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
Sunday, January 31, 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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