I was NOT a slut...I was just horizontally accessible.

Hello, hello!

I haven't blogged in quite a while, mainly due to the stereotypical basking of glory you have when you bring a baby home; our Little Love <3 He is just perfect, and apart from an overly obsessive love of hugs (clearly passed down from his mother) we have all settled in greatly.
Also, I have been healing. My hips and pelvis are finally doing what they're meant to, and I can move around without too much difficulty.
This brings me to my next point - Painkillers; and the vast amount of them I have been consuming since the birth of Little Love.

I have been following doctors orders, and knew that as of two days ago, I was to lower my dose of oxy, and begin weaning off these medications.

I, (because I am a large idiot) decided that I would be fine to go without pain meds for just one day, and that I would be just fine to make it to the doctors on the following day.

What I received in return for my careless attitude, was an incredibly nasty bout of withdrawals - oddly, something I used to be quite familiar with...

Lets not fuss about too much with pleasantries, I used to take a lot of drugs. A lot.
Put it it a pipe, wrap it in a baggie, roll in on your tongue, pour it in a cup, draw it in your lungs, pack it in a joint, or rack it into sweet white lines with a Medicare Card - I loved all that was bad for me.
Actually, the more I reminisce, the more I realise that almost everything I did was bad for me. I still loved it though, and I'm not ashamed to say I have some brilliant memories.
Some bad ones, too.

I was 18 fresh out of high school, I had an over-inflated ego, no money or car, and a mini-skirt - I was ready for the world!
What I got, after 8 weeks of trying to force myself to like the course I had enrolled in, was a night job as a waitress, and my first look at that whole underground scene all the 'good' goth movies aspire to show you.
This whole nocturnal lifestyle enveloped me so much so, that suddenly it was not just work, and the hours that followed my shift that provided me with chances to indulge. Now it was all the other social circles that popped up all around me, offering places to go on other nights, reasons to stay up another 24 hours, shouting me (cause most of the time I was flat broke) new and tantalizing experiences, almost all of which would somehow land me sleeping with someone who I either worked with, who I had been with before and promised myself never again, or, majority of the time, both.
Ah, yes. I was a train wreck.

Toward the end of my relationship with all things narcotic, I started to experience my first real punch-in-the-face bouts of withdrawal.
I'm talking hot flushes, cold sweats, grinding my teeth, extreme anxiety, and the urge to kill anyone who dared look at me.
Bet you can guess my answer to these horrible symptoms? You guessed it - More drugs! Hurrah!
Whether to perk me back up, or to lull me into nightmare-filled-sweaty-writhing sleep; more was always my answer.

Always, until 2 days ago.
I was left feeling utterly stupid, because I knew this would happen.
Because of the SPD, I had been taking highly addictive opiates for over 6 months now.
I do not feel a 'high' when I take them, I feel normal. I feel able to cope with movement and any pain.
It was this illusion of feeling 'normal' that messed me up, I think. I assumed that I could easily go a day without them. Silly rabbit.

10am sore me sweating, gnawing the inside of my mouth, repulsed by food, and wanting to rip the skin from my bones (it felt like there were ants under it).
However, while I endured this self-inflicted torture, so many memories came flooding back to me.
Memories it seems, from another life time all together.

I started to remember 'that' girl.
The girl who could keep her 2 jobs, while; simultaneously shagging half the staff, spending her last $10 just to see a local band play and dance wildly in chunky rock boots, having a highly expensive drug habit that she hardly ever had to pay for, living out of a backpack covered in band buttons, wore her hair too tall, and her skirt too short, and who would crash on whoever's couch she could find.

The, dare I say it 'lady' that I am now is a far cry from the little party girl I used to be.
I love my life now, every part of it.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it's nice to encounter something that makes us remember who we used to be.

If not to reminisce about a totally different life, then just to marvel at how far we have come.


                               

 Little Trashy Fiend. 

Note the 'gothness', the fame hawk fins, skinny skinny spine, and skanky pigtails.

Helplessness and Children

If there is one feeling about parenthood that I absolutely abhor, it's the feeling of helplessness when your child is in pain, and you can't do anything to help them.

My son's recent stay in the NICU made me feel like I was being violently beaten around the head by a giant hammer, with 'helplessness' written across it in big, angry letters.

The very same day he was born was the day he was taken to the NICU.
I knew he had to go, I wanted him to go. He was wheezing and grunting constantly, and when the paediatrician explained that those noises were a strong indication of a respiratory infection, I knew I had made the right call in alerting the nurses. He was wheeled away in his little plastic capsule, and I was left in my hard, uncomfortable hospital bed, in my little curtained-off cubicle, feeling overwhelmingly, and unequivocally helpless. I had been in that much agony (as the Pain Team had not yet visited me to update my medication), that I hadn't even been able to pick him up when the noises started. My tiny few-hours-old baby was right beside my bed in his plastic capsule, and I couldn't even sit up to reach in and comfort him. All I could do was push the button beside my bed, and hope that someone would come quickly to help me.
I cried well into in night after he was taken away.

The following day when Luke arrived, he helped me into my wheelchair and wheeled me down to the NICU. We passed so many capsules; some open, some closed in with the UV lights shining down, but all containing tiny little babies. Babies that were so small, you would think they were dolls, babies who seemed not to show signs of life at all, and babies who, despite their minuscule size, were screaming the house down - even though they were donned with little goggles to protect their eyes from the UV, and so covered with tubes, drips, and medi-tape, that you could barely view their translucent skin at all.

I was overcome with a feeling of great empathy - so many tiny little humans that were unwell, meant that there were equally that many parents who were racked with fear, exhaustion, and sorrow.
My heart immediately went out to them.

And then I saw my son.
I could barely move from the wheelchair - I just stared.
He was so small, and was being made to look even more so by the over sized clothes the nurses had dressed him in. There were tubes feeding him, a drip in his minuscule hand hydrating him, monitors on his feet and chest, and the reminace of the C-PAP that had been helping him to breathe the night before.
My tiny baby. He was meant to be in my arms, not hooked up to a bunch of beeping machines.
And I couldn't do anything to help. Yes, I could do cuddles with skin-to-skin contact to help him feel loved, but I wanted to help him get better in the same way all these pediatricians and NICU Midwives knew how.
I just felt so utterly useless. I felt overwhelmed and helpless - not one part of me had been prepared for this.

But as the days went by, we grew to accept that loving our son was the best thing we could do, as that was something we could give him that all the nurses and doctors just couldn't.
So even though we still felt awful that he was unwell enough to require such intensive care, we had found our own way to help him get better - and we were the only ones who could give it to him.

Now that our little man is safe and sound at home, I have been thinking about other instances when I really felt helpless as I watched one of my children in pain.

I will bypass all the 'child is sick', 'child falls and hurts self' instances, as every parent goes through these, and even those without children can imagine how horrible it must feel to 'kiss the owchie' and still have the child squeal "It's still hurting!", or to sit rocking your child in your arms and trying to kiss the tears away, because they're sick with a fever, and the pain relief you've given them just doesn't seem to be working.

When I think of the absolute worst time I felt helpless to aid my child, one story immediately comes to mind.

This takes me way back, to when Master 4 was Master 2.
He had a stye under his eye on his lower lid, and it had been growing and getting bigger over the past few months, not shrinking as the GP had advised us it would.
After scheduling another appointment with the GP, we were advised to consult an optical specialist/surgeon, as there seemed no other option other than to drain the stye, so that my son would be able to see properly, and wouldn't be in discomfort anymore. While the stye itself wasn't painful, it had grown so large that it pushed the lower lid of his eye so far up that it interfered with his vision, and the stretching of the lid skin was hurting him more every day.
So grossly over-sized was the stye by this stage, that the GP called the specialist straight away, and managed to get us an appointment that afternoon. She did not want us on a waiting list while the stye kept growing.

And so that afternoon I took my son to the specialist.
The specialist seemed nice enough, he did all the routine checks - including poking and prodding the stye (which by this stage was rock hard) and judging what type of procedure was necessary to give my son some relief.
He told me that even though the stye seemed rock-hard, he felt the best course of action would be to drain it, then let it recede on its own.
It was at this point that things started to get odd. Things happened that in hindsight should have been warning signs for me. Such as;  instead of asking me to lift my son onto the exam table, he asked me to lay my son down on the floor, then to hold him down. I did as he said, I had put my trust in this man, he was the professional.
He told me he was going to make a tiny cut in the stye then let it drain out. He said my son would feel a very quick sting as he made the cut, but after that he would feel relief as it drained out. I imagined it would be like popping a blister - a tiny pin-prick, then it all drains away painlessly, and then you put a band aid on.
I enquired, since my son was only 2, as to weather there was to be any pain relief - numbing cream, happy gas, a local anaesthetic? But I was assured that the procedure was to be so quick that pain relief was totally unnecessary. I ignored my better judgement, and agreed.
The specialist produced a scalpel and a tonne of gauze, he nodded to me to start holding my son down.
He made a quick slit in the stye. I felt my son twitch, and he made a small squeal as expected. But the stye did not start to drain, nor did it even start to bleed.
This made the specialist do something so totally barbaric, that to this day I have not forgiven myself for letting one of my children go through such an ordeal.
What this monster did, was ball some gauze up in his hand, and start to roughly push, squeeze and manipulate the stye, exercising such force that his knuckles were white, and my son started to scream.
I remember being frozen with shock. This was not what I had been lead to believe would happen. Was this even a real procedure? Should I say something? All the while my son's free eye bore into me, staring at me as he screamed - seemingly in disbelief that I was letting this happen to him, let along helping this pain be inflicted upon him. Even though it sounds cheesy, I can still hear him wailing "Muuuuummmmmyyyyy!" at the top of his lungs, and staring at me with his tear-filled free eye.
This horrendous scenario lasted for a good few minutes.
By the time I had broken out of my state of shock, and was about to rip my child away from this butcher, the 'specialist' had decided he was finished.
He said, quite matter-of-factly, that there was nothing he could do, and to just take my son to the Children's Hospital. He then charged me $270.
I returned home with a still-crying child who couldn't quite look me in the face. I had betrayed his trust.
I had seen him in such pain, pain that I was helping to inflict upon him, and I had felt utterly helpless during the whole process.


