Heh.

Dear Internet-at-large,

Yesterday afternoon, after a day where I most emphatically HAD ENOUGH, I actually committed biological warfare on a small scale by dumping Saag and Naan on my unsuspecting family for several hours and made good my escape to the relative mindless bliss of grocery shopping. Mind you, a mazy head with fatigue and smooth negotiation of the whirling maelstrom that is a shopping centre approaching December do not entirely mix. Let me count the ways:

  • Run over many unsuspecting feet with poorly controlled and one dodgy wheeled trolley? Check. Incidentally, do they make the daft things in the factory with one dodgy wheel, or am I perpetually unlucky in this regard?
  • Forget where I left my illegally parked car and have brief panic that the bloody thing had been towed before finding it? Also check.
  • Liberal use of panic button on car alarm as a sort of echo-location device in achieving the previous aim scaring the bejeebers out of half the carpark? Yep.

So, given I could not simply leave my I-have-to-be-honest vile spawn in the care of others until she turned thrity and became reasonable again, I took action. For both of our sakes.

With many unhappy mutterings of ‘Enough is sodding enough, you little bugger’ to a wailing-for-most-of-the-day Naan (who clearly must have repeatedly got out of her cot on the wrong side), I did the following:

  • Fed her up to her red-rimmed and tearing eyeballs,
  • Gave her some paracetamol on spec (Who the heck knows, right? My ears were hurting with all the yelling, so at the very least hers might have been by then),
  • Resisted adding some phe.nergan to the mix (barely),
  • Swaddled her truly demonically,
  • and then stuck her bundled up form firmly into a sleep sack so a Houdini like escape was truly impossible.

Oh, and I plugged her yell-hole with a dum-dum.

I dumped her in her cot and went to bed and got a blessed seven hours sleep before she woke up genuinely hungry.

I think we all needed it- she’s positively a new baby today who clearly can’t be the same infant who was so very vile for the last few days. Clearly. THIS infant is actually likable for people other than her parents.

Why, as I type this missive, my younger sproglette is cooing at her toys whilst trying to figure out how to remove and re-insert her own dum-dum. She’s not yelling, which I find amusing given that so far she’s managed to pull it out, but returning it to the rather obvious central-ish wet hole in her face is presenting her with rather more difficulty.

She’s managed to chew on the side thoughtfully for a few minutes before working out that this clearly wasn’t right. Then she rejiggered her hold, lined things up again and poked herself with increasing enthusiasm in her left eyeball with the teat. Until deciding that seeing her dum-dum in such close detail is not the intended outcome either. Stumped at least temporarily, she is now happily waving it about in her fist.

Did I mention she’s not yelling?

Praise bloody be.

Emerging.

Emerging from the fog of sleep deprivation, or at least consuming enough Liquid Awareness With Bonus Palpitations (i.e. coffee) to pretend that I’m not so very painfully stonkered, what else is a lady with a messy house, empty fridge and babies that need a thorough flea-dip by virtue of recent enthusiastic double-ended explosions do but blog about something else entirely?

I’m kidding.

Lest I be summarily judged and child protective services called to rescue my spawn from a filthy house where they are lovingly layered in several kinds of their own excreta, I will quickly make a disclaimer.

The little buggers are not only wiped clean enough for now, but are additionally in what is bordering on a religious experience for confirmed-athiest me, napping. I’ll bath them when they wake. The floor and the empty fridge can be put off another day with the aid of my expert Blind Eye and enthusiastic use of takeaway food for a day or so.

Worse things happen at sea, right? Please say ‘yes’.

Anyway.

Yesterday I took young Ms Saag and Naan for their very firstest public transport adventure. No, although I wanted to record the moment, I didn’t bring my camera with me lest other commuters think a Crazier than the Usual Crazy Ladies who infest my local train network had bred. But I was kind of teary at just how well the little buggers did, given I was mentally geared up to be on the receiving end of a million disapproving glares as both spawn of mine wailed enthusiastically in a closed, echo-ey space. But they didn’t.

They loved it.

Saag, bless her eternally sunny soul, made about 50 friends with her coy chuckles, broad grins and shimmies of sheer delight at eye contact with anything remotely (and some train faces only fit the category of ‘remotely’) resembling a human face. Even Naan broke out her best cooing efforts at a few choice souls.

However. Some of my fellow commuters can suck my balls. Specifically, all the rude arseholes who streamed around and halfway over the Giant Stroller on my first leg of the journey, completely obstructing my path as I was getting on the goddamn train.

In the end to avoid being trapped halfway in the door as they began to close and the train took off, I used my size and weight advantage mercilessly and simply crushed unwary rude toes left, right and centre under the Behemoth Contraption.

Serves you right, you stupid pricks. No, I am not in the least bit sorry, so you can ‘tut-tut’ and frown at me out your ASS for all I care, I shan’t be apologising.

But, all the unpleasantness aside, the rest of the trip was the aforementioned Giggly Baby delight. Thank Goodness.

Oh, and Lady Who I Looked all ‘Duh’ At And Snapped In Front Of A Carriage-full Of People ’They’re twins, so they’re the same age’ in response to your query as to who was older, well, please accept my apologies?

Now that I’m not stressed to my eyeballs with fear of being dragged down the platform and/or having my babies crushed to death in the jaws of closing train doors, I can see that you simply wanted to know who was firstborn. At the time, I kind of assumed that I had encountered a New Kind Of Stupid on the Are They Twins phenomenon.

Sorry.

Slack.

I, as you may have guessed, am very tired.

My eyes look like two rather unattractive red-rimmed holes in my head. My hair is a veritable bird’s nest. I think, to be absolutely completely honest, I may be beginning to smell.

Don’t worry, I can’t knock you out with the power of my BO via the internet, or at least I hope not.

Suffice it to say that whilst Naan slept like the proverbial sweet angel the uninitiated often mistake her for last night, I did not.

No, I went and bloody had insomnia, didn’t I?

Please forgive this slackest of slack, slack posts directly from Slacker-ville Central, will you?

I’ve been meaning to update my blogroll for a while, so if you’re not in it and would like the dubious honour, please post a comment.

I promise I’ll add you when sleep permits,

Geohde.

Urgh.

Snore. Whaaaa….?

Oh, I see.

I left a light on in the blog in the stinking mess the last 24 hours have devolved into and it’s neatly highlighting the fact that I am slumped at my desk, vomit coated, rattily tracksuit clad and unbrushed of hair, clutching an empty beer and snoring the sleep of the nearly-dead.

I guess you’re all poking me with that stick to either shut me up, or see if I need some kind of airway support, right?

I’m okay, I think. Just very very tired in a way I haven’t been for, say, about four months.

