Things I've Learnt - This Time Around

Well, it's been 18 months since I last posted. Not that I haven't had anything to say in that time - the motivation to sit down and type it out wasn't there.

At. All.

I have been doing things, and generally speaking my Facebook page reflects that. The most significant events? Surviving being a SAHM to 2 of the most headstrong girls on the planet, the eldest starting transition (2014) and now Year 1 and discovering the terrifying world of school pick-up and school drop-off. If high school didn't prepare me for a world of 'your body fat percentage is over 1% - you are therefore a lower grade version of a person', then holy cow has being a school mum opened my eyes! Personally I think all these women have shares in a spandex production company and are afraid that demand is falling.

The beginning of year 1, January 2015.

On the bright side, it means I still get to be the cool mum who volunteers in the classroom and who knows all the kids names. I did it all through transition. Brain food prep, listening to the kids read, helping with craft - I rocked the shit out of it all!! Miss H has a cult following, but is far less comfortable with the popularity than I am. The kids are also fascinated by my bump.

Oh - did I not mention my bump? Well, it's just one more thing I've been doing...growing a baby brother for our 2 girls while trying not to lose what little sanity I have left. That's a daily battle which isn't always successful -  but I have high hopes of rehabilitation once I'm no longer pregnant.

Bump Announcement!

This pregnancy has been far from easy. I look back on pregnancy 1 and 2 with fondness and remember the carefree days of being able to waddle my way around without a care in the world. Yes, there was the odd occurrence of nausea and I'll admit to eating my body weight in chocolate donuts during my first foray into the world of cravings. There was even a moment of disgust and horror when I realised I had been sitting at my desk eating watermelon coated in gravy without a single hesitation.

Truly, I figured I had already conquered the dark side of growing people and there was nothing left to be afraid of.

Cue pregnancy 3.

Holy mother of all that is truly fucked up on this planet, was I wrong. I had never really heard of Hyperemesis Gravidarum before - and mostly it was in relation to Princess Kate when she was growing George. It seemed like an exotic and high class way of saying 'Kate is spending most of her days face-timing with her gold-leaf toilet block and not having the strength to wash the spew from her hair'.

I was in this unenviable position from weeks 9 to 30. And this included Christmas. Christmas, people! The one time of year you won't be judged for the volume consumed at the table, and then on the couch and possibly later, while laying in bed.

The exhaustion following Christmas shopping.

Browsing for the Christmas menu.

It also co-incided with The Man taking a road trip to Queensland with his brother. For 2 weeks. While I alternated between trying to keep a 5yo, a 2yo, a dog and a cat alive with removing my head from the toilet bowl long enough to sip some water.

It wasn't pretty, and to all those Mum's out there that have experienced this and had the strength/courage/insanity to risk it again and again to complete their families - you have my unending admiration and sympathies. We knew this baby would be our last, regardless. After The Man got home, I was fully prepared to perform his vasectomy on the kitchen bench with a blunt knife and then check myself in to a mental institution.

Bump progression.

By week 30, things had settled enough that my stomach no longer rattled with the volume of medications I was on. I was enjoying spending less time with the toilet bowl, and more time outside with my children and re-introducing myself to a lovely thing called 'food' and another called 'life'. I should have relished it more.

She lost her first tooth!

A certain someone learned to swim.

And this girl just continued with her Hayley Lewis skills.

Bump progression in bathers.

Participating in her school swim carnival. Participation was a lot different in my day!

We enjoyed the rain.

Further bump progression.

Someone upgraded to a big girl bed.

Week 32+6 - CONTRACTIONS!! Initially I thought it was just Braxton Hicks, but memory served long enough to remind me that they weren't supposed to hurt. Or come at regular intervals, specifically intervals that grew shorter while the pains lasted longer. Or give you the familiar sensation in your nether regions of birthing your second child...in the front seat of the car.

I remained in denial while The Man called the hospital. While the hospital issued orders to get my arse in the car. While my Mum came over to stay with the girls. I refused to take a bag, a change of clothes - I wasn't even bothered by the fact that I had left my phone on the charger at home because I KNEW it would all stop in the car and I'd be home from the hospital in under 2 hours.

Sometimes my reluctance to accept reality baffles even me.