The feeling of helplessness, when associated with our children is always going to be one of the hardest feelings to cope with.
We only want the best for our babies, and we tend to feel like failures if we cant be the magical SuperMum or SuperDad that they see us as. In my experience, there is only one real way to console yourself when this feeling presents - and that is to remember that you give them love that no one else can.
They may still feel the hurt, but you can hug them and fill them up with such love that the pain seems bearable. They may still cry, but you can kiss away those tears. You can tell a funny story or make a funny face that makes them giggle for just a moment, so although they're still crying, they are also smiling - even for only a second.


(Note: We did end up taking our son to the Children's Hospital. We also enquired with the doctors at the Children's Hospital, if the 'proceedure' the butcher had performed was even legal. If it wasn't, we had fully intended to sue. It turned out it was legal -  although all doctors did agree that it was very outdated, would normally only be used on an adult, and certainly never without pain relief.)

The Mothers of Ward 31

Shortly after the birth of my son, we were both wheeled from Birth Suite to the Maternity Ward.
Like most Public Hospitals, my ward had four cubicles, and Little Love and I filled the last available.
I never really saw my fellow Mummys, but throughout my stay I inevitably learnt a lot about them, as you cannot help but hear what goes on mere meters away from you.

And so, in my effort to create some sort of generic-hospital-voyeuristic-sit-com in my head, may I present,

The Mothers of Ward 31

Bed 1 - It's all in the Family

This bed was occupied by a relatively young Mummy, and this was her first baby.
Her partner would come in to see her and baby every day, for hours at a time, and would delight in making phone calls detailing how incredibly proud he was of his lady for going through a 27 hour labour, and how brave she was for accepting the fact that after all of those hours, it resulted in a c-section.

This young lady had a lot of support. In fact every time it was visiting hours (partners do not have to abide by these, they can visit anytime) she would have masses of people come to say hello and meet baby.
Even though she and I were separated by a drawn curtain, I could still see hints of the masses of flowers, balloons, teddies, and other congratulatory gifts that were seemingly crowding her cubical.
I heard her greet friends, uncles and aunts, brothers, sisters, little nieces, nephews and cousins (who spent the majority of their time running up and down the corridor between the cubicles, or opening the curtain and peering curiously in at me), mother, father, in-laws - it seemed like everyone she knew!
I was shocked by how many people would pay her visits, but mostly by the numbers they would come in. Instead of a few people visiting at a time, and the 2 hour block of visiting hours being divided up for various friends and family, huge groups would all cram into her cubical. Most days these groups could not all fit, and so they would open the curtain, and spill out into the corridor, almost filling it entirely.
The noise was so loud during these times, that I couldn't be heard over the phone when I tried to make a call!

It was no surprise that I would overhear her telling her partner at night how tired she was of all the company, and how she was finding it impossible to comfortably breastfeed her baby in front of so many people; all of whom it seemed knew the 'right' way to get the baby to latch.

All that being said, she was discharged with her baby the day before I was, and she seemed very happy.

Bed 2 - Tricks and Giggles

I fell in love with this couple. Just listening to their banter made me smile. This lady was also a first time Mummy, and she and her husband were absolutely over the moon.
They had been blessed with a baby boy, and were constantly debating the name that should be chosen.
Every morning the husband would arrive with a list of new name possibilities, and they would spend the day going through the list, whittling it down to one.
They were loud, giggly and a pleasure to listen to, as you could hear the love they had for each other, and for the baby.
Every evening Mrs. Giggle would tell the Midwife on duty what their sons name was, only to get a phone call from Mr. Giggle mere minutes later challenging the name they had picked, "What? No, we already agreed! Why don't you like that name anymore? But I...I just told the midwife! Fine, bring in a new list tomorrow!"
Roughly an hour later, every night without fail, the phone would ring again, and it would be her mother.
Evidently Mr. Giggle would call her mum every evening and tell her that they'd picked an old, bizarre sounding name for the baby. This would send the mother into hysterics as she hated the name, and she would swiftly call her daughter to demand an explanation. It quickly became clear that this was a prank Mr. Giggle enjoyed playing, and I'm fairly certain that all other patients in the ward, and any Midwives on duty at the time enjoyed listening too.
During my stay, Englebert, Archibald and Augustus were all names that left Mrs. Giggle defending herself, "Mum, no! No that's not what we are calling him. It's not! Don't listen to him, he's just trying to rile you up. No, I don't like the name either. Mum. Mum! I'm not lying!..I don't know why he would joke about that. He's trying to be funny. Yes, I know its not working..."
The next morning, Mr Giggle would arrive to playful hits and mock anger from Mrs. Giggle.
They would both laugh at how much mother had gotten herself worked up, then begin searching for a name all over again.

They also left a day before me. They left laughing, along with their son, Mason.
 (He finally got his name! I know this because all the Midwives cheered loudly along with Mr. and Mrs. Giggle when they announced it just before they left).

Bed 3 - Pills and Pokemon.

This was my bed.
It was free of baby cries, as my son was transferred to NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) within a few hours of entering the ward. I have a lot to write about my experience with having a baby in NICU, but I will save all of that for a separate entry.
My cubical was fairly quiet. Luke would visit me every day for as long as he could, I had a couple of visits from my housemate (she works next door to the hospital), and my Mum and Daddy came to see me too.
I spent my time reading Sookie Stackhouse novels, playing Pokemon on my 3DS, and going to see Little Love (I would be pushed in a wheelchair by my gorgeous man).

While Bed 1 had a never-ending line of people coming and going during visiting hours, I had never-ending visits from specialists, and hospital employees almost every hour of the day; Physiotherapist, Social Worker (checking how I was emotionally handling baby's stay in NICU), Pain Team Doctors, Anesthesiologist and of course OBGYN's and Midwives.
I know that I pushed the 'Call Midwife' button next to my bed so much during the first two days and nights, that they must have been sick of me.

My pain medication was increased during my stay, after one of the Pain Team Doctor's noticed how regularly I was taking Endone. I had (on top of Panadol and 10mg Oxycodone) been prescribed 2 Endone tablets every 2 hours if nessicary. Let me tell you, after pushing a baby through a separated pelvis, I felt that  it was 100% necessary!
Doc changed the dose of Oxycodone to 20mg twice daily, added 75mg of Lyrica* twice a day, 50mg of Diclofenac (Volarin tablet) 3 times daily, and 2 Panadol every 4 hours. This regime allows me to only use the Endone to act as a 'top-up' to the Oxy when I am extra sore, like after completing my physio exercises. Instead of upwards of 10 Endone tablets a day, I now take 4.  

Basically, the other patients in my ward were clearly aware that I was on a lot of medication, as OBGYN's and Midwives constantly kept coming into my cubical with more pills in little plastic cups.
That, coupled with the occasional Pokemon battle sounds from the 3DS, the conversations I kept having with the lunch lady about vampirism (thanks to the Stackhouse novels), and the muffled sounds of me crying to myself, the other Mummys must have thought me quite the fruitcake.

*Lyrica is an anticonvulsant traditionally used to treat epileptics. However, one of its other effects, is to act as a blocker for the pain receptors responsible for nerve pain.
It has all but stopped those sharp 'electric shock' type pains commonly associated with my injury.

Bed 4 - Vietnamese Please!

The lady in Bed 4 did not speak a word of English. Her husband was fluent in both Vietnamese and English though, and so would spend every available minute with her (this means 8am - 8pm, although the Midwives often allowed him to stay a little later, as he was so quiet you didn't even know he was there).
He would translate for both his Wife and the Midwives, clarifying feed times, and asking questions.
Thank goodness it was their 2nd baby - I cant imagine having to translate all the information you need when it's your first!.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly, their baby didn't cry very much, and having the husband there to translate made communication incredibly easy.