Dear g-d this is juvenile of me, but I blame Naan.

Is it okay to point the finger at an infant who is incapable of defending herself except by virtue of well timed screaming, vomiting, peeing and pooping? Too bad. Those are actually pretty potent weapons, believe me. I think she has the upper hand.

Sob.

Look what she’s done, internet. I’ve gone all whiny again.

To be rather more mature about things (Waah. SHE started it!) may I simply observe that young Mz Naan, a baby who has always had more than her fair share of the feisty gene isn’t sleeping. The little bugger.

It’s been coming for a while. I’ve just about been able to see the mental wheels turning on her head as she connects item ‘shriek at top of lungs until purple in the face and have impressive collection of broken capillaries’ with item ‘bedtime’. Especially since the first item leads to the third item ‘mama’ sooner or later.

She’s not slow on the uptake, either. She now starts wailing as I ascend the stairs, well away from her apparently Evil Torture Device of a cot. It doesn’t matter if she’s so very stonkered that her eyes are closing over periodically as she Fights The Sleepy. In fact, that makes it worse. Her fuse is even shorter, if that is at all possible, when she’s tired.

Sigh.

To put it another way, last night I was up at 12.30, 1 am, 2.30, 3-something, 4-who-the-hell-knows, 5-feeding-didn’t-help-a-bit-and-now-she’s-making-herself-vomit, 6am, 7.30 and 9.30. I gave up and got up at that point and have been feeling sorry for myself ever since.

She also shrieked her lungs out at both naptimes today, just to keep in practise for the big event tonight presumably.

Nice, eh?

She did go to bed at about eight pm before all this began, so at least I can thank her for letting me have four hours sleep before really getting into the swing of it.

My plan?

I shall pow-wow with LS tonight and we are going to be brutal. Yes, horrible as it sounds, it’s sleeping boot camp for Naan. She’s been sleeping through for a month now, so she’ll just have to remember how it goes.

I may have to buy the entire street earplugs.

Schmothers’ Group

Or on how I must be a social retard and just don’t quite get the concept of instant friendship based solely upon having produced spawn via natural or artifically created orifices at around the same point in time.

Or in my case, not the same point in time. You see, I carefully neglected two previous invitations to join my local Mothers’ group on the basis that:

A) The first time my twins were still in hospital and I could hardly relate to the tales of sleepless nights, poo issues and colic, instead being fully conversant with the world of jaundice, gavage feeds, septic workups and planning my day around visits to see the fruits of my IVF. Besides, I didn’t think it was all that traditional to turn up at a group designed to house rugrats en masse without any actual babies.

b) The second time I have to admit I was so snowed under by bodily excreta and sleep deprivation that I simply forgot to go. Kind of accidentally on purpose, if you will. I deliberately stuck the notice on the fridge and ignored it until the date had safely passed and I could ring, be all ‘Oh, I’m so sorry I forgot. I was really looking forward to it’ and heavily blame the twins for omitting to go in the first place.

I think I laid it on a bit too thick.

My child health nurse politely offered me a third go at it, and I was all out of excuses. Even bad ones, which are admittedly my staple diet of deficiency.

So today I packed my now just about four month old spawn in the pusher and went to meet my socially awkward fate, armed with babies as my only shield.

Yes, they were the oldest there.

Yes, there were the four traditional types of people that any large group of people in my ethnically diverse area seem to naturally be divided into:

  • Shy.
  • Sheep.
  • Knowitallalready.
  • Language Barrier.

In case you were wondering where I fit in, well, baa. I do try not to rock the boat excessively. It’s hard work keeping a lid on all the snark. Especially in the face of our particular Knowitallalready.

I’m quite sure that if she’s not trying to dispense unsolicited assvice to strangers I’d quite like her but honestly. This woman thought, inaccurately I might add, that she was the font of all knowledge paediatric and was spouting utter UTTER unsolicited shit left and right to all with the Voice Of Authority.

It came as a surprise to the woman next to me to learn that because she was now mildly lactose intolerant as an adult (which is flipping normal, we all lose our brush border lactase in our guts as we grow up, especially if we’re not Caucasian) that she should put her perfectly happy infant on Lactose Free formula or the kid would get the rampant squits, be horribly sick AND develop terrible allergies. Terrible! Polite reply that the baby was currently fine did not dissuade her from continuing.

We were all enthusiastically told that a particular brand of colic drops were simply The Shit (excuse the pun) when it came to colicky behaviour. The last time I did paediatrics, there was no clear evidence that colic actually has much to do with poop or gas issues and it’s probably a temperamental issue to do with sensitivity to stimuli. There is certainly no bloody evidence for efficacy of any kind of colic potion except in lightening the parental bank accounts and making one feel like one is doing something about it while the child grows out of the problem.

Then I was told I’d have twins naturally next because that’s what happens after you do IVF. Shoot me now. Please. I’ll even provide the bullets.

Of course her daughter was also a Wonder Baby Who Sleeps Fifty Hours and had since birth, and was so motor precocious that I’m sure she’ll be in the next Olympics in the bloody pentathlon. 
 
It was all I could do to keep my mouth tactfully shut and not mention my background. I never go spouting advice at strangers in that way, or at least I hope I don’t. I don’t, do I?

Additionally, although the other mothers were not bad people I can go to Partridge In A Pear Tree Town on the questions. Yes, the inner autistic in me who knows all her bank account numbers, her drivers’ number, her tax numbers her anything numbers kept count. It was easy.

  • Six asked if my twins were twins (which I thought was fairly obvious to work out, one woman TWO babies the same age),
  • Seven asked if my delivery was natural or not,
  • Eight if I breastfed, and
  • All of them asked if multiples ran in the family before I stomped that line of questioning firmly to death with a brief ‘no, they’re IVF’.  See above for why I kind of regret sharing that information.

I don’t recall asking anybody else about the manner of conception of their children, or the mode of delivery, or their feeding preferences with regard to Breast Lobbing. Or if singletons run in their family. I certainly never abused the word ‘natural’ in all of those contexts.
 
I may be bitter. The wheel fell off my pram in the supermarket afterwards while I was trying to buy my Precious Coffee, the Fat Ass Pram Aisle was closed, the Other Mothers all looked so effing young and Naan screamed her noisy head off all the way home and for a good hour afterwards. She was simply so totally and comprehensively spazzed out on all the new (whee!) faces that she went over the edge into Feral Viletown.

I don’t like Feral Viletown. Even her precious dum-dum doesn’t work once we get there.
 
I still get surprised by the degree of curiosity twins arouse in people.

