Good and bad

The good news:

I'm 21 weeks and 2 days. I had my scan on Thursday, and we are expecting another little girl. She's adorable and looks just like Big Girl (she can't be Little Lady anymore!). Big Girl is 10 months old and is so much fun!

The bad news:

I had to go to hospital on Friday because it looked like my waters were leaking. A bathroom mishap was ruled out, although I still cling to the hope that that was what it was. I have a couple of infections which are being treated, but I have to go back on Monday for a fluid volume scan. I'm shitting it - at this stage in pregnancy, it is NOT good to be losing fluid.

Little Chicken

A fresh start

It's been a while since I've been here. It isn't so much that I've not had anything to say - it's more of a case that I can never find a peaceful half hour to sit and post.

So where are we?

Right. Little Lady is getting on for nine months old. She is currently jumping in her jumperoo and screaming like a banshee. She does that a lot when happy.

She has hair (finally!) and two teeth. She can roll over and over and over and chases the dogs round the floor. She waves and shouts a lot. She is a thumb sucker.

We still have seven cats and two dogs. They have adjusted well to the changes in their lifestyle and are all very good about tolerating the interloper in a nappy.

The Baron is the Baron. He is growing tobacco again this year and is having a great time. He also has more homebrew on the go. I think he likes to hide in the garage so as not to listen to Little Lady practicing her velociraptor impersonations. There are days I'd like to join him.

We are also expecting another Little Chicken in October. That was a massive shock, since the Little Lady was only six months old when we found out. We didn't expect that it would happen so quickly, given how long it took the first time.

And that will have to do for now.

One year ago

One year ago today, my life entirely changed.

I found out that after three long years of trying, I was finally pregnant.

This last year has been just incredible. I had a wonderful pregnancy, a fantastic labour and delivery and was blessed with the most beautiful and amazing daughter. My relationship with my husband has changed irrevocably for the better and we are so happy.

Just squeaking in...

I wasn't sure I'd manage an entry today - the second day of the challenge. That would have been pathetic.

But in the interest of success, I took the plunge and found something interesting to write about.

Literally. I fell down the stairs this afternoon.

I have no idea how it happened. I was very tired after yet another bad night, and I went from thinking about the baby monitor whilst walking down the stairs, to free falling down wondering when I would hit the ground and how.

I landed with my right leg bent back, and my right knee smacked into the ground. I couldn't feel my leg let alone move it, so I crawled into the living room with the intention of calling the Baron and getting him to come home. However, the Little Lady had woken from her catnap (I'm so grateful that I wasn't carrying her at the time) and was howling.

The dogs saw me crawling and thought it was playtime. I shouted at them to sit down as opposed to leaping round like loons, and Zach Attack! promptly dropped on my right leg. I screamed, and Lila pushed him off and jumped on herself thinking this was part of the game.

I decided that calling the Baron would have to wait. I knew he'd freak however I broke the news, but calling with the Little Lady screaming like on trying to raise the dead would not help break that news.

So I calmed her and called him for help. As expected, he had a mini freak out and came home immediately. He took one look at me trying to walk, relieved me of Little Lady and carted me off to the hospital.

I won't bore you with details of the hospital (long wait, spooky x-ray room, pumping in the waiting room and then being given a cubicle and a mad old lady yowling from somewhere), but suffice to say that I have a damaged medial collateral ligament, a bruised ankle and a strained back. Somehow I have to stay off my feet, rest, and do bugger all.

Not sure how that is going to work...

November Challenge

So I'm going to try and post something every day. That is going to be hard. If you look back at my last entry you'll probably see why. HInt - the Little Lady is in fact fourteen weeks old now.

It isn't that I don't have the time. I just don't have that much to say. There is only so much you can say about nappy changes, pumping, napping, pumping, medicines, crying and pumping before you feel you are repeating yourself.

Yes, I'm still pumping. I've made it to three months, and I'm thrilled about that. However, just as I got into a routine, we hit a new problem. My supply seems to be decreasing and I'm lucky to freeze anything at all. At least I can still produce enough for her to eat without supplementing.

The Little Lady is in the midst of another skin flare up. I suspect the bath stuff she was prescribed and the illicit Halloween chocolate I've had is to blame. The dribbling isn't helping - we have some definite movement in the toothypeg department now.

We still have our stray cat. We call him Wally Walter, and he is such an affectionate cat.

Of course, we still have six indoor cats and two insane dogs too. One of those insane dogs is cowering at my feet in response to the fireworks.

So let's see if we can keep this up!

10 weeks

As usual, I'm a little behind on this. The Little Lady is now 10 weeks old, and has honed her Yoda impersonation to perfection. As you can see....

She smiles all day long now. She's such a little charmer - she smiles at me as soon as she wakes up in the morning and doesn't stop all day. She's not giggled properly yet, but I think she is working on it. We're blessed to have such a happy baby.

Of course, as I typed that, she woke up and started shrieking. I must remember to touch wood a bit more often!

She's reached the dizzy heights of 10lbs. I can feel the differnce in her weight from when she was first born. Those tiny newborn clothes look so small now. They are ready to go up in the loft should I find the time to actually go up there.

We had a small mishap out shopping this week. I dropped a boxed pork joint on her head. Accidentally, of course. My poor baby was fast asleep in her pushchair when she was suddenly woken by a piece of pig smacking her on the bounce. She woke with a silent scream, turned bright red and promptly fell asleep. She didn't make a sound.

I had to laugh.

Busy busy busy

It's been a whirlwind here.

The Boy is getting ready to start secondary school. This involves viewing the local schools, lots of angst over where friends may be going and trying to understand catchment areas and entrance requirements.

He's coping with it all very well, and has finally decided on a school that he likes. I'm so proud of him - he has considered what he wants in a school and has looked for it without blindly wanting to go where his friends are going. As it turns out, the school he wants is one that few of his friends will be going to but specialises in subjects he enjoys and wants to pursue.

The Little Lady accompanied us on the tours. She was a real crowd pleaser, and taking her ensured we got to talk to all the teachers!

On top of that, we've all had colds. For the Baron and I, this is not a big deal. An annoyance, but nothing more. When it comes to Little Lady, however, it is a big deal. The poor little thing hasn't been able to sleep or eat properly and has been thoroughly miserable.

She's getting better now, and has done little more than eat and sleep today. Well, that and a couple of spectacularly bad nappies! I suspect that this was the real reason for her grizzliness last week, and not an issue with my milk. This cheers me up no end, and I'm pleased to say that she is enjoying 100% breast milk again.

I'm limiting dairy. I don't think it is a real culprit, but it won't hurt for me to eat less dairy anyway. Her skin has cleared up immensely, although it doesn't seem to take much to get it to flare again so we are watching it carefully.

And she's just rolled over for the first time! I just checked on her, and she is over! My little baby is definitely not so little anymore.

Crying over spilt milk

I gave the Little Lady formula today.

It broke my heart to do it. She's refused breast milk all day, and screamed herself hoarse when I've offered. She was starting to show signs of dehydration and she's not slept for longer than 40 mins at a time.

Now she's in her cot cooing to herself and slowly going to sleep, and I'm sat crying with breasts full of milk she doesn't want or seem to tolerate. And the only way to get rid of it is to use the bloody pump.

I don't know what to do now. I've eliminated dairy from my diet, but I'm only on the second day of that. Do I continue to try and give her breast milk knowing that it may be making her ill and causing her distress, or do I formula feed for a few days and freeze the milk I continue to pump for when she is older?

Or do I give up? I was prepared to pump if I had to. I was prepared to eliminate food from my diet if I had to. I wasn't prepared for both, nor for her simply refusing it. How far do I want to go when formula is a viable option?

Overwhelmed

I'm feeling a tad overwhelmed right now. To be honest, I think most of it stems from the pumping. I'm on the damn thing every two hours (when I can fit it in) in the day and at least twice during the night. I don't feel like I can give my best to the Little Lady by doing this for much longer - she's awake more in the day and pumping is not fun for her.

On top of that, the Little Lady has a recurrent skin infection that causes her pain when it flares. And she is starting to teeth. We also have her first round of jabs to look forward. All this means my previously content and happy baby is incredibly fractious.

My house is falling apart because I can't keep up with it being on the pump all day. I'm not being the pet owner I should either (and as you probably know, we have a stray that pretty much lives here now as well) and I barely get to see the Boy any more. He is on the verge of expulsion because he keeps escaping from school and I don't feel I'm helping him enough.

I go to a breastfeeding support group. I started crying in the middle of the meeting because everyone could breastfeed except me. I had to whip out my bottle instead. I'm scared I'll start to get annoyed with my own baby because she just won't latch on. There are some days I think I'm ok with it and can accept that I need to pump if I want her to have breast milk, and then clearly there are days that I am not. Today is a not and I cannot stomach the idea of giving her any formula.

I wanted to cloth nappy. I've managed one, and I've only just washed that. I just can't do much of anything if I want to keep up exclusively pumping. Which I do. I just wanted to cloth nappy as well.

And I go back to work in 8 weeks time. I don't want to, but we've had so many unexpected costs that I have to. We're now short on money as it is. We're not desperate, but we are shorter than we anticipated and so have to watch very carefully exactly what leaves our bank account.

Hadron

It appears the LHC experiment had some unexpected results that the media have not been reporting on. The machine was switched on last Wednesday, and a definite black hole was been observed in our back garden.

The black hole is mounted on four legs, is covered in white flecked black fur and scabs, and appears with regularity whenever more food is required.



This handsome gentleman is absolutely ravenous (and is also very charming). He first found the Baron out in the garage (where he was working on his latest project). We keep our cat food out there - with six cats, we buy in bulk - and the Baron took pity on his starving companion.

He has been a permanent fixture ever since. The Baron is adamant that we aren't bringing him, yet every evening he feeds him and brings him in for a snuggle on the sofa. He says he just feels sorry for him....

He is a very trusting cat. He is clearly used to humans, as he wanders in the door whenever he gets the chance and makes himself very comfortable. He doesn't mind the dogs either (although they are terrified of him), and he has met several of our cats. Frankie seems to think Hadron is his reflection, but Frankie has never been the smartest of kitties. Ellie isn't impressed, but she hasn't tried to attack him yet.

The real test will be the other four cats. Those four have lived on the streets and bear the scars to prove it. If they accept him, we will have a new cat.

Seven weeks old!

I've been dreadfully lax in keeping a record of the Little Lady's development. Finding the time is hard - between pumping, baby care, animal care, eating and just gazing at her I'm all but out of time. It makes me sad, because there is so much that I know I will forget and I don't want to forget any of it.

She's smiling a lot these days. She has the most beautiful smile that lights up her face, and lights up my heart. I can't believe she is here. A friend who also dealt with infertility was saying that it wasn't so much that she couldn't believe that her baby was hers, but that she couldn't believe that she was his. I completely understand what she means. I could love any baby that was placed in my arms, but I am Little Lady's and hers alone.

Her hair is really growing. Her head still feels like a soft fuzzy peach, but there is definite length at the nape of her sweet neck. I love just stroking her head and inhaling her scent. Sadly I can detect a faint whiff of maple syrup, which comes from the large amounts of fenugreek I'm taking for lactation support, but she has the most delectable baby smell.

She is currently battling a recurrent skin infection. We've just chased it out of her neck, but there are still a few spots behind her ears that look like they may flare again. I don't want to go down the antibiotic route again if we can help it because it was just so difficult getting them in to her.

We've even had a couple of giggles out of her. The Baron spends the evening dancing and singing for her, and she adores it. It makes me laugh too :)

She reached 9 lbs at her weight check on Thursday. I'm still exclusively pumping for her, and it was such a boost to see what progress we're making. Pumping is hard work. I'm proud to say that we've got 4 feeds in the fridge ready for her and there are approximately 80oz in the freezer now. It isn't a lot, but it is a start. I'm taking More Milk Plus, fenugreek, agnus castus and domperidone to help with supply. Sometimes I feel like I should rattle with all the tablets I take....