...Until her last day. For whatever reason hubby couldn't make it in, and this left Vietnamese Mummy on her own. It was also decreed by the comedy Gods, that the Midwife on duty for her last day was one of those fantastic people who think if they just speak louder and slower, everyone will understand.
On her last day it became common knowledge in our ward that she was express-feeding her baby.
She had been using a hospital breast pump up until now, and the Midwife was trying to explain to her where she could hire one of the same model from a different hospital (apparently only the other hospital hired out this particular model).
Now, whilst I couldn't physically see the conversation taking place, I could hear it clearly (as could the entire ward - guests and all), and since I had recently had my blood pressure checked by this Midwife, I knew how expressive she was, and how much she loved to use her hands and body when she talked.
Listening to this conversation was only made funnier by the little chuckles and snorts coming from all the other cubicles.
"You go to hospital. No-no to this hospital. Go far away. Go other far away hospital. Ask for pump. Yes. Yes want to hire like this pump for boob. Pump hire for boob. You go get hire pump from far away hospital for your boob."
The poor Vietnamese Mum stayed silent. She clearly had no idea what was going on, and a large white woman, using over the top body language (probably complete with squeezing her breasts to demonstrate pumping) and a patronizing booming voice was not helping.
Everyone listening could tell the Midwife meant well, but was A) not going to get anywhere, and B) was being more than a little condescending.
Just then, we all heard a miracle! A voice from the crowded Bed 1 cubical called out, "I can speak Vietnamese! Would you like my help?"
And so, the friend of Bed 1 Mummy went and translated all the information about breast pumps for Vietnamese Mummy. He must have felt a little awkward discussing breast pumps with a total stranger, but it was lovely to hear Vietnamese Mummy speak even though I couldn't understand her.
The conversation was a sandwich-like affair; 1 female and 1 male speaking fluent Vietnamese acting as bread, and a still-talking-like-you're-talking-to-a-toddler over zealous Midwife as the filling.

They must have worked everything out though, because she went home a day before me too.



I actually like building up an image of someone in my head, having not seen them.
This activity was vital in my hospital stay, as when I don't actively use my brain, I go a little crazy.

You should try it next time you're somewhere where you will have to wait a while; be it a doctors waiting room, a long train ride, or a hospital ward of your own.
What can you find out about your fellow patients/travellers just from listening to them?
What more can you add if you have the option to observe them- their body language, appearance etc?

What stories can you tell, when you give yourself a chance....

Meeting Baby

I had been waiting for the 19^th of November with baited breath. I had known for just over a week that I would be induced at 37 weeks (due to SPD) and I was super excited.
To know the date I would meet my son was a totally new experience.
My eldest son had come along when he felt like it (which was after weeks of pre-labour, followed by three days of early labour, with me only dilating to 2 cm).
My daughter was induced, but I didn’t know that was going to happen.
I had been uneasy for 3 days, thinking I was leaking a type of fluid, but as I was in no pain I ignored it.
After those 3 days, I finally went to the hospital to have it checked. It was amniotic fluid. My waters had been broken for three days, and my daughter had no intention of going anywhere. Since after 72 hours the risk of infection is very high, they induced me right away.
But to have a date to circle in the calendar? To know for a fact that I would be holding my son by that day? It was incredible. And nerve racking.
I barely slept the night before. I was a bundle of nerves. Soon I would be a Mummy again! And Luke would be a Daddy for the first time!

So the morning arrived. I was up at 5am, awkwardly showering, eating breakfast, and stressing that I had forgotten to pack something, even though I had gone over the list a million times.

 We arrived at Birth Suite at 7am. After chats with the Midwife, Doctor and Anaesthetist, we had a plan of action. They would break my waters now, and start me on a saline drip. Then, at 9am the anaesthetist would insert the epidural, and begin the Syntocinon (the artificial hormone that causes contractions). Seeing as with my daughter’s induction I had gone from 4cm-10cm in 25 minutes, the docs decided it would be best to get me numb before they started the Syntocinon.
I was absolutely beside myself about the epidural. I had never had one before.
I like to move when I’m in pain, and I had birthed both my kids standing up, so the idea of having to stay lying down and bed ridden scared me. I kept reminding myself that I wouldn’t need to move around, as I wouldn’t be in pain. Plus, the pain in my pelvis and back was now so severe that the very thought of having to push a baby through there made me feel light headed and sick.

9am came. The epidural experience was weird. I leant forward, cuddling a pillow and holding Luke’s hand. The anaesthetist was really lovely, and even though she had already explained everything to me, she continued to explain everything again as she was doing it so I wouldn’t be as nervous.
She washed my back with the antiseptic, and placed the sterile plastic over me. She then used a tiny needle to insert the local anaesthetic. It stung just a little, but I felt it working almost right away.
Then came the big epidural needle. Wow. What a bizarre feeling. It did not hurt going in, but felt very uncomfortable and irksome. I made sooky noises and squeezed Luke’s hand tight. I could feel everything, but there was no pain. That is a very difficult message for your brain to process. All I knew was that I didn’t like it. But very quickly the needle was out and just the tube was left. She started to insert the numbing drugs. My feet felt weird. Then I felt really hot. And then I felt dizzy and sick. Urgh.
Everything was quickly finalised at my back, and then they lay me back down on the bed. Within 10 minutes I felt much better. No fever, no nausea, no pain.
From my chest down I felt no pain! I could still move (albeit with a little difficulty, as my legs felt heavy) and I could still feel everything, but absolutely no pain.
You must understand, I had been in horrific pain (even 'at rest’ - laying still) for the past 20 weeks. And now, all of a sudden, nothing! I was in bliss!

I was so comfortable, that I napped, played Pokemon on my 3DS, and snacked on chips and dim sims.

 But my body was being stubborn. It wasn’t responding well to the Syntocinon. The contractions I was having (that I couldn’t feel – what a new experience!) were not strong enough to be doing their job, and were far too short.
After many hours of increasingly larger does, my Syntocinon drip was set to max. This worked.

 At 1.30pm I was declared ‘In Labour’. 
I napped a little more, and chatted with the midwife about our favourite show One Born Every Minute (both of us agreeing we like the UK version best).

Suddenly I was struck with intense pain in the left side of my belly. I knew this pain. This was a knock-you-off-your-feet contraction. It was so strange to be numb on the right side of my belly (at this stage I couldn’t even feel or move my right leg), but feel everything on the left side. I reverted to my previous birth experiences and breathed through the pain while the midwife called in backup, and discussed calling the anaesthetist back so she could fix the epidural (the theory being it was favouring one side too much as it was on an angle).
Then she paused. Remembering how quickly I had dilated with my daughter, she decided to check my progress.
Gloves were applied, lamp set in place, modesty sheet draped across me, and she placed my legs in a position so she could check (they could not use stirrups as it would strain my pelvic muscles too much).
”Wow…Luke, would you like to see your baby’s head?”
He was right there. That’s why I was suddenly hurting.
Luke had a peek, while I shrieked “Nooo! You can’t un-see that!” and the midwives laughed.
They told me with the next contraction I was to push.
The next one came, and I pushed. I was told to stop – his head was already out!
Then, without any help from me, the midwives eased him out. Apparently I had a 7 second delivery time.

It was absolutely incredible to be able to feel him coming out without the pain. With the pain in my previous births, I was just trying to push through it. This time I could really focus on every aspect.
I will always remember the way it felt as I birthed him. It was amazing.
”Tara, look down!” there he was, my tiny Little Love.

 He was put straight on my skin while the midwife rubbed him with a towel then covered him in a blanket. Luke and I kissed, and stared in wonder at our tiny man. He didn’t cry, he just looked around, checked out his surroundings, then snuggled into my chest, using his tiny arms like a pillow (like I do!) and went back to sleep!

 He was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Pink and purple, with vernix all over. He was like berries and cream.

 Because of the chronic depression in my past, I didn’t have those amazing feelings at the births of my other children. I’d always regretted that, that I never felt that burst of love and awe. I feel it for them now of course (cause I don’t live in crazy town anymore), but the fact that my subconscious has suppressed most of my memories of their first few months has always saddened me.

 But here I was, with my wonderful Luke by my side, and my incredible Little Love snoozing on my chest.
I felt like my heart could explode!
Luke cut the cord, and the midwives delivered the placenta and began to clean me up. No stitches – hooray! 

 I was surprisingly exhausted, and I was overwhelmed with joyful emotions.
I fell asleep while the midwives kept cleaning, and Luke started making phone calls, telling everyone the good news.
Little Love and I napped together, in our own little World, in the eye of the storm.
I have never felt more at Peace then I did at that moment.

I have had three very different birth experiences, all amazing in their own right, but this time had to be the most beautiful. It wasn't because I couldn’t feel pain (even though that was interesting), but because for the first time, I was present in the moment.
I was a part of the experience - physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Laying there, with my baby of berries and cream, him clinging to my necklace, and me with my arms wrapped around his tiny body (all 2.8 kilos of it), both of us so comfortable and in love with each other that we could sleep while the noise and lights surrounded us – it really was the most perfect moment I could ever imagine. 
    

Chemist Bullies.