Admission 1

I spent the next 3 days being pumped full of drugs to stop the contractions, hourly observations, regular tracings of bub and pain meds. Sleep had been a bit hit and miss, depending on pain, lack of comfort and general disturbance, but I really wanted to go home. I was released late on Mother's Day with threats ringing in my ears that if I didn't take it easy I'd be back in hospital. And as far as I was concerned I did take it easy!

Monitoring all those contractions and bubba movements.

2 weeks later I decided I was feeling awesome enough to take the girls to their friends birthday party at a local indoor playground. The Man had to go into the office, so made sure my Mum was with me 'just in case'. I told him he was being over cautious and I would be able to sit the whole time - what was the harm!?

The party started at 2pm and by 4pm I was back in delivery suite with some poor doctor trying desperately to find a vein that wouldn't collapse before he got the IV in. I was treated to another few days in hospital, regular hospital meals doing it's best to look like tasty, edible food and all the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Pinterest browsing time a girl could need. Except that between the contractions and the regular checks I was still getting almost no sleep. Even though they had given me pain meds to manage at home after I was discharged last time, I was reluctant to take them because they zonked me out and I've never been one to willingly lose control. And my reluctance was at an all time high knowing that I didn't want to be incoherant while my kids needed me at home!

Admission 2.

Panadol took some of the edge off, but never enough to really cut through the discomfort. So considering that sleep was still hard to come by after 3 and a half weeks, cue complete sobbing meltdown with the nurse. After which the doctor came in and stabbed me with pethidine. I knew very little of the next 12 hours. They told me it would offer 4 hours of relief. I view the extra 8 hours I got as a fucking awesome bonus.

Sadly, that meant they didn't administer it again. Bastards.

After another few days I was released home, yet again, and this time under strict instructions to keep off my feet, with horizontal being my main angle. 90 degrees was acceptable with elevated feet. Vertical, other than for the purposes of visiting the toilet, was right out. I was just relieved that I was still allowed to wipe my own arse.

Resting...

Let's be honest, I was never, ever going to be their ideal patient. Not with 2 kids at home and a husband who has a demanding job. Have I been breaking the rules? A bit - not enough to be back in hospital, but just enough to keep the house running, the kids alive when The Man isn't home to help and enough to keep me sane. Perhaps because baby brain is the least of my concerns when it comes to losing mental functionality.

Day time TV - you have a lot to answer for. Seriously, how are Ridge and Brooke having the SAME conversation, in the SAME room, wearing the SAME clothes they were 15 years ago?! More to the point, how on earth do I even recall the conversation from 15 years ago?! I blame my high school friends - they were all into B&B and I reluctantly* joined in so I could understand what they were talking about. (*reluctant may be the wrong word. A more correct term might be 'enthusiastically' but I'm not stating anything outright.) And the token Australian you stole from Neighbours - absolutely bloody awful! She's a countryman and I can't listen to her without wanting to claw my ears off.

But to be honest, between watching ABC Kids (Miss 3) and endless videos of other people playing Minecraft (Miss 6), B&B is sometimes the only adult interaction I have in a day. Which is tragic. And worrying because I'm starting to think shoulder pads need to make a comeback.

So there you have it - my life* in a post. (*not my whole life...I may have started this post 6 months ago...)

Tell me, what have you been up to?

Out of my Control...

Holy crap this week has been dramatic!

I got my first ride in an ambulance on Tuesday. I wasn't excited so much as horribly embarrassed. I was reluctant to go to the GP as it was so, when the GP turned around and said 'Kel, your oxygen levels and blood pressure are low enough to have me worried and I'd like you to go to the hospital in an ambulance', I was hoping the floor would open up and swallow me.

In case you haven't noticed, I don't enjoy being made a fuss over. And as far as I'm concerned, ambulances are for real emergencies - heart attacks, severed limbs, babies being born in carparks.

It was exactly why I didn't tell anyone that I'd fallen over and it really hurt. The only thing that gave me away was the increasing shallowness of breath...and the fact that every time the baby moved on my right side, it brought me to tears.

Needless to say I got a bollocking from The Man for not being honest with him, and a bollocking from my Mum for the same thing.

The Man said he nearly had a heart attack when he got the call saying to meet me at the hospital. And then he almost passed out when they put my drip in and for some reason blood started to pour down my arm.

The nurses were very sweet, and the midwife who checked out bubba was lovely and spent a lot of time on my belly with the doppler so I could listen to the comforting sound of our baby's heartbeat.