We still haven't moved to the cloth nappies. I really want to, but I can't find the time to wash our clothes as it is so I'm loathe to add even more to my washing pile. I suspect that I'll have to save cloth nappying until I wean or if we are lucky enough to have a second child.

I thought my period returned at 5 weeks. I'm not so sure - I think the pumping is not quite enough to suppress them totally, but enough to prevent a clear return. The next few months should be interesting! Neither of us mind conceiving again soon, but I would like a little more time to recover from pregnancy and enjoy my little newborn.

My pump is beckoning. Again.

One month old

Time is flying by.

Little Lady is chunking up beautifully, and it is solely down to Mummy's Magical Milking Machine and the Boobie Juice. She has cheek and leg chub now!

I'm still pumping every two hours for her. I had a few days off for mental reasons and sore nipples, but I'm back on track. We have eight feeds in the fridge now, and today I froze my first bag of milk.

Bath time is a very popular time of day here. We always have bubbles, and today, we amused ourselves by giving her bubble hair and taking pictures.



She didn't care, as she likes nothing better than to lean back in the warm water and relax. She takes after her Mum there. The farting is all her Dad, however.

We're still waking every three to four hours in the night. I'm a little more used to it, and I find myself waking up just before she does. It gives me time to prepare her bottle and have a quick drink before she launches into full on crying. I've managed to get feeding her, changing her and settling her down to under half an hour now, which means I can then pump and be back in the Land of Nod in around an hour.

We went to our first breastfeeding support group. I didn't want to go, since I'm pumping and not actually breastfeeding, but my Health Visitor talked me into it. I'm glad we went - the ladies were really supportive of my decision to pump and it was nice to get out and about. Little Lady slept through most of it, and didn't seem particularly enamoured with the other babies. The little boy next to us seemed to like her, however....

She is so alert now. She tracks people across the room, and is starting to reach out for things that interest her. She loves her flashing star that plays music, and she likes her caterpillar rattle as well. She isn't so fond of the characters on her travel cot, but she watches them when the wind blows them.

I can hear stirrings from her cot. I feel a cuddle coming on....

Three weeks old!

Little Lady is in the midst of a growing spurt. She was weighed yesterday by the Health Visitor, and came in at a whopping seven pounds and five ounces!

I'm still pumping. Whilst she doesn't reject my breast immediately, the best we've managed to date is one minute of breastfeeding in one go followed by some grizzling. It is an improvement on her spitting my nipple out immediately and screaming the house down, so I still have some hope that I can persuade her to take some meals from the tap. I don't mind if she takes some bottles, but I'd love to experience some breastfeeding.

The pumping is hard work. Right now, I'm pumping every two hours whilst awake and whenever she wakes in the night (thankfully she usually only wakes the once), and I've managed to get two feeds ahead of her since I got my new electric double pump.

I had been using a manual pump, which was working reasonably well but was hard work and time consuming. Now I can get more milk in half the time, so it was a worthwhile investment for me. I'm hoping I will be in a position to start creating a freezer stash of milk in the near future, but that will take some time given the amount she is eating right now.

She can hold her head up briefly already and rolls to her side with relative ease. She is a very content baby, and just loves to watch the world go by - more so from someone's arms, but she is quite happy in her cot as well.

The dogs love her. Both have to have a sniff and a lick of her in the morning when we come down, and Lila in particular watches over her. She sits next to her cot most of the day, and when Little Lady has a rare cry, Lila runs around crying herself until I've soothed the baby.

The Baron and I are really loving having her. Parenthood is everything we'd hoped it would be and we've never been happier.

Samson

The birth of my daughter will forever be linked for my family with the early, and unexpected death of Samson.

Samson was my parent's rottweiler, and the uncle of my own Darth Lila. He was the most laid back dog in the world, although he was possibly also the most stubborn. Although he lived with my parent's, he was my dog just as much as theirs. I adored him. We all did.

He had been a little off colour that week. Zach and Lila were staying over, since we knew Little Lady would be arriving any time that week, and he didn't want to play with them. He preferred to sit away from them and watch.

On the Friday, he visited the vet. He had a small spot of blood in his eye and he was still out of sorts. The vet thought it was probably nothing to worry about and advised that he be kept quiet and not tear around with the other dogs.

We will never know exactly what happened that night. Sam appeared to have collapsed just as he got to his sleeping spot at the bottom of the stairs, and he died where he fell. My father came down to find his, and our, beloved pet dead where he usually greeted him.

The vet was contacted to collect his body. I was unable to leave the hospital to say goodbye to our first rottweiler, our pet of six and a half years, which is something I still can't come to terms with.

I got a phonecall from my sister shortly after I woke up, still radiant with the joy of finally having my long awaited daughter in my arms. I went from joy to despair with just two words. Samson died.

My parents house is so empty without its big stubborn occupant, and his "brother", Harry moons around with no-one to play with.

There is no need to split the toast crusts in half, or to split an apple core for them to share. There is no big black blob with a lolloping tongue and cocked ear stopping you getting in the house because he wants a fuss.

I'll always miss him, and I will always remember him.

Two weeks old!

Little Lady is a little piggy! She is now 6 pounds 12 ounces!

She dropped to 6 pounds when she was 5 days old, and we were told that she should have regained her birth weight of 6 pounds 2 by today as she is 2 weeks old.

Well, she has been eating like the Hungry Caterpillar (I'm struggling with supply right now since I'm pumping and we've had to resort to a bottle of formula once a day - I just bought a Pump in Style to hopefully make my life easier since I'm currently pumping manually), and she was weighed today as the Health Visitor came round.

She's on the 9th centile for weight and the 25th for height - she was 49cm at birth and today she measured in at 51cm. So I guess the boobie juice is doing something good!

She also crapped on her Daddy today :)

One week old

Little Lady is a whole week old!

It has been the most amazing and exhausting week of my life :) We both just spend hours gazing at her and wondering how we got so lucky as to have such a perfect little daughter. I could stroke that fuzzy little head of hers all day long.

We aren't breastfeeding. Emily will not suck, and will scream herself hoarse if I try to put her on. At the last count, we have had six midwives and two lactation consultants visit us to see if they can help, but so far nothing has. So I am exclusively pumping for her and she is enjoying her boobie milk in a bottle. We're both a lot calmer now we aren't struggling with the breast every feed.

I'm getting about 50-60ml every three hours right now which is nicely meeting her needs. She is feeding every couple of hours now so I'm working on boosting my supply to keep up with her, although I will supplement with formula if I absolutely have to.
I was a weepy mess the day my milk came in. I think I spent most of it sobbing in my bedroom. I was a little better the day after and I think I'm almost under control now, but I still feel like I could weep at the drop of a hat.

My stitches seem to be healing nicely. They were pretty sore to start with and I had a few incidents of getting up and down awkwardly that was pretty painful, but on the whole I've been really lucky with my healing. I still have a massive bruise from my drip (both the insertion point and the path of the needle down my vein when I was hanging onto the bed for dear life) and my epidural but otherwise I'm fine. The state of my pelvic floor scares me though!! I am doing a LOT of exercises.

The Baron is doing my raving nana :) He is such a doting dad, but he is very overprotective and is struggling with how he feels about all the animals with her in the house. He also lacks confidence in handling her as he wasn't that involved in the Boy's early life and hasn't dealt with newborns before.

What else? Her stump fell off today, which is fab. Oh, she was weighed two days ago and had only lost 2 ounces, taking her to a tiny 6 pounds even. None of her newborn clothes fit and my Mum and sister made an emergency shopping trip to buy her tiny baby clothes. Today she is in a first size dress and it swamps her. It is still bloody cute, though.

She sleeps very well and last night we got two separate stretches of 4 hour sleep out of her. I don't mind her crying anyway since she looks like a pissed off alien when she cries and she makes the funniest little noises when she gets pissed off.

I'm also back to my pre-pregnancy weight now, and am in all my old clothes. They are also getting a tad loose - it is scary how quickly the weight is coming off, but the pumping and not finding time to sit and eat is no doubt helping.

The animals are pretty much used to her now. Frankie alternates between rabid curiosity and sheer terror when he sees her, and Willow thinks she is her baby. The others don't care. I don't think Zach has even realised she is here, and Lila is being clingy and protective although she is very gentle when she is around.


Emily is delightful. She grows more alert with every day that passes. And of course, more beautiful.

We have a baby!

This was one of the last pictures I took of my bump. Well, one of the last ones that I actually like. This was taken at about 38 weeks.

On the Monday night (the 21st) I had what I thought was a small leak of fluid. I did as I was told and put a pad on to see if it repeated, and it didn't. So I decided to leave it that night. A few hours later, I felt a pop in my belly and more fluid leaking. I was really excited, but since something similar had happened at 37 weeks and no baby had arrived, I decided to wait until morning before deciding what I should do.

The next morning, we went to the Maternal and Foetal Assessment unit to be checked - we decided that it would be better to be checked rather than risk leaving it. They couldn't find any evidence that my waters had gone, and I wasn't contracting so they gave me a sweep and sent me on my merry way.

The next day, I was not feeling any different. Until I stood up to get a drink and a absolutely gushed fluid. I made a huge puddle that sent the dogs running! I was so excited! We went to the midwives to check what was going on, and yet again they said there was no evidence that my waters had gone. They thought I might have just peed myself instead. Since I'd only been to the toilet 5 minutes before it had happened, I didn't think so, but the lack of any pooling liquor made them hesitate to note it as SROM.

However, they decided that they should as it was the second time in as many days that I'd thought my waters had gone, and I was given 24 hours to go into labour myself. I was given an induction date of the following day.

5AM on Thursday (the day of my induction) I woke up to strong and regular contractions at 9 minutes apart. I was so excited! We decided the best thing to do was to go to the hospital as planned and I could be checked over . If it looked like spontaneous labour then I could go home and have my home birth.

What they didn't tell us was that once we were checked in, we couldn't leave because of the deemed risk of infection. So once booked in, we were stuck there until I had her. Still, the other girls on the antenatal ward were lovely and we all got on well. Three of us were in for induction (two were 40+14) and I was SROM.

They also didn't tell us that there was a massive influx of women and the labour ward was full. No inductions were being done as there were no beds and no midwives for anything other than spontaneous labours. So I spent the Thursday contracting and stuck in hospital. It wasn't too bad, but the contractions started to pick up and I started to use my TENS machine for pain relief.

The highlight of that Thursday for me was the Baron. He stayed with me for nearly the whole day, only nipping home to pick something up I'd forgotten. In his optimism, he changed into a suit and shaved to ensure that he would look nice and smart for the delivery room photo's!

One of the induction girls went into labour in the early hours of the morning. She woke us up shrieking (her entire labour from start to finish was 41 mins and she was in the bed next to me for most of it - that had me scared!!) and that was when I realised how uncomfortable I was. The contractions weren't any more frequent but they were strong. I needed my TENS machine again to go back to sleep.

I was checked the next morning and was 2cm dilated. There were still no beds and the only pain relief offered was paracetamol. At this point, I'd been contracting fairly hard every 9 mins for 24 hours and I ended up yelling at the midwife to let me go home if there was no chance of anything being done. She ordered a scan to check fluid levels as she didn't believe my waters had gone and then she could send me home (and boot me off the induction list).

Somewhere in the next 15 minutes my contractions went from every 9 minutes to every 2 and really started to hurt. I managed to stay still during my scan, which showed I had no fluid left at all (I felt so vindicated at that point!). I was helped back to my bed, and the midwives ran me a bath to help with the pain.

Frankly, I didn't find the bath helpful at all so I got out and went back. The doctor checked me and said I was still 2cm but she wanted to monitor me. I couldn't cope with being on my back and kept rolling around and messing up the monitors. I kept ripping them off and moving to a more comfy position and ended up fighting with the new midwife (we called her Miss Trunchbull). I also kept running off to the toilet (both to cry and to try (and fail) to crap!)- a clear sign that in retrospect should have told me I was in real labour.