Why only three days ago yet another very smelly cigarette-y type pulled up the pram covers in the street and went ‘TWWWWWWWWWWWWINNNNNNNNNNNNNNSSSSS!’. Then she didn’t really know what to do with herself and mumbled something and wandered off. Perhaps that’s just Geohde-ville at work, my neighbourhood is a bit dodgy.

Think I’ll have a glass of wine now. Dear god, re-reading this reminds me that I am indeed a bitch.

Winner wife.

Really, I am.

Let me list the ways:

  1. Babies ritually dunked bathed.
  2. Babies fed.
  3. Babies clothed. Yes, in clean items.
  4. Washing done. Of clothes and dishes (thank you various machines of dishpan/washerwoman hands avoidance).
  5. House vacuumed to within an inch of the rather cheap and mysteriously stained carpet’s life.
  6. Icky stain in the shower removed, albeit with dint of much elbow grease  and several varieties of paint stripper cleaning agents (gym membership, who needs it anyway?).
  7. Dinner cooked.
  8. Babies fed. Again. Several times. The little buggers DO insist on it.
  9. Babies put to bed. Praise be!
  10. Fifty gallons of excreta carefully removed from two children’s buttocks, various crevasses and perineums at four hourly intervals throughout day.
  11. Babies actually asleep.
  12. Husband shagged quite thoroughly (to the satisfaction of both parties, I might add).
  13. Discussion about our unreliable use of ‘Irish’ contraception.
  14. Spousal jokes about the liklihood of conception from seed deposited on belly as opposed to the more, err, traditional local being roughly equivalent.
  15. Semi-serious discussion that, well, would another sprog actually be a bad or a good thing should lightening actually strike my uterus twice?
  16. Point that current sprogs will not be our little babies anymore very very soon.

Well, you get the idea. Have eaten, drunk, fed children and spouse, shagged the second and seem to be kind of generally in favour of yet another Triply Incontinent (orally of milk, you can probably work out the other two orifices without my help) Spawn Of Household Geohde taking over the world.

Sigh.

Now if only it wasn’t likely to take another few rounds of IVF to actually have a realisitic chance at the above item, I’d be all excited right now. Sex. Babies. The lack of ”=” is deliberate. 

Never the twain shall meet……

So tell me…

What is the enthralling hold that a splash of white paint and a level surface have on my eldest daughter?

I just don’t get it, and more to the point, how on earth do I compete?

Yes, she’s a disgustingly even tempered baby, but really?

All I have to do to amuse her is put her down on a level surface and leave her to it.

She never really actually cries even under the most provoking of circumstances like, for example, her sister kicking her repeatedly in the face. She sleeps twelve blessed snoring hours and has done so since a mere ten  (six corrected, lest I forget) weeks of age. That factoid alone makes strangers blink in surprise. What is more, she chuckles at me in greeting in the mornings like the sun just shone out of my ass and I’m the very bestest thing ever. Ever.

She’s meltingly wonderful and when I think just how bloody lucky I am to have her AND her sister, alive and with only minor prematurity after such a shitty, risky pregnancy, well….I was Contracting for my Nation at twenty weeks. That is more often than not a harbinger of bad news. I am beyond lucky. 

But I digress. Suffice it to say lucky stars have been repeatedly counted and oh-my-god I want another baby. Stat. Even though it’s not particularly recommended. How the heck do I broach that one with Mr Suffered Through Infertility Plus One Lethal Potentially Repeatable Anomaly, IVF-x-3 and High Risk Pregnancy?

Anyway, coming back to my first liveborn.

She loves the ceiling. It could be easily argued that this simply represents an extension of the fact that she loves everything (even when Naan spews on her face, as happened today. No, don’t ask), but she really seems to have something going on with the View Above.

For example, as a case in point I shall explain what happens every time I put her in her cot for Naptime/Bedtime/Mamaneedsashowertime.

She coos. At the ceiling. And coos and coos ‘Oh-oh-oooohhhh’s’ of unrequited love, and chuckles, and laughs and plays with her hands for a bit before cooing again. Eventually she gets bored and peacefully falls asleep, arms and legs in the Starfish Position.

She then stays happily thusly arranged, plus or minus snoring, steadfastly unperturbed by Naan’s screaming, overflying helicopters aiming for the local hospital by flying low enough to navigate by street directory, stampeding elephants, earthquakes and any other acoustic insult.

History does not relate if the ceiling has yet to reciprocate the Baby Love. I have no idea if the quality of reply, if any, is sufficient.

But I do know the magic also works for the ceiling downstairs, in the cafe down the road AND at my father’s house.

I can only conclude that if you give my eldest daughter a splash of white paint and a downlight, well, she’ll entertain herself for ever.

Happy sigh.

My hands are small.

I know.

But they’re not YOURS (mother) they are my OWN!

So bugger off and leave me to it, or I shall yell.

I swear the third line is simply represents a hitherto undiscovered part of the song.

Okay, I’ll be more sensible. I don’t think the singer responsible for that lyrical gem had Saag and Naan in mind when she composed (or had someone write on her behalf) that one. Saag and Naan were not even thought of back in whenever-it-was Whatsername warbled this one out all over the radio. Hell, I was probably still merrily taking the pill, hugely convinced that a single missed dose would render me all pregnant and stuff.  Snort. My high school biology teachers and I still have an awful lot of debriefing to do one of these days about all of that.

As I recall, Biology taught me the following:

  1. You can rapidly roll a condom over a banana OR a cucumber withroughly equal success, although you will blush beet red when it turns out that you are the speediest person in your class at the task and the teacher points out your skill.
  2. The lubricant on the things makes for a greasy mane if you absentmindedly pull at it in an attempt to look all casual whilst your pimply colleagues snigger at your Prophylactic Acumen.
  3. You Will Get Pregnant the very instant you ever have the “s” word without both partners wearing dental dams, plastic raincoats, full body underwear, condoms, spraying themselves liberally in all available crevices with spermicide and taking birth control pills like smarties.

Sigh. Now where was I before nostalgia bit me in the arse?

Saag and Naan have hands. They are very clear on the matter that they are their own grubby paws. Additionally, they know what they want to do with them, and shall not be dissuaded without many howls of protest.

To put it another way, hands have, most emphatically, Been Discovered.

Oh my.

Things that the combined four upper limbs of the Indian Takeaways have got ahold of to my eternal detriment lately?

