be left on the kerb. And they’re right. So they stay.
But it baffles me that someone would want our ancient, stinky, broken, really-doesn’t-deserve-to-be-called-a-wheelie-bin, as with the wonky wheels ours has, you have to drag the thing to the side of the road leaving divets in the ground en route. It didn’t even come from our council area, so someone’s already taken it on a road trip of approximately 720 kilometres (I’m not kidding) before we inherited the thing at our house!
The only endearing thing about our bin is that it came from a tiny little town where a couple of cousins happen to reside, and every time I’m taking out the trash I think of them. Not sure what they think of that little scenario, but there you go.
So it was a bit of a surprise when my Beloved went to bring the bin in on his way home from work this morning (after our regular weekly garbage collection) and came inside scratching his head saying “Someone’s nicked the bin!” (He also offered some insight into the possible parentage of said bin-thief, but we don’t need to go into that here.)
I’m a little cranky about it, to tell you the truth, because we’re in the midst of major renovations at our place, and I’ve been filling the thing up as soon as it is emptied, so I’m a little lost as to where to stash the trash in the interim (and here I too pause to reflect on the marital status of pilferer’s parents).
So with tile-cutters screeching, and power saws screaming, I can only sit and wait for our AWOL wheelie bin and hope that the prodigal refuse receptacle returns in time for next week’s collection.
Jx
©2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Ice as Nice
Took the kids ice skating in the holidays.
With temperatures soaring into the 40s (that’s celcius for the overseas readers) indoor activities were in demand. And what better way to spend a hot summer’s day, than on ice.
We are lucky to live in such a fabulous part of the world that has both beaches and ice rinks just minutes from our door. But the bonus is you don’t have to worry about sunburn when you stay inside (frostbite is another matter entirely)!
I’d tried ice skating before, in the days BC (Before Children, that is) so I knew from firsthand experience how fun- and foolish- the pastime can be.
Quick wander down memory lane, if you’ll allow…
Since I had spent a great deal of my childhood on rollerskates, I was quietly confident that I could handle blades as well as wheels. So my friends and I paid the entry, and hit the ice.
And discovered it’s not quite the same after all.
After a few minutes doing my best impression of a toddler finding their feet, I was soon skating with the best of them, and even managed to go backwards (on purpose, as opposed to involuntarily as can happen from time to time) for a while.
We were even cocky enough to not just skate but started moving to the music blaring from the speakers spaced out around the rink (that had the amusing effect of being REALLY LOUD as you went past but not so much in between). And groove we did. Oh yeah, it wasn’t just the temperature that was super cool, just ask us.
Well after some solid skating time, and proud that I had managed to stay upright for the entire 2 hour session, I then lifted a foot to step off the ice for the safety of solid floor. That was my fatal mistake. See, out of the blue this little critter bolted out from nowhere straight into my legs, sending both me and he onto the frozen rink. He on top of me, to be precise.
What a pain in the icehole.
Thankfully it was my pride that suffered the most, and I half-crawled for the bar to pull me off the rink and back into shoes, much to the amusement of the expert skaters all set for the next session; Smarty Pants that they were (as opposed to cold, wet pants like me).
Because that image of me planted butt down on the ground has stayed with me long after the event, I was content to stay on the sidelines (and in shoes) when the next generation took to the ice with Vacation Care these school holidays just past. That was in spite of the fact that they had these Zimmer-frame type contraptions for the very beginners to hold onto.
Mind you, it was lucky that I did, because one little bloke did an action replay of my moment, only he went down as he was stepping onto the ice, and spent the rest of the session sitting, foot propped up, hot chocolate in hand.
The rest of the group passed casualty-free (except for a few decent blisters), and we only had to stop a couple of kids from eating the ice; only one of them belonging to me (*shudders*).
And unlike the first time I put myself on ice, my kids had their proud mother standing by with camera to capture the event on film (well, SD card, but you know what I mean). Got some great shots too- including one taken just as my daughter was about to fall, with her little feet going so fast trying to get grip on the ice rink, they’re actually blurred in the picture! Ah, good times, good times.
The bonus for me as a mum was that the effort of trying to stay upright and uninjured sure required some exertion, so by the time I took my two home again, they just didn’t have the energy or even the inclination to start the squabbling that had plagued so much of the holidays.
In fact, I’m thinking of signing them up for lessons.
Naturally, I’d have to go along with them, just to make sure all was well. Who knows, next time I’m brave enough to skate, I’ll spend the entire time on my feet!
Jx
©2010
With temperatures soaring into the 40s (that’s celcius for the overseas readers) indoor activities were in demand. And what better way to spend a hot summer’s day, than on ice.
We are lucky to live in such a fabulous part of the world that has both beaches and ice rinks just minutes from our door. But the bonus is you don’t have to worry about sunburn when you stay inside (frostbite is another matter entirely)!
I’d tried ice skating before, in the days BC (Before Children, that is) so I knew from firsthand experience how fun- and foolish- the pastime can be.
Quick wander down memory lane, if you’ll allow…
Since I had spent a great deal of my childhood on rollerskates, I was quietly confident that I could handle blades as well as wheels. So my friends and I paid the entry, and hit the ice.
And discovered it’s not quite the same after all.
After a few minutes doing my best impression of a toddler finding their feet, I was soon skating with the best of them, and even managed to go backwards (on purpose, as opposed to involuntarily as can happen from time to time) for a while.
We were even cocky enough to not just skate but started moving to the music blaring from the speakers spaced out around the rink (that had the amusing effect of being REALLY LOUD as you went past but not so much in between). And groove we did. Oh yeah, it wasn’t just the temperature that was super cool, just ask us.
Well after some solid skating time, and proud that I had managed to stay upright for the entire 2 hour session, I then lifted a foot to step off the ice for the safety of solid floor. That was my fatal mistake. See, out of the blue this little critter bolted out from nowhere straight into my legs, sending both me and he onto the frozen rink. He on top of me, to be precise.
What a pain in the icehole.
Thankfully it was my pride that suffered the most, and I half-crawled for the bar to pull me off the rink and back into shoes, much to the amusement of the expert skaters all set for the next session; Smarty Pants that they were (as opposed to cold, wet pants like me).
Because that image of me planted butt down on the ground has stayed with me long after the event, I was content to stay on the sidelines (and in shoes) when the next generation took to the ice with Vacation Care these school holidays just past. That was in spite of the fact that they had these Zimmer-frame type contraptions for the very beginners to hold onto.
Mind you, it was lucky that I did, because one little bloke did an action replay of my moment, only he went down as he was stepping onto the ice, and spent the rest of the session sitting, foot propped up, hot chocolate in hand.
The rest of the group passed casualty-free (except for a few decent blisters), and we only had to stop a couple of kids from eating the ice; only one of them belonging to me (*shudders*).
And unlike the first time I put myself on ice, my kids had their proud mother standing by with camera to capture the event on film (well, SD card, but you know what I mean). Got some great shots too- including one taken just as my daughter was about to fall, with her little feet going so fast trying to get grip on the ice rink, they’re actually blurred in the picture! Ah, good times, good times.