I would like to clarify that baby is 100% okay - when I fell, my biggest concern was not falling flat on my belly...hence why I ended up crashing down on my right side a little harder than I might have done if I had more notice of the floor rising up to meet me.

Now, I'm not saying that ALL toys are the devil...but small, pointy, plastic toys on polished, wooden floors in a dark hallway - poised to meet the foot of a woman who's centre of gravity is changing by the minute - are right up there on my shit list.

My only complaint of the whole hospital experience was that they kept trying to give me pain relief that contained aspirin...no matter how many times I told them I'm allergic to aspirin.  Right about the time The Man was ready to strangle someone, a nurse had the sense to write these things down on my chart.

Did I mention they also tried to give me an x-ray without a lead apron to protect the baby because the x-ray tech didn't read all the clinical notes?

Yeah - I'm not even sure where to start on my concern for the training these people receive.

Ahem. Moving on.

Thankfully they didn't make me stay overnight (sleeping with 3 thousand pillows in our own bed still isn't perfect, right now, let alone having to sleep on a shite hospital bed!) and I was discharged. But not before they gave me Endone.

Holy crap - I don't remember a lot of the rest of the night, but I do remember feeling completely out of control and at some point having a spew-fest in the loo.

Vomiting in the car is still the lowest point of my life to date, but this experience was pretty close. The Man tells me I kept telling him not to go home without me, could he take the chicken out and I was getting upset because apparently my chin was getting stuck to my shoulder.

I'm not even sure what the hell to think about all of that. I'll probably just continue to feel embarrassed and hope that one day my husband can look at me without seeing a vomiting, beached whale who can't breathe properly.

My rib won't completely heal while I'm still pregnant because every thump from bubba slows the healing process. And I feel awful for saying that...like I'm blaming the baby somehow. But I'm not. Every thump, as far as I'm concerned, is a sign that everything is okay and baby's health is my priority.

As far as The Man is concerned, this is the last straw and he wants me to go on maternity leave. I can see his point - if I don't take the pain killers then I can't sit and if I can't sit, I can't do my job. However if I take the pain killers, they turn me into a zombie, so I still can't do my job!

I'm not sure how I feel about it...part of me feels like a burden for being so clumsy and stupid, part of me feels guilty for being happy about the prospect of going on leave and not having to worry about work or daycare anymore, and part of me just feels tired and doesn't want to think about it - I just want someone to tell me what to do so it can be done.

And I suppose, in a way, it appears fate has taken the drivers seat in this situation and there's no way to escape the inevitable outcome. So someone is telling me what to do. I just have to do it.

Perhaps this is a life lesson in letting go and accepting that things happen for a reason? Regardless, it looks like things will be taking a different path than I had originally planned...

Riding in Cars with Boys...

Last night, I hit a new low.

The shame is still imprinted on my brain and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to look my husband in the eye again...or, at least, not until dinner time tonight. Especially if he's cooking.

I had thought the worst of this 24/7 morning sickness was over.

I was wrong.

Terribly, mortifyingly, wrong.

The day had started out badly, with my head in the toilet. This was an omen, and I didn't pay attention...

********************************************************************************

It began as a normal ride home from work. Rather than taking 2 cars, we decided to travel together since The Man was actually going to finish at a reasonable time. It was nice not to have to drive in the peak hour traffic.

Everything was fine - I was checking Twitter and Facebook, catching up on what I had missed throughout the day. Suddenly I paused, as the familiar feeling of queasy churning began. I took deep breaths, I put the air vent on my face for the cool air and I tried to focus on something else.

The rising panic told me I had to find something fast. There was no time for deep breathing and cool air - this was the time for frantic action!

If we had been in my car, there would have been a plastic bag available. There also would have been easily cleaned leather seats. But we were in The Man's car, and the only thing I could find was the cardigan on my lap and everywhere I looked all I could see was Subaru emblazoned, absorbent material laughing in my face.

This was going to be bad.

We were on the highway - nowhere to pull over as we were stuck in the far lane and traffic was bumper to bumper. I could have put my head out the window, but in my panic I know I would have forgotten to turn away from the wind and it would have blown back in my face.

This was going to be traumatic enough without adding that kind of scarring experience to the mix.

I should have thought about the cardigan better. Tried to fashion some sort of cloth 'bucket'. But before I knew it the muscle reflex from hell kicked in and I crammed the cardigan up against my mouth.

