This is the face of the hair-snatcher.

M’Aidez.

I think I’m going frontally bald and THIS creature is responsible:
DSC_0119_02
Lovable little shit, she is. She COOS while grabbing a fistfull in both hands and having a good old fashioned yank.

Also, the bit where she rips my specs clean off my face and throws them on the tiles with such glee, that bit never gets old.

G

PS. My hair is only about three inches long. Cutting it shorter, while possible, probably isn’t an option I wish to consider.

PSS. Am meant to be reading up on the principles of electrosurgery and how precisely the clever electric buzzy thing that makes that delightful smell of char-grilled flesh in theatre actually WORKS but, Internet, it involves PHYSICS and ergo it is more boring than pretending to be interested in photos of somebody else’s holiday. Blargh.

Posted in Babies. 6 Comments »

Nose

Ah, Internet, the mysteries of small people. They’re such utter cards, aren’t they?

Because, honestly, my latest little person is currently in her crib making  ‘gnah! gnah! gnah!’ noises of severe disapproval at the fact, while I choose to distract myself by typing to you all in vague misery about how she just won’t bleeding stay asleep at night unless my tits are involved.

I mean, she’s really quite a sweet child as long as she’s got something warm and squishy to suck on, really she is. I just had to get it out there that while she does now nap twice a day (no more than two naps, sob!) in her crib and without nursing to sleep to do so, something to do with the setting of the golden orb completely screws with any desire to just go the hell to sleep alone and without props more complicated than a teddy bear and quick cuddle.

She’s now up to a vaguely resigned, ‘nyahhh, nyyyahhh, unhh, unhh, nyah!’ for those of you playing along at home. With the occasional ‘ahahahahahaha…..(pause)…waaaaaHHHHHHHHH’.

Anyway, if you can excuse me, I have three children to successfully wrestle off to the land of nod and I have to get ready for work in the morning, and between you and me, finding something that doesn’t make me look like a shar-pei featured in my abdominal ancestry is rather hard these days.

I leave you with the following (wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!) observations:

A: Bhaji Nightshift will also go to unannounced about second base with your nose if you get too close (please, don’t get too close, she just did it me ME and I am shuddering at how very, very revolting an unexpected little tongue up one’s nostril can be).

B: My medical students all seem to think that caesarean sections are performed via an incision right over where the gallbladder lives. In MY day etc etc.

G

PS. She’s just shut up. Should I check she’s still breathing or run for the wine?

 

Don’t know.

Sometimes it feels a bit like the longer I go between posting anything, the less important anything I have to write is and the more I want to wait until I have something really zippy to say, and THEN I think I’ll just wait a bit for said zippy idea except it’s never zippy or zingy enough and so I wait a bit more. And so on.

Is it just me, or is this normal? I mean, I can usually talk the legs off of a table so I don’t know what ate my blogging mojo. I live to whinge.

I was going to indignantly tell you all about how I got a rolled eyed ‘that’s our FAVOURITE order when we’re busy’ to the starting of a breakfast order with two babychinos at my local coffee shop, but I’ve already vented that one on Bacefook, complete with indignant check-in post complaining about that exact comment while I was waiting for my coffee. And the babychinos. I figure I’ve got it passively-aggressively out of my system enough by ensuring that anybody else who checks in to the same venue now gets to read my experience. Put that in your grinder and suck it coffee place, and also, when one charges more than the cost of a litre of milk for a tiny cup of froth with a couple of marshmallows on the top I think I’m entitled to take a blasted table with my spawn.

Moral of the story? Beware the social media.  It can bite bad service in the ass.

See? That was dull, wasn’t it?

I guess it’s just that I’m not really going anywhere or doing anything much on accounts of Miss oh-so-aptly-named-speaking-of-biting-in-the-ass Nightshift and her nocturnal insistence on at least three feeds and a n1pple in her mouth at all times justincase. Do you KNOW how sore your hip gets when you spend every night wedged sideways? I do, the answer is a predictable ‘very farking sore’. Unfortunately my ladies are not yet pendulous enough to allow Miss Nightshift her succor without at least a sixty degree tilt so my hip, oh my GAD my hip it aches.

I never thought I’d be asking for saggier bo0bs, but there you have it.

Also, the bugger BIT ME this morning. She BIT me riiiiiight on my poor are0la and then just clamped on down kind of like a dog that thinks a tug-of-war is about to happen and plans to bleeding well win.

She also seems to have taken a fancy to gripping random bits of bo0b and twisting them. Hint, that farking hurts, too.

Basically, I think my child is beating up my t1ts and is five months old too young to call the cops?

Sigh.

G.

PS. Tell me, is this post appearing in your feed readers, clever internet? I’ve notice my posts are a bit tardy and random in MINE (as in the snapshot of my t1ts keeps appearing over the top of more recent posts for reasons best known to itself) and I have no idea if it’s me, you or all of us but it would explain traffic and comment patterns no end.

Posted in Babies. Tags: . 7 Comments »

The M Day post.

Do forgive the mild tardiness, for where I live the flowers are now all half price and the chocolates have been reduced to merely their normal price, restaurants are not full of unsuspecting elderly women half-abducted by guilty sons for lunch and the like. M day is more over than acid wash denim and a good neon fuzzy headband round these parts.

I was trying to find a way to organise the mess that is my brain and form some coherent, typeable and mildly pithy observations about the dreaded M day. I failed.

Here’s the thing, anyway.

M day is just one of those holidays that only seems to set people up to fail or feel shit in some way or another. It might be the gloating Bacefook post of a friend who got breakfast in bed, a spa trip, alcohol and chocolate about how nice her life is full well knowing that most of the rest of us didn’t.

It might be the abducted-grandmother lunch bonanza when probably most of us didn’t get that, either.

It might be the fact that it’s shoved down everybody’s damn throats and quite frankly sucks the chrome off a towbar for the infertile set.

It might be, as in my case, being offhandedly offered a box of chocolates won a week ago in a raffle as the prize of surviving reproduction thus far.

Really, just about everybody can only stuff it up or lose in some way or other and that, I do not like.

Honestly, I’m glad it’s over so I can get on with enjoying my three children I am fortunate to have without feeling let down by all the things I failed to score.

G

Alrighty, then.

Oh wise Internets,

This morning one of my nearly four year olds had a screaming tanty because I would not give her an easter egg for breakfast.

Apparently I’m all mean and stuff.

When the strop didn’t work, I got the diagnostic ‘I don’t LIKE you Mama, you’re a BAD, MEEEEAN Mama, I want Daddy!’.