The Baron was great about rubbing my back on demand. I needed really hard counter pressure to even start to deal with the pain, and he was fantastic at providing that.

The doctor came back and checked me after 10 minutes of writhing on the bed and said I was now 4 cm. They rolled me some gas and air in whilst they got me a bed in labour ward. That stuff was fantastic - I was puffing away on it, then I'd fall asleep and forget and then have a massive contraction that I couldn't control! After that happened a few times, I got a bit better about not breathing on it constantly, but since everything hurt it was hard to take the advice to only breath on a pain seriously.

They finally came to take me round to labour ward and asked if I wanted any other pain relief. I yelled I was having an epidural NOW and they just laughed at me. I hadn't planned to have on, but the contractions were so coming so thick and fast that I didn't think I could take hours of them. I remember that I was having a contraction when they came to tell me I had a bed, and I simply couldn't move. I puffed on my gas and air and then I RAN for the labour ward as soon as my contraction ended so I could get to the gas and air in the labour ward in time for the next contraction. Enormously pregnant women can run when the need arises!

I went round to the labour ward and had a drip put in (I needed antibiotics since my waters had been broken more than 24 hours), and the anaethetist was ready and waiting. It took him around 45 minutes to get it in successfully, but I had my trusty gas and air and we made it through. The Baron was really great - he held me still and helped me breath through the pains. Once it was in (it was a mobile one) I told my midwife I was going to the loo. He offered me a catheter, and I told him where to stick it. It wasn't in me. He asked what I wanted to do, and when I said I didn't just need to pee, he said he would have to check me first.

My epidural hadn't even kicked in when he told me I was fully dilated! He said he'd give me an hour of passive so I could rest, but I got the urge to push on the next contraction and there was nothing I could do. It hurt more to fight it. So he checked me and gave me the all clear to start pushing when I wanted to.

Pushing was hard, and according to my notes was 45 minutes long. I had no idea how much time passed but it felt a lot shorter than that. The pressure was just incredible and I retreated into myself whilst pushing to cope. I thought I was fairly noisy, but apparently I barely made a sound until I was crowning. The baby had some decels towards the end and I had to really push to get her out. She also passed meconium.

At 19:39 our beautiful little daughter Emily May was born, weighing in at a diddly little 6 pounds 2 ounces. It was a beautiful moment for all of us.

In the end I ended up with a second degree tear which involved some nifty needle work. And the anaesthetic I had didn't take full effect so I felt most of the repair work. That was probably the worst bit, but I had my beloved gas and air back :) I console myself with the thought that I did just push a baby out and I didn't actually feel the tear (one of my biggest fears).

We had some skin to skin contact as soon as she was born (despite the fact that not only did she pass meconium, she crapped on me as soon as she was passed to me, and of course I may have had a little birth accident!), then the Baron cut her cord. I had the jab to bring on the placenta, and then the new Daddy had a nice long cuddle whilst I was stitched up.

As soon as I was stitched up, I reminded the midwife that I still needed the toilet. He offered a bedpan, but I was desperate to actually get up off the bed and so I decided I'd walk there instead. He was a tad surprised, but he offered me his arm and walked me round. It wasn't as painful as I feared at all, but the amount of blood did scare me.

We walked back, and he took me into the wrong delivery room. Thankfully, the couple in the room I wandered into had also had their baby and I didn't witness what I'd just been through!

The Baron was still holding Emily whilst I had my post birth tea and toast, and continued to hold her when I was wheeled through to have a much needed shower. It did make me laugh, because I'd just walked to and from the same room to use the toilet yet I had to be wheeled for a shower!

Little Lady did not take to the breast in the delivery room. She was very sleepy. I wish we'd tried a little harder at that point, but we were all tired and we were taken off to the post natal ward to get some much needed rest.

We ended up staying in for two nights, since we were under observations due to the meconuim and the length of time my waters were gone. We had some jaundice, feeding problems and temperature regulation problems, but these were resolved enough for us to go home on Sunday.

Growing ever larger and other things

I'm not joking:

See?

I must explain that the Baron had said something very rude, hence the bizarre expression on my face. I don't routinely look like that! That picture was taken over two weeks ago, but it is my favourite and I don't have any really nice ones of my current size.

I've been signed off work with SPD. I have to admit it is a relief to be done, and the reduction in my driving and general wandering around clutching files has certainly helped to reduce the pain in my pelvis.

And for your viewing pleasure, a few other pictures I took:

A Paddington Bear quilt. We both adore Paddington, and the Baron had his own quilt set when he was young. I used to have Paddington Bear wallpaper, so this has special meaning to us both.

Every girl needs a pair of jelly shoes. 'Nuff said.

Teh cuteness!!

Part of the nappy stash. We decided to go for cloth nappies, and we decided that we didn't want to use all in one's because they don't hold up as well in the long term (since the whole nappy goes in the washer). Hopefully, we'll have other children to use these as well so it would be better if they lasted!

I couldn't resist. Zach Attack! was crying outside the room whilst I was taking pictures. He isn't actually allowed upstairs, but when this is downstairs:

you can understand his reluctance to be downstairs with her. Darth Lila has a skin infection and is wearing her lightshade to prevent her from removing her own face. She has my sympathy - after the issues I had in Jamaica last year, I fully understand how rotten she much feel, but I admit that that sympathy can become strained when she bangs her cone into my legs in an attempt to both get some love and to remove it.

And just to be fair to all the household critters:

That is what six cats on a bed looks like. To be honest, it is pretty rare that all six sleep together like that. Three or four is normal, five is not uncommon but all six? Incredible!

Musings from my hotel room

I'm a few days shy of 30 weeks. How on earth did THAT happen?

I remember holding that test with a second line and being totally shocked. 26 weeks later, that shock hasn't entirely subsided.

I feel her moving every day. She gets the hiccups a fair bit at the moment, which always makes me laugh. I can sit for hours and watch the ripples of her movement across my belly. I've seen her on ultrasound and I've heard her beautiful heartbeat on every occasion that we've tried.

Yet I still can't quite believe that we'll be having a baby in around 10 weeks.

We have a whole room sorted now. She has a cot, a Moses basket, a wardrobe to be proud of, cloth nappies, bedding, toys, a swing, a pramette and a car seat. Most of which has been tested by a deranged black cat only too pleased to help out.

But it still doesn't feel real. I wonder when it will....

Heffalumping along

Spot the baby bump

More musical musings

I was forced to learn the recorder when I was four. I was too disruptive in reading lessons as I was already a good reader, and the school dealt with that by sending me to play the recorder with the 10 year olds. I loved it. That was when I was first exposed to the piano.

When I was five, I decided that I wanted to learn the piano. I was adamant; however, my parents were not so sure that five was a good age to start. I badgered and badgered, and eventually. when I was six, they agreed I could start lessons.

My school at the time offered trial music lessons. They didn't have any space left on the piano session, but they did have on the violin. I had no interest in that, but I did it anyway because there was a piano in that room.

I barely remember that lesson. I remember standing on the other side of the room watching the teacher play the piano and thinking that is what I want to do. I don't remember touching the violin.

I do remember breaking my arm in two places the following day when I fell off the bars in gymnastics (another class my school offered).

I had surgery, I came home, and I remained in a full arm plaster for a whole year. Clearly, music lessons were out. I learned to knit instead, and I helped the babies with their reading in lunch breaks.

When my plaster came off, my arm was very weak. To this day, my right arm is marginally weaker than my left and I have residual tendon damage from where the tendons were damaged by the break. However, I immediately began asking for piano lessons again. By now I was seven.

My parents relented. My grandmother bought me my very own piano and I was finally off.

It was everything I had dreamed it would be. I loved it. I practiced diligently, played many concerts, and just had a great time playing. I would come home from school and throw myself into practice.

When I was nine, I had the chance to also learn the clarinet. That was when I realised what my true love was. I still enjoyed the piano, but the clarinet was an extension of me.

I carried on taking lessons in both - I took all my exams, played more concerts and even went on tour. And I dreamed of playing the clarinet professionally.

But it unravelled when I was 16. My beloved piano teacher was diagnosed with a brain tumour. He was a great guy, and I looked forward to my lessons every week. He really challenged me, and he understood my style of playing. But as he grew frailer, my lessons were cancelled with depressing frequency. He recommended a new teacher, and gave me suggestions as to who I might work well with. He died shortly after he gave me his list. I was devastated.

My next teacher wasn't a great fit. He was a really nice guy, but he didn't offer a challenge. I started to lose interest, for the first time. I had a very bad bout of food poisoning just after this, and wasn't able to leave my bed for a month. I was really quite unwell. Piano playing was impossible, let alone travelling to my lessons.

I stopped taking piano lessons at this point. It was months before I felt strong enough to do more than go to school and come home, and I decided to concentrate on the clarinet and on my school exams - at this point I had decided that I would like to try to get into medical school. Instead of piano lessons, I had additional tutoring in chemistry. I'd like to say it helped, but I'll just point out that I am a qualified accountant, not a doctor and leave you to draw your own conclusions!

So I continued with my clarinet studies. I still adored the instrument. However, I wasn't so enamoured with my teacher. I still had the same teacher I had when I started. She was a nice woman, but she didn't come close to being as good a teacher as my previous piano teacher. He encouraged me to explore the music, to find my own style and my own interpretation, and he worked with my style to find the best music for me. Whereas, with my clarinet teacher, I felt I was playing the music she loved in the style she thought it should be played in.

And then I discovered alcohol :)

I started to go out more with friends from school. As it happened, they were also in the same band that I played it, so when I went on tour, so did they. That was the last straw, as far as my clarinet playing went.

We were not permitted to buy duty free (which still existed in the EU at this time), despite being legally allowed to. We were not allowed to drink or smoke - both of which were legal in the country we visited, and the restrictions proved too alluring.

I left the band after our return, and I didn't see my teacher again. My teacher was disappointed in my behaviour and I was too angry with hers to want to continue.

So ended my musical career.

I do regret it.

I was very good. Not to sound arrogant, but I was good. If I had continued, I would have been able to attend music school. Instead, I drank my way through a biomedical science degree and then became an accountant.

I don't regret those decisions in the slightest as I enjoyed my time at university and I love my current job, but I often wonder what could have been. The only thing I regret is not continuing with my music. I still miss it.

I play the piano infrequently now. I'm not anywhere as good as I used to be, and I find that hard to listen too. Clearly the dogs do, since they don't like me playing. The cats aren't too fond of my clarinet playing either, and it isn't the same without accompaniment. I've been playing the bass guitar on and off for a couple of years as well. I can play along to the radio now, and that has been fun. But I miss just being able to sit down and lose myself in music the way I used to.

I hope Little Lady can find as much enjoyment in music as I used to. Even if it doesn't last!

Musical tastes

I've been experimenting with music for the Little Lady. She seems to enjoy my normal car music (usually indie or rock) well enough given her kicking and wriggling but I don't see myself being able to calm her to sleep with that in the future :)

So I've been playing the piano to her. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach and Mendelsohn seem ok - she wriggles a bit, jazz gets no reaction at all (I'm glad because jazz is not my style) and baroque was met with a little kick.

However.....I found out after an afternoon of playing she adores the Maple Leaf Rag. Every single time I play it she goes crazy in there. However, I can't play the whole thing. I used to be able to, but it has been a while since I seriously practiced mainly because the dogs when puppies would howl and it pissed the neighbours off. Plus Darth Lila ate my copy of the Maple Leaf Rag...

She likes it when I play it on the computer, but if I play it on the piano you can actually see her moving in there! I guess I need to go buy the music again, and get practicing.

I don't think I'll play the clarinet to her. I'm not going to have enough time to start really practicing that as well!