  • Both fists in their mouths. Or, to be rather more clear, attempting to put both fists in their mouth at once and yelling when it doesn’t work. One fist in their mouth is easy. Having no teeth helps.
  • The above item AND the bottle. All at once. In case you were wondering, it doesn’t work so well. Trust me. The end result is hungry infant slurping on alternate damp upper limbs whilst screaming in frustration that milk is not forthcoming.
  • My hair. I’m already losing enough of the stuff as it is without chunks of it being ripped from my scalp, no matter how cute the accompanying laughs of glee are.
  • My forearm. Naan has learned the time honoured art of bloody pinching. Little sod. Yes, she finds it funny when Mama jumps and chants the cheerful nursery rhyme ’Owfuckstopityoulitttlebugger!’. That’s an utter riot every time.
  • The Discovery Channel. The hardcore version, if you get my drift? They both love to go for their girliest of girly bits when access is granted at changing time. I’d consider simply grinning and perhaps the odd incriminating photo for leverage bribery-thereof to get them to clean their room when they hit adolescence except that they quite gleefully wave about handfuls of retrieved bum cream (if I’m lucky) or poo (if I’m unlucky).

Ah well. Progress often comes at the suffering of a limited few, does it not? Now I know why I should keep my babies fingernails short. I shall not paint you a picture any further than that, dear reader.

Posted in Babies. 7 Comments »

A veritable picture of it.

Health.

The new code word for giant, public, red-faced full on turd-action by those who are too young to know it’s rude, of course, and not me.  Really, it is.

Just ask my (clearly polite to a fault even in the face of rather severe provocation) mother-in-law. I don’t think her mental deportment manual actually contains advice for how one returns a public poo, other than to try and pretend really hard that it didn’t just happen.

However, there are some things, or sounds to be rather more precise, that one cannot ignore.

Let me relate my tale.

(and, yes, I was quietly cheering Naan on in her endeavours. Is that evil on some level?)

As already canvassed my paternal relative is rather a cultured woman. Educated, refined, polite, tactful to a fault, and certainly incapable under normal circumstances of even referring to (no matter how obliquely) the function of bodily parts customarily covered by one’s clothing. Especially so the function of bodily parts that require the assistance of a lavatory to execute if one happens to be toilet trained. That is, most emphatically, Just Not Done on the grounds of Being Crass. I can kind of see her point.

However standards do occasionally slip, motivated by curiosity of the ants-in-your-pants can’t stop itching Gotta KNOW variety. Even in the most cultured.

In other words, she did manage the customary anxious sideways glance many people give my sadly deflated cans before enquiring if I euphemistically ‘feed’ my children. I suspect that felt quite daring coming from a lady who was in all probability raised in a generation where Women Do Not Admit to Passing Gas let alone discussing the contents of their over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders in public.

However, Naan, bless her not-so inner truck-driving butt-scratching soul sorted out the Mother In Law and Her Little Red Wagon Of Things Ladies Do Not Refer To most emphatically.

First of all, she burped. A lot. Loudly. She took great care to chuckle merrily afterwards, too.

She also happily farted with due care for both impressive regularity and great enthusiasm. Often whilst perched on a certain lap. New people equal excitement, and excitement equals a lot of global warming when you’re three months old. By the look of the stifled reaction even silent-but-deadlies would have gone unmissed by virtue of the vibratory element. Not that my younger daughter bothers with the sphincter control required to keep the surprise element. Clearly.

The coup de grace occurred (as it often does due to the rather aptly named gastrocolic reflex) during the middle of a feed when Naan, with an air of great concentration and quiet professionalism stopped drinking, unmistakably went contemplatively quiet, then red in the face, then grunted, strained and produced what can only be referred to as a rather organic sound from one end. Simultaneously accompanied by a contented sigh by the end not currently occupied with expulsive function.

…..and resumed eating, unperturbed.

Given the smell was rather hard to ignore, even if the rest had somehow been more subtle, the poor woman settled for a rather faint-sounding ‘Well, that’s all very, um, healthy isn’t it?’ before finding something else to do that didn’t involve eye contact with a baby up contentedly to her nappy margins in fresh shit.

Smirk.

Agony Aunt, Edition 12.

aa

….and so it begins again. I reach a critical mass of irritation at the daft things Goog.le proclaims me to be a specialist on and take it out on the hapless searcher. Fun times all round.

As always, click on the button for previous editions of my snark advice to the frequently illiterate. Or click on the Bad Google tab at the top to see a more comprehensive list of what can only be described as Dumb Stuff.

Without further ado, may I present the magnificent fodder for edition twelve (otherwise known as that angst ridden, won’t leave her bedroom devestatingly pimply) of agony-aunt?:

  • Pregnancy with a negative beta.
  • Effect of dysentry on ivf conception
  • One year old postpartum libido.
  • Can Clomid make my foot like pins and needles? 
  • Not a suppository.
  • Pregnant supermodel.
  • Snort. Oh, dear me. Wherever shall I begin?

    Sigh.

    Item #1 (Pregnancy with a negative beta.):

    Apologies in advance if this seems a little mean, but tough love is sometimes required in this sort of situation. If it helps, I’ll supply the chocolates and inevitable tissues?

    Hang on, let me get on the blower, like all stat and stuff!

    Yep, honey, I’ll be right with you. Promise. I’m paging the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas as we speak. They’ll want to get a hold of this one.

    What, you mean they don’t exist?

    Kind on my point, I suppose….

    Sorry.

    That WAS kinda mean. You’re not pregnant.

    Item # 2 (Effect of dysentry on ivf conception):

    In all seriousness?

    Try not to get too dehydrated and it shouldn’t matter too much. Although it is hard to avoid dehydration when passing the proverbial rice-water stool(yummo). Perhaps you should seek medical assistance of the IV hydration variety?

    Just a thought.

    Oh, and by the way. If you mean getting pregnant whilst having dysentery, well, power to you. Much power. Your sphincter control is clearly unparalleled.

    Personally when I have the Exuberant Squitters a transfer catheter is not foremost in my mind, although having a toilet firmly under my buttocks IS.

    Item # 3 (One year old postpartum libido.):

    Libido?

    What’s that, some new kind of dance? Does it involve a bar of any kind?

    Oh. One of those bars. I see….

    You mean you still wonder if you want to do the proverbial horizontal folk dance with your actual gear off after you’ve already had a baby?

    Man, you crack me right up.

    Of course not!

    Libido….Honestly. Children are the best contraceptive agent known to Man, bar none. Especially if they cry a lot. Their Pearl Index is impressive. Trust me.

    Snort.

    Item # 4 (Can Clomid make my foot like pins and needles? )

    No.

    You want more?

    No, it can’t.

    But sitting on it for too goddamn long whilst Googling yourself to a painful messy death, instead of shagging like a rabbit when you’re trying to get knocked up, can.

    Isn’t that nice.

    Now get on with it, please.

    For the love of all that’s holy, not here.

    Item # 5 (Not a suppository.):

    I can’t believe it’s not butter!

    Pardon me, frog in my throat. I do hope that wasn’t an excessively specific in-joke.

    Try here.