The bonus for me as a mum was that the effort of trying to stay upright and uninjured sure required some exertion, so by the time I took my two home again, they just didn’t have the energy or even the inclination to start the squabbling that had plagued so much of the holidays.
In fact, I’m thinking of signing them up for lessons.
Naturally, I’d have to go along with them, just to make sure all was well. Who knows, next time I’m brave enough to skate, I’ll spend the entire time on my feet!
Jx
©2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Aussie Aussie Aussie
Cleavage and humidity do not play nice.
That’s just one of the conversation starters that cropped up this Australia Day.
We’d had the traditional discussion about changing the national flag, and the debate about becoming a republic, then it was down to the serious business of hitting the beach with family & friends.
With about 90% humidity by 9am, my cleavage and I thought it was a damned good idea.
So we packed the children, towels, umbrellas, shade shelta, sunscreen, hats, thongs, drinks, snacks and ice packs in the old car, along with a nifty little beach cricket set I picked up at the cheap & cheerful shop, and headed south. A little too far south, as a matter of fact, as in the heat of the discussion about patriotism my Beloved missed the turnoff and inadvertently joined the traffic bound for the freeway (proving once again that men cannot multitask the way a woman can).
If that wasn’t bad enough, he got a tad hot under the collar once his mistake was pointed out (no less than three times in direct relation to the number of other family members in the car) and forgot the flag sticking out the car window at the precise moment he wound it down. There was the ‘boxing kangaroo' waving its fist in farewell to us in the rearview mirror as we retraced our path up the Pacific Highway. Luckily we still had another flag poking out the other window and that was almost enough to keep the kids happy (and quiet) for the remaining ride to the beach.
That little incident aside, we proceeded to set up camp and have a great day beside the sea under the famous Aussie sun. After about 3 hours of frolicking in the sand and surf, we fired up the portable BBQ and settled in the shade for the traditional sausage sanga. There’s nothing quite like a burnt banger in a bun, complete with tomato sauce and healthy dose of sand.
Then after waiting the prerequisite 30 minutes after eating, it was another round of sunscreen and back to the sand for an all-in game of cricket (complete with Australian-flag-decorated bat). Happily, my back was feeling better than it had for days and I surprised everyone (myself included) by diving into the action trying to beat both boys and breakers to get the ball (our daughter was quite content to search for seashells, and the other mothers declined our invitation to join the game, for some reason). For me, the horrendous humidity took precedence over pride as I leaped and splashed about the beach in a bid to beat the heat.
It was only after I felt the sting of the sun through my multiple layers of UV protection, and the children (and husbands) were visibly dropping from all the excitement that we agreed it was time to head home, apparently taking half the beach with us in the back of the car (waiting for me to vacuum out the next day).
Sadly, there were two casualties from the excursion: my back started scolding me for being a little too ambitious in fielding wickets for the cricket… and my son suffered bright stripes of sunburn from where the zinc cream stopped after he refused to wear his hat after one too many dunkings in salt water.
As we all rolled into bed after celebrating our national day the Aussie way, we started making plans to continue the tradition for same time, same place, on the 26th January 2011.
But maybe next year, to paraphrase another seagoing individual: we're gonna need a bigger umbrella.
Jx
©2010
That’s just one of the conversation starters that cropped up this Australia Day.
We’d had the traditional discussion about changing the national flag, and the debate about becoming a republic, then it was down to the serious business of hitting the beach with family & friends.
With about 90% humidity by 9am, my cleavage and I thought it was a damned good idea.
So we packed the children, towels, umbrellas, shade shelta, sunscreen, hats, thongs, drinks, snacks and ice packs in the old car, along with a nifty little beach cricket set I picked up at the cheap & cheerful shop, and headed south. A little too far south, as a matter of fact, as in the heat of the discussion about patriotism my Beloved missed the turnoff and inadvertently joined the traffic bound for the freeway (proving once again that men cannot multitask the way a woman can).
If that wasn’t bad enough, he got a tad hot under the collar once his mistake was pointed out (no less than three times in direct relation to the number of other family members in the car) and forgot the flag sticking out the car window at the precise moment he wound it down. There was the ‘boxing kangaroo' waving its fist in farewell to us in the rearview mirror as we retraced our path up the Pacific Highway. Luckily we still had another flag poking out the other window and that was almost enough to keep the kids happy (and quiet) for the remaining ride to the beach.
That little incident aside, we proceeded to set up camp and have a great day beside the sea under the famous Aussie sun. After about 3 hours of frolicking in the sand and surf, we fired up the portable BBQ and settled in the shade for the traditional sausage sanga. There’s nothing quite like a burnt banger in a bun, complete with tomato sauce and healthy dose of sand.
Then after waiting the prerequisite 30 minutes after eating, it was another round of sunscreen and back to the sand for an all-in game of cricket (complete with Australian-flag-decorated bat). Happily, my back was feeling better than it had for days and I surprised everyone (myself included) by diving into the action trying to beat both boys and breakers to get the ball (our daughter was quite content to search for seashells, and the other mothers declined our invitation to join the game, for some reason). For me, the horrendous humidity took precedence over pride as I leaped and splashed about the beach in a bid to beat the heat.
It was only after I felt the sting of the sun through my multiple layers of UV protection, and the children (and husbands) were visibly dropping from all the excitement that we agreed it was time to head home, apparently taking half the beach with us in the back of the car (waiting for me to vacuum out the next day).
Sadly, there were two casualties from the excursion: my back started scolding me for being a little too ambitious in fielding wickets for the cricket… and my son suffered bright stripes of sunburn from where the zinc cream stopped after he refused to wear his hat after one too many dunkings in salt water.
As we all rolled into bed after celebrating our national day the Aussie way, we started making plans to continue the tradition for same time, same place, on the 26th January 2011.
But maybe next year, to paraphrase another seagoing individual: we're gonna need a bigger umbrella.
Jx
©2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Flat Out
There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for…it just might come true.
As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.
But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.
10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.
And I’m fast running out of ideas here.
I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.
So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.
This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.
Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.
If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.
With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.
To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).
I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)
It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.
After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.
Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.
Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.
With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).
And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.
Jx
©2010
As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.
But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.
10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.
And I’m fast running out of ideas here.
I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.
So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.
This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.
Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.
If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.
With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.
To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).
I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)
It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.
After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.
Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.
Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.
With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).
And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.
Jx
©2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Angel's Wings
There’s a 12 year old girl on the other side of the world waiting for God to take her home.
I’ve never met her- or her mother for that matter- but my heart is breaking for them both.
As a parent, you never expect to outlive your children. It’s just not the way it’s supposed to be.
And as a mother, you simply never expect there to come a time when your child decides it’s time to stop fighting, and asks you let her go.
But as I write this, that’s exactly what’s happening in a home and a hospital at the opposite end of the earth to where I sit.
You know, I can feel their sorrow from here.