So much for a holiday

I have a stinking cold. I don't think it is the flu because other than yesterday I've not been so drained that I can't do anything. Yesterday was BAD.

I've not felt this bad since 1995 (ironically about a week after the Baron and I started to go out) when I got tonsillitis, a sinus infection and an ear infection all at once. That was dire. But this is pretty much on a par with that.

The main problem is that there is so little I can take right now to alleviate it. I can't sleep because I can't swallow and I can't breathe, so I toss and turn all night. Little Lady doesn't like that too much and kicks the shit out of me all night. That is a great feeling - don't get me wrong, but since I've also pulled all my stomach muscles from coughing so much it is also a little painful right now.

So I feel very sorry for myself. It's pathetic really.

Random stuff

Just a few more pictures:



This is Little Lady's cot. It used to belong to the Boy, a fact of which he is very proud, but it was delivered here not too long ago. The mobile was also the Boy's, and he helped pick out the bedding set. Hanging on the end is a swaddling blanket with giraffes on.





I fell in love with that as soon as I saw it. It is so cute! The purple thing you can see is the bag that the Boy carried our wedding rings in when we got married - he was our Zombie Henchman.



The Boy picked out this top because he thought I'd like it. He was very right!




This is a party dress for Little Lady. I expect her first party will be the Boy's 10th birthday, which should be not long after her birth (less so if I go late - I was three weeks late myself so I'm not optimistic that I will go anywhere near my due date). I think she will look pretty cute in this.



We are planning a trip to Jamaica again next February, and we didn't think it would be too easy getting a swimming costume then. So we bought one today!





This is the mobile hanging over her changing mat. We bought that on our honeymoon in the Maldives for this very reason. It has been in storage a while!





Her changing mat. I suspect the cats will enjoy sleeping on there if they ever find the door open.





A ladybird rain mac. Every little girl needs one!




Two little bolero tops to go over baby grows. I have a lot of boy and gender neutral stuff so hopefully these will help show she is all girl.







Another cute pink outfit!




I was given this.





Just in case there was any doubt!

21w5d

Time is just flying by. We had our scan yesterday. This was my favourite picture - it was the first thing we saw and it is just the cutest little yawn ever. The Baron and I were convinced that we saw boy bits. However, the tech took a peek between the legs, and confirmed that we can't read ultrasound scans at all and we are in fact going to have a little girl!

So say hello to Emily May:






Emily isn't the only one to have grown either:








That was taken at 17 weeks. Now look at this!

Food glorious food

I'm eating for England. It is shocking how hungry I am these days, all the more so given my eight weeks of being completely repelled by food. I just can't get enough to eat.

I'm pleased to say that I'm still below my pre-pregnancy weight despite the constant scoffing, but it really is a matter of time before the scale starts creeping back up. I don't mind putting weight on at all, but I admit I would like to make sure the gain is reasonable and not because I have no self control in the face of overwhelming hunger!

The eating is doing something. My bump is growing nicely.

The less than prodigal blogger returns! Again! From yet another long absence!

Hi.

When I wrote my last post I had no plans to stop blogging. However, I fell into somewhat of a funk that week and blogging was the last thing on my mind.

We'd had a great break in Paris, but things were difficult. It was hard to get back into the swing of work, our second wedding anniversary was fast approaching and along with it, the harsh reality that we still hadn't managed to conceive. And it was coming up to our deadline to go back to the doctor to have more infertility investigations.

And so I retreated into myself. I wasn't a very happy person, and I wasn't feeling too good.

I had been feeling somewhat peculiar for days. Tired, nauseous, and emotional. At this time, I had a crash on the motorway - my tyre had burst, forcing me to "drive" into the road-works to avoid a more serious accident. I put down feeling ill to the shock of that.

However, when I nearly fainted at work mid afternoon, and after I wanted to throw up after eating a plain omelette, I was beginning to wonder if in fact I should test. It didn't seem possible that feeling that ill should be related to a car crash.

Testing has always been stressful. The disappointment, month after month, of seeing that one lonely line builds up and makes what should be an exciting time a mere chore. With that in mind, I wondered whether I should bother, despite the strangeness of the symptoms. After all, I had been disappointed enough.

I was pondering whether I should test all the way home from that visit, and decided I would leave it up to fate. If I saw a car registration plate with EPT (early pregnancy test), HPT (home pregnancy test) or BFP (big fat positive), I would test.

Of course, I didn’t see any of those. What did I see? BFN (big fat negative). The story of my life so far. However, it made me laugh and I decided I would test anyway.

And test I did. I performed the test, and went downstairs to deal with the cats. And I forgot about the test. That is just how confident I was that it would be negative.

The Baron came home late that night, and asked in passing whether I had tested yet. I said that I had but I’d forgotten about it. I said I assumed it was negative based on my gut feeling and that my period would start in the next few days. He was disappointed, but resigned. After all, we’d been here many times.

I went to bed, and just before I turned the lamp out, I had a quick peek. And there was a faint line. Now, most people would probably get excited at that point, but since I’ve had evaporation lines before it wasn’t as exciting as it might have been to someone newer to the process. So I put the test away and went to sleep. I really and truly did not think that it meant anything.

I woke up early the next morning. Whilst I hadn’t been temping for the last few cycles, I decided that in light of the line last night I’d just see whether I had a high temperature or not. I did.

So I went to the bathroom, test in hand. I didn’t plan on wasting that test if my period had already started (I believe that the mere thought of testing can in fact bring a period on) so I peed in my special testing glass. Once I realised that my period hadn’t in fact started, I dipped the test and waited.

And to my intense shock, a second line appeared almost immediately! Words cannot express what I felt at that moment. It was sheer shock combined with disbelief combined with amazement combined with joy. I started crying and ran into the bedroom. Poor Baron had only had four hours sleep at this point (the curse of middle shift) but I shook him awake and told him to look. He managed to pry his eyes open and glance at it. He was wide awake immediately.

Of course, everyone dreams that their partner will immediately be over the moon, but the Baron’s first reaction was shock. Given my own level of surprise, it wasn’t exactly unexpected.

We decided that I should take another just to make sure it wasn’t a defective test. To be sure, I took another two – different brands. Those lines came immediately and were clear. No squinting, bright lights, tilting or other optical tricks were needed. They were as clear as day, and were simply the most beautiful sight.

I was pregnant. 3 weeks and 6 days, to be precise.

The plan was to hold off telling people until Christmas. It seemed like a sensible idea, but in reality I lasted all of two hours. I just couldn’t hold the news in. I’d waited so long for this that I had to share it. Our parents were excited, as were our friends and other family members. This news had been long in coming,

I tested again at 4 weeks. 4 weeks and 1 day. 4 weeks and 2 days. 4 weeks and 3 days. That second line brings an incredible smile to my face even now. Of course I still have all my tests. They are so precious.

I won't bore you with the details of the intervening weeks. I kept a journal for myself, but the main theme was my terror that the pregnancy would end. I struggled a lot with that fear, and since I had the misfortune to be away from home quite a lot in the early weeks, I found it very difficult to think of anything else.

However, a very wise woman told me to enjoy the pregnancy, however scared I felt. That I wouldn't feel any differently if the pregnancy ended and I'd spent it in fear than if I'd enjoyed it. And I think she was right. Realising that did help.

This helped immensely:

This beautiful picture was taken at 12w4d, and Spawn (as the Boy has taken to calling the baby) was measuring right on target.

Today I'm 14w3d. I'm feeling more relaxed now, and I think I felt my first flutter yesterday!

Snippets from my life in a suitcase

Paris

Warm. Cloudless blue skies. Leaves of every colour gently floating to the ground.

The outdoor café at the Louvre. Stone angels gazing on as the sun shines on the glass pyramid. The sound of water fountains, coffee cups and quiet chatter. Good coffee and good chocolate. Utter contentment.

A leisurely stroll down the Champs Elysees. A drink by the Seine. Mass at Notre Dame. Candles. Chatting with the rugby fans. Meeting friends. Admiring the view from the Eiffel Tower. An open topped bus tour on a beautiful autumn day.


Margate

A long evening walk on the beach. The twinkling lights of the ships settling down for the night. The moon shining over a still sea. Breakfast on the cliffs.

Emergency medical treatment for a severe allergic reaction to an insect bite. Consolatory chocolate.

Lunch by the beach. An afternoon mocha and cake.

An evening drive through the countryside.


Hastings

A Georgian country house. Dinner in the garden room. Sunset over the trees. A solitary breakfast in the conservatory.

Tea and cake.

Hello

Despite the best intentions I could muster, it appears that I haven't been in here in some time.

Looking back over my last post, I can still remember how crushed I was. I can also remember the sheer joy of getting a positive test a few days later, and I don't think I'll ever forget just how sad I was when I started bleeding a few hours later.

So here I am a month later. Still without child, and still surrounded by more animals than any sane person should be.

I'm off to Paris on Friday, so I may even have something interesting to talk about in a few days.

Hope. Vanquished.

The last week was a glorious truimph for Hope.

I just knew I was pregnant. I've never been that certain. Granted, I had no proof of it, and I had no reason to hold such a conviction but it was there. And it was wonderful.

As my Hope grew, my chart looked prettier and prettier. My symptoms increased daily. But the Hope was there first, long before the body of evidence developed to give further body to the elusive dream.

Hope was vanquished this morning, but she didn't go quietly.

The sun was shining. I took a test. The lines came up immediately. I was shaking and crying, screaming and yelling and I was so happy. I was so happy I could taste it.

I told the Baron, I told friends in the computer. I was rejoicing in that simple truth shown on a small plastic stick.

However, something wasn't right. I could feel something was wrong but I didn't want to confront it.

The lines were horizontal across the stick.

It wasn't real.

It was a stupid fucking dream.

When I woke up, crying, it was foggy. The heartbreak of realising it wasn't real hadn't quite overtaken the sheer joy I had felt. I decided to test for real. Today was the day I had planned to.

The dream didn't come true.

Hi

It goes without saying that I am a terrible blogger. To some degree, this hasn't been my fault. Our computer died again, and my replacement laptop wouldn't let me log in here, so even if I HAD had something to blog about, I wouldn't have been able to.

However, I have had nothing to blog about, so the above mentioned excuse isn't needed.

I am still not pregnant, and I have no new animals in the house. Of course, that changes temporarily next week, as we are dog sitting my parent's creatures. Samson, the uncle of Darth Lila, and Harry Plopper, the brother of Zach Attack!, will be staying with us for a week whilst the rest of my family plays dodge the hurricane. I have taken the week off work to ensure that there is minimal blood spillage and that the house stays reasonably intact.

I fear this is the final nail in the coffin of my sanity. Ten animals in one house.

Other than dealing with animal induced pyschosis, my plans for the week involve some light cleaning, some heavy alcohol consumption and I forgot what I was saying because the window just blew open and scared the crap out of me.

Oh yes, my plans for the week. The front garden is going to die. I am so annoyed that after the hard work we put into it, the bindweed has taken over. I plan on removing as much surface weed as I can, dousing the whole area in super strength weedkiller, and then covering the area with black bags to keep the light out. I've read that will help the weedkiller penetrate to the roots and kill it off more effectively. I've also read the complete opposite, but I like this idea since I don't have to look at the mess every day.

I think those three tasks will keep me out of mischief.

Haze

This new job has me running all over the place. The last few weeks have seen me living out of a suitcase and wracking up some impressive mileage. I've not quite been the length and breadth of the country, but frankly, it's only a matter of time.

And as I sit here, with my faithful One Eyed Willy and my loyal Zach Attack!, I mentally start packing supplies for yet another week away from home. This week is the East and the North again.

I vaguely remember my husband and my pets. It's all getting very hazy now......

An average day

I wake with a start. Frankie has landed on me and is determinedly head-butting my chin. He will wake me if it is the only thing he successfully achieves today.