A few days ago, I was at one of my weekly hospital visits - checking on baby, managing pain relief, checking my vitals ect.
Severe SPD poses a serious dilemma for the OBGYN's and other doctors that deal with me. They have to navigate the difficult path of feeding me with the strongest pain killers they can, whilst making sure bubs has as little risk to addiction as possible. At this last visit, it was decided we cut the codeine out of my daily pill regime, and swap the Endone for Oxycodone - the 12 hour slow release pain killer.
This was not a choice that was entered into lightly. I sat in the assessment unit, Luke holding my hand, strapped to the foetal monitor. It was showing our son in distress. The shocking pain (at a level now, if I'm to be perfectly honest, where my mental health is beginning to suffer) was making my body not a nice place to be - making bubs very agitated.
The doctors do not want to induce before 37 weeks unless 100% necessary (understandable, especially as bubs is on the very small side of normal), and so the OBGYN who was dealing with me, paged two others to get second and third opinions. That's three specialists assessing the best thing to do. And so the Oxycodone was prescribed, bubs was monitored until the pain relief had kicked in and he started to relax, and then we left to go and cash our script in at the hospital pharmacy.

I should point out, I loathe this pharmacy.
It is constantly understaffed, the wait times are excessively ridiculous, and I have had endless issues getting my medication from these people. Every single time I have put in a script for painkillers I get messed around.
Up until this time, the most memorable incident being when my Daddy took me to my appointment. I was in my wheelchair, and we had handed in the script, been given our numbered ticket, and gone to wait in the waiting area. After 20 minutes we were called up, seemingly to collect my medication, only to be told that we couldn't be issued with the drugs as the script was not 'filled out properly'. I was shocked, thinking in her rush the doctor must have forgotten to sign it or something like that, but no. What this clerk meant, was that in the column where the number of pills was to be written, the doctor had only written '20'. Only using numerals. Apparently she was meant to write '20 twenty', and write it in letters too.
Now, seeing as the doctor's personal number was written on the script, you would think that the pharmacy could've just called upstairs to confirm, but no. Instead, they sent the wheelchair lady and her Dad back up another 3 levels to track down the doctor ourselves. We were to get them to stop whatever they were doing,  just to write 'twenty' on the script. Of course, as Murphy's Law predicts, she was in theatre, so one of the nurses just wrote it in for us. We should have just done it ourselves to save the messing about.
But there you have it - that's how incompetent this chemist is.

But back to the story...
Luke was helping me hobble to the 'scripts in' end of the pharmacy (we had stupidly left the wheelchair in our housemate's car) and with much whimpering, we approached the counter. The script was collected, our numbered ticket given out, and we took a seat in the waiting area.
About 30 minutes later we were called up. Everything seemed to be going well, and I had just handed over the cash to pay, when the pharmacy girl asked;
"Are you pregnant or breastfeeding?"
"Yes, I'm pregnant."
"Does your doctor know about this?!"
"....Well, I would assume so. It's a little hard to hide!" I patted my basketball-sized belly, and smiled.
"This is a very strong drug. It could be very harmful. I'm just not comfortable giving it to you. I will have to check with my superior."
I rolled my eyes, calmed the very frustrated Luke, and we waited. A few minutes later she returned,
"Look, I know that two OB's have signed off on this script, but I'm just not comfortable. This drug poses serious risks!"
I went on to explain my condition, and the fact that baby and I were being monitored closely. I explained I knew the risks - it was the same for both of us - withdrawal. And plans for an extended stay for bubs and I to detox had been discussed, if it was deemed necessary.
But this woman wouldn't budge. She was actually greasing me now, making me feel like a monster for exposing my baby to these medications. She wouldn't give in. She took the script, left the pharmacy and walked straight past us, greasing as she went, on her way to the maternity clinic, clearly trying to find proof that I shouldn't be given these drugs.
Now, I'm no genius, but, A) What is the point of getting a doctor (let alone a specialist, and let alone two specialists) to sign off, giving consent on a script if the sales clerk at the pharmacy is going to question it, and B) Who the fuck was this woman to question the knowledge of these trained professionals in the first place?
She came back, and would you believe it, got on the phone, obviously  unhappy with the answer she had received in clinic. By this point I was in agony, unable to sit as we had been told to wait at the window, and I was leaning at the counter while Luke rubbed my back and whispered all the things he would like to say to this woman, if he thought for a second he could get away with it.
Finally she returns to the window, "Hmm, it seems your OBGYN's (note that, you rat-faced-axe-wound. OBGYN'S. Plural. Two doctors) have agreed this is the best drug for your 'condition' *she looks me up and down, not believing there is anything wrong with me*. And evidently the midwives have assured me you know the risks, and have a plan in place should they occur."
I stood there blinking, and said nothing as she gave over my meds. I had said all of this at the start!
I did not have to spend half an hour on my feet with a separated pelvis that was buckling under the weight of bubs, for this snail trail to run around and pretend to be a doctor. She had actively gone through every avenue possible to deny me the medication. That was not her job.
I mean, with no script, if was asking for something over the counter that could pose a risk, that's fine. You have the right to deny me. But with a script? Not just signed by a GP, but by two specialists? You have no right to make me beg for drugs. Because that's effectively what I heard myself doing. Begging for drugs. Drugs that should have been handed over, without all the nasty looks from Axe-Wound-Sue and the other pharmacy girls who she was talking to. It made me feel horrible - like a bad Mum.
But then I remember how many professionals are working with me, and that they all agree (especially seeing what our son does when my body is in so much pain) that this medication is the best choice, and I feel better.

I'm not entirely sure what I meant to achieve with this post. I think I just needed to vent.
Except that if you do work at a pharmacy, I will say this; Don't question a doctor's script (unless you think it's a fake of course). It is your job to correctly dispense the drugs, not prescribe them.

And don't make heavily pregnant, shaking-with-pain ladies cry in public, it's a real dick move.

One thing about Motherhood that nobody warned me about.

A while ago, I posted a question on my FaceBook, asking my friends what they would like to read a blog entry about. There were a lot of good answers, but I particularly fancied the question; What are some things about being a Mummy that you wished you'd have known sooner....

I could make this a very long list. I could fill it with simple things that every new parent (particularly Mum's) discover, or things even more basic, that I probably could have figured out if I'd have given them any thought at all. But this piece is about more than just the never ending laundry and dishes, the mass amounts of puke and poop, the discovery that toddlers really are some kind of Holmes/Houdini hybrid (able to locate anything, and escape from anywhere),  and it's even about more than the discovery that you can equally feel both heart-may-explode-in-love, and hair-tearing-out-whilst-you-threaten-to-sell-them-on-the-Black-Market-furious, when dealing with your little treasure.
Here is just one of these 'things', from a list that will continue in other entries, about one thing nobody warned me about.

Standard of Beauty

Before I became a Mother, I took a great deal of pride in how I looked.
I would never leave the house without a full face of makeup, I would always wear heels no matter where I was going (even grocery shopping required at least a small heel), and I constantly put thought into how to dress 'hot' for the opposite sex.
My, my, my. How things have changed.
When I was at home with my newborn daughter and one year old son, I would feel accomplished if I managed to shower that day. If I was seen wearing something that wasn't covered in baby vomit, then I felt I'd done something incredible. And if I managed to wash my hair, or wear a bra - good God! - I was having a superwoman-style day! Although at this time, I was also deeply in the grasp of Post Natal Depression, so perhaps it's not the fairest judgement.

So lets look at a far more current version of myself...
I honestly consider it a massive win if Luke gets home and I have; smooth legs, lip gloss, a spray of perfume, and am wearing clean clothes.  
Seriously. If I have managed that whilst also managing to keep the kids happy and fed all day - then I feel like a Goddess.
Even now with my bed-ridden self, I consider it a great accomplishment when Luke gets into bed to cuddle me, and comments on how nice my hair smells :)
That's basically it - don't be a smelly Yettie. Beauty regime over.
Unless it's an occasion of course, (where I do the full works of tight dress, stiletto heels, hair extensions, dark eyes and red lips) but short of that, nobody told me how very different my standard of beauty would be once I had children. It's no longer a win if I've spent 3 hours getting ready for a night out, it's a win if I have the kids fed, bathed, and in bed, and have managed to squeeze in a shower before my Man gets home.

Lingerie, porn star hair and makeup, $200 stripper heels and long fake nails are not longer my idea of what it means to be sexy in the boudoir.
Smooth legs, clean clothes that aren't pyjamas, freshly washed hair, and a smile, are now all it takes for me to feel like I've accomplished some high standard of beauty.

It may not sound glamorous (probably because its not), but there are so many other rewarding things for me to put my time into, and dressing like a baby hooker is no longer one of them....Unless it's a costume party...You can always dress shamelessly like a whore at costume parties :P

2 traits I find incredibly sexy

As I have spent the last few days in extreme pain due to my highly inconsiderate pelvis, I have decided to write a short (hopefully giggle-worthy) post to distract myself.

1)  A fierce intellect. 

I am most definitely a sapiosexual. If you have never heard this word before, I have gone to the trouble of copy and pasting the definition for you - ain't I sweet?

Definition of sapiosexual :. 

(sā-pē-ō-sĕk-shü-ăl) 

(n.) A behaviour of becoming attracted to or aroused by intelligence and its use. 

Origins: From the Latin root sapien, wise or intelligent, and Latin sexualis, relating to the sexes. 

Basically, smart people turn me on. It doesn't even matter what their field of expertise is, or even if the information is particularly useful - the act of someone really using their mind just does things to me.
This can happen in different ways... I can be having a conversation with someone, and start asking questions about certain words, times, places, historical references, ect, and just the act of them knowing the answers to everything, and delivering those answers in such a nonchalant manner makes me all doe-eyed.
They can 'show off' their intelligence in whatever way they wish, being fiercely arrogant and ruthless with their facts like Dr. House (House), or Dr. Cox (Scrubs) - both fictional characters who have permanent spots in my spank bank.
Or, you can just be a genuinely funny, caring, sweet genius with shiny eyes and a big smile.
A perfect example, is the incredible Professor Brian Cox.
And he's not a fictional character! He's real, real!                   