Was it wrong to laugh?

Discuss.

G

PS. She ate her cereal.

Apropos of nothing.

I don’t know what the weather is like where YOU are right now, Internet, but suffice it to say that where I reside it is currently cold enough to consider climbing into my refrigerator just to warm up a little.

I’m bored. I have ze cabin fever and trust me when I say that adding two three year olds to the mix is not really helping in the everybody-is-pissing-everybody-else-right-off department.

So, utterly randomly, may I tell you how a friend (a male one) I haven’t spoken to in years but recently rediscovered on Bacefook kissed me off (okay, try putting a ‘p’ on the front of the ‘issed’ on that one, if I am being honest about how it actually FELT) by remarking ‘how many rug rats do you have’ to which I replied honestly ‘one and two accomplished whingers’ AND to which I got in reply the terrible odour of deflating testosterone and interest the half-baked ’Well done! I’m sure U R a gr8 mummy. C U later’. Really, it almost made me despair for the human creature on several levels, because:

A: What the fuck? We weren’t about to head out for coffee and a movie any time soon. It’s pretty clear I’m all married and stuff.

B: What the fuck? Married chicks are okay, but only attractive if they have one or two kids at the most for random bacefook flirtation purposes, and if they have more then it’s best to drop the whole convo like a hot potato?

C: What the fuck? Is my sole defining characteristic how many small people have been dragged screaming out my sunroof?

D: Generally, what the fuck? Can’t you spell you lazy bugger? Also, since when did it become about your wenis?  Mabye I’m all retarded when it comes to the opposite sex but I recall a rather unambiguous friend dynamic.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, I replied that I hoped I was a not-entirely-hateable great *person* and haveaniceday.

G

PS: This post brought to you by the day Saturday, the weather Pissing Rain and the miracle of Sleeping In Her Crib. The sleep genie is coming on Monday to see if she can’t break and remould Bhaji to the point she actually spontaneously goes to damn sleep in her bed and without a boob in her mouth, but I’ll take the current situation as seriously welcome progress, regardless.

PSS: I forget the point I was planning to add. Because these days The Nightshift Baby first wakes up at midnight and due to the wonders of motor development duly grabs at bits of me and twists them painfully ALL BLOODY NIGHT. Sob. Also, I hate n1pple-cripple. Good thing she’s cute. But would it kill her to sleep already?

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Can I Keep Them?

Do forgive the drive-by element that is posting from one’s phone while nursing, but Bhaji wouldn’t mind weaning until about the age of thirty, right?

Sleep.

Wotcha.

We’ve been having some seriously nasty sleep problems Chez MII that I may have not fully described the horror of on accounts of not sleeping for more than about two hours for, um, the best part of a month now that I think of it.

The Sleep Lady has been.

The Sleep Lady has tut tutted about the co-sleeping, the baby wearing with boob in mouth at all times, the ongoing requirement for swaddling, the boobing to sleep and the utter and total inability to transition from one sleep phase to another without the waking up sequence being invoked followed closely by the breast and the very very VERY oh-so-bloody-tired Mama unit. I think I made her bloody day for ticking off so many points on the shit parenting list in one visit.

The Sleep Lady shall be back next week to check on my homework and do a ‘settling’ with me and without my tits being involved.

Bhaji is under orders to make a new breast friend and, believe me, I have been shoving the chosen blasted Eeyore lovvie in her face until she just about goes all pre-emptively purple at the sight of the poor thing. I’ve never been over fond of Eeyore, but Eeyore it is. He’s all I have and I ain’t exactly up to a little light boob replacement shopping on accounts of The Fucking Tired.

Hold me, for today was the first day of the new order and Bhaji Nightshift still got boobed to oblivion for both of her meagre twenty minute frazzled naps and in the end tonight I also gave up on ‘natural sleep’ and swaddled her to within an inch of her proverbial, too. There’s only so much screaming a girl can take.

Maybe I could play her this instead?

http://youtu.be/3xtcB457jqQ

It’s a thought.

G

Sour.

Okay, Internet, this is the kind of post I have to confess I am only writing here because something has left a sour taste in my mouth and I want to hear that my response is completely justified and rational BEFORE suppressing the hell out of it and pretending it happened. Do humour me on this one.

It’s my own bleeping sister, too.

In other words, while I likes me a good online sell of crap I no longer plan to keep as much as the next woman, I also make damn sure that I never sell anything that somebody gave to me on a website that tells them all about it.

To do such a thing is kind of crass, if not downright rude, mais non? Or should I also give up on anybody ever RSVPing, turning up to a lunchdate at the stated hour, or calling to explain a delay and the like? I’ve long ago accepted that men no longer wear ties but surely there has to be limits. For the sake of humanity.

So, anyway, if you can forgive me the jibe about men and convenient portable nooses, my sister is selling several items I carefully and with great effort purchased for her twin girls on Bacefook. Bacefook told me all about it. For fifteen bucks. They were worth considerably more than fifteen bucks and quite frankly I feel a little bit like I’ve been slapped in the face by somebody with alien hand syndrome or something because surely she can’t have a farking idea just how offensive that little surprise was.

Geohde who is currently biting down on the urge to return all the shit she has purchased for said children’s upcoming birthday if this is what happens when I avoid gift vouchers*.

*Sister gets Offended At Gift Vouchers.**

**Feck knows why because instead she’s turning money into water and pissing off her family in one fell tactless swoop.

Grr.

PS and addendum. I neutrally remarked ‘I recognise these’ on the post and she fucking ‘liked’ the comment. Am I really nutso for being offended that she’s selling my gift in a way publically recognisable to me for far less than it was worth or should I be calling in a favour for a well-deserved fish-slapping, table of sibling?

Here’s a small clue. I did not smiley face, and I almost always smiley face shit on Bacefook if it can be intertpreted in more than one clear manner. Don’t you?

Sexy.

OhmyGOD.

I. Got. A. New. Computer.

OhmyGOD.

‘Tis extremely sexy.

Would totally let it get to second base if it asked. You have no idea of the full horror of the technological disaster I have been living with for the past three and a half years or you’d understand my sudden moral looseness.

In love,

G

PS. What else from, say, 2008 onwards did I miss and y’all should clue me in on?

Hypothetical

Okay, so I’ll get the disclaimer out at the front end of proceedings, this post is about Bacefook.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to revisit high school and dredge up any traumatic memories you may have of first periods, acne, braces and the like by going all bitchkateer on somebody I know behind their back just because I can. Honest.