I try to push him off, but I can’t. I manage to sit up enough to see that it is four thirty in the morning, and that the reason that my feet aren’t moving is because Ozzie and Willow are each sleeping on one.

I summon all my energy and push him off the bed. He bounces straight back up like a demented Tigger, and makes himself at home on my bladder.

Charlie, awoken by the thud of falling cat, also makes his appearance on the bed. He settles into the crook of my left arm, making sure that his whiskers are positioned straight up my nose.

Holly is pissed off that they got there before her, and starts swearing loudly.

Zach hears the commotion from downstairs and starts barking. He sounds startled, like he was suddenly snatched from a really good dream. There is a note of panic in his bark, which soon dies away as he drifts back to sleep.

The Baron’s snores continue unabated, as do Ellie’s.

Amazingly, despite the noise, and dead weight on my bladder, I drop back into slumber.



The alarm clock comes as a complete shock. Charlie leaps into the air in horror, and sends Willow and Frankie running for cover. Ozzie lifts his head, realises that requires more energy than he has, and goes back to sleep.

A now happy Holly jumps onto the spot that Charlie has made warm. Sadly, I don’t have time to snuggle for long, much as I want to, because my sorely abused bladder can’t last out much longer. I stroke her wonderfully soft fur for a few minutes and reluctantly leave the warmth and comfort of my bed and of my cat.

I stagger, zombie-like, into the bathroom, with Ellie winding herself round my ankles. I count the steps it takes to get there, because I have a bet with myself every morning as to how long it will take Zach to bark. He barked on step eleven. Yesterday it was step eight. He’s slacking.

With the help of my faithful feline friends, I manage to use the bathroom. They accompany back to the bedroom so I can get dressed. I pull on my dog walking clothes and prepare to face the next wave of animal mayhem.



Downstairs, Zach is very much awake. I can hear his cries as I scoop the litter tray and get fresh bowls out for the cats, who are all eagerly awaiting their breakfast. His cries get louder as he listens to me fill the kibble bowl and get the dog bowls ready.

The cats are eating. I watch them for a minute, enjoying the relative peace that will soon be shattered. Ellie is messy when eating. Oz gulps his food down like there is no tomorrow. Willow picks up each biscuit so daintily, hunched over the kibble so no-one can interrupt her. Charlie eyes the kitchen warily, and then starts to lick the jelly off the meat. Holly is on the other side of the kitchen with her private bowl.

Frankie is not eating. He is in the brace position by the living room door and is awaiting the arrival of his best friend.

I go into the living room. Zach is jumping up and down on the spot, unable to contain his excitement that it is a whole new day to spent in fun and mischief. He can’t walk for wagging his tail, and so flings himself in the general direction of the sofa.

Lila looks up from the sofa in the conservatory and yawns. Lazily, she stands up and stretches. She extends her back legs so thoroughly that I am amazed she doesn’t fall back down. Slowly, she walks over to the sofa where I am being licked and sniffed by Zach. Her little stump of a tail wags as she walks.

Incredibly, Zach’s tail wags even harder as Lila plods over. She sits between my knees and I stroke her head. Zach sits next to us and rolls around, flashing his bits. But Zach becomes jealous and starts bouncing from corner to corner, trying to get my attention. I turn to stroke him, and find that Lila has leapt up into my lap and is preventing me from doing anything but loving her.

After a few minutes, Lila removes herself and sits by the door. She wants her breakfast. Zach, who is still bounding with excitement, jumps around next to her. He couldn’t find a bone to bring me, and so he has the remote control in his mouth.

I open the door.

Lila makes for the kitchen and sits in front of the counter where her breakfast is waiting. She glares at Charlie, who is sniffing her bowl curiously, and waits for me to follow her.

Zach pays no attention to the food, and makes for Frankie. His green eyes light up as the door opens, and the two friends greet each other as though they haven’t seen each other in years.

Lots of sniffing and licking later, Zach is ready for breakfast. He leaps around as I pick up his bowl and fill it and dives straight in as soon as it is down. Lila watches me pick up her bowl and leaves the kitchen. I put it down and she races back in to start eating. She doesn’t like the sound her bowl makes when it touches the floor.

I sweep the floor. The dogs have shed enough fur overnight to create a new puppy. Frankie and Ellie sniff the fur with disdain and go back to watching the birds in the garden.




The dogs have finished their breakfast. Zach starts running around the living room in anticipation of his walk. Lila inspects both the bowls and then sits at the front door whilst I get my shoes on.

I clip their leads on and we set off.

We take the same route we take every morning, and we see the same people we always do. We are creatures of habit.

The children come to greet us, and Lila wets herself with excitement. Zach is tangled in the leads and wagging his tail. He tries to free himself and ends up rolling around in the mud, legs tied together. But his tail doesn’t stop wagging.

I free him, and we go home.




As soon as we get back, I put the dogs in the back garden with their favourite toys. They start chasing each other round and round. As I leave the room, I can see Zach nipping Lila’s legs and running away. I can hear her growl of response.

Holly is still in the kitchen eating her breakfast. She looks at me, and continues to eat. She likes to take her time.

I go upstairs and take a shower. I can see Charlie sat on the bathmat through the shower curtain, and watch Ellie climb into the sink. Her little face peers round the curtain and then disappears.

I get dressed, ready for work. Willow watches me from her vantage point on the end of the bed. I stroke her before going downstairs. She rubs her empty eye socket on my hand.

I empty the dishwasher and get my breakfast. A bowl of peach and pear segments with natural yoghurt and Weetabix, and a glass of semi skimmed milk.

I eat my breakfast in front of the computer. I visit my favourite sites and check the news and travel. I can see the dogs eyeing my breakfast up through the conservatory doors, and that is why I haven’t let them in.

I clean up and pack my lunch.

Zach is howling, and so I relent and let the dogs back in. Lila makes a beeline for her favourite bone, and I wrestle Zach to the ground. He has muddy paws and I don’t want to change again.

It is time to leave. I call work to tell them where I am going, pick up my bags and say goodbye to the pets.

I am on my way.




I set off down the road. The traffic from the road block is terrible and I am glad I am not going that way. The sun is shining over the fields, and there is a light but patchy fog. The horses are playing in their enclosure and I smile when I pass them.

I reach the motorway. As I speed up down the slip road, I turn my music up and get ready for a nice drive. I hit eighty five just as I move out into the middle lane, gliding past the endless parade of lorries on their way to London.

The M11 is fairly clear. I can see all the way to the City - the Gherkin is shining in the sun. I take the sharp turn into the M25 and see that the traffic is light.

The good traffic continues all the way past the bridge. I can see brake lights ahead of me, and I gently apply my own brakes, adding my lights to the sea of colour. The traffic is not moving.

My lunch is calling to me. I eat half a chicken sandwich. I rarely manage to get to work with my lunch intact. I wrap the rest up, and put it on the back seat out of reach.

I play the alphabet game to pass the time. I get to W before the traffic begins to move again. I pass a Jaguar with its engine completely caved in, and a little further down, a van with its boot caved in. There is a bored looking policeman standing next the van, writing something down.

I leave the motorway and drive the final couple of miles to today’s destination. I struggle to remember where I am going, and am heartened when I see a familiar parade of shops.

There is nowhere to park. I park in someone else’s space and sign myself in.

I find the office assigned to me and dump my belongings. My first port of call is the loo, followed immediately by the kitchen.

I rummage through the cupboard trying to find a clean mug to use, one that doesn’t clearly belong to someone else. I give up, and borrow a cup and saucer from the set used by the Board. I make my tea, scalding my hand in the process, and return to my office.

I find that someone, trying to be helpful, has turned the air conditioning on. The office resembles the interior of a walk in freezer. I turn the air conditioning off, and begin to unpack my work.




The day passes in a blur of meetings, phone calls, tea making, and file review. It is a relief when I see the clock reach four.

I pack up, making sure that I don’t accidentally take client paperwork away with me. That rarely goes down well.

I start the car and brace myself for the stop and start journey home.




I can hear Zach barking as soon as I open the car door. Lila knows I am home, and doesn’t bother to bark. Knowing her, she hasn’t bothered to move yet either.

Ellie is in the window waiting. As I open the front door, I can hear the sound of cats leaping from their sleeping places. Ozzie is the loudest, and vaults over Charlie and Frankie to streak down the stairs and into the kitchen first. He leaps onto the side and takes up his position by his bowl, crying piteously to remind me that I’ve not fed him in at least six hours.

I go through the morning feeding ritual again, and smile as I hear Zach’s cries getting more excited.




I open the door to the living room and greet my dogs. Lila is laying in a pool of sunshine in the conservatory. She leaps up as soon as she sees me and races over. Zach is already leaping around me creating a draft with his ever wagging tail, but is soon pushed out of the way by Lila. She sits at my feet and licks whatever part of me she can get to. I crouch down and cuddle her.

Zach settles on my left side and lets me rub under his chin. Lila doesn’t want to let him have any attention and wiggles round to block him out. I tell her to get down and show me her belly. She complies, and so does Zach. I rub both of their bellies, and tell them what good dogs they are.

As is her wont, Lila begins to roll around on the floor, stretching muscles and rubbing her back. Zach takes this as a signal that the games can start and leaps up. He jumps around her barking, and she rolls around barking.
With that, I leave them to it.

The cats have finished their meal and are waiting faithfully for me in my bedroom. I join them. Holly is on my pillow, where she likes to spend the day in peace. Willow is at the end of my bed and the boys are in one great heap of arms, legs and tails. Ellie, as ever, is winding between my feet and telling me all about her day.

I change out of my work clothes. I know I should hang them up, but instead I leave them in a crumpled pile, promising myself I will deal with them later. Deep down, I know I am lying to myself.

I pull on my favourite jeans, a new t-shirt I bought and pick up my boots. It is time to walk the dogs again, and they know it. I can hear them prancing around with excitement as I pull on my boots, and as I go back down the stairs I can see them waiting for me.

And so we set off, a labrador streaking ahead and a rottweiler lagging behind.




After the dog walk I start to think about my rumbling tummy. In a good week, I will have planned out dinners and will have made sure that whatever I need is defrosted and ready to cook.

This hasn’t been a good week, and so there is nothing ready to cook. This doesn’t deter me, and I rummage through the freezer looking for something that suits.

Whilst dinner is cooking, I visit my favourite forums. I join the ladies in chat (good friends all) and we natter. Sometimes we do cleaning in between chats, but today I don’t want to. Today is a lazy day, and the housework will just have to wait.




I eat dinner at the computer. This is a habit I would like to break, but when I am at home alone, cyber company is better than no company. I try not to drop food onto the keyboard, as this upsets the Baron but a few stray grains of rice end up stuck between the A and the S keys anyway. This will annoy the Baron because not only is there food in the keyboard, it will remind him that we still haven’t got any transfers for the keyboard. I can type, and the lack of letters on the keyboard doesn’t bother me. It bothers him.

I can hear Lila downstairs. She is trying to take Zach’s bone away from him, and he doesn’t want her to. She is quite persuasive, however, and I hear him cry and then flop on the sofa.

Ellie is sat next to my plate and is quietly licking the remains. I haven’t got the energy to push her away and pretend that I haven’t seen her.

I continue chatting with my friends. The sky grows dark and I put the light on.




Downstairs, the dogs are disturbed from their sleep by the sound of the front door opening. I look guiltily at the clock, and realise how late it is. The Baron is home.

I say goodbye to my friends, and go downstairs.

The Baron is tired and hungry. I make him some dinner whilst he walks the dogs and washes his hands. He slumps into his chair and gratefully takes his dinner. The dogs lay by his feet with a hopeful and expectant air. Ellie wanders in and sits directly opposite him.

We chat for a bit. The dogs look dejected when they realise there is no food for them, and Lila whimpers when Ellie gets a crafty lick of the plate. She is jealous.