Miss M is 12. She has been in pain her entire life. She was born with Osteogenesis Imperfecta and Cerebral Palsy. She also has Juvenile Arthritis (a disease we know only too well and the reason I ‘know’ this family) along with the Uveitis that can come with it. Miss M has also suffered Primary Immune Deficiency and Disseminated Histoplasmosis, Diabetes and Behçet's Disease. Plus other things too horrible to imagine.
If there was a lottery for drawing diseases, this little girl had the winning ticket.
She has had too many broken bones and countless operations, tried more medications than most of us combined, and spent too much time at her home away from home- the children’s hospital.
Now she wants to go to her ultimate home in Heaven.
Not many adults I know could take what this young lady has, and make the decision she has.
Practically no one could do it with the same grace and maturity.
And it is a decision I would wish for no child to have to make, nor for any parent to have to accept.
But after too many days of terrible pain, Miss M has asked the doctors to stop her treatment, and let her go.
So now we are taking what time we have to say goodbye to an angel, and wish her well as she finally gets her wings.
It’s often said that funerals are for the living. The departed don’t know what kind of fuss is being made about them, it’s more relief for the grief for the ones who are left behind.
It’s also been said that sometimes the ones we love the most feel they need permission to leave us, they feel they are being selfish by wanting to be free of the pain and find some promised peace.
I know when my much-loved Nana was close to her time (after a very-well lived nearly 94 years, mind you) and when our beloved Aunts were battling cancer, the family felt we needed to say it was ok for them to stop fighting; while we would certainly be sad to see them go, it was worse to see them suffer. Oddly enough (or perhaps not, depending on what you believe) once we said our goodbyes and thanked them for being part of our lives, each one went quickly and peacefully. Still cried our eyes out at the funerals, but our hearts weren’t quite so heavy knowing that they didn’t hurt any more.
And 10 years after a favourite cousin was killed, I know another Aunt still suffers for having to bury her only son, much too young at 27. I sure miss Mick still.
I can only guess how the family feels of this brave little girl who has asked to be set free.
So now we wait for word that another little angel has taken flight, and instead try to imagine how happy she will be to finally be free from the pain that has plagued her earthly existence. To think of her soaring high and happy as she watches over her family while she waits for them to join her.
In the meantime, I am hugging my kids a little tighter, and a whole lot more often than is usually possible in the day-to-day scheme of things. And I’m making the time to pause what I’m doing whenever they want me, no matter how important all that other stuff can seem.
Heaven forbid I ever have to say goodbye to them.
Jx
©2010
I’ve never met her- or her mother for that matter- but my heart is breaking for them both.
As a parent, you never expect to outlive your children. It’s just not the way it’s supposed to be.
And as a mother, you simply never expect there to come a time when your child decides it’s time to stop fighting, and asks you let her go.
But as I write this, that’s exactly what’s happening in a home and a hospital at the opposite end of the earth to where I sit.
You know, I can feel their sorrow from here.
Miss M is 12. She has been in pain her entire life. She was born with Osteogenesis Imperfecta and Cerebral Palsy. She also has Juvenile Arthritis (a disease we know only too well and the reason I ‘know’ this family) along with the Uveitis that can come with it. Miss M has also suffered Primary Immune Deficiency and Disseminated Histoplasmosis, Diabetes and Behçet's Disease. Plus other things too horrible to imagine.
If there was a lottery for drawing diseases, this little girl had the winning ticket.
She has had too many broken bones and countless operations, tried more medications than most of us combined, and spent too much time at her home away from home- the children’s hospital.
Now she wants to go to her ultimate home in Heaven.
Not many adults I know could take what this young lady has, and make the decision she has.
Practically no one could do it with the same grace and maturity.
And it is a decision I would wish for no child to have to make, nor for any parent to have to accept.
But after too many days of terrible pain, Miss M has asked the doctors to stop her treatment, and let her go.
So now we are taking what time we have to say goodbye to an angel, and wish her well as she finally gets her wings.
It’s often said that funerals are for the living. The departed don’t know what kind of fuss is being made about them, it’s more relief for the grief for the ones who are left behind.
It’s also been said that sometimes the ones we love the most feel they need permission to leave us, they feel they are being selfish by wanting to be free of the pain and find some promised peace.
I know when my much-loved Nana was close to her time (after a very-well lived nearly 94 years, mind you) and when our beloved Aunts were battling cancer, the family felt we needed to say it was ok for them to stop fighting; while we would certainly be sad to see them go, it was worse to see them suffer. Oddly enough (or perhaps not, depending on what you believe) once we said our goodbyes and thanked them for being part of our lives, each one went quickly and peacefully. Still cried our eyes out at the funerals, but our hearts weren’t quite so heavy knowing that they didn’t hurt any more.
And 10 years after a favourite cousin was killed, I know another Aunt still suffers for having to bury her only son, much too young at 27. I sure miss Mick still.
I can only guess how the family feels of this brave little girl who has asked to be set free.
So now we wait for word that another little angel has taken flight, and instead try to imagine how happy she will be to finally be free from the pain that has plagued her earthly existence. To think of her soaring high and happy as she watches over her family while she waits for them to join her.
In the meantime, I am hugging my kids a little tighter, and a whole lot more often than is usually possible in the day-to-day scheme of things. And I’m making the time to pause what I’m doing whenever they want me, no matter how important all that other stuff can seem.
Heaven forbid I ever have to say goodbye to them.
Jx
©2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Brow Beating
It’s always nice to visit friends and family, don’t you think?
But there’s one sure way to know when it’s time to leave.
When your eyebrows grow back.
I find that if one has a little tidy up of the brow line just before packing the car for a trip to the ol’ home town, as soon as you notice stray hairs come a-creeping it’s time to cram everything back in some semblance of how it started the journey, and hit the frog & toad for the homeward run.
Sure, there are other ways to judge if one’s overstayed their welcome… when between you all you’ve managed to use up the entire supply of toilet paper (including the secret stash behind the laundry door)… when the good old sibling rivalry of your youth kicks back in with a vengeance… when you’ve made all the requisite visits to those you promised to catch up with last time you were in town… or when you simply cannot fit another thing into your car for the return journey (more of my mother’s campaign to make space at her place I suspect)… but for me, there’s no better way to tell the right time to say “Adieu”, than using my eyebrows as a yardstick.
I don’t mean that literally, of course. Call it vanity but I have too much pride to allow any cranial caterpillars come crawling across my crest. And I cannot begin to tell you how the very thought of a unibrow makes me feel. (My Beloved knows one sure way to stir me up is to swipe a thumb along my brow bone against the direction of the hair growth. He has to be feeling mighty brave to attempt such a foolhardy act though…)
I know that there are others who are similarly distracted by disgraceful eyebrows.
Take the former Australian Prime Minister John Howard for example, anyone else notice how the unruly brows of his time as Opposition Leader mysteriously disappeared into something more akin to a certain style (go on, Google the images if you dare). It seems that even Aussie PMs are not to immune to manscaping (although, if you believe this blogger, the best leaders probably needed it).