I just wanted to ask you something and it has to do with the whole odd experience that can be a social media ‘friend’ who you can’t quite understand why they requested same status since, well, you’ve never been more than basic acquaintances in person at university and if one were being brutally honest only recall because she was the god bothering one that got married at eighteen so she could hold hands and kind of always used to give everybody else the shits in lectures because there was always this thing with the hand raising and long-drawn out question about a point that bothered not one of the other hundred people in the room but invariably served as a chance to release some sunbeams from her own ass.

Ahem. You get the idea.

The religion, meh. Each to their own and kudos for the social order and I bet her parents never had to worry about her. I’m cool with the religion. She never insisted that anybody else agree with her, handed out a bleeping pamphlet or generally got in the face about belief. I really don’t mind the religion.

The fucking smug on the other hand, everybody wanted to slap her for that.

She was just a bit irritating, really, and  although I do covet the admirably unsinkable self esteem she was not half as crash hot as she thought.

She’s just the IOnlyKnowHerBecauseSheHadThisHabitOfBeingNoticedByGettingOnEverybody’sTits kind of lass.

But she asked to ‘friend’ me and I am not the sort of lady that disses somebody I don’t especially love by ignoring them. That’s far too, well, high school. She has five hundred and something other ‘friends’ so she may not have noticed, but nevertheless it would have been rude to ignore and really, what does it matter?

Except for one thing.

She’s the kind of livid antianykindofabortionist that likes to publish links to various groups and publications. One that publicly likes many of same. Posts cheering pro life comments about the joint.

Does she really think not one of her 500+ friends have had to make the choice that her morality and reproductive good luck have kept her from?

What would you do, okay besides resisting urge to stick pins in suitably matching doll?

Idle minds, etc.

G

Posted in f*cking. Tags: . 13 Comments »

Pitchers.

Lovely Internet, every now and then in my blogging career either technology improves, I finally cave and upgrade to what everybody else has been doing for the past two years, or I have a small revelation at the hands of some blasted ten year old.

I think I struck point two this time.

Internet, I’ve just gone and figured out that I can upload stuff straight from my phone to the Internet at large and, as a by product, snaffle the links and post here and in a timely fashion. I do love my DSLR (deeply, unwaveringly) but I have to confess my snap to transfer to ancient computer (to sort, to file, to upload) and then share interval is about an ice age. Possibly two ice ages. Ergo, unless you want to see pictures fresh off the press from about four months ago there hasn’t really much point in my bothering to date.

Today however…..

Pictures!

 Contemporaneous ones.

 

Apropos of nothing, I would like to use Saag to demonstrate an event of extreme novelty chez MII.

I baked.

They were, um, exceedingly wholesome. I offered them to the neighbour’s children who took one bite and haven’t been seen since because they’re still sinking towards the centre of the earth. Actually, they said in typical blunt six and eight year old fashion ’We don’t like these’ and went looking for something with actual sugar in it. Saag at least, poor deprived child, I have conned.

She thinks they’re the bomb.

I still have at least two muffins left and if you’re not very careful, I’ll inflict them on you, too.

Also apropos of nothing and just because I can,here is some random pictures of Saag and Naan and Naan alone.

Yes, I’ve discovered apps. Can you tell?

The astute may notice that in the close up on ze left (i.e. the one making dentists everywhere cringe and cry ‘buck tooth!’ and then rub their paws with glee at the thought of ‘Braces!’ in a few years’ time) Naan now has a fringe. Um, ‘bangs?’.

She wanted one like Saag. Like jumping up and down wanted while I hesitated holding the locks destined for felling. Saag has Hair With Charisma, apparently. Not that Follicular Charisma has stopped her turning my bathroom cupboard of potions inside out looking for the jar of ‘curlies’.

Apparently we all want what the other side has?

Teething Bhaji gets a look in. The flower on the dress on the left is part of my current game of ‘see how many items I can find to dress up Bhaji in that have her name on them’.

She’d like them buggers to get on with it, please. The teeth, that is. The name themed clothing I suspect she will kill me for with a zillion adolescent death stares if I but wait long enough.

I lovemyphoneIlovemyphoneIlovemyphone. Can you leave the two of us alone for a little private time, please?

G

Posted in Babies. 5 Comments »

Pattern

Okay Internet I have but one small pop quiz for you all.

Do bear with me, it might be tricky. Most humbly sorry, et cetera, in advance.

1. What does it mean when your four month old starts dribbling for the Harlem Globetrotters, can’t stop choking on her own bleeping fist and generally wants to chew the hell out of anything suicidal enough to get in between maxilla and mandible?

2. There is no number two. She’s teething, isn’t she?

Feck.

Also, trust me, despite above remarks there’s an awful lot of even looser than usual number two around these parts.

In the You Probably Didn’t Want To Know files, breastfed pooh stains like it plans to hang around for a carbon dating in a millenia or two.

Also, my poor bloody nipples.

Happy days,

 G

Millenium Hand and Shrimp.

Buggerit, as Foul Ole Ron would say.

Also, Hi!…and then Goodbye!

Those of you who never got the email moxie together to ask for the password now knows how to find me and everybody else who didn’t care can go right back to ignoring my obnoxious specs.

Nice to meet you all, Internet .

 

G

Thousand

Yo, peeps!

For some reason I occasionally get the urge to start a blog post with a cheery and utterly demographically and geographically incorrect ‘yo, peeps!’.

Today was clearly one of those days and, to my eternal cringing shame, I am not only probably entirely the wrong kind of race but I live in a nation where ‘hey mates!’, ‘hey youse all’ and the grammatically painful like would be more appropriate.

So, yo. Peeps. Wassup? What does ‘yo‘ mean, anyway?

Internet, I was planning on doing a super beautiful detailed post chock-full of finest real estate porn but then the dog ate my wifi connection and THEN I realised my computer sucks and then I came up with some other bulldust excuses but mainly I realised that my own candids snapped without the aid of a wide angle lens, special lighting and, most importantly, liberal abuse of Photoshop to make the walls look less bleeping meringue and the tiles all sparkly and free of hideously stained grout plus the even better omission of the real estate agent to photograph any room with the horrible prolapsed brown curtains and the completely absent back garden means that you all really wouldn’t get just how much sexier my house is now than it was a year ago and, ergo, I would feel like I have been spending my maternity leave painfully giving my grout a very effective nose-job and painting the thing a pleasing neutral coffee palette for nought.