The Baron goes and checks on his plants. His tobacco plants are coming on spectacularly, and the lawn he seeded is already in need of a mow.

I check that the animals all have food and water enough to survive the night. Ozzie and I disagree on the amount of food needed to last, and again he cries piteously as I fill the bowls.

With a final check that everything is out and off, we bid goodnight to the dogs and head upstairs.

The cats are all waiting for me on the bed. Frankie is laying on my pyjamas and refuses to get off. He is making happy feet on them, and doesn’t want to stop. I carefully pick him up and put him down on the floor. I change.

The Baron is now on his computer. He is lost for the night. I kiss him and head off to bed.

I crawl under the quilt, trying not to dislodge the cats scattered on its surface. Holly grumbles and moves to the right. Willow and Ozzie refuse to move and I gently ease my legs down and around them. Charlie moves over to the right and gets bopped by Holly. He leaps off the bed and lands on Frankie. They both run away.

I turn out the light.

Rough times

Things haven’t been all that good this week, hence the silence.

In the space of a week, it has been intimated that my position as a non parent with the temerity to discuss child related issues is offensive, my words worthless, and on a kinder note by some more tender individuals, are just useless.

Then, to add insult to injury, I have been accused of wallowing in my bitterness (because I have the misfortune to suffer from dark thoughts at times in relation to my infertility and have said this), petty - because I thought maybe it would be a kind gesture for a poster to remove their children from their signature on the rare occasion I feel the need to ask for support in relation to my situation (not every time, mind, but those when I am in enough pain to need to ask for support), and unworthy of prayer because I wish ill on pregnant women.

Charming.

On top of that, no-one bothered to tell me that my cousin is pregnant. Not just a little bit pregnant, but 25 weeks along. Did they not think I would notice when I see her tonight? I know I am unobservant, but that was unlikely to just pass me by.

(I’m sure you can guess just how much I am looking forward to having to congratulate her (and yes, I am very happy for her and her husband. Of course, I probably don’t need to explain to the vast majority of normal and compassionate people that I can feel joy for her and sadness for me all at the same time, but of course we all know there are idiots out there, and that they tend to congregate in the same place), listen to all the pregnancy chat, and then undergo the third degree as to why I am the only one who doesn’t have children yet. Yes, I’m sure you can all appreciate just how much fun that is likely to be)

What else? Oh yes, another brief hope of pregnancy that went the way of the dodo. That was great too. There is definitely no chance of a baby Mouse appearing here before my 30th birthday, which is something I find very difficult to get past at this moment in time.

And the final straw is conducting a long review of anti social behaviour, in which the recurring theme is morons on benefits having children (twins, in a surprisingly high number of cases), assaulting each other whilst pregnant, assaulting the newborns in their mother’s arms and generally being shitty to each other.

I could do without this week.

Evaluation madness

The evaluation was on Monday.

The quick version is that it was a complete waste of everyone's time.

The longer version goes something like this....

My sister (from now on known as Gargamel) was late because she couldn't find the place. Since she was driving the Boy, my mother (now known as Big Al because that is how she signs all her notes to me) and the Sperm Donor (also known as the Twat), this complicated the assessment.

I had to fill out his forms. These were mainly on his behavioural traits, and really, the therapist should have seen this as the first clue. Aunties should not be filling out these forms, making notes and generally completing paperwork for someone else's child.

So everyone turned up. The Boy made a beeline for a box of lego on the floor (I was hard pushed not to do the same) and the talking began.

The therapists wanted to discuss with the Boy how he felt about his parents breakup. Since this happened when he was 10 months, he didn't really have any feelings about it. They turned to the current custody arrangements - formally, and per the court agreement, Gargamel has full custody, they share parental rights and Sperm Donor has him every weekend.

In reality, Sperm Donor has him every other weekend and I have him the other. Big Al acts in loco parentis during the week and Gargamel does what she pleases.

Sperm Donor said that he had decided, for the sake of the Boy to cut down on the weekend visits because it was difficult with his new baby. To hear him paint the tale, it was a noble sacrifice on his part and was hurting him intensely.

He failed to mention the fact that the Boy had requested not to go anymore because he preferred to come to my house. When the Boy made the request it was because "Auntie and Uncle are mad and I get to do all sorts of fun stuff at their house. I want to be with them not you". No, he was being a good father and trying to balance the needs of his two boys.

Why didn't I speak up, you ask. Because the Sperm Donor started to CRY at this point, sending me into fits of stifled giggles. It was so fake it hurt, but sadly the therapist fell for it. The Boy didn't, and expressed great surprise at this unexpected show of emotion.

What is even funnier, but I didn't know at the time, was that just one hour before, Sperm Donor had told Gargamel and the Boy that he could no longer go there at weekends at all because he was far too busy and couldn't make time for him......

Anyway, the meeting degenerated from there. Both parents tried to outdo each other in the doting stakes, whilst the Boy happily played with the toys and told me exactly what he was doing.

The therapist only cottoned on at the end of the meeting, despite being told several times, that I have the Boy at weekends now. I think she thought I was there for the morning off work.

Anyway, to skip to the end and save you the tedious dialogue, she feels that all his problems stem from sibling rivalry. His new step brother is three months old. Never mind that these problems have been here for years, she opted for the nice and obvious label.

Personally, I think that's bollocks, but what would I know? I'm just a work shy auntie.

However, thanks to Sperm Donor and Gargamel, I now have full weekend rights. I wasn't asked, of course, but rather it was assumed that he would be coming here. All I can say is that it is a good thing I love him, because right now I would like to throttle his parents.

He has since asked if he can live here full time and have me as his mum, and his mum as his auntie.

If only.

Boy Woes

I'm hiding away in our little bedroom right now. I thought about holing up with some beer and some munchies, but I haven't got long.

The Boy is here for the long weekend. In fairness, he is being really REALLY good right now and isn't causing immediate stress (he woke me up with a cup of tea this morning) but he knows that he is skating on some very thin ice right now.

He got a one day suspension from school on Thursday.

From what I understand, he got karate kicked in the chest when the teacher wasn't looking (the class bully egged one of the other boys on). No-one believed him, and he lost it. Just completely flipped and started to throw chairs around (and then pick them all back up again). I've not heard the other side (I've been away all week and haven't managed to go to his school yet) so I don't know how truthful his account of this is, but given the other stories he's told, it sounds about right.

So he got suspended. He isn't the first in his class by any means and his teacher said how sorry she was to do it (she really likes him), but some firm action needed to be taken to impress upon him just how unacceptable his behaviour was.

The problem is that the boys all pick on him. Whilst he gets on fine with adults (and girls), he has no clue how to relate to other boys and they pick up on that. They get into trouble for what they do to him, but sadly for the Boy, he seems to get caught more retaliating than they do.

He has been referred to a child mental health unit for an evaluation. It has since been brought forward after this little incident and it is a week on Monday. I will be attending (both his mother and his school have requested my presence) and I'm hoping that they will see through my sister's act. No doubt she will try to do her "I'm a fabulous Mum" routine, but I imagine they have seen that many times before.

I know he is very immature and has a real inability to control his emotions. I'm hoping that that is all that is wrong, because those will come eventually with time (and some help and practice).

But I fear that unless his mother sorts herself out, nothing will change.

The Boy believes that neither she or his father wants him. He isn't silly. He can see that their behaviour towards him is not the same as how other parents behaviour towards their children. He is here again, after all. It doesn't matter how much I want him here, or how much he wants to be here because he knows that he is here because Mummy won't be at home with him.

On Thursday, she threatened to send him to a children's home. I've not seen him cry that much in a long time. He truly believed that she would do it. I could have killed her for that, I really could have. Saying things like that does nothing for his belief that she doesn't want him.

(I promised that if she dared try it, I'd spring him out and we'd leave the country. We'd borrow a cross channel ferry (I'd ply the captain with some duty free and then sit on him, and the Boy would steer) and we'd set sail for the Caribbean. Nothing like a good plan!)

Daddy forcibly cut his hair last weekend. The Boy has wanted to grow it for a long time, and at eight I think he is well able to make that decision for himself. But Daddy, being a twat, thinks that he will be gay if he has anything less than a skinhead, and so shaved his head. If that wasn't bad enough, he did a piss poor job and left him with straggly bits all over his head.

No wonder the poor child is in a state.......

Let me look at you with my own eyes

My first optician appointment was when I was four years old. I had trouble keeping my eyes in focus and it was clear even at that tender age that I was unable to see far into the distance.

By eleven, I wore glasses all the time. I went through a short phase where vanity won out over vision, which ended swiftly after multiple bruises, a wasted trip to the cinema and several headaches.

I flirted with contact lenses, but that affair was also brief.

Glasses it was. Until this week.

It's been little things that nudged me to this point. My last haircut, for example. I went from fifteen inches of hair to barely one, and was blind during most of the proceedings. I had no idea what he was doing because I just couldn't see.

Snorkelling. I missed a lot of fish that my party saw because anything more than five inches from my face was a colourful blur.

Not to mention the amount of time spent blindly fumbling for my glasses in the morning because a certain fat cat who shall remain nameless liked to knock them off my bedside table and bat them around.

So I got brave, and went for a lasik consultation.

My prescription wasn't that bad. I was -4.75 dioptres in my right eye and -5.25 dioptres in my left. Not great, but not so bad that lasik would be difficult. My pupils were deemed to be large, but not freakishly so. Everything else was fine.

I agreed to have the surgery. I put down a large deposit to make sure I didn't back out again (the thought of having my eyeball clamped, let alone sliced into has never appealed) and then immediately questioned my sanity.

Over the next few days I spent a lot of time researching the procedure in detail. Frankly, a lot of the sites I found were not encouraging, but I came to the realisation that people who are satisfied with their procedure don't tend to spend their time telling the world on various websites........probably too busy enjoying their new eyesight.

The day dawned and I was as nervous as hell.

There was a huge delay at the clinic, for reasons I still don't know, and by 11AM the 9AM patient was getting very nervous. I was the 9.30AM patient. The wait was doing nothing for my nerves either, and I was seriously contemplating going to the pub and waiting there. Then the 9AM patient was called. She turned a very funny green colour and slowly walked into the procedure room.

I had a quick chat with the surgeon who checked my eyes and cleared me for surgery. It was back to waiting again, but he promised it would be no more than fifteen minutes.

That was both a long and short fifteen minutes.

Eventually I was called.

The room was very stark and clinical. I lay down on the bed and had my head settled into the rest. Then I had my eyes cleaned and the anaesthetic drops put in. The nurses were very good about putting me at my ease, and they showed me the equipment to be used.

The surgeon came in and tested the equipment and gave my eyes a final check. Then he warned me that the first part of the procedures was the unpleasant past but it would be over quickly.

Before I had time to respond, the machinery was pulled over my face and trapped me in. It was probably not a second too soon because I probably would have bolted if I knew what was actually going to happen.

He asked me to look down. I did and he slipped a plastic clamp onto my eye. I thought to myself that it was uncomfortable but not painful and congratulated myself on getting through that bit.

Then he turned the suction on.

Wow.

I thought my eye was going to simultaneously burst, explode through the back of my head and pop out. It just felt so wrong. Everything went dim, then blurry and finally dark.

After what felt like an age, the suction ceased, and my vision came back. The flap had been created. I took a deep breath, because I had held it throughout the suction.

Then they switched eyes. I was surprised because I thought they would complete one eye before moving onto the other, and that gave me a few minutes before I had to endure that on my left eye.

But no, he inserted the clamp on my left eye and turned the suction on.

I have to admit that that was worse. Despite knowing what was going to happen, that was still a shock and on my left eye, the suction crossed from uncomfortable to downright painful. It wasn't helped by the fact I had very little vision in my right eye and was feeling quite scared about my newfound blindness.

Eventually it ended. They said I was doing really well, and I said that was only because I could cry even if I wanted to. One eye was clamped and the other was aching!