                      

*throws panties* You gorgeous, gorgeous man! I want make love to your mind!!!

Basically, I just lose all control when someone really flexes their intellect.
Truth be told, it's one of the reasons I love Luke so much - his vast knowledge about physics, space, time and the universe, and his incredibly patient and thorough ways of explaining them to me, is nothing short of mental foreplay.


2) A little extra cuddle.

This is my not so flattering way of saying I am quite fond of a 'doughy physique'.
Not an obese beer gut large enough to have it's own gravitational pull or anything like that, just a little extra cushion...
I love a solid build, with broad shoulders and a proud tum. Think Seth Rogan or Jason Segel - just enough tummy for cuddles :)

                                        

                               

I've been told many times that my attraction to these men is odd or weird, but i don't care - they're delicious to me!

Needless to say, most of my partners put on a few kilos while dating me.
I love to cook, and I feed them up like a fairy tale witch; turning disciplined gym-honed abs into pasta-filled tum tums - perfect for snuggle-on-the-couch style noms!

..Ps, sorry Luke, you're never getting your abs back - I love your belly too much <3

Hansel and Gretel - Script Hunters.

Tonight, I sat down with my new housemates and Luke.
We had elected to watch 'Hansel & Gretel - Witch Hunters'. We knew it was going to be painfully average, but were hoping for that guilty pleasure / secretly enjoyable type of average.

The final verdict of how we felt about the movie is a definite "We have no freakin' clue."

This film boasted a painfully obvious story line, plot holes with such gape they made porn stars jealous, hooker-cheap CGI, and the kind of 'stunts' that made all of us reminisce about the Saturday nights of our youth, spent religiously watching Xena and Hercules.

We were also left with some pressing questions, and some giggle-worthy comparisons...

Question:
Even if we ignore the fact that every character in this film seems to have a different accent, we are forced to ask: Was Gemma Arterton forced to do an American accent only because Jeremy Renner couldn't pull off a English one? A great number of the cast used English accents, and Gemma is English. So, why not allow her to just use her normal voice? Ah...Mysteries.

Theory:
Jeremy Renner is the poor man's Nathan Fillion -

                       

Fillion is on the right. He is also incredibly yummy. Nom nom nom!

Observation:

Edward, the troll who serves Witches, has a striking character resemblance to Ludo, the friendly beast from The Labyrinth.
I'm not sure if its the over sized costume, the simple child-like vocabulary spoken in a pleasing baritone, or just the fact that whenever Edward came on screen I had the over whelming urge to growl; 'Ludo, down! Ludo! Doooown!"

                       

Slow, sweet, and simple. Huge heart. Strong yet clumsy. Fits both Edward and Ludo.

Edward also bares a striking character resemblance to Hodor, the simple soul who carries around little Lord Bran Stark in Game of Thrones. Seriously, if I didn't have a Ludo inspired quote in my head, I most certainly had "Hodor! Hodor!" on repeat.

                     

''Hodor!"

Final thoughts:
All these picture comparisons aside, the overwhelming question is; 'Who was this movie for?'

The simple fact is, due to quite a few drops of the F-Bomb, quite excessive violence (no matter how poorly portrayed), and some other bits and pieces, this film really is not suitable for young kids. 

But, due to its lack of a decent plot, crummy CGI, and bad-ninja-film / Xena-meets-Hercules style stunts, it's not exactly captivating for adults.

We were left deciding that despite its M15+ rating, the audience of the film should really be young teens.

The creators of this film had two very cool, very doable options to make it far more accessible and awesome to different markets, but for whatever reason they did not take them.
They had all the makings of a 'scary' family-type film, with bright colours, properly scary characters, and the strong message that good always overcomes evil. I'm thinking something along the lines of the Tim Burton remakes of Willy Wonka and Alice in Wonderland...
They also could have taken this film to a far darker level and made it an R rated dark twisted fairy tale.
The could have put dark filters over the footage (think about how grungy Fight Club looked), hired incredible SFX artists for all the gore instead of using shitty CGI (splatter packs will always beat 'blood' graphics), added some depth and morbid twists to the story (God knows there was room), and they just may have had a decent adult fairy tale. Maybe.

Anyway, final verdict?

It's pretty terrible. Definitely not one of the worst films I've seen, but certainly not one I'd rush to watch again. It's good enough for a mindless candy watch - you really don't have to concentrate at all.
Even good for a few laughs (at it's expense of course, not because jokes were intended).
So, if you see it on TV and you need something to occupy yourself with for 15 minutes before the show you actually want to watch comes on the other channel, this may just be the film for you.

Maybe.
 

If Borat read my blog...

Just having a looksie at the locations of this weeks readers...

3 bad habits that probably will (but hopefully won't) get me killed.

1). Sleeping in the bath.

 This has always been a favourite of mine.
Picture it; lovely hot, deep, inviting bath, relaxing music, a nice glass of wine or herbal tea, some wonderfully scented, skin enriching bath salts and oils ("Where can I find such wondrous things?" you ask? Why, at my business page of course! www.facebook.com/AlluraAustralia).
You feel your body completely relax, and soak all your troubles away. Then, you allow your eyes to close, and you fall into a restful nap, awaking with a fresh feeling, and totally rejuvenated body and mind.
....or you don't wake up, because you have become so relaxed, you've unintentionally inhaled a lung full of bath water, leaving yourself to be found deceased and bloated, bobbing around in Epsom salt and Apricot Oil. That's the fear anyway.
Clearly, if you are one for 'bath napping', you must be careful not to let this 'drowning business' happen.
In fact, just so we're clear, I should probably stress that I don't necessarily think Bath Napping is a good idea at all (especially if you re under the influence), so this habit really is one you take at your own risk.
But, I love it! Especially if I've had a bad sleep filled with night terrors, or whilst dealing with this horrible SPD, nothing much beats a relaxing Bath Nap in my book.
Truth be told, I was awake at 3am this morning, with horrible joint and muscle pain. My Man woke up (probably hearing my Igor-meets-Quasimodo grunts and shuffles as I limped about), helped me upstairs, bought up the laptop and then went back to the couch to sleep. I put on some meditation music, relaxed into the hot, soothing water, and was quickly warm, in less pain, and off to snooze-ville.
I napped for 4 hours - I woke up feeling great.
In conclusion this habit is really awesome, and is one that I love...Providing I don't drown, cause that would suck.    

2.) Being neurotic.

I know I'm not alone in this one. Come to think of it, all my female besties are also neurotic headcases (maybe that's why we are so close? We know how to deal with eachother's crazy?).
I stress and freak out over ridiculous things. I am aware they are stupid, but it just happens. I'm honestly afraid that one day my unnecessary worrying will cause an ulcer. Then stress over the ulcer will cause it to burst, the rupture occurring suddenly, leaving me with a severe case of the Deadsies (probably when I'm Bath Napping...)
Here is a short list of just some of my triggers that induce a ride into Crazy Town;
- Food left out in the kitchen overnight.
I cant stand that! Put leftovers in the fridge and throw out what you don't want. Do not leave it there gathering bacteria. A pan that has been left with food in it overnight scares me. I have to wash it a million times just to feel like I've removed all the sneaky germs, and even then I will eye the thing off as it sits in the cupboard, just wondering if I missed some of said germs, and becoming concerned that they might be planning a counter attack.
- Washing left in the machine.
When the washing is finished hang it out. Even though I know that laundry left in the machine for a couple of hours wont actually start to grow mould, or get smelly, every time I hear the finishing 'beep!', I'm swift to unload the contents of the wash, and begin air drying it all, spaced out neatly on the airier.
Currently I'm not allowed to do this, and Luke has been taking care of the laundry. Even if he only waits an hour before hanging the clothes up, I start smelling the phantom scent of mould in the air, and wonder if he actually is hanging up the laundry 'properly'. As I said, I'm insane.
- Talking on the phone to people I don't know.
Ordering a pizza, booking an appointment, enquiring about an issue - all of these trigger a mild panic attack; What if they don't like me? What if I say something stupid? What if I don't understand what they're saying? What if I get so nervous I forget basic English? What if they think I'm just utterly ridiculous and hang up?
I honest to God cant find a reason for this, as talking face to face with people, I'm fine.
But there you have it, that's Crazy Town.  

3). Google Doctoring.