Breathe in, breathe out and try not to run on so in the next sentence.

Also, I put in over sixty blasted trees in my garden to date with the aid of a post hole digger when I was on permanent night shift and sick as a dog in the first trimester of Bhaji gestation and I can’t even show you a bramble filled ‘before’ picture for contrast.

Poop.

Plus I keep improving further things at the kind of warp speed rate only a woman who is seriously avoiding studying for important upcoming exams can do and thus half of them would come with the ‘but I changed this bit’ proviso anyway.

Do you still want to see them all, or would you rather live with the Real Estate dream avec photoshop, posh furniture and careful omission of the bits that really sucked when I moved in?

Don’t all rush at once.

Anyway, I hope you all had a fabulous Chocolate Season, Saag and Naan personally went to one of those multiple birth group easter egg hunts where all of us had a positively jolly time trying to enforce a five egg per child limit on the identical twins and I found that even though I own a set of twins, I can’t stop staring slightly longer than is polite at a sodding field full of them in Hunt For Crap mode.

We backed this up with a lunch of the kind of epic proportions that removes the requirement for a dinner in the same day (thanks to kind friends) where happily enough Saag did not shit her pants under the onslaught, thanks be, although as I come to think of it, I don’t think she’s done the business in two full days now and THAT isn’t the best solution to the brown problem we’ve developed Chez MII, either.

Did I ever mention the Brown Problem, or do I need to backtrack to hosing off a dripping with sh!t Saag several times in the last week for goodness knows what regressing cause?

I also found out that aforementioned kind friends have been all a swivet about affording their next IVF because of the thousand dollars a month they are spending on Chinese herbs and, feck me, I know I was probably meant to be a little more politely biopsychosocial about the expensive abuse of the placebo effect less I antagonise all potential patients and be dubbed yet another pillar of the Evil Science Based Medical Conspiracy, but I wasn’t.

I mean, when your happy pills are making your wallet sad and they haven’t worked in five full years and you can’t do IVF due to the cost, it’s time to take stock.

Happy easter,

G

Read the rest of this entry »

Fire

There’s an expression, excuse me if I mangle the exact turn of phrase, but I believe it goes something along the lines of never discussing politics or religion unless what you’re really looking for is a good old fashioned barney.

Honestly, I think it’s a pretty astute observation.

It’s also one I follow and the main reason I rarely blog about such items, for although just like any other thirty something woman I have Views Quite Strongly Held, I also understand that my particular set of Views are exactly that and not only are they no more valid than anybody else’s Views but trying to point out to somebody else that I think their Views are wrong not only never helps them see the light but, well, ends up in the good old fashioned barney referred to above.

Browbeating people into agreeing with you just doesn’t work and not only that, it mostly only very successfully pisses them right off. Plus, most of the time other people’s Views work in their world and my Views apply in mine and who cares, really, if some people think wierd shit about it not being okay to mix extra hot chilli sauce with carbonara at dinner time? I can and DO do it anyway.

But one thing  that really puts the fire in my belly is when some d!ckhead with Views decides that their Views are important enough to deliver in person in my face and at my front door entirely unbidden.

Hint. See above italicised observations about such behaviour.

So, I have but this to say to the nineteen year old idiot who decided to interrupt my quiet life today with their observations on family values (Oh, and I see you have a family let me talk about the ways….) otherwise known as a not so subtle cover for the true ideology of Doesn’tReallyMatterWhatFlavourOfReligionSlashOtherBeliefSystem and what women can and cannot do with their bodies and their role in society.

You’re nineteen and quite frankly, you’re a fuckhead, and on top of this you have no fucking idea about the world and what you would or wouldn’t do if your sheltered self got a serious dose of reality and don’t presume that because I am white and polite and have a neat home and small children that I haven’t had the scarlet A for something you couldn’t even begin to wrap your silly little head around as the best thing I could do at the time for a baby that was going to die, sweetheart, because that wasn’t you.

It isn’t you.

You’re only nineteen and you don’t have a fucking clue and that’s the only reason that I put a lid on the fire in my belly for people to believe what the fuck they like as long as they leave other people to do the same long enough to say ‘no, thank you, sorry’ and shut the door.

You’re nineteen. Your mother was a hampster and your father smelled of elderberries. I fart in your general direction.

Come talk to me in twenty years.

G

Well, THAT was farking traumatic.

Lovely ladies of the internet at large I do apologise for I think I left you derailed somewhere along the barely coherent train track of tramadol, panadol, ibuprofen, panadeine forte, um I must fess up, leftover endone from my csection  + glass of wine.

I think I was screaming something about my bloody jaw and how much she hurts but that’s okay because life sure has it in for me and decided that what I really needed to keep me fully and totally miserable was for my computer to shit itself with great determination to never work meaningfully again, right along with my important precious backup external wireless clever hard drive gizmo. The former happened in attempts to fix the latter because my PC, she is of a delicate constitution these days and can’t be having with multiple restarts all in a row.

Turns out the latter is a mighty fine paperweight if nothing else on a bad day and it also turns out that tech support are based on the other side of the pond and are also retarded types who like to blame the software if they are from the hardware mob and vice versa and if all else fails, rather unfairly the end user, but have nothing in the way of useful contributions as to why their shiny and not-cheap product suddenly stopped working on two computers which were not changed in any way but right after their product automatically updated itself.

Yerhonour, I rest my case.

Can I have a new computer now?

It’s been a farking rough week and whilst I am down to piffling paracetamol for pain control thanks to a course of antibiotics, I have found via the wonders of a whizzing dental xray better known as an OPG that I in fact am the proud owner of four wisdom teeth, three of which are deeply impacted and working seriously bad juju on the teefs I quite approve of in front of them, and that the forth partially erupted bastard has a nice cosy pocket of bone loss behind it where my friends Oral Flora are hanging out and generally having a fun time.

When I said it felt like I had pus under pressure back there I was pretty much right. If I was coherent enough to utter such a thing.

At least the most recent dentist was not a farking idiot and therefore sensibly asked why I wasn’t on flagyl too, to which I muttered something vaguely polite about her previous colleague thinking it for the best to avoid it on accounts of booby stuff and me not wanting to be a pushy bastard know it all doctor because although I am rather good at examining business ends I leave the mouths to those with the inclination for that sort of wierd stuff. In return I got both a snort of derision for pansies who also think women with three young children pop out to the dentist because they’ve chewed awkwardly and just bruised up the old gum a bit and a good saline rinse shall fix all (ha!) and a fresh shiny prescription for both drugs I need and an urgent referral for an oral surgeon. Plus heavy encouragement to go before my mouth explodes again which it invariably shall.