After the flaps were created, the surgery got interesting. I had another couple of anaesthetic drops and then the flaps were moved back to allow the laser to be used. That was amazing. I could see exactly what was going on.

The laser bit was fine. The put in a gentle clamp, which looks very much like a pair of eyelash curlers. I had to look at a red dot, and then the laser started. It clicks a lot, and it smells like burning hair as it reshapes the cornea. Given the amount of times Frankie has singed his whiskers it isn't an unfamiliar smell.

They put the flaps back and smoothed them down.

It was done.

I sat up, and immediately I could see a difference. It was exactly like looking under water, but underwater with perfect vision.

They had me sit in a dark room for a little while. I found that I got progressively more light sensitive at this time and that I could not keep my eyes open. I wasn't in any pain, but I just could not keep them open.

I had my post surgery check after half an hour. They had to hold my eyes open, because I couldn't, and I was cleared to go home.

The Baron was driving, and I spent the entire trip home with my eyes shut. I tried to open them every now and then, because I was getting really quite car sick travelling like that, but all I managed was a quick glimpse here and there.

We got home and I went straight to bed. The surgeon advised that, since the flap is healing at that point and keeping my eyes shut would help that along. So I popped on my sooper sexay sleeping goggles and went to bed.

After about an hour (I am not one for sleeping during the day) I got back up. Although it was still hard to keep my eyes open, there was a marked improvement in the quality of my vision. I was very impressed.

The next morning was just incredible. Everything was crystal clear. I had a large bruise in my eye (I thought I only had the one until I rolled my eyes and saw three more lurking under my lids) but my sight was just perfect.

I returned for my post op check, where they cleared me to drive. Just 24 hours after the surgery I had 20/16 vision (which is something like 115% of normal vision). I had no discomfort, and only mild photophobia.

I bought some seriously cool sunglasses. Something I've never been able to do before, since I had to have prescription sunglasses.

So here I sit now. No glasses. My vision seems better in the mornings, and deteriorates a little in the afternoon (even at that point it is better than 20/20) although of course, my eyes are still healing and settling. My ability to focus can be a little variable as well.

I have an extensive eye drop regime to follow, but so far I have had no problems. Well, the steroid drops taste absolutely foul and I cannot get the taste out of my mouth (and no, I am NOT drinking the drops), but other than that I have no complaints at all.

I just wish I had had this done sooner.

100 things about me (I hope)

1. I have six cats.
2. I used to dislike cats a lot. Then along came Harvey and changed my mind.
3. I also have two dogs...
4. And a wonderful husband...
5. And a semi permanent resident nephew.
6. I am a second generation chartered accountant....
7. But I always hated numbers.
8. I got my nose pierced when I was 16 despite being told not to.
9. That is probably why I had it done.
10. Some of my work colleagues still haven't noticed.
11. I have very short hair.
12. I am going grey at my temples and I hate it.
13. I am currently undergoing infertility tests.
14. It sucks big hairy donkey balls.
15. I don't.
16. I play the bass guitar...
17. Badly.
18. I can't sing whilst I play.
19. I also play the piano and the clarinet.
20. I like knitting.
21. The only things I can knit so far are scarves and blankets.
22. I cannot sew.
23. I like gardening.
23. But we only grow edible crops.
24. I like beer.
25. A lot.
26. I go to France several times a year to stock up.
27. Sadly I usually run out long before the next trip.
28. I love the colour purple.
29. I think Brussel Sprouts are evil.
30. But I grow them because my mother loves them.
31. I am very close to my family.
32. I like to cook.
33. I can't eat cheese.
34. But sometimes I do.
35. I met my husband when I was 17.
36. We were both working in McDonalds.
37. He was 18.
38. We got married on the tenth anniversary of our first date.
39. We've been married 18 months.
40. He was my first and only boyfriend.
41. We lived together for five years before we got married.
42. He converted to me to a love of Star Wars.
43. Somehow I never saw it until I was 18.
44. I've been making up for time ever since.
45. I have a sneaking preference for the prequel trilogy.
46. But I won't admit that to the Baron.
47. I do not like anything to touch my throat.
48. I think I may have had my head chopped off in a previous life.
49. I am not ticklish.
50. I love reading.
51. I especially like reading about 18th and 19th century history.
52. I have a degree in biomedical science.
53. I attended a post mortem.
54. I used to work as a phlebotomist.
55. However, I have a phobia of needles when stuck in me.
56. I decided that the NHS was not for me.
57. And trained at the same accountancy firm that my father trained at.
58. I adore playing the Sims.
59. But my disk is scratched and it won't play.
60. I like killing people off.
61. I play Lego Star Wars a fair bit...
62. Despite being 29.
63. I post a lot at a Catholic forum.
64. I am not Catholic.
65. I don't want to be Catholic either.
66. I just like a lot of the people.
67. I also practice Natural Family Planning.
68. I say I, but clearly the Baron is involved in that one.
69. I don't see the point, since we appear to be as infertile as a dead rhinocerous.
70. I want to go back to Jamaica.
71. Despite the bad bugs that feast on my flesh.
72. I am addicted to diet coke.
73. I've made several attempt to give up.
74. But I always come back for more.
75. My favourite comedy is Black Books.
76. I am sad that there will be no more.
77. I detest Tony Blair.
78. I think he is a dangerous liar.
79. I think George W Bush is a very dangerous man.
80. I have a cat headbutting me right now.
81. I think One Eyed Willy is the most beautiful one eyed cat in the world.
82. I am going to have my own eyes lasered.
83. I am scared shitless.
84. But I am fed up of my crap eyesight.
85. I cannot see a thing without my glasses on.
86. I want to get a tattoo.
87. I want two semiquavers on my hip.
88. But I don't like needles.
89. I put it off thinking I would get pregnant and it would deform as I grew bigger.
90. I laugh in the face of my previously optimistic self.
91. I have a fear of frogs.
92. I can't sleep without ear plugs.
93. I love lime shower gel.
94. I want to learn how to fish.
95. I also want to learn how to ride a motorbike.
96. I have never ever been on one.
97. I never go on rollercoasters.
98. I look after the bags.
99. I am a bag whore.
100. I actually found 100 things to say!

Weekend work

It's been a busy weekend. The Boy volunteered to come and help us, although frankly, despite the best will in the world (when he wasn't playing Lego Star Wars) he was more hindrance than help.

But if you want beer brought to you without even having to ask, he is your boy.

It has been fun. The Boy arrived on Friday and we had a barbeque. It was nice enough that we could eat outside, and we decided to have kebabs.

The Baron had lamb kebabs with peppers, the Boy had pork kebabs with celery (I was sceptical, but it was really rather good) and I had prawn kebabs with courgette and pepper. We all had salad and barbequed flatbreads with houmous.

The Boy was in charge of painting each kebab with secret sauce (so-called because I refused to tell the Boy what it was for years because he would have refused to eat it - all it is is good tomato ketchup with a generous splash of tobasco sauce) whilst I made the bread and houmous.

The Baron was in charge of the fire. Literally. As is his wont, he created a towering inferno. It is an impressive site, guaranteed to have Lila cowering behind the wheelbarrow, and the Boy is now convinced that all barbeques should be so dramatic. To the point that when he sees other people tending theirs, he shakes his head sadly and mutters that there isn't enough fire to cook anything.

Poor warped child.

The Boy was his little cooking sidekick, proudly insisting that he was being manly. I wasn't so impressed when he told me that since I was a woman I couldn't cook the food over the barbeque because it was a man's job, however, so after a brief discussion on equality he ran and got me another beer and a flower.

It was good enough for me.

The next day was gardening day. We nipped out to pick up a few bits and pieces, and because both the Boy and the Baron spent so long lusting over PC games when we went to look at a new keyboard, we ended up in Pizza Hut for lunch.

I may have mentioned before that the Baron and the Boy have a similar mental age.

So whilst I did the grown up thing of actually getting a table and menu, they were cajoling another waitress to let them have a handful of helium balloons. They must have really turned on the charm because they both strutted over with a couple of balloons apiece.

Last time the three of us went out, it was Christmas and the Baron inhaled helium and serenaded me with a squeaky rendition of a crappy Robbie Williams song. I don't really like Robbie Williams at the best of times, and his waste of space brother had Angels as the first wedding dance back in Ireland (something I could happily never think about again until the day I die) but the helium treatment certainly gave it something.

This time, he treated me to Grace Kelly by Mika. It was different. And completely hysterical. I recorded it on his mobile phone, so rest assured, I will be inflicting it upon you all very soon.

The Boy doesn't get inhaling helium. He lets the gas out in his mouth, but doesn't shut his mouth to suck down on the balloon. So it barely works. That doesn't stop him faking a very high pitched voice though........and for the record, he cannot sing. Not a note.

After more pizza than we probably should have eaten, we headed home to commence Operation Finish The Garden So Star Wars Lego (The Original Trilogy) Can Be Installed And Played.

I've previously mentioned the extreme change in our front garden. The heavy work is all done, and all that remained was for me to plant out the seedlings currently filling the conservatory.

This is what I planted out:

Tomatoes (five different varieties)
Peppers (two different varieties)
Carrots (two different varieties)
Runner beans
Dwarf green beans
Peas
Garlic
Sweetcorn
Pumpkin
Butternut squash
Courgettes
Mint
Basil
Rosemary
Strawberries
Lettuce (two varieties)
Cabbage
Parsnips
Winter greens
The Dreaded Brussel Sprouts (for my Mum)

I forgot about starting the leeks and artichokes off, but I still have time.

The Baron was working in the back garden.

Because, of course, we then decided to redo our dog destroyed back garden. Not content with a week of back breaking labour in the front garden, we hired a skip and did the same to the back.

The Boy desiginated himself as Team Captain. Because he got bored with digging after approximately two minutes and forty seconds, he took to whipping us with his deflated helium balloon and telling us we weren't putting our backs in to it.

However, he did have a benevolent streak. He allowed us to take five pretty much every ten minutes and kept us well hydrated with water, beer and diet coke.

It became clear that the two of us, with the hindrance of the Boy was not going to be enough to complete the heavy work over the weekend. So it was time to call in reinforcements.

We had a little Garden Breaking Party with the bribe of beer and a barbeque. However, the only people up for it were my computer obsessed (and therefore no help at all) mad mother and my hernia ridden father.

Still some help is always better than no help. We gratefull accepted and got on with it.

And we did it! We must have moved several tonnes of soil, dog crap and stones over the weekend, and we are all paying for it now (I walk like the newly created Darth Vader), but it is done!

We had a little celebration after, with lots of beer from my recent France trip and another nice barbeque (note to self - whilst the Baron goes overboard on coal, my father tends to the other direction. Sneak more on when he isn't looking otherwise the food will never cook).

Later this afternoon, once I get back from work, we will be buggering around with cement and laying the replacement slabs (many were broken because of the old pond). I'm quite looking forward to that.

I don't think the Baron is. He doesn't seem quite with it today. I just wandered into our bedroom to get a bottle of water, and I saw Frankie on the windowsill, sunning himself and admiring the bugs.

"Hey Stein! How are you doing, Mister FrankieCat?"

From the bed, I heard a distinct

"I'm fine. How are you?"

I think the heavy work has addled his brain to the point he thinks he is a cat.

New countdown

I handed in my notice.

I just happen to have a new job.

The Front Garden

The dogs have destroyed the back garden. We knew it would happen - they love chasing each other and wrestling each other (lots of noise and bared teeth, much to the amusement of the neighbours), and the end result is soil and stones everywhere.

Not, of course, to mention the pollution of our once great vegetable beds.

We were resigned to this from the day that Darth Lila came home. Zach Attack! was just the icing on the dog poo cake. Not a cake I particularly wish to eat, as it happens. We knew our days of veg growing were numbered.

Until I pruned the roses.