I also have it on good authority from the girls at the beauty salon that there is a fair whack of fellas lining up for a little shape and define above the eyeline (not to mention the other areas requiring hair removal. No, seriously, let’s not mention them).
And just look at the plethora of professional tools available to ensure you too can have a streamlined browline. The February issue of Cleo dedicates a whole page to it. There are even templates and stencils you can follow to make sure you get it right (– on a site billed as “your online source for beautiful brows”)! Hey, I may have brow-envy, but even I don’t go that far.
Even poor Susan Boyle has caved into peer pressure and had a little styling done, after her eyebrows all but upstaged her on that TV show.
So I know I’m not alone in my preference for neat brows.
I’m simply sharing my secret about how said brows can help you avoid sticky social situations.
While it’s nice to see friends and family - ‘tis the season for it after all- but when my brows come back I know it’s time to go.
Jx
©2010
But there’s one sure way to know when it’s time to leave.
When your eyebrows grow back.
I find that if one has a little tidy up of the brow line just before packing the car for a trip to the ol’ home town, as soon as you notice stray hairs come a-creeping it’s time to cram everything back in some semblance of how it started the journey, and hit the frog & toad for the homeward run.
Sure, there are other ways to judge if one’s overstayed their welcome… when between you all you’ve managed to use up the entire supply of toilet paper (including the secret stash behind the laundry door)… when the good old sibling rivalry of your youth kicks back in with a vengeance… when you’ve made all the requisite visits to those you promised to catch up with last time you were in town… or when you simply cannot fit another thing into your car for the return journey (more of my mother’s campaign to make space at her place I suspect)… but for me, there’s no better way to tell the right time to say “Adieu”, than using my eyebrows as a yardstick.
I don’t mean that literally, of course. Call it vanity but I have too much pride to allow any cranial caterpillars come crawling across my crest. And I cannot begin to tell you how the very thought of a unibrow makes me feel. (My Beloved knows one sure way to stir me up is to swipe a thumb along my brow bone against the direction of the hair growth. He has to be feeling mighty brave to attempt such a foolhardy act though…)
I know that there are others who are similarly distracted by disgraceful eyebrows.
Take the former Australian Prime Minister John Howard for example, anyone else notice how the unruly brows of his time as Opposition Leader mysteriously disappeared into something more akin to a certain style (go on, Google the images if you dare). It seems that even Aussie PMs are not to immune to manscaping (although, if you believe this blogger, the best leaders probably needed it).
I also have it on good authority from the girls at the beauty salon that there is a fair whack of fellas lining up for a little shape and define above the eyeline (not to mention the other areas requiring hair removal. No, seriously, let’s not mention them).
And just look at the plethora of professional tools available to ensure you too can have a streamlined browline. The February issue of Cleo dedicates a whole page to it. There are even templates and stencils you can follow to make sure you get it right (– on a site billed as “your online source for beautiful brows”)! Hey, I may have brow-envy, but even I don’t go that far.
Even poor Susan Boyle has caved into peer pressure and had a little styling done, after her eyebrows all but upstaged her on that TV show.
So I know I’m not alone in my preference for neat brows.
I’m simply sharing my secret about how said brows can help you avoid sticky social situations.
While it’s nice to see friends and family - ‘tis the season for it after all- but when my brows come back I know it’s time to go.
Jx
©2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Eye Spy
I got new glasses yesterday.
Not being one to waste money, I made sure that I used up all my entitlements from our private health insurance and updated my specs before the calendar year expired.
Seems I wasn’t alone in my thinking either, as the local optometrists were doing a roaring trade in eye exams and lens manufacturing come December 31.
Armed with horror stories about how everything falls apart once one hits 40 (this year, ye gods), and since there’s a fairly hefty family history of vision troubles and glaucoma, I’m keeping a close eye, so to speak, on my sight. Besides, when one has to wear glasses for whatever reason, it’s good to make sure they match the rest of your wardrobe. My sister has needed to wear them since the age of 3, so she has a massive collection of specs in every shade and size. She could just about open her own store (eBay, anyone?)!
Now, whoever thought shoes and handbags were the only accessories that changed with the season should take a moment to recall some of the styles that have made a spectacle of themselves over the years… like the cat-eye specs of the 50s and 60s, police or porn star sunnies of the 70s (think officer Poncherello from ‘CHiPs’), granny glasses of the 80s (when everything was big), and Ray-Bans of the 90s. Just like the rest of your outfit, it’s funny how these things come back into style; if you need it simply whack in an updated prescription lens and you’re back in fashion just like that! (Though, personally speaking, I cannot think of a time or place where it’s ever appropriate to adorn one’s eyes with coke-bottle lenses. Oh John Lennon, you have a lot to answer for…)
Anyway, the current thinking for eye glasses at least is rectangular frames (mind you, those big round blowfly-eyes for sunnies are also being seen this season). I wonder how many of us sporting the new style would think twice if we knew they were first seen on the faces of the unfashionable way back in the 1800s? And only on those who had given up hope of making it through a social occasion without falling flat on their faces. Nooooo, once upon a time, you didn’t dare wear spectacles unless you were ready to publicly embrace old age, or otherwise totally incompetent without them. Even then there was no choice of styles like there is these days; whatever the salesman had on hand, went on your face.
Well I lined up for my annual eye exam with some trepidation. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to eyesight or hearing tests, I’m always worried that I’ll ‘fail’ … not see the correct letter or hear that little ‘ping’ which means that particular sense is dwindling, and it’s all downhill from here. It’s also rather weird when they add anaesthetic or dilating drops to the equation and one gets the sense of not being totally connected to and therefore in control of the little orbs in your eye-socket. (Mind you, it’s a good excuse to do a little shopping afterwards, since the recommendation is not to drive until the effects wear off.)
I was especially worried this time ‘round when the optometrist said there was a discrepancy in the pressure of my eyes, and I needed to attend another appointment for a more intense Visual Field Test. Thoughts of glaucoma and loss of peripheral vision crossed my mind and I gladly accepted a time just a few days away, as opposed to after the holiday season. When it comes to vision, you don’t want just your hindsight to be 20/20.
So there I was, perched on a tiny little stool obviously designed for people without the hereditary butt size the women of our family share, leaning forward with my chin and forehead resting on a decidedly uncomfortable plastic bar, wearing an eye patch that Long John Silver would be proud of. The room is darkened and soundproofed to avoid distractions, and you’re not even allowed to speak during the test, as the very act of chatting makes your eyeballs move around and can affect the result. Who knew?
For those who’ve never had the pleasure: you have to stare straight ahead at the centre of this concave apparatus (a bit like your rooftop satellite dish), while at irregular intervals a little light randomly appears around the dish with varying intensity in its brightness; the idea is you press a buzzer held in your hand whenever you see the light and the computer takes note. Well, after a while of staring wide-eyed with an overwhelming fear of blinking lest you miss a light spot and fail the test, your uncovered eye starts to water, you end up imagining things and merrily start pressing on the buzzer in the notion that you’ve got to be right at least some of the time.