Happy days. I like this dentist and I hope to see her in happier circumstances like holding down two screaming three year olds for a routine checkup sometime soon.

Internet, apparently I now need all four blasted teeth out in hospital and under GA, a financial event called ‘send the surgeon’s children to school camp this year and buy a lot of pot noodles and tinned tuna for dinner for the next six months’ and a pain and emotional event called ‘ain’t going to farking happen because I have three children one of whom is very young indeed’. Um, well, no.

The last time I saw somebody who had had four wisdom teeth extracted, they could barely open their mouth far enough to vomit without swallowing it for the best part of a week and I need to be a little more chipper than that right now.

Universe, you have got to be shitting me. What’s next?

Pah.

G

PS. Something tells me the PC situation is the least of my worries right now.

Do you have a dental emergency?

 This Information for Idiots bit is from my local dental hospital ’s website:

Do you have a dental emergency?

You may need emergency care if you have:

  • an injury to your teeth
  • severe bleeding in your mouth
  • swelling around your mouth area
  • dental pain

My mouth says that last item is missing the opportunity to use words like ‘internal explosion’ and ‘jawbone threatening to take off and reach orbit’ and ‘fucking ouch’ and that’s after downing paracetamol then paracetamol+codeine, tramadol, nurofen, amoxycillin and a glass of red wine in increasing desperation.

My local dental hospital also kindly tells me I should seek normal hospital emergency department care after 9.15pm. Since it’s now 10.40pm, I guess I’m having my dental emergency at an inconvenient time and even more irritatingly I did actually see a dentist today who told me I’d just bruised the gum chewing on something or other and that saline rinses were nice and safe in breastfeeding so Have a Nice Weekend While The Clinic Shuts.

I’m pretty sure that the above list of drugs all at once is not precisely ideal in breastfeeding and despite them anyway my-fucking-god-my-mouth-is-still-a-white-hot-zone-of-throbbing-pain. Depressingly, I am even more sure that if I braved the pissing rain (do excuse the foul language but decent pain gives me serious potty mouth) to turn up my emergency department as advised, one I have worked in, nobody would give me the fun drugs because of the whole booby thing and even worse I know for sure that none of them buggers know how to do a dental block because I don’t either and did I mention how much my jaw hurts right now and I can’t really think with the pain and I’m too scared to take any more strong stuff in case I stone Bhaji Nightshift to oblivion?

Oh, and I just had to replace my broken dishwasher after it flooded my kitchen in the middle of the night and my coffee machine is in for repairs.

But mostly, my mouth really bleeding hurts.

G

Place

Okay, so I’m rather late to the healing salon party and in a way I don’t think it matters.

Knowing me, I’m probably not writing about quite the right thing, anyway, because gad knows I’ve spent the better part of seven years blogging about the wrong thing in as much detail as humanly possible. Some of the things I’ve gone and written about speculums are dead dodgy, for a start, and there was this time I turned them into a personal art project with mixed results and so on. I’ll leave somebody else to pull my back archives for speculum art because unfortunately I never did create the tag ‘speculum rabbit’ to celebrate the occasion and to be brutally honest the sheer weight of crap I’ve written over the years makes finding the post in question a bit to terrifying at this time of night.

In other words, life has phases, even virtual ones, and for those of you who found my coffee-fuelled ramblings at the frazzled Mama stage, this is my story.

I am a real person.

For those of you who prefer it straight,  these are my kids and this is my life. I have public blogs for both and am happy to share. I try not to get comment linkback here for obvious fanny-related posts aplenty along the IVF brick road way, but a friend acquired here is a friend. Period.

So, once upon a time I wrote about infertility. About dead babies. About my period. About cycle after cycle. About IVF. About miscarriages. About loss.

At the end of the day what I write about is my life so over the years what I write about has changed. My life has changed. I write about my ridiculously funny, wonderful, terrifying, rewarding, life-hogging job, my children, the family I finally have. I even write about my blasted home renovations or at least I plan to when I can get around it because goodness knows if I haven’t already bored the socks off of the last reader, then writing about paint colours should do the job for me.

I write about my life and that’s all I can do. I’m not good at other stuff. I like to write about my feelings, my day, the things I probably shouldn’t put on social media. I’ve done it for seven years and I guess this blog is seven years of me, in a slightly neurotic nutshell.

I don’t have the time I used to. I  adore working in obgyn, but it’s pretty much a lifestyle option. Accordingly, I have to pony up and pass some real ass big girly part doctor exams one of these days.  I also have three children.

Something has to give. I don’t write as often as the post come into my head. I simply can’t anymore.

But I write, anyway. Half the time i should really be doing something else, like folding the neverending pile of washing, but instead I write to you all.

Because I want to and it’s as simple as that.

I write about my infertility, about my losses, about my children, about my work and about ME. I can’t change it. I can’t sex it up any.  My place may not be squarely in the infertility blogosphere any more, but I am here nonetheless. I can’t say I fancy chasing fresh readers in Mamablogland because what I write isn’t conditional on how many people read. I just write. From both sides of the stirrups.

I plan to keep writing. I aim to be funny as piss if I can do so, because personally that’s about  the best coping strategy I have and goodness knows I’m going to be stressed enough over the next half a dozen years to need a little light relief. A vent. I don’t think there’ll be any new stuff about IVF. I could be wrong, but for so very many reasons I think that part of my life is done. But if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be on the other side of the stirrups, then I guess I’m your lass. The one with the bad reproductive past history.

I can’t control my audience, who and how many. It doesn’t matter.

I write because I want to do so and I thank you all, whatever brings you here and however many of you there may or may not be.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Bhaji is being a right bugger and has just escaped from her baby straightjacket for the third time in an hour and is duly flailing looking for the boobie. Yes, I am cussing myself for that particular sleep association right now.

g

Sssshhhh!

Internet, honestly, I really should be getting to bed since Miss Nightshift herself has gone bye-bye to the land of nod about an hour ago (with the aid of my left br.east as is customary these days at least up and until my n1pples fall off from overuse, I get jack of it enough to go cold turkey or I learn to cope with the miffed screeching better than I currently am able to when I attempt to recover bits of my own blasted anatomy from her gob. The kid sure has a thing for boobies).