I've left this one till the end, as it's probably one of my most prominent bad habits.
Thanks to the Internet, we can all parade about like we have Medical degrees.
We have access to all kinds of information, from scientific/aimed-at-university-student type articles, to chat rooms and blog threads with every day people talking about every issue under the sun. We have symptom checker websites, that suggest probable causes (each set of results usually ranging from 'common cold' to 'very painful death'), and allow us to do a bit of research of our own, before seeing a doctor.
I've personally found a few 'reputable' sites that I use regularly, even if its just to learn more about something I've already been diagnosed with.
I'm a shameless student, I love to learn, and the more knowledge I have, the calmer I feel.
So, for example, before I saw my GP regarding all the pelvic pain I was in, I had already diagnosed myself with SPD. I was proud as punch when he diagnosed me with the same ailment I had predicted, and even pleased when he showed me some reliable websites to get information from, and they turned out to be the sites that I already use. I was excited, until I remembered everything I had read, and realized what a  crappy diagnosis it was.
I Google search any and all medical ailments, and whilst I currently still seek out my GP for a professional opinion, I am worried about the future, about the time when I finally decide that I can find out anything trained doctors can just with a few clicks of a button. I really hope that doesn't happen too soon though. Cause it will turn me into a stressed neurotic mess, and then I will be tired and stressed after all my medical research, I'll need a relaxing bath, then close my eyes for just a minute, and then BOOM! - Deadsies Apricot Floater, at your service.

Hospital pictures *making light of a crappy situation*

(I have edited all the following images for no other reason other than to present them in a cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing way)

One of my lovely friends sent this to me on day 2 of my Hospital Stay. 

I know I laughed at first, I'm just not sure if I cried after....

                           
Whilst in hospital, I was understandably upset being away from Luke, Master 4 and Miss 3.
I knew the end result would be the kids going back to their Dad's before I could spend any time with them, and this made me incredibly mopey and pouty.
So, in an effort to cheer me up, and let me know they were all thinking of me, my wonderful Man sent me this picture -

                  


Their still-pajama-clad little frames and silly faces really did brighten my day - they are my home.
I responded to their image with a silly face of my own -

                              

This image is bought to you by every duck-face-try-to-look-cute-and-sexy teenage girl ever.

The second night in Hospital was probably the worst for me.
Although meltdown-free, unlike the first, there was what seemed like an endless stream of things sent, just to annoy me. (I am well aware that in saying this, I sound like a self obsessed tool with a God complex, assuming the Universe revolves around my somewhat spherical self...But I did mention in my previous post that mass pain = mass bitch in the book of Tara, and if you cant complain when you're pained and in hospital, when can you?)

I had actually been fooled into being hopeful about the ward's menu. One dinner option was titled 'Vegetable Medley', and I had legitimately become excited. A little sad, I know, but I love vegetables, and 'medley' suggested multiple veggies. There was no information on how this dish was to be prepared, so I had no knowledge of whether my dinner would be steamed/blanched/fried or sliced/diced/julienned - a surprise it would be!
A surprise indeed! I present to you, my dinner;

                                       

That, ladies and gents, looks like a tiny polystyrene bowl filled with the type of 'vegetables' you get in a sachet alongside the seasoning in a cup of 2 Minute Noodles. They were served almost cold, still slopping in a few Cm's of water, and overcooked...yet I still ate them. But then again, I'm pregnant, I eat everything. Plus, I eat when I'm angry. I'm the person that goes, "Argh! You seriously piss me off! Fuck this, I'm getting a burger!"  
 

Not long after dinner, it was lights off, therefore 'sleep time' suggested.
I was fine with this, I was laying in bed playing Solitaire on my phone, whilst trying to think of a movie to quietly play on my laptop. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep till my next dose of Endone, which was  in a few hours, so I was planning ways to amuse myself until then.

All of a sudden, the woman in the bed across from me was alerted by her volume-turned-up-to-point-of-ear-bleed mobile ringtone. You're meant to have your phones on silent after lights out, and normally I wouldn't care, but this thing was super loud, and I knew from experience that her phone calls last forever.
For roughly an hour, the noise would alternate between her loudly screeching into the mouthpiece about life in hospital, then bickering in general, then a string of "Hello? Hello?! Can you hear me? You've gone all quiet! Hello?!", then she would hang up, the ringtone would blast out again, and the whole mess would resume.

I am not an artist, but this moved me to draw, and then send the following sketch to my Man -

                

That's me. I am using my weirdly long arms to punch her in the throat. 

But you've read the previous post, you know I end up going home the next day.  Thank God.




Once at home, I was helped to the bath, and had the laptop, my book, a water bottle, and some snacks set up on the small table beside me.
Peering between the gap between the bath and the table, I was reminded of someone else who I had greatly missed while in hospital -

                 

My kitty. My purring ball of love - Squish <3 

I'm so happy to be home, and since like any hospital visit, mine was greatly unpleasant, I really hope I've bought a few chuckles and smiles to you all :)

My rant-worthy hospital visit.

I have not updated my blog in quite a few days. The reason for this, my most avid readers is because I have been in hospital, for “treatment” for my SPD.

I have elected to split this subject into two posts.
The first is an account of what happened (my rant), and the second is a more humorous look at the situation.

After much uncertainty at how to best treat me (because whilst bubs and I are healthy, the pain is getting much worse, which is putting pressure on both of us, and my antidepressants are struggling to cope with my feelings of uselessness), it was deemed best to transfer me to another hospital.
And so, I went to the new hospital at the appointed time, and was told that they were not really comfortable with me on the painkillers I was already taking.
They wanted me to stop the Panadine Forte (which I will definitely admit is better than nothing, but still doesn’t really enable me to move much at all), and to stick to Panadol and ‘try to rest’.
To say I had a breakdown there and then, sitting in my wheelchair in this doctor’s office, is an understatement. I had an ugly, body shuddering, snot flowing, sheep/fog-horn sounding meltdown. Somewhere between my gulps and wails, the doctor seemed to grasp that what I was attempting to communicate, was that I wasn’t going to cope at home ‘just with Panadol and rest’, and that I really had been holding on for dear life to this meeting. I had been assured that doctors at this hospital would be able to better help bubs and I. That they would be able to offer far more acute and regular monitoring for bubs, and that they would be able to prescribe me stronger, more effective pain relief.
It had been explained to me on multiple occasions that these stronger drugs carried a risk of withdrawal for both myself and baby, and so a longer stay in hospital after the birth was warranted, just to make sure we both got through the withdrawals as safely, and with as much comfort as possible.
I had understood all of this, and so to hear that once again no one seemed to know how to treat me, and didn’t seem comfortable giving me any pain relief, was nothing short of devastating.
The nurse seemed legitimately shocked at my reaction, and so went to seek out other doctors and nurses to reassess my situation.
After a wait, it was suggested that they admit me. In doing this, I was apparently going to have access to the Pain Team very quickly (instead of waiting the out-patient time of 5 weeks), could be given some immediate pain relief whilst waiting, and be assessed by physios and other specialists who were specifically trained in dealing with cases where the mother was taking strong analgesia.

And so off I’m wheeled, to a ward with other pregnant ladies.
At first everything seemed to be going as planned, a nurse took my vitals, and then asked if I wanted pain relief. I of course accepted, and off she went to collect some. But then she returns;
“I’m afraid I can only offer you Panadol and Voltaren.”
”But, I can’t have Voltaren.”
”Why not?”
”Um.. It’s an anti inflammatory, and you’re not supposed to have those when pregnant.”
”Oh yes. Quite right.”
Didn’t this just set the tone for the next three days?
I was given regular Panadol, which did about as much good as tits on a bull.
Seriously, that’s your specialist medical care? A drug I can obtain myself from any supermarket, servo or chemist?
Every time I was offered this drug, I wanted to strap these people to a table, separate their pelvises, and then offer them some Panadol. Then make them thank me. Fuckers.

(I should point out at this point, that I turn into quite the piece of work when I’m in severe pain.
Not to the nurses or doctors, if anything I’m increasingly quiet around them, but in my head, or whilst ranting to friends, I’m a bitch.) 

On the first night I had another meltdown. I had left my Panadine Forte at home (as I never expected to be admitted in the first place), and combined with the pathetic strength of the Panadol, and the shitty von shithousen bed, I was in agony.
I cried and cried, until a nice nurse actually came over, sat on my bed and hugged me. She was really lovely, and somehow managed to get me some Endone so I could sleep.
From that point on I could have Endone every 6 hours (helps a little), and the magic Panadol every 4 (indescribably fucking useless).

Today marks day 3, my last day here.
After much dicking about I finally saw the Pain Team.
You must understand that I had been waiting weeks to see someone with the experience and authority to help me. To see someone who could prescribe me something adequate for my pain. The anticipation to see this team had only been heightened once being admitted, as the idea of my pain relief actually being downgraded by being in hospital was the most ridiculous thing I could imagine – I needed the experts to give me the strongest/safest drug possible ASAP!
And so I just met with the Team… Who have decided not to give me anything stronger. After I have been promised for fucking weeks that they would be able to help, I have been prescribed Panadol and given a script for Endone.
Now, please do not get me wrong, I appreciate the Endone, it definitely is better than nothing, but it is nothing like what was mentioned to me by all the nurses, and certainly not what was suggested by the doctors.
Ketamine, Methadone & Tramadol were the three drugs that had been suggested as the most likely. I had been given the impression that the only reason the doctors hadn’t already started me on one of those drugs, was that they wanted the opinion of the Pain Team first.

But here I am, with Endone and fucking Panadol. I really didn’t need to be here for the last three days.
My GP could’ve given me a script for Endone.
And I’m quite certain it would not have taken six hours for the script to be written out and filled as it has here. Seriously. Six hours. For a piece of paper.