And from there the day unravelled at lightening speed.

For a moment I thought perhaps it was just a reflex and nothing came out - until I wondered why I couldn't see through my glasses anymore and why the mess was hovering before my eyes.

Something was dripping down both arms.

Something warm was slowly making its way down my cleavage.

Then another wave came.

Oh, shit.

The Man kept saying "don't panic, it will be okay, don't panic!" over and over. I think this mantra was actually more for his own benefit than mine.

He's not good with vomit.

With every wave it spread further - it sprayed onto the sun visor! If I hadn't been so horrified by what was happening, I probably would have been impressed with the leverage I was achieving with every heave.

I could feel the car moving faster and faster. I think at one point we were air-borne as The Man tried to get us home before it could get worse. I'm not sure how it could have been worse, but it's the thought that counts.

As we screamed into the driveway, of course the heaving finished. Even in my lowest moment the irony was not lost on me. Miserable, fucking, irony.

I stood in the yard, and The Man hosed me down like a prize winning horse that had just vomited all through it's trailer. I am all class, and this day was no different. And it got better once I stripped off to my knickers and bra so I could get into the house without dragging a trail of mess behind me to the shower.

Thank god for high fences and privacy screening.

In the shower I started to scrub. I was only removing stomach contents, but I was trying to scrub away the memories, too. A 'two birds, one stone' scenario. The milk and honey smell was soothing but it took me a moment to gather my thoughts and remember to take my glasses off. Clearly I was so traumatised I decided looking through a veil of my own vomit was perfectly normal.

See, all class.

I emerged from the shower 20 minutes later, red raw from scrubbing. The Man came back upstairs, his hands red raw from scrubbing the terror out of his car.

The car now smells like pine-o-cleen...and a bucket has been installed for future trips. If I'm ever allowed back in the car again.

*********************************************************************************
The Man has a renewed glow about him today.

His macho-ness is proven through his ability to drive his vomit encrusted wife home, hose her down, get her into the shower and then clean his vomit encrusted car - all with minimal fuss and only a few gagging episodes.

Although it did take him a long time to come to bed...

Image from Here

The B6 Miracle...

Yesterday, I hit rock bottom.

Needless to say that a side effect of not being able to keep anything down means my anti-depressants don't have a chance to absorb.

I struggled for the past 2 weeks, but yesterday was my breaking point. Anxiety at an all time high, the irrational part of my head telling me my boss would sack me for being sick, telling myself that I am always sick and it's not good enough, no one else gets sick - it's only me, that I'm a failure as a parent, a wife, a home maker and a person in general.

Yeah - it was a 'great' day.

I managed to schlep myself to the GP and sob away in her office. I give the woman credit for being able to decipher what I was saying through all the sobbing and sniffling.

So here I am, fresh from an uninterrupted, anti-depressant absorbing, nausea free nights sleep, thanks to a high dose of Vitamin B6.

Oh B6 - I wish I knew about you sooner. I know we'll be the best of friends and you can consider yourself added to the Christmas Card list, Easter gift list, Birthday acknowledgement list and any other important list I create that you could be logically included.

I had forgotten how something as simple as an uninterrupted nights sleep can make me feel a lot more together. The Man also took Miss 3 to daycare today so I have an entire day to myself - I can sleep, watch TV, sleep a bit more and, most excitingly, HAVE SOMETHING TO EAT!!

I am loving life today. And it makes me kick myself that I didn't say something sooner - but I don't like feeling as though I'm wasting the GPs time. There are people with serious illness or chronic disease that need a GP appointment more than me. My situation always feels so insignificant.

However, today I am focusing on the good and enjoying the fact that I feel far more human than I did 24 hours ago.

Hooray for Vitamn B6!!

Week 8 Highlights...

I've decided to document this pregnancy a little better than I did with Miss 3. Although I have done some scrapbooking to cover the first 12 months of her life, it's as far as I got before my scrapping mojo died in the arse.

I feel guilty because my friend is a die hard scrapper - I just don't have the creativity right now.

Anyway, the highlights for week 8 of The JellyBean...