But I can’t help a wee chat with you all and it isn’t to point out that Miss Naan, in a pleasingly congruent line of narration, also said to me in the shower today with some three-year old approval that she sure liked my boobies because, Internet, THAT they’re-not-what-they-used-to-be-so-taverymuch moment was rather spoiled by the predictable question as to why Daddy doesn’t have boobies and while-on-the-subject-what’s-going-on-with-Daddy’s-f@nny-anyway-and-can-I-explain-why-it’s-kind-of-all-different.

No I can’t explain just now, child, at least not without choking just a little and that is why I took that precise moment of anatomical discussions to move right along to the eternal grot behind the ears battle. Also, no, we are not the naked family, LS squeals like a squashed cat and generally sprints like he’s got a nasty case of the squits and the rumble to toilet ratio is getting uncomfortably close if the twins catch him dressing. Three year olds are just painfully observant.

Especially in the supermarket.

What I was going to tell you about is how Saag has developed this nasty habit of not being exactly bothered enough by the urge to excrete in general to go to the damn toilet already, an art she first mastered some time ago now because, Internet, I am damned about how to stop the puddles of liquid and worse appearing around the place and I think I could do with some help because my house, it is not an open latrine.

The kid seriously sometimes decides just to let nature happen and hope that nobody notices the smell until presumably the Clean Bum fairies work their magic. The FIRST time I caught her farting up a storm and them just letting rip in her pants because D.ora’s pull was just too hard to resist, it was at least kind of cute to see the cheeky grin, smiling ‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ gesture and accompanying pronnouncement ’It’s a SECRET!’ as she continued to watch D.ora. You’d have to have your nasal passages removed to not be all in on the secret.

It’s not cute now, three days in a row is killing me. Today has also included two discovered-late puppy puddles, one under the dining table, the other in the playroom where presumably the same bathroom ennui struck.

Please tell me it’s just a phase. I’m also presuming that rubbing noses in it is off the menu.

G

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Dill

I do not normally partake of drive by posting, Internet, but oh lordy please do forgive me for I have been a bloody dill.

Why?

I went and got delusions of lactational grandeur in my head. I dropped the dose of my mot.ilium and to compound the foolishness I also completely stopped pumping overnight (okay, so this second part might also be because Bhaji has been Not Herself since and during the whole Thing With The Snot and now she seems to sleep with me pretty much all of the night and I kind of figured that since I am an all night milk bar, albeit an increasingly reluctant one, that fark it I am currently dying by fatigued inches as it is and getting up an extra time to hear ‘cha’chug’ while my nipples stretch to ungodly proportions for forty minutes can go by the bleeping wayside for a bit).

You’ll never guess what happened next, Internet.

I got mastitis (yes, a-bloody-gain, I am going for some kind of gram positive invasion record here), and THEN my nipples began cringing in terror whenever Bhaji so much as whimpered in her sleep because she has been abusing them with enough suction to suck the chrome off of a towbar. Continuously. For the last three days. Around the clock.

It hasn’t been great.

See you on the flip side.

G

Delight.

Bhaji is delightful.

I’d forgotten how hard one falls in love with their newborn.

It’s the smiling.

The chuckles.

The cooing.

The way her eyes seek me and only me out in a room full of people.

She goos and gurgles at me, entirely incomprehensible sweet baby-voiced imitation syllables.

The chuckles, Internet, they melt me even at three am when it’s only because she’s been dumped in her cot and has accordingly worked her left arm free from her swaddle and is seriously campaigning not only for the freedom of the other three limbs, but to come back into bed with warm squishy Mama and nuzzle all night.

Yes, I usually give in. It’s so very hard not to. But I have learned other things. I Am Not An All Night Human Milk Bar. I do also now firmly shut my nursing bra after a sensible interval. Amusingly enough, Bhaji then bobs her head against the fabric about a million times a night in sleepy optimism. Sometimes she gives a half-assed suck on the outside for a bit before giving it up. Just in case.

It’s funny how a cold-virus-infested little person who is either vomiting on you when she coughs, leaving snot on your nipple when she sneezes or dribbling your bra to ‘how-about-it?’ soggy bits can be so damn snuggly.

She’s developing clear anticipation of pleasant things. I just adore me a little four limbed wriggle and hyperventilating ‘ah, ah, ahhhhh!’ for some areola in the morning.

I’ve even come to like the sensation of my breast being compressed mammogram-flat for a perfect baby pillow.

She’s entirely delightful and I  love her so very much it hurts.

I will miss this.

I want this feeling for everybody who seeks it as badly as I did. As many times over as they want. It’s worth all the hard times. It’s worth it all.

G

Handiwork.

Lovely Internet, send! help! at! once!. M’aidez et cetera.

Am drowning in bodily secretions, excretions and all other kinds of cretions you can name for Bhaji Nightshift has a cold and so do I and, accordingly enough, I am not sure which of us is more prone to fits of low grade febrile irritability and crying for no externally discernible reason. My damn throat hurts.

As for Bhaji, well, she can’t whinge as fluently as the twins can because they have about three years jump on her in the whole complaints department, but she’s very clearly about as happy about the whole thing as you can expect an obligate nose-breather to be when chock full of snot and in case I have failed to make my not so subtle point I mean that Bhaji is rather UNhappy and UNsettled and prone to sleeping sounding a little like Darth Vader’s hiterto-unknown apprentice, complete with wakings on the hour pretty much every hour without reference to the actual time of day.

Or night.

Sob.

Also, she wants ze boobie almost constantly because only a thirty seven degree squishy pacifier shall do and I have two observations to note from this development.

1. Your nipples start to hurt when abused in this fashion.

2. Your baby will literally overflow with ze product of ze boob that comes with the squishy pacifier and thus you will frequently be coated in your own modified apocrine glandular output (in various stages of acidic maturation) rather more than is considered polite from the newborn set.

Actually, there’s also observation number three: You will get really farking tired really farking quickly and this doesn’t help the personal human versus virus battle one damn bit. I am zombie boobie mama right now. Lightly puke-ly marinated.

Screw those polite TV commercials advertising product huggy-boo for baby’s special first wee fever. I want the shite that kills virions with one fell swoop, drains sinuses better than a good dose of curry and gives a better night’s sleep than a propofol infusion.

G

PS. No I don’t know who the b@stard is who Let The Germ In. They usual suspects are suspiciously chirpy and whine free. Ergo in about three day’s time, they will be wiping their noses on my clothes and whinging. Can hardly wait.

At your age.

I do apologise for the prolonged radio silence after my totally gratuitous use of a sympathetic audience to convict LS of being a hard-assed insurance judgment passer in his utterly unaware absence.