 I have taken up a bed that someone else could’ve used.
I needed a script. Baby and I weren’t sick, or at risk. I wasn’t like the other ladies in my ward; one who was dilating at 27 weeks, one who’s malfunctioning liver was forcing her to be induced at 35 weeks, or the other who couldn’t take her migraine medicine whilst pregnant, but who’s migraines were racking her body so much so it was putting her baby in distress.
I wasn’t sick. Bub wasn’t sick. I needed a script. And instead I have taken up a bed for three days.

I am seriously considering completing 47 years of University, so I can become a doctor and prevent other people in my position being in so much pain, and being dicked about for so long for no real reason. 
Either that, or get a degree so I can come back as a highly trained efficiency expert, and put more functional and practical systems in place. Because the ones we have in current use are heavily, unequivocally flawed.

End rant.

They put WHAT in the pantry?!

Due to my crippling SPD, I am at war with the staircase in our house.
I have tried to make it spontaneously combust using the power of my mind - but I am yet to be successful.
Seeing as I cannot get up the stairs without help and/or immense pain, (coupled with a very vocal array of pained squeals and moans) I have made myself a bedroom/fort/office in our lounge room.
Both couches are pushed together and are covered in pillows and blankets. The coffee table has been moved into a bedhead-like position, so I can have my laptop (best loan ever, thanks to 2 of my besties S&S), medicines, water bottle, never ending pregnancy snacks, books ect, all in easy reach.
Luke has given up sleeping upstairs in our very, very comfy bed, and has chosen to sleep on the couch next to me. The smaller, 2-seater couch. He's pretty incredible.

The children have therefore decided that they don't want their beds any more either, and have laid claim to our bed upstairs. They seem incredibly stoked at the idea of sleeping in Mummy and Luke's bed every night (I don't blame them, this bed is amazing), and so they have reign of the upstairs at night, and every morning they creep downstairs and cuddle up with us on the couch-fort.
Now, seeing as until they come downstairs in the morning (normally as soon as they wake up) they are unsupervised, they have discovered they have ample opportunity to go through things in the master bedroom.

So, this morning, the little darlings come downstairs, and are laughing and playing.
At some point they ask for a snack, and, as we always do when they ask nicely, we give them permission to go to the pantry and get something out of the 'snack box'.
It must have been at this point that they put something in the pantry, that they had smuggled downstairs.
It was around midday that I asked Luke for something to eat from the pantry, and was met with,
"Uh, Baby? Why is this in here?"

                             

Now, I have tried to fancy-up this image, but lets not lose sight of what it really is - That is a pink dildo. Between noodles and packet soup. In the pantry. A sex toy next to food. That is my facilitator of adult entertainment, placed casually next to late night snacks. There is a dildo in my pantry!

After recovering our composure, we were forced to have a conversation with the Master and Miss.
"Did someone bring something down from Mummy and Luke's room?", I ask.
"Yes. I found a pink rocket under your bed!", exclaims Master 4.
"It's not a rocket, it's something that is only for grown-ups. You don't touch it again, OK?"
"OK. I wont. Only for grown-ups...But Mum...What does it do?"
Oh God. What do I say? I didn't want to say it was a toy, as I felt this would make it forbidden fruit.
I was drawing a complete blank.
All the while Luke was holding the 'pink rocket' out in front of him, clearly trying to aid in my explanation, while I was floating somewhere between wanting to burst out laughing, and trying to remain serious.
In the end I resorted to the age-old parenting favourite,
"Just don't touch it again, because I said so! All right?!"
Master 4 agreed, as did Miss 3. Luke took the now-out-of-bounds-mystery-grown-up-thing up stairs, and I started to giggle on the couch as I edited the photo.

So, we can add situations like this to the list of  -
Things You're Never Warned About When Becoming A Parent.

Children will discover your adult-only possessions.
They will want to know what they are.
You are going to have to have that awkward conversation.
And you have to be prepared, because they will hide them in strange places.
.....They may even put them in your pantry.
 

3 things I'm rubbish at

1.) My phone


I am constantly losing my phone, around the house/hidden in bags/buried in a doona, and like most people with this issue, I do so when it's on silent and about to run out of battery.
And that's another point, I hardly ever charge the damn thing, so it's basically always about to go flat.
I don't really mind this strangely enough, as sometimes it's quite liberating to be out and be uncontactable. Like the days of my youth... (Saying this at only 25 actually sickens me. Don't worry, I'll punch myself later).
Remember those days? Where you'd go out to the shops with your mates, and pretend you were cool whilst loitering in the food court, and you would only know that you were in trouble once you got home and received a smack over the head? No one could interrupt your fun.
The bigger gripe from my peers however, is that if my phone is actually charged, there is no guarantee I will answer it. If I hear it ringing in another room and I'm doing something important, like helping the kids, cooking, cleaning, or laying down (naps are vital at my age *slap*), I will not rush to answer it.
I will let it ring out. I operate on the belief system that if it is important, they will either leave a message, or call straight back. This irritates Luke on such a profound level, it actually makes him anxious.
If he sees me blatantly ignoring my ringing phone, for example when I'm on the couch watching a movie with the kids, he gets frustrated and starts the, "Why aren't you answering your phone?" line of questioning. Evidently the answer of, "I'm busy" doesn't cut it with him, because then he will launch into the "But, you don't do that to me, do you?" section of the conversation, and undoubtedly look disappointed when I say, "No. Well, unless I'm busy."
Cuddling with my kids classifies as being busy to me. I understand it doesn't to others, but as they say on every American sitcom - that's not my problem.

2) Remembering  Birthdays

Honestly, I have such a terrible memory for numbers, that if it wasn't for FaceBook birthday reminders, I don't think I would ever know anybodies day of birth, age, or party arrangements.
I have been hung out to dry on multiple occasions for forgetting my parents' birthdays, and they have only just accepted the fact that if you do not remind me, I will forget. If you're not going to have your birthday on Facebook, then make sure someone else reminds me a few days before hand, otherwise you will not be receiving a phone call.
But don't think this is just a spoilt child syndrome affecting my ability to remember. Don't think for a second that my sub conscience just isn't trying hard enough because it's my parents.
Cause here's a dirty little secret; I have forgotten my daughters birthday. Twice. My daughters date of birth (as well as my sons) is tattooed on my arm. My lower arm. Where I look everyday. DOB right there. Even the time of birth.
And yet for two years in a row, I was making rushed trips to the shops around lunch time to by cupcakes and dolls, after being embarrassingly reminded by either my Mum, or Ex-Husband that I was meant to be celebrating my darling daughter getting a year older.
Pretty pathetic, but also true. Numbers just will not stick in my head.

3)  Organisation

From arranging a time for someone to meet for a coffee at my place, to planning a huge night out with multiple people, destinations, and modes of transport - I suck.
I come from the it will all just fall together school of thought, and the awesome thing is, it normally does.
However, it has been somewhat strongly (via exasperated grumbles) suggested to me that the reason these things 'just happen' is because every body else involved make them happen.
I never know what time an event is happening, who is attending, or what I am meant to bring.
I will, however, know if I have enough money left to buy a cask of wine for said occasion - classy!
I maintain that if you don't make plans, they cant get ruined....which is fine when all others involved operate the same way, but less acceptable when some of your besties are fierce planners.
My answers to the generic 'when, where, with whom, how much, how to get there' usually go something like 'after dinner, in the city, with some people, not expensive, don't know yet.'
Annoying your mates is one thing, but Luke is a brutal planner. A brutal procrastinator yes, but planner none the less. If we are going out, he can't stand not having a planned time to leave. This, needless to say, clashes greatly with my 'we will leave when we're ready' mode of operation.

I did try to get organised once - I purchased a diary. You know the kind, one of those handbag sized yearly planners? It was pink, and I always kept it in my bag.
Throughout that year I only used the thing twice; once to write in a doctors appointment (which, hilariously, I missed as I hadn't thought to check the damn thing, and since upon writing the appointment down, I had immediately put it out of my mind, thinking I didn't need to actively remember it, because it was in my diary), and then one final time, to write down the details of the other person when I was involved in a car accident.
Evidently, this exercise was a colossal fail on my part.

I am very lucky though. Between my Mum, Luke, and the more neurotically organised of my peers, I am always set on the right track.
And maybe having someone who is so carefree in their peer circles is a good thing?
Maybe I am a breath of fresh air from all the strict and vigilant planning?

And if not....well, that's what I intend to keep telling myself anyway.

"Hey, that's the mouth she kisses my kids goodnight with!"

 To paraphrase Paul Vitti from Analyze This; "I can't do those things with my wife! That's the mouth she kisses my kids goodnight with! What are you, crazy?!"

 And so, I have reached the sad, ugly point in my pregnancy where I am no longer considered a sex object....
Please don't misunderstand, my Man still calls me beautiful. He kisses my belly, holds me, gives me massages, and does other intimate things like that every day, but it seems that the nights of unbridled, primal, passionate awesomeness are well and truly on hiatus.

I understand the change of course, I am very pregnant now, and no well-placed corset is going to cover (let alone fit) this belly. Luke doesn't see me as a sex kitten at the moment. He sees me as beautiful. He sees the mother of his son. He sees something delicate, maternal and nurturing. Something soft and round.