• The never ending nausea. I won't bother going into detail, because there's a whole post of bitching about this awesome experience.
• I've turned into Bleeding Gums Murphy. I hate this part - blood makes me gag, even when it's my own.
• Exhaustion. I could sleep for Australia.
• Emotional Freak. One minute I'm fine and dandy, the next I've morphed into Medusa. Or I'm drowning in a puddle of my own tears. Damn you, Huggies. And Disney.
• Brain Power/Memory. I can't be sure that I ever regained the memory space from pregnancy #1, but I know I'm already losing brain cells at a rapid rate this time around and it worries me. But I can't remember why.
• Libido. Is back! Enough said, really.
• Pretending to be sad that I can't eat things like raw seafood and soft cheeses. Specifically because some idiot, who hasn't started work with our company yet, signed up to a 'mail order cheesebox of the month club' and had it sent to our building as a friendly gesture. Someone cracked open the box and the noxious odour that penetrated every corner of the building meant I spent a lot of time in the toilet. Can I just ask - who the HELL orders cheese via MAIL!?
• My perfume makes me feel sick. This really pisses me off - my Mum got me 2 bottles of Be Delicious by DKNY and I can't wear it because the smell now makes me feel sick.
• I can't use my awesome, favourite, Oral B electronic toothbrush. Because the vibrations in my mouth make me feel like throwing up. So does the toothpaste.
• Restless Legs. This shits me to tears - literally. I can pace, stretch, drink water, swim and none of it makes any difference. If I'm lucky enough to get an attack, there seems to be screw all I can do about it. I don't remember having RLS until late pregnancy with Miss 3, so this early onset is just balls.

So that's about all for now - all that I can remember anyway, since my memory is failing and my memory is failing.

I feel like I have to go do something now but I can't remember what that was so I'll just watch TV and hope someone reminds me.

Hell Hath No Fury...

Like a woman scorned by morning sickness.

Or, in my case, all the fucking time sickness.

8.5 weeks gestation and all I can think is that this better end soon because I really want some ice cream.

The doctor gave me some tablets to take that will (hopefully) help. I was excited thinking I might get to eat dinner and not have a post-meal chinwag with the porcelain.

It was an awesome theory. Until the doc mentioned that I take this tablet 20mins before bed and I should be feeling better in a couple of days.

Arsehole.

I'm hungry, cranky and nauseated. Telling me that I need to wait another 48 hours or so for a chance to eat without hurling makes me stabby. And more hungry.

I've tried it all - ginger, dry toast, grated apple, pears, watermelon, flat lemonade, weak cordial. None of it helps. And it makes me cry.

I cry harder when I have Miss 3 sitting in the hallway outside the toilet, watching me, and I listen to her blow by blow commentary to the crowd of stuffed animals she's gathered for the performance. I always stare back at those bears and think how lucky those little bastards are with their lack of stomach content.

Fully aware of the 'just be grateful you're pregnant' band, I would like to clarify that I am NOT saying this isn't worth it, and I'm NOT saying that I am ungrateful for this chance. What I AM saying is that emptying my stomach contents into the loo on a regular basis is not one of my favourite activities and I will be glad when this stage has passed.

Besides, the last time I checked, they didn't stop drinking or whinging when they passed out in front of Uncle Sam's and spewed all over themselves.

Sorry, that was the bitch in me hunger talking.

I suppose the bonus is that I have been able to watch all the trashy TV I usually miss by going to work. Admittedly I booked annual leave for another purpose, but watching TV was always part of the plan. And it means that when The Man gets home there's no judgement for me being in the same position on the couch as when he left that morning.

Sure, Miss 3 has destroyed the house, the dishes are still in the sink and I may or may not have forgotten to round up the chickens so they don't shit on his pristine deck, but I manage to move as little as possible unless I'm running to a meeting with the Thunderbox. And that takes serious skill  and a serious lack of parenting.

Oh yeah, I am winning all kinds of awards this week. My mother would be ashamed proud.

So here's to the hormones that are making me sick as a dog just for the priviledge of having a baby. Some may think I'm an ungrateful whinger, but if they don't like it I'm more than happy to go around and spew on their doorstep.

A special gift to remind them never to piss me off when I'm pregnant.

March Photo A Day: Day 7...

Day 7

| Something I Wore |

When you can't sit up and don't have a straw handy, your drink becomes part of your outfit.

Want to play along? Visit www.fatmumslim.com.au for all the details

March Photo A Day: Day 6...

 

Day 6

| 5pm |

This is all I remember of 5pm. I passed out at my doctors appointment.

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The Unhappy Working Mumma...

I don't want to be a working Mumma anymore.