By the way, if you were wondering, I think I’ve hit upon the very best way to have an argument with your spouse with that last post. In blissful absentia is the way to go. Not only do I get the smug satisfaction of being right, right, RIGHT (Ha!), but there was much less shouting and no tiresome interjections when WE all wanted to speak.

I should do it more often.

Anyway, I do apologise for the lapse in communications but it turns out that, unlike having newborn preemie twins who were bottle-fed and slept like tops in between on accounts of small and prem-ness, having boisterous three year old twins belting around the house singing the poo-bum song combined with a rather less inclined to nap full-term singleton with a vaguely indecent relationship with my breasts at all times means that I have very little time to blog.

Who knew?

Also, I broke the ice and nursed in public in a cafe yesterday because there was no bloody way I was going to be able to drag Saag and Naan away from toast and babychinos without bloodshed and I was amazed to discover that the earth did not cave in, after all. Yes, I think about five dozen men carefully looked at my breasts and then just as hurriedly didn’t look at my breasts and generally spent quite a lot of time NOT looking at my breasts while sipping lattes a bit faster than planned but that’s okay because I think we all plan to pretend it never happened. Particularly the men sitting with, say, their wives.  

I think looking at female tits is just hard wired and it’s like trying to ask people not to slow down and stare at a car accident on the other side of the freeway, they can’t help it and you’re late even though there is technically nothing wrong with the bit of road you’re driving on at all.

Pet peeve that.

Regardless, on top of the three children and public boob shenanigans, my other mother in law (the nice one who I adore because she always brings FOOD when she visits and that is my kind of houseguest made in greedy heaven right there and yes I really do have two mothers in law thanks to the wonders of remarriage. Lucky me) was visiting recently and thus it’s been even harder than usual to blog.

I truly do utterly adore her and she’s great to talk to but I note that (ignoring the less fun aspects like baby sh!t and sleepless nights and crying and stuff) when I voiced a bit of sadness that I would never have a squidgy newborn to snuggle with again on accounts of career et cetera, the response was a surprised sounding ‘Well of course not, there’s your age, anyway.’

I thought I was having a good wrinkle day but apparently I have now entered the phase of life better known as ‘dried up ovaries’ even to people I see twice a year.

If I wasn’t being vaguely silly about the whole episode I could observe that I kind of want to cry when I think about that statement. At my age. Am I that old already?

G

Maybe next time I’ll tell you about my adventures in the land of cup-of-tea-making electric pump because I finally caved and got a real big girl pump having finally given myself w@nkers wrist with my trusty arthritic wheezy old hand pump. Have exchanged bed-spring sounding creaking for chu-chug, chu-chug.

Insurance.

Help!

Bhaji, after a run of what I like to call ‘bleeding civilised’ nights in that I got to stay in MY bed ALONE and Bhaji slept in HER bed and with only one four am hours of dark and ungodly wake up, decided last night was the night to mix things up a bit.

Internet, last night I was awake on the hour and for most of every hour starting from one forty five in the morning. There’s ungodly and there’s positively bloody heathen. Again I can only observe that it is hard to sleep when your arm is going numb and somebody is sucking on your chest at random intervals and that bit where Miss Nightshift startled me to full wakefulness at seven am by loudly shitting through her nappy, down both legs and up her back and ONTO MY SHEETS (again) was really just totally unnecessary Parent Torture Bonus Point scoring.

In other words, I am clutching my fourth coffee for the day, I am duly urinating like a big, black horsey, I have a mild tremor and I can’t really hold a train of thought for more than about half a sentence. What?

See.

So, unusually and on variation from form, I am going to ask YOU to tell ME about something political. Mostly because I think LS is being a hard arsed  raving nutter who should have a little more sympathy for people in the same reproductive boat as ourselves.

The tax man tells me that my medical expenses were twenty four thousand dollars in the Year Of Nightshift Conception. I expect the twins were little better three years back, ergo we, in a nation of snuggly ‘universal’ health coverage probably spent the best part of fifty kay generating three children.

I mean, seven kinds of holy crap, but ouch. Still, it could have been much more expensive if we’d lived elsewhere in the world. I’m factoring in six clomid cycles, three IVF stims and eight or nine or whatever it was embryo transfers, premature twins and a term singleton plus a reproductive partridge in a pear tree.

At over fifteen thousand dollars per child the little buggers really should be making my breakfast and ironing my work blouses because when you add THAT figure to my not inconsiderable study debts I am going to be able to retire comfortably some time in about the next century.

This is the post where I ask you if I’m mental or LS is, and yes, I am asking the Internet to award points on a political discussion.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

One of the things about living in the land of universal healthcare is that while we all justifiably enough bleat that it is big, unwieldy, inefficient and sloooooooow, at least there is some kind of IVF cover. Sure, the big clinics gouge a fairly healthy chunk more than the rebate paid and the rebate for reproductive things is capped lower than the rebate for new hips because babies are a lifestyle choice (insert your own opinion about this move here) after all, but at least there is coverage. A frozen transfer is about 1-2 k out of pocket, depending on your luck.

That’s not so bad.

We have significantly more elective single embryo transfers (eSET) than multiple ones these days because IVF is  relatively affordable. eSET is the norm at many clinics. Correct me if I’m wrong here, but the flavour around the IF blogosphere suggests you US-ian types pay ungodly amounts of money and unsurprisingly tend towards transferring scary-mucho amounts of embryos and just sucking up the risk a bit.

Over time and anecdotally I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read of young women with a high risk of multiple pregnancy transferring three or above embryos. Two seems to be the absolute minimum.

Not to horrify, but even twin pregnancies have a not-so-comfortable rate of Bad Things. Triplets are much scarier.

Locally, because eSET is common, the twin pregnancy rate from ART is now much lower than in times past. This has had a knock-on effect of fewer costly NICU admissions for premature twins i.e. the policy of at least partially funding IVF ultimately SAVES money, due to the  reduction in NICU bed demand.

That’s actually been proven in real dollar terms.

LS thinks that the solution for the US problem of a very high multiple birth rate and prematurity cost related to expensive ART is to refuse insurance coverage for NICU admissions from deliberate multiple embryo transfers.

I guess it’s one strategy, but personally I don’t think it’s got legs.

It’s rather harsh. What one of us when desperate for success and financially pressured as most couples on the ART-merry-go-round are really wouldn’t ever  transfer multiple embryos even with such a policy? I’m betting those ending up with twins and above would then just hope like crazy their twins would be the thirty eight week take home type. After all, fifty percent of twins are born at term,  it’s a coinflip statistic.