And this is all lovely...But what about the frustrated deviant who is hiding inside this mummy suit?

To better explain what I'm feeling, I will leave it in the capable hands of Mr. Eddie Murphy;
"When you get in the bedroom, what would you rather hear you partner say? 'I wanna make love to you'
Or would you rather they grab you by the back of your neck and say, 'Imma fuck the shit outta you."

You'd think I would be prepared this time though, wouldn't you?
I mean, I have done this twice before, plus the amount of pain I'm racked with 99% of the time from my SPD is enough to turn anyone off.

...But what about that 1% of the time when I'm halfway functional? What about then?!
Surely we can pretend that I'm not a mummy-to-be for a few hours, and instead pretend I'm someone who just really loves cheeseburgers? Can't we? Can't we?!

It is during these moments that I find myself searching for the mirror. I'm not sure what this is meant to accomplish  - seeing myself trying to suck in my baby bump? Trying out various poses that could be interpreted as attractive? Or maybe I'm just trying to remind myself that under everything I'm still a sexual being?

Imagine my disappointment when I look into the glass and see this staring back at me -

Sweet merciful crap, when did I last shave my legs? ...Can I even reach my legs anymore?


It is upon this discovery that I resign myself to the fact that my Man and I will have to take a break from our normally over-zealous love life, and continue working on our snuggle and smooches routine instead.

So for now I wave goodbye to Naughty-Sex-Kitten-Tara, and welcome back the couch dwelling, constantly eating, rarely moving, tummy-rub-loving, Fat-Kitten-Tara.

 All in all, I guess she's not so bad....                                                                  


                           

Meeting the Mister

People have often asked me how I came to meet my Man.
It must have seemed odd to most; he wasn't from any of the circles of usual suspects, and all my peers knew I was a serial mate-dater. I would rarely venture outside of the extended friend circles of our little clique, as I seemed to only fall for people I already had a solid mate-ship with.
In the past this has, needless to say, got me into endless amounts of trouble.

My search for a companion started, as most of my ventures into a possible relationship do, with vast amounts of alcohol.

At this time of my life, my children and I were living with two of the greatest people I know.
They are a married couple with two little girls of their own. They had lovingly taken us all in, for reasons that I will not go into in this entry, and had moved Heaven and Earth (turned the playroom into a little haven for me, and moved their youngest daughter out of her room and in with her sister, so that my kids could have their own room) just so we would have a safe and caring place to rest while we all found our feet.

On the night in question all four children in the house were sleeping, and Mrs. Great and I were happily perched in the kitchen, pyjama clad with mad hair, watching stupid YouTube videos, whilst swigging straight out of bottles of Spumante - what a classy pair we made!
The idea of dating sites somehow made it's way into the conversation, and before I knew it, I had been convinced that making a dating profile was the best idea ever ("Even if a relationship doesn't work out, you could still find some sexy booty calls!").
The hours passed with us both cackling and chortling, spiralling further into drunken messes, as we composed what we thought to be an absolutely hilarious biography for my profile.
The paraphrased end result read something along the lines of; "Hot young MILF, seeking man! Must have a car, as I do not, and must have a large bank account, as I don't have one of those either. Must be funny, sweet, and well endowed."
The night eventually wound down, and I was left alone at the kitchen counter, re-reading this ridiculous, unflattering description. All of a sudden I felt completely helpless. I was never going to find someone.
Who would want me? I was 24, with two young children, no house, no job, no car, and no savings.
I had a mountain of emotional baggage, and had recently come out of a situation so emotionally, physically and mentally destructive, that I required the kind of acute attention normally reserved for haemophiliac babies.
I opened another bottle of cheap bubbles (which by this stage I most definitely did not need), marched myself outside to the veranda, lit a cigarette, and broke down in heaving sobs.
I stayed there, chain-smoking, guzzling nasty booze, and crying deeply well into the night.


The next morning, I woke with a resolve to re-write this Biography-of-Tara, and attempt to show myself in a favourable light. If not for anyone else, then for me.
I would make myself see that I was worth something.

I wrote that I was a young mother, and that I loved my children above all else. I loved all children, and would be delighted to find a partner who either had some of their own, or who wanted to create a family with myself and mine.
I wanted a companion to share my life with, and I believed I had a lot of love to share. I loved to cook, and could think of nothing better than sharing a bottle of wine, while cooking a meal with my significant other.
I adored hugs and affection, so if you were looking for a highly affectionate partner - I was your girl!
I loved to laugh, to talk, to explore, to learn and to listen.
I was looking for someone to share my life with. I wanted the real thing.

I uploaded a recent photo of myself, and waited.
I will say now, that watching many people 'view' your profile, then choose not to contact you is more than a little discouraging. I mean, they had been matched with me. I clearly had similar interests and values to these men, and yet I didn't seem enough.
It was suggested to me by Mr. Great, that my hair may have put them off.
You see, at this time, in an incredibly cliched act of self-expression/re-birth I had coloured my hair how I used to when I was much younger. It was fire engine red, with extensions trailing down to my elbows, and styled in an Amy Winehouse beehive, with a side fringe.
I thought it looked awesome, Mr. Great thought I looked like a twat.
      <--------- Observe the Arial/Winehouse redhead.


By that evening, after not a single person had messaged, poked, or in any way cyber-contacted me, I decided to find my own match and message him. After scrolling through a few pages of my apparent could-be-soul-mates, I found Luke.

He had a gentle face, with kind, shiny eyes. They were striking and blue, with tiny crows feet decorating their edges - it is no exaggeration to say that I was captivated instantly. He had a cheeky smile that seemed contagious, and he wore it in all his pictures (I stalked them good and proper). He wore band shirts, and loved alternative music. He liked the same comedians and movies that I did. He also loved good food, good drink, hugs, and blessedly, he also wanted a family.
I was sold for sure by his final answer. The question asked to members was, 'What do you wish people knew about you?', and he had answered, in an endearing throw-away manner, "I'm a pirate".
My face broke into a smile, and I messaged him.

There you have it. We had opened Pandora's Box; the messages flew thick and fast, turning to texts, then to phone calls, and finally to the first meet. We met each other for the first time just under a week after I first saw his grinning face on a website.

I was so nervous. I must stress at this point, that I am not normally a giggling school girl, or nervous on date. Although in saying that, I will also point out that I haven't really been on many dates.
While I have had more boyfriends and partners then I care to admit, it is a rare occasion when someone actively tries to woo me.
So, after breaking down like a crazy person when Mr. Great dropped me at the station (he laughed), then shaking as my date and I sent texts back and forth on the train, I finally reached the meeting point.
This was it.
We met under the big clock. He was standing there, dressed in jeans, a band shirt and a black brimmed beanie. I was in jeans, knee-high flat boots, a black tank top, and had my trademark hair bright and flowing. We looked like a pair of angsty 16 year old students, not like a 26 and 24 year old, both with full time jobs (his at a nationwide company, mine as a parent).
We awkwardly approached each other, grinning shyly as were exchanged hellos, then we hugged.
I was overcome at once by how safe it felt. I loved that he was only slightly taller than me, because my head could nestle comfortably in the nook between his shoulder and neck. He smelled amazing. He was warm, and I felt an incredible strength when he held me.
The date proceeded as I imagine most first dates do, he bought the movie tickets, while I insisted he let me pay for popcorn and soda. We exchanged shy glances, laughed too hard at each others jokes, and never once stopped smiling.
Shortly after we reached the cinema, and settled in to watch Batman: The Dark Knight Rises.
We weren't touching at all, and yet I'm quite certain the temperature between us was skyrocketing.
The air seemed thick with a tingling energy.
Half way through the movie, he slowly reached over and clasped my hand. We traced circles on the inside of each others palms, and toyed with one another's fingers. I had butterflies. Butterflies.
The girl who had been known to quite comfortably suggest a blow job as an icebreaker (sorry Mum & Dad, I know you read this), was visibly trembling just because this person was holding her hand.

After the movie, we realized that if I wanted to catch the last train home, I would have to leave then and there. I decided not to. Wild horses could not have dragged me away from this Man.

We made our way back to his place. I remember informing him that if he turned out to be an axe murderer, and happened to chop me up into a million pieces, I was definitely going to come back and haunt him.

At his house we watched a movie. I kid you not, watched a movie. Once the second film was started though, we snuggled up to one another, and invariably shared our first kiss. It was magic.

Everything about that night filled me with a certain knowing, a knowing that everything about this was right.
This must have been the feeling all those people in movies had been jabbering on about.
I felt as though I was being cloaked in a warm, protective blanket. Everything was safe. Everything was beautiful. All was well.

Needless to say, we saw each other many times after that, in fact we became almost inseparable.
So much so that the Great's actually invited him to move into my room, so we could have a trial run, living together as a couple.

And now, living in our own house, with my two children who he has lovingly taken under his wing, and one more more bundle of love on the way, I can honestly say this is the happiest I have ever been.

This relationship, and all aspects involved within it, has inevitably made me a better person.
We have taught each other how to be the best people we can be.
We practice patience, forgiveness, and express love more than either of us ever have before.

But the most amazing thing? The thing that leads me to believe this will stand the tests of time?
When he places his hand on my cheek and kisses me, I still get butterflies. Every. Single. Time.