After about 20 minutes (and a switch of the eye patch) the technician tallies up your results (i.e. how many times you get a correct ‘hit’ on the target) and compares them to data from other patients of your age.
I was so happy when he told me I was smack-bang in the normal range of my peers, I could’ve kissed the guy. Except my eyesight is not so poor I could ignore that he didn’t appeal to my senses. So I escaped with only needing a new pair in the same prescription as before, and got to pick from some funky new frames in my favourite colours.
Trying them on, I was certain I’d spent my health fund dollars well. Until I stepped outside the store and in the process of getting used to the new glasses, I found I was walking a little wonkily like I’d just hopped off a boat or something, and had to physically prevent myself tapping a foot in front of me before deciding it was a safe place to go- and making a real spectacle of myself in the process.
I knew I had well and truly overstepped the mark when I commented to my Beloved that the new prescription sunnies I’d chosen (complete with polarized lenses) made everything look like it was in 3D.
(I’ll let you think about it for a minute… cue the elevator muzak… )
Yes, though my eyes may be ok for my age, I’m really starting to wonder about my mind…
Jx
©2010
For more information about Glaucoma, check out the Glaucoma Research Foundation, or talk to your local optometrist.
Not being one to waste money, I made sure that I used up all my entitlements from our private health insurance and updated my specs before the calendar year expired.
Seems I wasn’t alone in my thinking either, as the local optometrists were doing a roaring trade in eye exams and lens manufacturing come December 31.
Armed with horror stories about how everything falls apart once one hits 40 (this year, ye gods), and since there’s a fairly hefty family history of vision troubles and glaucoma, I’m keeping a close eye, so to speak, on my sight. Besides, when one has to wear glasses for whatever reason, it’s good to make sure they match the rest of your wardrobe. My sister has needed to wear them since the age of 3, so she has a massive collection of specs in every shade and size. She could just about open her own store (eBay, anyone?)!
Now, whoever thought shoes and handbags were the only accessories that changed with the season should take a moment to recall some of the styles that have made a spectacle of themselves over the years… like the cat-eye specs of the 50s and 60s, police or porn star sunnies of the 70s (think officer Poncherello from ‘CHiPs’), granny glasses of the 80s (when everything was big), and Ray-Bans of the 90s. Just like the rest of your outfit, it’s funny how these things come back into style; if you need it simply whack in an updated prescription lens and you’re back in fashion just like that! (Though, personally speaking, I cannot think of a time or place where it’s ever appropriate to adorn one’s eyes with coke-bottle lenses. Oh John Lennon, you have a lot to answer for…)
Anyway, the current thinking for eye glasses at least is rectangular frames (mind you, those big round blowfly-eyes for sunnies are also being seen this season). I wonder how many of us sporting the new style would think twice if we knew they were first seen on the faces of the unfashionable way back in the 1800s? And only on those who had given up hope of making it through a social occasion without falling flat on their faces. Nooooo, once upon a time, you didn’t dare wear spectacles unless you were ready to publicly embrace old age, or otherwise totally incompetent without them. Even then there was no choice of styles like there is these days; whatever the salesman had on hand, went on your face.
Well I lined up for my annual eye exam with some trepidation. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to eyesight or hearing tests, I’m always worried that I’ll ‘fail’ … not see the correct letter or hear that little ‘ping’ which means that particular sense is dwindling, and it’s all downhill from here. It’s also rather weird when they add anaesthetic or dilating drops to the equation and one gets the sense of not being totally connected to and therefore in control of the little orbs in your eye-socket. (Mind you, it’s a good excuse to do a little shopping afterwards, since the recommendation is not to drive until the effects wear off.)
I was especially worried this time ‘round when the optometrist said there was a discrepancy in the pressure of my eyes, and I needed to attend another appointment for a more intense Visual Field Test. Thoughts of glaucoma and loss of peripheral vision crossed my mind and I gladly accepted a time just a few days away, as opposed to after the holiday season. When it comes to vision, you don’t want just your hindsight to be 20/20.
So there I was, perched on a tiny little stool obviously designed for people without the hereditary butt size the women of our family share, leaning forward with my chin and forehead resting on a decidedly uncomfortable plastic bar, wearing an eye patch that Long John Silver would be proud of. The room is darkened and soundproofed to avoid distractions, and you’re not even allowed to speak during the test, as the very act of chatting makes your eyeballs move around and can affect the result. Who knew?
For those who’ve never had the pleasure: you have to stare straight ahead at the centre of this concave apparatus (a bit like your rooftop satellite dish), while at irregular intervals a little light randomly appears around the dish with varying intensity in its brightness; the idea is you press a buzzer held in your hand whenever you see the light and the computer takes note. Well, after a while of staring wide-eyed with an overwhelming fear of blinking lest you miss a light spot and fail the test, your uncovered eye starts to water, you end up imagining things and merrily start pressing on the buzzer in the notion that you’ve got to be right at least some of the time.
After about 20 minutes (and a switch of the eye patch) the technician tallies up your results (i.e. how many times you get a correct ‘hit’ on the target) and compares them to data from other patients of your age.
I was so happy when he told me I was smack-bang in the normal range of my peers, I could’ve kissed the guy. Except my eyesight is not so poor I could ignore that he didn’t appeal to my senses. So I escaped with only needing a new pair in the same prescription as before, and got to pick from some funky new frames in my favourite colours.
Trying them on, I was certain I’d spent my health fund dollars well. Until I stepped outside the store and in the process of getting used to the new glasses, I found I was walking a little wonkily like I’d just hopped off a boat or something, and had to physically prevent myself tapping a foot in front of me before deciding it was a safe place to go- and making a real spectacle of myself in the process.
I knew I had well and truly overstepped the mark when I commented to my Beloved that the new prescription sunnies I’d chosen (complete with polarized lenses) made everything look like it was in 3D.
(I’ll let you think about it for a minute… cue the elevator muzak… )
Yes, though my eyes may be ok for my age, I’m really starting to wonder about my mind…
Jx
©2010
For more information about Glaucoma, check out the Glaucoma Research Foundation, or talk to your local optometrist.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
We Wanna, We Wanna, We Wanna Wee
I had that dream again last night.
The one where no matter what you’re doing (and let’s face it, in our subconscious nocturnal wanderings we can be doing some pretty crazy stuff) your bladder butts in and you decide that you need to pee. So naturally, given the freedom of a human mind not tethered by the restraints of time and space, you simply conjure up a handy bathroom, search out a stall, and feel free to relieve yourself. If you’re lucky (or able to regain control of that wayward vision) you wake up before you actually follow through for real.
I hate that dream.
If you can believe “Zoo Weekly” magazine (and who wouldn’t seeing how it’s such a fine piece of journalistic veracity and integrity) 1% of adults wet their beds on a regular basis.
They probably had that dream.
According to much more reputable sources (scientific journals and parenting magazines- heck, even Wikipedia agrees and we all know how reliable that is!) if you’re a female of child-bearing age and you did that child bearing the way God intended, you’re twice as likely to suffer from pelvic floor muscle weakness and an occasionally leaky bladder. Especially if you laugh, cough, sneeze, exercise, are startled, or make any other sudden movement (gee you guys get it good sometimes). And it gets even worse with age (oh joy- something for us all to look forward to)!