There, I said it. It's the elephant in the room at home, right now. Yesterday I kinda lost my shit because I didn't want to go back to work. Being crippled by the flu and germridden in bed for a week was more fun.

That's saying something.

I brought it up with the Guru yesterday, in the midst of a barrage of tears over none of my clothes fitting they way I want them to, again with him being on the computer if he's not working, feeling like rat shit and knowing that the Black Dog is using all of this as fuel for the fire.

I'm so tired. So tired of feeling this way. Pulled in too many directions, not enough time in a day and not having enough patience with Miss 3. Getting annoyed over things that don't matter, simply because the weekend is never long enough and I'm always battling the tide of fucking mess and disorganisation that is my life after a full week at work.

I get home and I blink - the clock has swung around to 7:30pm and I've not even got dinner on the table some nights.

I don't know how other Mum's do it. I can't silence that voice in my head that tells me I'm a failure as a parent for being at work, and I'm a failure as a employee for not being at work. I think I'm afraid I'll loose part of myself.

If I'm not working and earning money, what value do I have at home or in society?

My Mum has always worked. When I was a child, she used to work at the local abbatoir splitting sheep skulls and extracting the brains or removing the offal from the sheep bodies. She worked nights and it was good money. She was home during the day for me.

She taught me to always be independant.

Growing up with an example like my Mum, I feel like I'm failing her by not wanting to be the all-encompassing-full-time-working-mumma. But I don't. And I can't escape that. Deep down, I don't want to be where I am.

But being a SAHM scares me too.

Does that mean I won't be 50% of the marriage anymore? Will I have to ask permission to use money because I'm not earning it? How will I feel if someone asks me what I do and they roll their eyes at me when I say I'm a SAHM? Because I don't cope well with the horrified looks on people's faces when I tell them that I'm a working Mum - it makes me want to slap them and yell 'Don't Judge Me!'.

And I'm sure SAHM's want to do the same thing when they're judged for choosing family over a career.

For the moment our budget requires that I work. Not necessarily full time, but I need to provide an income of some sort. Once some things are paid off, my hours could drop more.

My dream is not to return to work after baby #2 - use up my maternity leave benefit from work, use the Government leave option and then cash in my long service leave. I'll have about 18months paid time off. And then I'll simply resign.

But until then I need to do something. As things are now I'm feeling run down and trapped in a never ending cycle that I hate, yet taking that first step is daunting.

I know I'm most likely over thinking it - I've been stewing all week and the more I stew, the more the Black Dog throws his 2 cents into the conversation and things start to spiral out of control.

I'm really looking for feedback from other parents - those who work and those who don't. I need to hear your stories and know that what seems impossible now, is not only possible, but wonderful.

February Photo A Day: Day 28...

Day 28

| Money |

Family in medical = no money required. Bulk billing is rare in Darwin, and all the good clinic's generally don't. Having family on the inside saves massive mulah in our household!

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Why It's Not Cool to be Married to a Sympathy Spewer

I love the Guru. I honestly do - more than words. Hence the whole marriage and baby thing.

And there are many things I love about him: his eyes, his sense of Humour, his butt, his ability to fix anything computer related, his ability to open jars and mow the lawn without shredding his toes.

But I have to say, there's one major thing about him that makes me want to email the Husband.com people and ask them to review their programming.

The Toddler is getting her molars, and she has a bit of a cold at the moment. On Saturday night she wasn;t well...and it began in the car.

We had just left my parents place after a BBQ with some friends up from Adelaide...the Toddler was in her car seat, Shrek was playing and everything was fine. 2 corners later, everything was not so fine.

You know how it works. The coughing, the splutter and then the tell-tale gagging. The car was swerved into the curb and I was promptly unbuckled and shoved out the door to get to the Toddler (yes, you read correctly, he took my seatbelt off and even opened the door for me...but it wasn't so much chivalrous as it was desperate and panicky).

I open the back door to behold a small child who's dressing gown, pyjamas and car seat are now coated in congealed milk and undigested chunks of watermelon. No mysterious carrot chunks though. Awesome.

I got in the back seat with the Toddler and wiped off as much as I could from her face, and tried to keep her calm.

But it was difficult to remain composed when I had Swerving Charlie driving the car, with all the windows down, hanging out the door gasping for air and eyes as big as dinner plates. The panic had set in.

Because the Guru is a sympathy spewer.