    Item # 6 (Pregnant supermodel.):

    Damn, smoked out again.

    I wish.

    Sorry. You’ll have to indulge in your naked knocked-up porn.o fantasies elsewhere. I only do the farts, butt scratching, whining and stretchmarks kind.

    Better luck next time,

    Gehode.

    BOTW 4

    botw

    And so it begins again, the fourth edition of BOTW. Not sure what I’m talking about? Click on the logo to be taken to the reasoning behind my unsolicited blogaviews and previous BOTW’s.

    BOTW. An unsolicited admiration of blog-ness. An acknowledgement of the road travelled. Putting my excessive Google Reader activity to good use. On some level, we all write to be read, don’t we?

    This week(ish! don’t forget the ‘ish’, it’s important. I am nothing if not scrupulously honest about my likely inability to keep strictly to my intended weekly frequency), I choose to review:

    It’s Either Sadness or Euphoria.*

    *Purely because I am a horridly lazy typist and an atrociously careless speller to boot, I hastily abbreviate anything I possibly can down to an unpronounceable collection of capital letters. I therefore temporarily rename this blog IESOE. Catchy, no?

    No?

    Never mind, at least it isn’t binding.

    Firstly, the quickfire version:

    In a nutshell?

    In the trenches taking heavy fire. About to commence a DE IVF cycle after multiple failed attempts with her own eggs.

    The clever search terms version?:

    Miscarriage, clomid, laparoscopy, mild endometriosis, tubal factor, HSG, IVF (multiple attempts), FET, BFN/recurrent implantation failure, DE/Donor Eggs.

    In more detail:

    Again, I shall not over-revise her history (In case I stuff it up. Check out her blog for her story in her own words rather than my clumsy paraphrasing), but…

    Katedaphne did what many of our high school biology teachers told us would lead to instant-eek-pregnancy-if-we-weren’t-careful back in late 2003, i.e she threw caution to the reproductive wind and ditched the birth control pills. She became pregnant in mid 2004. Naturally.

    Whilst it would be truly wonderful if the happily-ever-after ended with a baby at this point, even at the expense of a much shorter column here, it was not to be. Katedaphne unfortunately suffered a miscarriage.

    She didn’t get pregnant again.

    Clomid was the next port of call, by this point in mid 2005, but did not result in a pregnancy. An exploratory laparoscopy revealed mild endometriosis and raised questions about the patency of her fallopian tubes. An HSG did not entirely clarify the situation, but either way Katedaphne was advised to try IVF.

    So she did.

    Many times.

    Heartbreakingly, despite several cycles and the transfer of beautiful-looking embryos, Katedaphne remained steadfastly sans a second line on a pee stick. However she WAS avec some big bills instead. IVF isn’t cheap.

    Katedaphne tried adding lovenox to the mix, without success. She also tried A Big-Clever-Clinic. Nada.

    In a last ditch attempt with her own eggs, Katedaphne attempted a FET with embryos from Just-A-Clinic and one from Big-Clever-Clinic. In what can only be described as a bloody rotten thing to happen, the last precious embryo from Big Clever Clinic disappeared into thin air. It simply wasn’t to be found.

    Katedaphne still had to pay for the non-existent embryo’s transport/storage as apparently actual existence of the embryo in question is a moot point when it comes to storage fees. I personally still think this was terribly unfair, because clearly somebody screwed the metaphorical pooch along the way. But the buck and the account still reside with the at-you-own-risk consumer. This cycle was also a BFN.

    Anyway, to get to the point, after years of heartache and loss Katedaphne is now beginning a new IVF cycle with donor eggs. Wish her luck.

    Care to read?

    ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    Want to see YOUR blog featured? Like to be in my blogroll? Let me know in the comments section below and I’ll gleefully add you, after all a girl can never have too many hyperlinks in her sidebar.

    Posted in BOTW. 5 Comments »

    Suck it, baby!

    Dear g-d, I feel like I should be typing the script to a particularly unimaginative porno with a title like THAT.

    Excuse me while I get the inevitable bad joke out of my system, will you?

    Go on baby, harder.

    No HARDER. 

    No, not that thing, this thing. Didn’t they teach you anything behind the bike sheds in seventh grade apart from the fact that cigarettes make you cough in a very uncool fashion? In front of that boy you have a crush on, too?

    Sorry. I feel much better now.

    What was that?

    You’re still wondering what I’m planning to blather on about today. I could merely remark that that would make two of us, but I suspect that much is already obvious.

    No, to answer the next unspoken question, this story doesn’t have the proverbial Happy Ending, to the best of my knowledge. Never fear, you haven’t accidentally reset your blog reader program to hardcore specialist po.rnographic territory. I’m talking about my babies and their oral skills. They’re quite skilled orally, you know.

    Is that dirty to you,too?

    Tsk tsk! Honestly! There’s no helping some people.

    Okay, I’ll stop it now. Promise. Really. Look, mum, no more rude jokes!

    I merely wish to observe that Saag and Naan have decided that the worthwhile contents of the universe, at least for now, revolves around their mouths and what they can fit in them. The range is surprisingly diverse.

    Why, only the other day in naptime (Oh, how I heart naptime. It is amazing how spiffy two unconscious infants can be, horrid as it sounds. I often skip down the stairs in quiet glee when they finally cave in to the fatigue and close their little eyelids in repose. I have been known to mime great big thumbs up across the room to my husband, before starting a very short one-woman Mexican Wave of triumph) I heard a most peculiar noise drifting down the stairwell.

    It wasn’t screaming, which I am all too familiar with, it wasn’t cooing and I couldn’t really place the source without investigating.

    To be honest, it sounded like the plughole of the bath busily doing what it does best, i.e. draining water. Slurpily. I really should unblock it one of these days.

    When I made the trip upstairs, I discovered Saag half-asleep and risking a socially awkward hickey by merrily sucking her own forearm. Since she was intermittently startling poor Naan awake with her bedtime festivities, and besides that the bed was getting wet from all the slobber, I disengaged mouth from flesh.

    Naan got her own back later that afternoon.

    How?

    She must have decided that if Saag found her own arm tasty, she’d bloody well give it a good burl too. This time I heard the noise downstairs from upstairs (where I was busily productively grumbling about how The Washing Fairy in our household is rather overworked these days). I left it for a good twenty minutes in favour of tackling the eternal mystery of where all the sock pairs go and why my spouse puts underwear with built-in ventilation holes in the wash, instead of the bin.

    However, when Saag started crying I figured I’d better investigate.

    I came downstairs to find Naan busily chasing Saag’s now-waving-in-distress arm about. With her slobbery gob. It sounded like an edentulous old man drinking pea soup through a straw. Poor Saag did score a bit of a warm, wet, red patch on her chubby arm this time. Hence the crying.