It’s called Urinary Incontinence. What a delightful little term that is.
But it’s better than the other types of incontinence one can suffer from. And in the interests of good taste (also lest I somehow jinx myself) I am not going any further down that track in this little blog of mine (for those who really must know, read the opening par on that Wikipedia page, but don’t say I didn’t warn you).
And it’s a profitable business, this incontinence. Take a look at all the products offered in the Health & Beauty aisle at the supermarket next time, if you don’t believe me. Seriously, aside from all of us having that dream at one time or another over the course of our lives, what sort of person sits down and says “I’m going to get rich by selling diapers to grown-ups!”
It’s obvious that someone did. I mean, we all know that even Archimedes had to attend to health and hygiene, what with him having his ‘Eureka!’ moment in the bathtub and all; I just wonder what type of entrepreneur set out to make a fortune out of unfortunate bodily functions. (I'm also suspicious of the inspiration behind the Nintendo® Wii™, just quietly.)
The simple fact that I’m sitting here alone at my dining table typing a blog that may only ever amuse myself and my mother (my most loyal fan, thanks Ma!), in the vain hope that someone someday will stumble across my musings and decide I was the Next Big Thing of the literary world…shows that I have not had any such epiphany of the money-making kind. But, as usual, I digress.
It’s days like these- the morning after the night before, when one has had the misfortune to come this close to convincing their subconscious that they are appropriately placed for nocturnal encounters of the urinary kind- that I up the ante on the pelvic floor exercises, in the hope that even if the spirit is willing the flesh isn’t weak enough to follow through (or to put it terms the men in the audience might understand: the prostate doesn’t perform whilst prostrate).
And as I squeeze/hold/release, I also ponder the person who made the effort to elaborate on exercises purely designed to strengthen the muscles put into play when one pees. And consequently made their mark and their money out of it.
Some bloke by the name of Kegel, if I recall rightly.
I betcha he had that dream too.
Jx
©2010
The one where no matter what you’re doing (and let’s face it, in our subconscious nocturnal wanderings we can be doing some pretty crazy stuff) your bladder butts in and you decide that you need to pee. So naturally, given the freedom of a human mind not tethered by the restraints of time and space, you simply conjure up a handy bathroom, search out a stall, and feel free to relieve yourself. If you’re lucky (or able to regain control of that wayward vision) you wake up before you actually follow through for real.
I hate that dream.
If you can believe “Zoo Weekly” magazine (and who wouldn’t seeing how it’s such a fine piece of journalistic veracity and integrity) 1% of adults wet their beds on a regular basis.
They probably had that dream.
According to much more reputable sources (scientific journals and parenting magazines- heck, even Wikipedia agrees and we all know how reliable that is!) if you’re a female of child-bearing age and you did that child bearing the way God intended, you’re twice as likely to suffer from pelvic floor muscle weakness and an occasionally leaky bladder. Especially if you laugh, cough, sneeze, exercise, are startled, or make any other sudden movement (gee you guys get it good sometimes). And it gets even worse with age (oh joy- something for us all to look forward to)!
It’s called Urinary Incontinence. What a delightful little term that is.
But it’s better than the other types of incontinence one can suffer from. And in the interests of good taste (also lest I somehow jinx myself) I am not going any further down that track in this little blog of mine (for those who really must know, read the opening par on that Wikipedia page, but don’t say I didn’t warn you).
And it’s a profitable business, this incontinence. Take a look at all the products offered in the Health & Beauty aisle at the supermarket next time, if you don’t believe me. Seriously, aside from all of us having that dream at one time or another over the course of our lives, what sort of person sits down and says “I’m going to get rich by selling diapers to grown-ups!”
It’s obvious that someone did. I mean, we all know that even Archimedes had to attend to health and hygiene, what with him having his ‘Eureka!’ moment in the bathtub and all; I just wonder what type of entrepreneur set out to make a fortune out of unfortunate bodily functions. (I'm also suspicious of the inspiration behind the Nintendo® Wii™, just quietly.)
The simple fact that I’m sitting here alone at my dining table typing a blog that may only ever amuse myself and my mother (my most loyal fan, thanks Ma!), in the vain hope that someone someday will stumble across my musings and decide I was the Next Big Thing of the literary world…shows that I have not had any such epiphany of the money-making kind. But, as usual, I digress.
It’s days like these- the morning after the night before, when one has had the misfortune to come this close to convincing their subconscious that they are appropriately placed for nocturnal encounters of the urinary kind- that I up the ante on the pelvic floor exercises, in the hope that even if the spirit is willing the flesh isn’t weak enough to follow through (or to put it terms the men in the audience might understand: the prostate doesn’t perform whilst prostrate).
And as I squeeze/hold/release, I also ponder the person who made the effort to elaborate on exercises purely designed to strengthen the muscles put into play when one pees. And consequently made their mark and their money out of it.
Some bloke by the name of Kegel, if I recall rightly.
I betcha he had that dream too.
Jx
©2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Back chat
I’ve just spent the better part of 4 days flat on my back in bed.
And not for any fun reasons either (none of the ol’ nudge nudge wink wink going on here, I can assure you).
Nosiree, the culprit of my current bed-a-thon is the shower in our ensuite.
See, my Beloved and I decided our joint New Year’s resolution was to finally finish off the plethora of renovation jobs on the boil in our home (OK, I decided, my Beloved begrudgingly agreed- only after the wardrobe fell apart in his hands whilst moving kids’ bedrooms around).
So I arranged for a “no-obligation measure & quote” from a local company that does the lot- kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms. Unfortunately, the only time the sales rep had available in the foreseeable future was 8am last Wednesday, which meant I had to get up at some ungodly hour of the school holidays, and do a quick tidy up in the relevant rooms.
After preparing and putting away the breakfast items in near-record time (if you have kids you know how long that can actually take), I made the fatal decision to give the showers a quick scrub before the fellow came in with his tape measure (didn’t want to leave any telltale soap scum or rogue body hairs, if you know what I mean). So I squat down in the shower with spray and brush and set to work. Since I have a pre-existing back condition (slipped and bulging discs, bilateral pars defect, sciatica, nothing too outrageous) I was taking proper precautions, using a long handled brush and not staying in one position too long. Apparently I wasn’t conscientious enough as my back kept grumbling about the activities long after I’d finished.
I survived a play-date at Maccas through a haze of pain, before returning home with barely enough time to restock the kids, pack the swimming bag, and head for lessons at the local pool (for more on that particular excitement, see ‘Sink or Swim’). Still struck by some foolish urge to clean house, I was merrily (if not stiffly) hunkered down in front of the front loader when my back seized with an ungodly pain, and I froze in position half-up/half-down. Calling for the kids to get daddy to help me, I was in too much pain to even laugh at the way they both barreled into the bedroom shrieking “Daddy, daddy, mummy’s stuck! HELP!!”