Of all the things to be sensitive to, it had to be spew. Seriously, if he couldn't handle poo, blood or phlegm I would be more sympathetic. Aside from the poo, the other items you don't really encounter too often (hopefully). And I do 98% of the poop duties anyway, so it wouldn't be making life any messier.

But when it comes to vomit, and the knowledge that I have to deal with it alone, all I want to say is "take a cement pill and harden the f&*k up, buddy".

So we make it back to my parents place and the Guru runs inside the house with the speed of a squirrel on caffeine.  I'm hoping that a) he had enough time to put the handbrake on, because he didn't have time to turn the car off, and b) that he's getting help. Any help. For the love of god, GET HELP!

I pour the Toddler out of the car, and strip her off on the grass. My Mum quietly appears behind me with a blanket, scoops up the Toddler, gives me a squeeze and says she'll take care of everything.

I turn back to the car while my Mum takes the Toddler in for a warm bath and a change of pyjamas, and view the damage. Thankfully it's not gone any further than the car seat, and the car won't smell like spew for a month. Because the Guru would LOVE that.

Meanwhile, with me up to my armpits in vomit, the Guru is nowhere to be seen. Bastard.

I completely understand that with his crippling infliction he would be zero assistance, but some moral support just by being in the same postcode while I deal with the 'unpleasantness' would be better than nothing.

When we finally head home (again!) I find him sitting in the car, and given that everything coated in vomit is now OUTSIDE the car, all the windows are up, the doors are LOCKED (just in case the smelly car seat tried to carjack him...) and he's even got the heater recycling the air from within the car.

He views the Toddler with fear - am I sure she's not got any spew on her? Am I sure the car won't start to smell again? Am I sure I won't smell of spew and make him sick?

I answer "yes", "yes" and "yes" with a mental note of 'I'm sure I don't smell of spew, but I might punch you and make you feel sick anyway'.

To wrap up the remainder of the evening, we made it home without incident, the Guru flicking his glance back to the Toddler every few seconds - just in case she tried to launch a surprise attack on him.

We get home, and after another vomit session I decide to sleep in the loungeroom on a make-shift 'vomit-proof' bed with the Toddler.

If I had to tackle bedding or anything with vomit on it while a fully grown man cowered in the bedroom, again, my sanity might have slipped away forever.

Thankfully the rest of the night was vomit free...which gave me ample time to decide on an appropriate punishment for the Guru.

So tell me, what 'sympathies' does your significant other have that drive you mad?  Please - let me know that I'm not alone...

Happy Valentines Day - with a Flu chaser

Happy Valentines Day!

If you're anything like us, Valentines Day is just another blip on the calendar where we could potentially spend more money. But we don't.

Because my birthday is 2 days earlier, and our wedding anniversary is in March. Two absolutely vital dates that completely trump the 14th of February.

We acknowledged it. We exchanged text messages, the romantic gesture of the 21st century.

Besides, I'm sitting here typing with tissues wedged up my nose in an attempt to stem the tide of flu-ish nose running that's going on. I've been told this is also the favoured method for Operating Room nurses and other staff.

Nice. I'd prefer if they didn't drip nose water on my internal organs.

The Flu was the unexpected Birthday offering from the Toddler. She was tired of not sharing germs with the family, and decided I was fair game. Great.

The Guru has a small sniffle, which I'm sure will develop into crippling man-flu in no time.

The Toddler also decided that, to celebrate the day of love, she would decorate the lounge room for us. Specifically by emptying an entire box of tissues about the room with the artistic flair of a drunken pygmy.

Which turned out to be the best gift ever for me. Why blow my nose when I can drag my face along the floor?

So excuse me if a Valentines Day shag isn't on my to do list - I'll be rugging up with chocolate, chicken soup and the remote control.

She who sneezes, wins the TV.

Yeah - if only the reality was this attractive...

Can I get a 'Halleluja' in the house?!

So today I'm home with a sick child - although this is a whole new level of sick I didn't think I'd have to deal with.

Croup. It's as sucky as it sounds.

Suddenly I have an insight into the worry the mother of a child with asthma might have.

But when they mentioned whooping cough I think my heart nearly fell out of my backside.

Thankfully we didn't have to go down that road - and personally, I am of the opinion that croup is bad enough.

So the coughing and blocked airways mean sleep is a thing of myth around here right now...and I couldn't send her to daycare in good conscience just to go to work so I am home caring for my poor Penguin.