    Of course once I took her New Toy away, Naan cried too. I think she was pissed. Apparently you can improve upon a dum-dum.

    In future I shall not place my children in free access of one another’s limbs. Clearly they will devour one another in my absence.

    ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

    PS. I just spent the entire morning rejigging all my buttons so that they actually are the same size and match. Yes, I’m painfully anal. The worked just fine already. I just couldn’t bear it the way it was any more which is a shame because it was such a total pain in the arse to do.

    Consider it it online equivalent of making sure all my book corners align exactly, another hobby of mine. Yes, I’m a real livewire.  I’d probably arrange yours too, if I had access to them.

    PSS. New pics up at The Terrible Twosome. I HAVE been a busy lady today.

    Posted in Babies. 9 Comments »

    Opinions are….

    If you’re looking for more factual information, tips, tricks and rants about the silly things people insist on asking a MoM while purchasing tampons in the supermarket, go to the drop down list of categories on the right sidebar and click on the one that says ’twassvice’. Voila! Assvice about twins. I am positively chock full of it.

    Otherwise entitled ‘So, you’re having twins?’.

    For anybody on the internet who happens to actually get a relevant google hit to this site. Firstly, hello! You make a nice distraction from all the po.rn hits about arses, really you do. Don’t go away, please?

    Let me begin again.

    Welcome to the club. 

    I had my (non-identical) IVF twin girls at the end of July, I have no mother or mother in law to help, so I’m outnumbered by infants almost all the time.

    My husband is often away or working funny hours. It’s Not That Bad. I’ll probably do it again in a year or two.

    I’ve yet to carve LS’s eyeballs out with a blunt spoon in frustration at ever ejaculating into a cup (although I have fantasised about it) , OR go doolally with sleep deprivation OR forget to change my underwear for three days running (although I must admit to two days on a couple of notable occasions).

    If there’s anything I haven’t mentioned or you want to know more proper medical stuff, I’m so happy to help. Just drop me an email.
     
    Tips for surviving twins (In my not-so-expert three months and counting opinion):

    1. Stock up on nappies.

    Yeah, I know. Like, duh, right?

    I mean it. You will use a terrifying amount. You will see more poop than a proctologist at a bad day at the office. You will probably be piddled on more times than the owner of an over-excitable pupply at home-time. You will use a lot of nappies to keep those conventionally polite barriers we all like to maintain between excreta and your carpets.

    Seriously. If you see the brand of local choice on sale, for godssake get them. It doesn’t matter if they’re size big-ass. Eventually your spawn will fit them.

    2. The prematurity thing.

    Roughly 50% of twins will make term. The other half will be premature, but not by all that much and a minority will be less than 32 weeks.

    You have a good chance of having term babies but should be aware that it is also not uncommon for them to come a bit early. In other words, don’t leave it until your fiftieth trimester to get the nursery ready. It sucks to go shopping for everything you forgot postpartum only to have strangers gleefully rub your newly-emptied jelly belly and ask when you’re due.

    Note that ‘Last week, asshat!’ does tend to kill further conversational attempts.
     
    I’ll simply say that most commonly your twins will be nearly term or term (average is 36 weeks) and if they have any difficulty, it is likely to be with feeding only. They may spend a bit of time in the nursery as ‘growers and feeders’ like mine did, or you may be able to take them straight home.

    In either case, Let The Games Begin.

    3. Feeding.

    If you end up bottle feeding, please don’t do what I did and slay yourself with guilt. It is totally okay to put them on bottles if only because you’re so very very VERY tired and you’re worried that that ringing in your ears and blurring in your vision is likely to turn into a fully fledged psychotic break from reality. Fatigue like that is a perfectly adequate reason whatever the Boob Nazis say.
     
    Not to scare you, but the reality is pretty brutal with twins, it’s not very common to be able to keep up with the boob juice alone unless you’re lucky enough to have a high supply. If you do, that’s great.

    If you have to supplement with formula then you just go right from one feed to the next with breastfeed, breastfeed, bottle, bottle, pump, store, mix feeds aaaaaand start again.

    It isn’t sustainable for very long. I managed two weeks.

    BUT

    My supply was also absolute shite partly because my pregnancy was pretty awful, I have pcos, and because my twins were just premature enough to have poor endurance/sucks so they were never at the breast- I had to try and build my primary milk supply on the pump and it just never happened.
     
    But to cut the doom and gloom tone, I do know of a twin mum who did have a high enough supply not to need to supplement, so out of a field of the two of us that’s a 50% success rate.

    However, the stats are that many people end up bottle feeding before their babies’s age reaches the double digit in weeks. Don’t feel like you’ve failed. Don’t. And if you succeed, you’re lucky.
     
    As for types of bottles, I at first went out and brought the expensive brands. My advice now would be don’t bother as the babies won’t know the difference. Label consciousness doesn’t start until at least thirteen. I have cheap-ass generic bottles and teats and they’re fine. In fact, the fancy peristaltic nipples were too hard for my babies and I had to toss them out.
     
    Even if you do breastfeed, you will pump and need some bottles. It’s better to be spoiled for choice than not have enough. Start with at least twelve and if you end up bottle feeding get at least another twelve. Wide neck unless your aim is superb on no sleep and fifty coffees. The narrow neck are an utter bastard to tip the feed into without spilling everywhere.

    That way you have about two days supply and all you have to do is chuck them in the dishwasher and run it every second day.

    Unless you love your sink in ways I do not, this is MUCH better than washing the bloody things by hand.

    Trust me when I say you will have better things to do with your time than wash bottles.

    Before you use them, just pull them out of the dishwasher and sterilise them if fancy takes you in that regard. I have a microwave steriliser that takes five-six bottles at a time, so all I do now is run them in the microwave for five minutes before I make feeds and bingo, done!

    No dishpan hands involved.

    I wouldn’t bother sterilising them at all, except that I make feeds in advance and store them and milk is a pretty decent culture medium, i.e. bugs like to grow in it.
     
    On that note, if you use formula make your entire day’s worth of feeds at one time. ‘They’ (i.e. the clever people who write on the sides of tins) do say ideally to make feeds just before you use them, but it’s much quicker to make a dozen bottles at once than it is to piddle about before each feed. Especially when you’re tired.

    They keep in the fridge just fine for a day or so.

    I make them by dumping the right amount of formula in all the bottles and then I fill with boiling hot water, put the lids on and shake to mix. I’ve only burned myself once. Moral of the story is to check the lid is on before shaking, and not by road-test.

    Yes, I know that this is not how they advise you to do it on the tin but if you do it the way they say on the tin with cooled-boiled water, you’ll getlumps and have to stir each bottle. It’s a pain in the arse.
     