My bleary-eyed Beloved staggered into the laundry which is so small one can’t turn around in it at the best of times, and did his best to drag me upright, helping me across the hall to the bed where he all but dumped me. Well, I was so incapacitated I couldn’t even remove my shoes, let alone reach for the trusty painkillers on the bedside table. So while he managed to get the kids off to their 30 minute lesson (albeit 15 minutes late) I lay on the bed dreaming of pain relief.
Thankfully he didn’t have to work that night, and next morning was in charge of the children while I still lay in bed and moaned (obviously, I need to find me some stronger painkillers). Unfortunately, nature called, as it generally does after the bladder brews away all night long, but when I attempted to sit up to get up, I was overcome with the instant and intense urge to vomit. Deciding I’d rather do so in private, I somehow managed to roll and crawl across the bed and into the bathroom (with my Beloved hovering concernedly nearby). I then experienced perhaps the most terrifying few minutes of my life.
If the waves of pain and nausea weren’t enough to contend with, I then started that shivery sweaty stuff you sometimes get- and my vision blurred then went black. Lucky I was sitting down because I couldn’t see a damn thing. I even had to put my hands to my eyes to make sure they were open! I had literally ‘blacked out’. Now if you’ve ever experienced this, you’ll have some idea of how I felt. And if like me, you are prone to the occasional panic attack, you’ll know just how much worse the sweating and shaking got! I was literally dripping with perspiration. Not that I could see it at the time.
Now, I have given birth to two decent-sized children- without epidural- but I have NEVER felt the kind of pain radiating up and down my back.
So I spent the next 3 days either flat out or sitting propped up on pillows, trying not to go any further insane.
And now there’s Vegemite on my foot.
If you must know, my Beloved had to work last night and I dropped the lid whilst making toast this morning. Since I can’t bend over I attempted to pick up the lid with my foot. Obviously my lower digits are not as dexterous as I would like, and all I managed to do was to flip the thing over, smearing the black stuff across the tops of my toes.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
So I’ve decided to leave the housecleaning caper to Cinderella et al for the time being. But since my fairy godmother is also taking extended leave, meanwhile the washing’s piling up, there’re dirty dishes in the sink, we’re running out of everything, and my To-Do List is so not getting Done.
What’s that old saying: you know you’re getting old when you back goes out more than you do… all I can say is Hellllooooo Old Age!
Jx
©2010
And not for any fun reasons either (none of the ol’ nudge nudge wink wink going on here, I can assure you).
Nosiree, the culprit of my current bed-a-thon is the shower in our ensuite.
See, my Beloved and I decided our joint New Year’s resolution was to finally finish off the plethora of renovation jobs on the boil in our home (OK, I decided, my Beloved begrudgingly agreed- only after the wardrobe fell apart in his hands whilst moving kids’ bedrooms around).
So I arranged for a “no-obligation measure & quote” from a local company that does the lot- kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms. Unfortunately, the only time the sales rep had available in the foreseeable future was 8am last Wednesday, which meant I had to get up at some ungodly hour of the school holidays, and do a quick tidy up in the relevant rooms.
After preparing and putting away the breakfast items in near-record time (if you have kids you know how long that can actually take), I made the fatal decision to give the showers a quick scrub before the fellow came in with his tape measure (didn’t want to leave any telltale soap scum or rogue body hairs, if you know what I mean). So I squat down in the shower with spray and brush and set to work. Since I have a pre-existing back condition (slipped and bulging discs, bilateral pars defect, sciatica, nothing too outrageous) I was taking proper precautions, using a long handled brush and not staying in one position too long. Apparently I wasn’t conscientious enough as my back kept grumbling about the activities long after I’d finished.
I survived a play-date at Maccas through a haze of pain, before returning home with barely enough time to restock the kids, pack the swimming bag, and head for lessons at the local pool (for more on that particular excitement, see ‘Sink or Swim’). Still struck by some foolish urge to clean house, I was merrily (if not stiffly) hunkered down in front of the front loader when my back seized with an ungodly pain, and I froze in position half-up/half-down. Calling for the kids to get daddy to help me, I was in too much pain to even laugh at the way they both barreled into the bedroom shrieking “Daddy, daddy, mummy’s stuck! HELP!!”
My bleary-eyed Beloved staggered into the laundry which is so small one can’t turn around in it at the best of times, and did his best to drag me upright, helping me across the hall to the bed where he all but dumped me. Well, I was so incapacitated I couldn’t even remove my shoes, let alone reach for the trusty painkillers on the bedside table. So while he managed to get the kids off to their 30 minute lesson (albeit 15 minutes late) I lay on the bed dreaming of pain relief.
Thankfully he didn’t have to work that night, and next morning was in charge of the children while I still lay in bed and moaned (obviously, I need to find me some stronger painkillers). Unfortunately, nature called, as it generally does after the bladder brews away all night long, but when I attempted to sit up to get up, I was overcome with the instant and intense urge to vomit. Deciding I’d rather do so in private, I somehow managed to roll and crawl across the bed and into the bathroom (with my Beloved hovering concernedly nearby). I then experienced perhaps the most terrifying few minutes of my life.
If the waves of pain and nausea weren’t enough to contend with, I then started that shivery sweaty stuff you sometimes get- and my vision blurred then went black. Lucky I was sitting down because I couldn’t see a damn thing. I even had to put my hands to my eyes to make sure they were open! I had literally ‘blacked out’. Now if you’ve ever experienced this, you’ll have some idea of how I felt. And if like me, you are prone to the occasional panic attack, you’ll know just how much worse the sweating and shaking got! I was literally dripping with perspiration. Not that I could see it at the time.
Now, I have given birth to two decent-sized children- without epidural- but I have NEVER felt the kind of pain radiating up and down my back.
So I spent the next 3 days either flat out or sitting propped up on pillows, trying not to go any further insane.
And now there’s Vegemite on my foot.
If you must know, my Beloved had to work last night and I dropped the lid whilst making toast this morning. Since I can’t bend over I attempted to pick up the lid with my foot. Obviously my lower digits are not as dexterous as I would like, and all I managed to do was to flip the thing over, smearing the black stuff across the tops of my toes.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
So I’ve decided to leave the housecleaning caper to Cinderella et al for the time being. But since my fairy godmother is also taking extended leave, meanwhile the washing’s piling up, there’re dirty dishes in the sink, we’re running out of everything, and my To-Do List is so not getting Done.
What’s that old saying: you know you’re getting old when you back goes out more than you do… all I can say is Hellllooooo Old Age!
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
School Daze
Our children’s school just had their annual Presentation and Graduation day.
Boy, have things changed since I was a kid!
Or perhaps it’s just that nowadays I get to see it from a parent’s perspective.
Oh, and before I go any further, I should clarify that I’m not one of those parents either.
You know the ones I’m talking about…never be seen in the schoolyard without full hair and makeup, not to mention the latest fashions all topped off with bling. I’m not saying that’s wrong, it’s just not me.