Once upon a time, roses festooned our garage. At some uncertain point in time, they got the arse and buggered off. In their place were thistles. Thistles with a mission to overtake our village. To achieve that, they joined forces with the ivy already growing over the wall and roof and set about their aim.

It had got to the point that just walking down our path was a dice with danger. If the wind was blowing, you ran the risk of getting whacked in the face by a rogue offshoot of the power seeking thistles.

Once blinded, you then were free to trip over the paving stones that were slowly shifting position. Our conifer was jealous of the expansion plans of the thistles and was staging its own little rebellion by reaching for the stars and for the North Sea. The roots were forcing our path up and out, and many is the time that I have been labrador propelled down the path and ended up on my arse outside the garage because I got poked in the eye by a thistle and then tripped over the damn paving stone.

(I'd like to say that is how I broke my toe for the fifth time. But it would be a steaming pile of hotspur)

So after my latest mishap I decided to prune the thistles. I'd been putting it off for a while, partly through idleitis, partly through shit weather and partly because the Baron had hidden the good tools from me.

But the sun was shining and I was feeling like a little gardening.

I like pruning. It feeds the destructive little monster that resides within me that has little outlet in real life. Readers, I got my revenge on those thistles.

In fact, it would be fair to say that I decimated the buggers. They are gone. Not just the thistles that were taking over the garage, but the thistles that had staked a claim under the conifer, the thistles under the huge tree that I am allergic to but have no idea what it is, and the thistles that were slowly strangling the compost bin.

All gone.

The problem was that once that was all cleared, the garden, or overgrown helllhole as we affectionately call it, looked very lopsided. The trees looked out of place. It just wasn't right.

A vision of what could be floated before my eyes. An endless row of beans and peas taking the place of the ivy. Pots of carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, sweetcorn, courgettes and spinach where human feet could not currently tread. Hanging baskets of strawberries instead of thistles. Herbs instead of dead leaves.

And the monster inside called for more.

So I began a more extensive deforestation programme. The conifer tree was the first victim, and was surprisingly easy to deal with, given that it was over eight feet tall and I am just over five feet two.

One spade + one pair of shears + one determined Mouse = one ex tree

The second tree was a little more complicated. The above equation was not going to work. But that led to a new problem.

The rules of our house are simple. They have been refined throughout our nearly twelve years together (seven of which have been under a shared roof):

The Baron must turn his socks out the right way before putting them in the washing basket.
The Baron must empty his pockets before putting dirty clothes in the washing basket.
The Baron must put the seat down.
The Baron must be dropped off at the hospital if a cat needs emergency vet treatment.
Mouse cannot play the guitar if the Baron is in the house.
Mouse may not light candles unless there is a power cut or the cats are held hostage in a separate locked room.
Mouse must never ever ever use power tools without adult supervision.

Reinforcement was clearly needed in order for the house rules to be obeyed.

The Baron was very shocked to get out of bed and find most of the front garden neatly piled in one corner. He was even more shocked to be presented with a bacon sandwich, the electric saw and a request to remove an entire tree.

Bless him, he ate up and did as he was told.

One Baron armed with power tools + one Mouse in a supervisory role = another ex tree

I won't bore you with the details of actually clearing the remains of our newly discovered garden. It involved a fuck off huge bonfire, a disagreement with the neighbours visitors over the aforementioned bonfire, some fun with the hosepipe putting out the aforementioned bonfire, multiple trips to the recycling centre, a lost pair of gloves and a lot of sneezing.

The garden was a blank canvas. The vision was a step closer to reality. We would grow vegetables again, oh yes, we would.

The final step was the hardest.

Digging is bloody knackering. The Baron was very dedicated and really put his back into it. On the other hand, I would dig for fifteen minutes, bugger off and enjoy a cold beer and then come back for another fifteen minutes. Naturally the pace slowed as the alcohol consumption increased. I am a lush, after all, and I have just discovered a new lager from Barbados that slid down a treat.

Hey, it WAS a hot day.

But there was a corner that neither of us wanted to touch.

Just over two years ago, we placed my soul cat in a small hole in the front garden. We had planned to leave that corner alone and let him rest in peace. Something the little bastard never extended to me in life.

But the root ball of another plant had grown in to that spot and needed to be removed. With heavy hearts, we set to it.

For the record, two years is not enough time to fully decompose one small fluffy and evil cat.

Additionally, for the record, the Baron is petrified of remains of any sort. Which meant he dug with his eyes shut and ran away when he felt a crunch, leaving me to see that he had put the spade through my special cats skull, which still, after two years had the one tooth in it that was due to be cleaned before he was killed.

It's bad enough that I had to put him in that hole, but to have to remove bits of him again and put him in the bin (nowhere else safe to put him) was too much. I don't think there is alcohol enough in the world to make that better.

However, it had to be done and I am glad that it was me that did it. It was not a job I could have in all good conscience asked someone else to do. He was my cat.

But the work is all finished. The front garden is now awaiting the Great Planting Event of 2007, scheduled to take place in a few weeks when my seedlings are a little hardier.

As Bob would say. Job done. For now.

Main players

Since I have rehomed myself, I should reintroduce the cast of characters.

This is me. Mouse.

Not good enough? You mean I am supposed to show my face?

Fine. Is this better?


I am 29 now, and married to the Baron who is 30 (although acts more like he is 7):

We have no children, although it really isn't through lack of trying. We DO have a deranged 8 year old nephew, the Boy, who spends every other weekend with us (as well as every single Friday night) because according to him, we are more fun than Mum or Dad:

We live in a nice small village in the South of England. With us live the Monsters - six evil cats and two very deranged dogs.

There were three goldfish in the menagerie but they were relocated to the village pond.

I haven't seen them since, the little ingrates.

This is Frankie, the stupidest cat in the West. It is amazing he is still alive.

Smellie Ellie. Sweet, but certifiable.

This is Charlie. Don't be fooled by that sweet slumber. His other name is Agent Orange for a reason.

Eye eye! It's One Eyed Willy! She still likes to rub the empty socket on a willing nose. There just aren't all that many around.

This is Holly. Holly is a stroppy cat. See how she won't even look at me. She was sulking because I took a picture instead of stroked her.

This is Ozzie. He beat Charlie to the title of He Who Eats Enough To Power A Small Nuclear Power Station.

This is Darth Lila. Her nickname suits her. If she likes you, she pisses in your general direction. If she doesn't like you, she grumbles and pisses in your general direction.

This is Zach Attack! Note the resemblance to the above black cat? He has. He isn't sure whether he is a cat or a dog, but if it moves, he will hump it just to be sure.

Stupid doctor's appointment

So my appointment was a complete waste of time.

The doctor (locum, not my usual) was somewhere in the region of 30,000 years old. My heart sank as I walked in.

He simply repeated "your results are normal" to everything I said. I told him of the latest research suggesting that TSH levels above 3 should be treated and that the ideal for a pregnancy achievement is 1.5-2.0. "Your results are normal".

I asked about the ratio of FSH to LH. "Your results are normal".

I asked what would come next. "Your results are normal, so there isn't much to do"

I said that since I am trying to get pregnant I would quite llike some help. "Well, on average it takes 18-24 months to get pregnant so why are you worried?"

What the fuck? I told him that wasn't the accepted average and I would like to start the process now, given that my thyroid was higher than it should be.

"Your results are normal. We have nothing to treat. You can't be referred to a gynae until your husband gives a semen analysis."

"What about the fact that my results indicate that there are problems with me too? Do I not warrant treatment just for my own health? Current research indicates that my thyroid result is not good"

"Your results are normal by the standards of this lab. I don't know what else to say."

Ad nauseum.

So that is the end. The Baron is simply not willing to give a sample because he won't go to the doctor. He thinks we should just keep on trying because it eventually worked for his parents. They tried for years to have his brother - and look how that turned out?

So no referral for me, and therefore no treatment or further investigation for me whether it be for fertilty or for just my own health. I'm at a dead end.

I'm going to see my usual doctor next week when she returns, but this will all be on my file. I don't have much confidence that she will do anything else.

And to add insult to injury, I got a fucking parking ticket whilst sitting through this shit.

Bloodwork results are in

TSH - 3.50. Whilst the lab where I was tested consider this to be normal, new guidelines suggest that anything over 3 is indicative of hypothyroidism. For TTC purposes, 1.5-2 is recommended.

So I need to persuade my dr to treat that. Hopefully she will be ok about it.

My FSH is 3.1. My LH is 5.4. Apparently higher than a 1:1 ratio is not that brilliant and may be indicative of PCOS (thanks, Google!). However, when we did the test we thought I was pre ovulation in a wacky cycle. It turns out, of course, that I was 4 days away from an annovulatory bleed, and I don't know if that will affect those results.

So I guess I should find out a little bit more as to what those results are likely to mean.

Prolactin seems normal at 4.30.

Blood glucose isn't back yet, and I guess that the dr will want that in before really deciding what to do.

I have a starting point.

Odds and sods

There is a full moon tonight, and as usual, the animals can sense it.

Ellie is walking around crying. She doesn't really seem to want anything but to hear the sound of her own voice. Zach snuck upstairs to see what was up and is now following her as she goes from room to room. He hasn't realised that I know he is up here.

I can't blame him. Lila's response to a full moon is predictable. She won't share her toys with Zach and she likes to try to eat his ears. She's downstairs alone watching America's Next Top Model, and barking at Miss J Alexander. I can't blame her - why the fuck does he call himself that?

The boy cats alternate between rampaging round my bedroom or sleeping. There is no middle ground for them. Holly and Willow watch disdainfully from my bed. They don't care what the moon is doing - it is welcome to do whatever it pleases as long as it doesn't disturb them.
And there is the first crash of the evening. Ellie has managed to get the ladder from the Boy's loftbed off.

I had my blood test yesterday. The Baron got a little stroppy because I wouldn't let him in the cubicle with me. I cope better alone, and I find that when he is trying to distract me, I am acutely aware that I am being distracted and will focus on why. Alone, I just watch the needle go in unfettered.

It was quite convenient since he had his follow up appointment with the surgeon who kindly de-appendicised him. He got the all clear and was told to bugger off and to not darken their doorway again. Well, they didn't say THAT, but they did say he didn't need to come back again.
Bloody good thing, really. I read today that Patientline, who provide the in hospital TV and phone service, are putting up their call charges by 160%. The greedy fuckers, already £80million in debt, spent £160million installing these new systems (that aren't that reliable) and want to recoup their investment. So they are targetting a vulnerable and captive audience in order to do so. What scum bags.

Anyway, I digress. I should get my results back on Tuesday and we can see if my thyroid malfunctions. My mother's does, and I fully expect mine to pack in service one of these days and retire to the Carribean. I wouldn't really blame it.

The Boy is currently on holiday with his Dad. I'm a bit lost without him, although the peace and quiet is nice. At least in theory. Zach is now crying along with Ellie. If it wasn't so damn annoying, it would be quite harmonious. The Boy...oh yes, he is in Cornwall. They went to the beach today, and the Boy's new (half) brother, aged ten weeks, got to put his feet in the sand for the first time. Apparently that gave him the giggles.

That will have to do for now. My cursor is dancing round the screen of its own accord and is frankly pissing me off. I'm off to drown my sorrows with a nice bottle of red.

Toodles.

Gone and done it now

I've made a doctor's appointment to discuss the distinct lack of pregnancy achievement ongoing in this house.

Shit.

Now it is real.

Fertile land

My village is extremely fertile.

Not only are the plants bursting forth from the land, and the trees blooming with the sweet scent of blossom, but the occupants are similarly blessed.

A new baby girl arrived home, being welcomed into the house behind mine. A baby girl is due to arrive in the house next to mine. A baby boy is expected in the house opposite mine.

The fertility boom did touch here briefly. My garden is choking with fast growing weeds.

Fucking apt, isn't it?

Nope

Still not.

I'm getting well good at this. But does my one line look fat from over there?