    As for the volume at each feed- your babies will take roughly 150 mls per kilogram of body weight per day over six feeds at first (but less in the first few days after birth in more like eight feeds- it’s normal for babies to lose a bit of weight after they’re born). So a three kg baby will take 150 x 3 = 450mls total, i.e. roughly 75 mls a feed, which helps guide how much to make.

    Obviously if they drain their bottles, they need more and if they’re always leaving some you don’t need to make so much. After they hit around three months of age they tend to take less than this as their growth slows down naturally at that point.
     
    My twins were in special care for a couple of weeks after they were born and although it was cryingly miserable to leave them in the hospital and go home alone, there was a huge silver lining.

    Routine. Blessed routine.

    I would otherwise not have known it was possible, but you can quite easily put them on a four hourly feeding routine. At the same time! Mine came home eating every four hours around the clock (i.e. 6am 10am, 2pm, 6pm, 10pm, 2am) – which meant that I got some quality sleep, especially if LS took the 6am feed before he went to work.

    To be really honest I used to sob at the 2am feed because it would take 45 minutes per baby and they’d puke and they were too difficult to feed to tandem feed at first, but at least I got to sleep until nearly 10am when I got back to bed at 3 to 3.30. Priceless.
     
    As for when to expect to be able to drop the ungodly much hated 2am  night-time feed, well, when you find you have to keep waking them for it give it a burl.

    It will take a few days for them to work it out, but once they do, they’ll just take a bit more at the other feeds.

    Then you only have to make ten bottles a day (excitement not sarcasm, believe me).

    You’ll also find that sooner or later you’ll be able to feed then both at once rather than sequentially- it really helps if you have two good rockers/seaty things to put them in. By five-six weeks I could even prop the bottles on a rolled up towel and they could feed themselves. It now takes about 20 minutes to feed the both of them and I don’t have to do much. Thanks be.

    I don’t get vomited on nearly as often either.

     4. Clothes

    Accept gifts of clothing early and often.

    Although preemie sizes are great, they also only fit for a few weeks.

    I ended up just letting mine swim in their clothes until they got bigger with just a couple of tiny suits for public consumption for Those Who Might Judge.
     
    Stuff with zips or separate tops/bottoms is the best. I initially got a load of one pieces with press studs. Those studs are so flipping annoying when nothing will line up, or you do it most of the way and then realise you skipped one, and the baby wiggles and you’re tired. I ended up putting my darling spawn back to bed on many occasions with their suits completely unbuttoned because I just couldn’t get it right, I wanted to cry and my hands wouldn’t work properly without more sleep.

    5. Sleeping

    Yes, you will be pretty tired to start with. Even though when they’re newborn, they’ll pretty much just sleep and eat. They’ll get 20 hours sleep a day and you’ll probably have four. Don’t ask me why, it just seems to pan out that way ‘sleep when the baby does’ notwithstanding.

    Mine slept best swaddled. I say use every advantage you’ve got while you can. They’re starting to bust out now, so I’m working on naptimes without the swaddle but still do it at night because Sleep Is Precious. 

    Now they’re a few months old, we have a dedicated morning nap and an afternoon nap- both great times to get stuff (like blogging about how tired you are and not, say, sleeping) done, incidentally.

    People (well my my child health nurse) advise the sleep-eat-play sequence, but it’s no big deal if you do sleep-play eat, my twins don’t seem to have a complex about it, and they spit up much less that way. I care about that because I do the washing chez MII.

    We put ours in two cots, but I reckon it really doesn’t matter how you go about it. A bassinette (or two!) could be considered a waste of hard earned because you don’t use them for very long, but if you want the babies in your bedroom they’re probably good for that since they’re smaller. Unless you have a palatial bedroom, of course. 

    5. Stroller, car seats et al.

    I got a side by side. One of the cheaper, lighter (although still pretty heavy), narrower twin strollers on the market. It fits through a standard doorway- not all of them do and this is a make or break point.

    Strollers are like your taste in sexual partners or underwear, i.e very personal and specific for intangible reasons. Roadtest as many as takes your fancy before taking them home to meet Mum and Dad.

    As for car seats, check your legroom, the anchor points in your car and the width of the seat bases before you buy. Yeah, I know, kind of obvious but it bears saying.

    We have a SUV type car and something like that is handy because the room is useful. Otherwise we’d have to take the wheels off the pusher all the time to fit it in. Not Cool In Pissing Rain. Especially if you ever misplace one when you get to your destination. I shudder thinking about that.

    As for the ‘et al.?’ Shops may try to suck you into buying bottle warmers, room temperature gizmos etc. Resist. They’re strictly optional. The microwave is fine for warming feeds, just swish before serving. If you feel warm, well it’s warm and conversely if you feel cold, it’s cold. No room thermometer required. Unless you want to get the gizmos, of course, then go for it. There’s plenty on the market to keep you very very poor. 

    6. Answers to common questions.

    I get asked all the time: ‘are they twins’, ‘boy and girl, right?’, ‘are they identical’, ‘were they natural’, ‘was your delivery natural?’, ‘Ooooh you must have your hands full!’, ’do twins run in your family’ etc etc.

    It all sounds pretty innocuous but it does get really grating.

    Quickly.

    Most of the time I now get the urge to say rude things to the rude questions. People also stare, and I’ve even had total strangers flip up the pram covers to verify that I have two babies in there (who were peacefully sleeping before you stuck your smelly face in, by the way Cigarette Lady In Supermarket).

    I’m a bit of a shy sort, so it makes me feel like a travelling freak show.

    I guess I’m saying come up with answers you’re comfortable with. I don’t tell strangers my twins were IVF because I don’t think it’s their business.

    7. Help.

    My two were born by semi-elective c-section.

    Because I’d been on couch arrest for sixteen weeks, my house was an utter brothel by the time I got home from hospital. I spent several days heavy duty cleaning. At five days postpartum.

    Whilst I had an easy recovery, I probably wouldn’t reccommend it as a good time to clean your stairwell.

    I guess what I’m saying is that I knocked back all the non-specific offers of help because I thought people might interpret it as not coping when what I should have said was ‘Awesome, I need this-and-this done’. If people offer, have a list of tasks ready for them to do and let them do it. Have no pride about the help thing.

    I live off a written day to day diary. It’s a godsend. Otherwise I’d have no idea what month we’re in, let alone that the phone is about to be disconnected because I forgot to pay the bill.

    8. Shopping.

    Try to leave the babies with someone and go grocery shopping without them. It’s just too hard unless you’re only getting a couple of things. You’ll feel like you just conquered Everest without oxygen if you get out with merely your skin and a loaf of bread shopping avec spawn.