We're both still in our pyjamas - and yes, it is 2pm. And a very, very silly part of me thought that today would be a great day to try and clean out the tupperware cupboard and organise the toy box.

Yeah, even I'm not sure what I've been inhaling.

So when the local postie roared up our driveway and almost did a burn out on the pavers and then proceeded to further announce her arrival by sitting on her horn, it was all I could do to stop myself from flying out the door and ripping her head off before spitting down her neck. Which would have been a truly amazing sight to behold. A crazed, sleep deprived parent in pyjamas that are thinning in all the wrong places, boobs flying around as I don't have my boulder-holder on to strap them down and a face that could frighten small children, all while foaming at the mouth.

Yeah - awesome I tell ya.

It was a bloody good thing she had a fabulous surprise in her satchel...or there would have been hell to pay.

And can you believe it - I won a $20 voucher from KMart from the blogging promotion they did. You can look back on my post of magnificence here.

I seriously never win anything - so this has put me on a high that will take some time to die down...it's on the same level as getting my license and getting engaged. And I've made the most of bragging rights with the Guru.

And following this great moment in time was a phone call from the photographers who did the Toddler's photoshoot for a book a couple of months ago. And the photo's we ordered are in! Oh yeah!!

The only thing that could make today better would be for the Toddler to get some quality sleep - because this Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde act is doing my head in. I just want my everyday, tempermental Toddler back.

Housework, Blogging and Restless Toddlers

Yep, you guessed it - this is going to be a domestic nature post! And I have decided the housework, blogging and restless toddlers don't agree. At all. So housework can go to the dogs for now, the Toddler I can check on every time she cries out and to fill in the gaps I can be on here!

Why is housework so tiresome? Why does it feel like the more effort you put into cleaning, the harder dirt works to mess up the place? Honestly, I'm convinced that if I left the house for a full week it wouldn't look anywhere near as bad as it would the day after a spring clean. Do the dust balls come out of hiding when I go to bed? Do they hide in corners and dark spaces, planning their attack? Do they have an understanding with the cats, for them to shed heavily overnight while the dust balls develop into tumbling tumbleweeds which would look completely appropriate on any Country and Western film set? Is it only my home that has this terrible ability to make housework seem pointless!?

It's just too hard some days. And as a result I've already decided EXACTLY what I want/need for Xmas. I WANT A ROOMBA ROBOT VACUUM! I want to be able to switch it on, walk out the door and know that the dust balls are being hunted down and sucked up. I can't think of anything more fabulous - or more ME. And good health and long life to the brilliant person/ people who invented this brilliant machine. I doff my cap to you!

And speaking of caps - can I please order a cap on the level of illness this week? Seriously, the Toddler know's I'm currently at my weakest and is taking advantage! The tantrums are at an all time high, and I know it's because she thinks she can get away with it simply by yelling over the top of my voice. Not difficult at the moment, that's for sure.

I think the Toddler is getting advice from the dust balls on how to strike when my guard is down. But I think even without their assistance she'd hit the mark. Children have that uncanny sixth sense (unrelated to ghosts) that means they know when they can make the most of a situation - and if you're sick and weak, they can sense your determination waning and simply wear down your resolve until you cave. Until you're literally begging them to get that toy off the shelf, anything to make the tantrum stop because you're simply too exhausted and mentally crippled to do anything else.

As a result the Toddler has gained a new soft toy...and has had her grandparents wrapped around her finger more then usual. Resulting in many, many lollies, a stomach ache and the restless nights sleep.

I think more nights need to be spent with the grandparent - especially following lolly indulgence days.

And then there was silence...

Well, I'm silent anyway. Much to the Guru's delight I might add. Tonsillitis - thou art mine enemy.

But on a brighter note, we have signed the contract and we are almost owners of our first home! A bit late, some people might say, to be getting one now. You should have done this when you were 21 (because at the moment I'm feeling old and decrepit at 26), not married and with no children. Well pooh on you. If you live in Darwin you'll know that trying to buy here requires a signed deal with the devil and the bank (one and the same at times), and that's just to go look! And more importantly, if you spend a lot of time looking at other states and comparing prices you'll be like us, lamenting the amount of money they ask here for the (questionable) quality of the home. But we've struck gold, and have done very well. Pats on the back all 'round!!

I'm excited, the Guru's excited and so is the Toddler. Hooray for us!