The way I see things, all that this sort of policy would generate is that the ten percent of twins and more of higher order multiples who are severely preterm, plus a big chunk of the moderately preterm would still be in the NICU, anyway, and in about the same numbers as before.

 The only difference is the debt punishment  to the parents for their conception and birth just became unmanageably high.

So why exactly don’t insurance companies cover IVF more over your North American way? Evidence here shows that doing so with eSET would probably not only save money, but heartache and bad outcomes as well.

I think LS is wrong. Very wrong. I also think insurance in the US is a bit screwey. Thoughts?

G

The sleeping post.

Otherwise entitled ‘Help, I seem to be kind of letting an eight week old call the shots’.

I don’t know what I really thought having a singleton after multiples would be like in the nitty gritty how-things-go department. Actually, I think I kind of just assumed it would go like a ‘now with a streamlined 50% less baby!’ version of the twins. That it would be easier.

It is easier, indisputably. But it isn’t what I expected.

Yes, it means that there may have been a few wee purchasing inefficiencies in preparing for the onslaught. The twins were Spewers. This baby is happy to keep her food on the inside. Accordingly, I have a shelf full of unused spew-catching cloths, all pink of course. Vomit fashion matters.

I also have a drawer full of unused bibs for the same reason, because at her worst, Naan started the day with five and I peeled the dripping layers off like a stinky onion as the day progressed. I have three tins of unopened formula in my pantry. I’ve talked about this one already, but I REALLY didn’t expect to not need those suckers.

..and I seem to have a baby that sleeps in my bed.

Well, at least from the hours of ungodly am until daylight. We start the night with good intentions, really we do.

I don’t like co-snoozing, or in my case co-arm-flung-to-side-until-numb-babe-carefully-away-from-all-blankets-and-pillows-and-bed-absolutely-slope-free-intermittent-bursts-of-REM-interspersed-with-obediently-poking-areola-into-gob-at-nuzzling-request. But it’s the only way I’ve been able to cope.

Bhaji wants me and only me all the time and the love, it is slightly overwhelming.

She’s in a  sling all day, too, stuck on my person and yet again calling the shots. Unless unconscious, she yells at me if I dare put her down. She yells at pretty much anybody else if they dare pick her up. Saag and Naan, as I recall, due to the package deal nature of their arrival, got used to being picked up by just about anybody and were rarely displeased. They also had to suck it up and like their rockers.

Coming back to my point, I need that REM sleep.

Nevermind that the dreams are mostly about inadvertently smothering my child.

It’s just that while Saag and Naan slept in their own beds without fussing, this babe isn’t having any truck with that idea. Not when the booby pillow lady is available.

Help, Internet, I seem to be co-snoozing and it bothers me. It’s that whole slightly-higer-risk-of-accidentally-smothering-my-child-to-death-thing.

Also, good sleep is hard to come by when your arm feels like it might fall off at any moment and somebody is sucking on your chest.

G

Three.

Dear Bhanshee Bhaji Nightshift,

As your maternal unit I love you, really I do.

I also love that YOU love ME, albeit to the point that I am finding it hard to find time to urinate unless I want to do it one handed (and have you ever tried getting your knickers down and up one handed, Bhaji? They get all bunched, love) and that strangers can never get you to meet their gaze when they pick you up because you’re too busy fixating on my spiky-haired self. I guess the glasses make me an easy target.

I get that you adore my b00bs. I’ve made my peace with that.

But, here’s the thing.

Sweet as it is to have you nuzzling into me between the hours of one am and daylight, you just can’t use my poor b00bies as pillows. Neither is it particularly okay to lie next to my knackered self in bed all night only interrupting your happy snoring sleep of the b00by-pillowed-replete to use my poor self as some kind of all-night nocturnal milk bar.

There’s love and there’s insane sleep deprivation, lovvie, and it’s a bit odd to be half woken up by somebody sucking on your n1pple all the time. The dreams are dead strange for a start and there was that time you gave me a bit of a mis-aimed in-the-dark b00by hickey that actually hurt quite a bit, you know.

Basically, Bhaji, I am glad that last night you returned to your usual sweet, settled sleeping self and spent a blessed six hours in your cot because, honestly, the previous four nights were seriously Not Cool. At least from my perspective.

So why did you go and spoil it by choosing just before six am to leave me a noisy number three in your nappy, up your pyjama back, in your swaddle and, only discovered later to my horror, ON MY SHEETS?

Love,

Your Mama.

Posted in Babies. Tags: . 3 Comments »

Input requested.

Dear lovely mostly ladies of the Internet,

This is the post where I ask what you think, and don’t worry we’ll all still be friends at the end of this, I promise. You see, I never talk politics round these parts and also I come from the wrong part of the world to be especially involved in the merry game of who-has-the-most-hidden-mistresses/lovechildren/porn addiction/stuffed toy collection/nose picking habit etc that seems to be going on in one part of the world right now.

But seriously, you all get kind of up in your politicians lives over there.

Anyway.

I did have a question for you and it isn’t political at all. It’s about what to do with the extra breastmilk my poor freezer is carrying because the old girl can’t take the groceries I need to jam in there to avoid multiple shopping trips a week and thus my life kind of sucks right now in the way that repeatedly going shopping (popping out to the shops, ha!) with three children will do.

Bhaji doesn’t do bottles, I pump because of morbid fear of repeat mastitis and I keep taking the domperidone because I am not crazy enough to mess with what is working. There is only one milk bank in town and it only takes from women who delivered at that hospital and are therefore trustable sorts.

I did not deliver at that hospital and am clearly extremely untrustworthy I guess. Hence the bursting freezer problem.

Is it wrong to give it to Saag and Naan in their sippy cups in lieu of the moo variety?

On the face of it I can’t see a logical reason why not, per se, and there is a nice belated full circle element of closure about my utter failure to manage lactation for THEM at the appropriate juncture.

But.

The thought makes me feel a bit squarmy and wrong and I-can’t-do-THAT, I just can’t quite put my finger on exactly why.

I mean, it’s not like extended nursing, which is a bit of a social taboo even though there’s nothing wrong with that either. It’s just that we’ve all be cultured to not like hearing somebody’s three year old ask her Mama for her booby in the supermarket.

It’s just a sippy cup.

So why does it feel all odd?

Thoughts and opinions and suggestions for other use of human moo all welcome.

G

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