No, I’m one of those mums who are lucky to get through a shower in the morning without having to yell or race up the hallway to avert some major crisis on a minor scale. Some days I don’t even get to finish breakfast before the school run. And other days I eat my breakfast in the shower (and doesn’t that take a particular skill set and flexibility to avoid soggy toast?)! Mind you, I have become a huge fan of Nescafé instant frothy coffees in an insulated travel mug. (It’s amazing how invigorating it is to hop back in the car after offloading one’s offspring, just to sit and savour the silence and sip a still warm shot of caffeine, for a change!)
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make a habit of heading out in public in anything dirty or with holes in it, and I can honestly say I have never set a foot in the school that was shod in some sort of slipper (my tootsies are actually an Ugg-free zone). But nor have I ever arrived having used any sort of electrical appliance on my hair beforehand. Hey, if I’m having a bad hair day, that’s what hats are for, right? Makes me look a little avant-garde amongst those that are coloured and coiffed within an inch of their life, I reckon.
As for makeup, well, a little lipliner or gloss swiped across the pout before going out looks like one made an effort without expending much energy. (Ye gods, I am turning into my mother- whose entire beauty regime is based on keeping a trusty lippy within arm's reach!)
Anyway, there I was, perched on a portable plastic chair nestled in amongst a veritable (and dare I say visible) cloud of product and perfume, trying to catch a glimpse of my child amongst the cohort of kids crowded into class groups ready for the big event.
It was pretty obvious pretty early on in the piece that a mere handful of parents really should have bothered fighting the early morning P-plate traffic at the local high school to be present as presentation after presentation went to the same few names over and over again.
Now, this is a good school. Very high achievements both academically and athletically, and every other kind of extra-curricular endeavour is fairly well covered too.
But one wonders how many parents are living vicariously through their kids.
I swear I could see certain mums and dads actually mouthing the words of their child’s acceptance speech. One grandmother almost copped detention for her overly enthusiastic behavior every time one of her grandchildren went up on stage. And you could tell by the end of the two and a half hours that some of us were merely making a polite show of clapping for kids that didn’t share the same surname as ourselves.
About two hours into it I found myself paying closer attention to what was going on in the student audience as opposed to what was unfolding up on stage… smiling in sympathy at those fidgeting in their seats, chuckling at the ones dancing on the spot during the performances by the “award-winning” school band and choir; and discovering that one really doesn’t need to be a lip reader to know what some were saying behind their hands while particular kids went up for the fourth, fifth, and sixth times to collect some kind of trophy or certificate.
So maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t see things from the parent’s perspective at all. If I recall rightly, I didn’t get selected too many times by the teacher to receive some accolade for attitude or application in class. Way I remember it, I was the one tripping up or down the steps on the rare occasion my name was called out. And even back in my day, there sure were the kids we all loved to hate for their over-achievements. We giggled at some of the parents too.
Maybe things haven’t changed so much after all, and like I’ve said before: just because we grow older doesn’t always ensure we grow up, especially when it comes to official school events. My Beloved says if I can’t behave myself, I won’t be allowed to go next time. Unless of course one of our little bright sparks gets noticed by the teacher for all the right reasons; and it’ll be my turn to whoop and holler as they make their way to the stage.
Better get cracking- with school wrapping up for the year, they’ve only got another 12 or so to do so. Which’ll give me just enough time to upgrade my makeup techniques too…
Jx
©December 2009
Boy, have things changed since I was a kid!
Or perhaps it’s just that nowadays I get to see it from a parent’s perspective.
Oh, and before I go any further, I should clarify that I’m not one of those parents either.
You know the ones I’m talking about…never be seen in the schoolyard without full hair and makeup, not to mention the latest fashions all topped off with bling. I’m not saying that’s wrong, it’s just not me.
No, I’m one of those mums who are lucky to get through a shower in the morning without having to yell or race up the hallway to avert some major crisis on a minor scale. Some days I don’t even get to finish breakfast before the school run. And other days I eat my breakfast in the shower (and doesn’t that take a particular skill set and flexibility to avoid soggy toast?)! Mind you, I have become a huge fan of Nescafé instant frothy coffees in an insulated travel mug. (It’s amazing how invigorating it is to hop back in the car after offloading one’s offspring, just to sit and savour the silence and sip a still warm shot of caffeine, for a change!)
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make a habit of heading out in public in anything dirty or with holes in it, and I can honestly say I have never set a foot in the school that was shod in some sort of slipper (my tootsies are actually an Ugg-free zone). But nor have I ever arrived having used any sort of electrical appliance on my hair beforehand. Hey, if I’m having a bad hair day, that’s what hats are for, right? Makes me look a little avant-garde amongst those that are coloured and coiffed within an inch of their life, I reckon.
As for makeup, well, a little lipliner or gloss swiped across the pout before going out looks like one made an effort without expending much energy. (Ye gods, I am turning into my mother- whose entire beauty regime is based on keeping a trusty lippy within arm's reach!)
Anyway, there I was, perched on a portable plastic chair nestled in amongst a veritable (and dare I say visible) cloud of product and perfume, trying to catch a glimpse of my child amongst the cohort of kids crowded into class groups ready for the big event.
It was pretty obvious pretty early on in the piece that a mere handful of parents really should have bothered fighting the early morning P-plate traffic at the local high school to be present as presentation after presentation went to the same few names over and over again.
Now, this is a good school. Very high achievements both academically and athletically, and every other kind of extra-curricular endeavour is fairly well covered too.
But one wonders how many parents are living vicariously through their kids.
I swear I could see certain mums and dads actually mouthing the words of their child’s acceptance speech. One grandmother almost copped detention for her overly enthusiastic behavior every time one of her grandchildren went up on stage. And you could tell by the end of the two and a half hours that some of us were merely making a polite show of clapping for kids that didn’t share the same surname as ourselves.
About two hours into it I found myself paying closer attention to what was going on in the student audience as opposed to what was unfolding up on stage… smiling in sympathy at those fidgeting in their seats, chuckling at the ones dancing on the spot during the performances by the “award-winning” school band and choir; and discovering that one really doesn’t need to be a lip reader to know what some were saying behind their hands while particular kids went up for the fourth, fifth, and sixth times to collect some kind of trophy or certificate.
So maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t see things from the parent’s perspective at all. If I recall rightly, I didn’t get selected too many times by the teacher to receive some accolade for attitude or application in class. Way I remember it, I was the one tripping up or down the steps on the rare occasion my name was called out. And even back in my day, there sure were the kids we all loved to hate for their over-achievements. We giggled at some of the parents too.
Maybe things haven’t changed so much after all, and like I’ve said before: just because we grow older doesn’t always ensure we grow up, especially when it comes to official school events. My Beloved says if I can’t behave myself, I won’t be allowed to go next time. Unless of course one of our little bright sparks gets noticed by the teacher for all the right reasons; and it’ll be my turn to whoop and holler as they make their way to the stage.
Better get cracking- with school wrapping up for the year, they’ve only got another 12 or so to do so. Which’ll give me just enough time to upgrade my makeup techniques too…
Jx
©December 2009
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