     9. The pregnancy.

    Yes, you will get fairly humorously large in all probability.

    It does get hard to walk, wipe your bits on the loo and certain grooming habits below your equator will go out the window. Okay, so you may think now that you’ll be different, but believe me I normally Keep Things Well Pruned and my Lady Garden ended up needing a very VERY thorough weeding by the time I could actually reach it again.

    Don’t believe me yet?

    I’ll give you some helpful stats on size.

    I was term size at 28 weeks. My final fundal height (measurement of the size of the bump that you’ll have at your obstetric visits, term is normally 37 to 40 cm) was 50cm. My waist was 1.3metres/52 inches (it’s now back to 65cm/26 inches) .

    I gained over 30 kilograms (sixty plus pounds). I ate for my nation. I was ravenous all the time.  Yes, my bed was full of the detrius of nocturnal meals I didn’t even recall having.

    I’m normally fairly small and I was terrified I would never go back, but I did. I was in my pre-pregnancy clothes (albeit with a collection of stretchmarks, but such is life) by six weeks postpartum. You WILL see your feet again, promise.

    That’s  my guts (more here stopping at about 34 weeks) in many cases stretch marks and all- you can see things returned to more-or-less normal.

    You’ll get a lot of ultrasounds, which I used to love. Although believe it or not after a while you do tend to stop cooing at the little faces and toes. You just see them so much that it all gets a bit  ’Oooh fingers…lemme seeee. Yep, still ten. Good to know’.

     ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

    Anyway, if you’re still at least reading this then either you’re very patient, don’t have much else on, or presumably it must actually somewhat apply to you. Therefore to my remaining few companions may I wish you good luck, best of British, a stiff upper lip and a well-stocked drinks cabinet.

    The last item is critical.

    In final disclaimer, this merry correspondence is only based on my experience. Don’t ever forget that opinions are like the proverbial bum-holes as in everybody will have one, they’re often a bit different looking, and even if technique varies the net output can be surprisingly difficult to distinguish.

    Take what sounds helpful and run with those bits. Ignore the rest.

    Much love,

    Geohde

     

    Any Port In a Projectile Storm.

    You’ll see what I mean.

    I will admit to owning children. Some days it might take me a bit longer than others, because even though they’re the centre of my world and also provide about ninety percent of my social interaction (by the way ‘gah’ and ‘coo’ can quite the conversation make, as long as you’re not actually after communication with meaning), I recognise that this does not apply for everybody else.

    By ‘owning’,  which it has only just occurred to me sounds particularly terrible (plus I don’t seem to have a receipt for them, so it’s not like I can give them back for a refund if dissatisfied) I of course mean I have children. Two of them.

    They’re chucky little sods, believe me.

    Our humble home, as a consequence of regular spewfests, is not only punctuated with those wierd carpet stains that everybody hates, but many surfaces are lined with a defensive and ultimately futile forest of towels, bibs, cloth nappies and other Receptacles For The Orally Incontinent Of Milk.

    Yes, I often smell of partly digested milk, too. Don’t get too close.

    Anyway, we’ve broken yet another seal on the Vomitus Adventures tin.

    I was taking one of my Pukey Spawn out of the pram recently when I noticed the familiar signs of Reverse Peristalsis In Action i.e. gulping, followed by chewing, followed by a bug-eyed stare of alarm. Panicked, I looked around, and would you believe I had not one of my flimsy chuck-catchers in sight. I was caught comprehensively short, at the worst possible time.

    Stuck, I did the only action that came to mind.

    Scooping my now-retching infant in one hand, I flipped the garbage bin lid open with the other just in time to catch an absolutely HUGE exorcist-style projective technicolour yawn of nose-and-mouth milk.

    Whew. Talk about a close call.

    It sadly only occurred to me today (when I wondered what that godawful smell was) that curdled milk rots just beautifully when laid lovingly upon the usual detrius inside a half-full bin. When it’s been thirty degrees outside for the last week.

    Ah well.

    In conclusion, despite a belated washout, the bin the flies now circle around? That’s probably mine.

    BOTW, edition 3.

    Oh my, time flies when you’re procrastinating and sleep deprived…..Although I am feeling somewhat better today after unleashing my Now Not-So-Inner Vile Cow yesterday. Moo. With HORNS on.

    botw

    And so it begins again, the third edition of BOTW. Not sure what I’m talking about? Click on the logo to be taken to the reasoning behind my unsolicited blogaviews and previous BOTW’s.

    BOTW. An unsolicited admiration of blog-ness. An acknowledgement of the road travelled. Putting my excessive Google Reader activity to good use. On some level, we all write to be read, don’t we?

    This week(ish! don’t forget the ‘ish’, it’s important. I am nothing if not scrupulously honest about my likely inability to keep strictly to my intended weekly frequency), I choose to review:

    A Little Pregnant*

    I’m a bit jittery, because Julie is a writer I am positivey in awe of. One of the Big Guns in this corner of the blogosphere. You know the concept of gateway drugs? Well Julie’s blog is my gateway blog. Hers was the first IF blog I ever read, long before the words ‘severe male factor’ ‘pcos’ ‘IVF/ICSI’ and ‘anencephaly’ ever entered my personal space.

    Even though I’m sure you know all about ALP*, I just can’t resist because if by chance you DON’T, well you should be reading.

    Sorry, I’m all gushy. I do that when I’m nervous….

    Firstly, the quickfire version:

    In a nutshell?

    Over the infertility rainbow. Parenting an IVF son and a DE IVF son.

    The clever search terms version?:

    Tubal factor, endometriosis, male factor, IVF, poor responser, ectopic pregnancy, miscarriage, pregnancy, HELLP/Pre-eclampsia, preterm delivery, thrombophilia, NICU, donor eggs, parenting, sons.

    In more detail:

    Again, I shall not over-revise her history (In case I stuff it up. Check out her blog for her story in her own words rather than my clumsy paraphrasing), but…

    Julie (who to get all gushy again, I started reading years ago) went through four fresh IVF cycles in the conception of her first son. Four complicated fresh cycles, and by complicated I mean with the heartsinking double whammy of poor response = dissapointingly few eggs at each retrieval surgery = not much to work with in the embryo department AND the titular ‘a little pregnant’ twice i.e. an ectopic pregnancy and miscarriage (with early oligohydraminos and fetal demise) thrown in for good measure. I consider this proof positive that on some level the universe really likes to kick us when we’re down.

    I also have to say in a small aside that the way that Julie can make anything alternately emotional, enthralling, sarcastic, witty as hell and as funny as heck is impressive.

    Her fourth fresh cycle had me biting my nails as I vicariously lived the reproductive life of an utter stranger through my computer. It was a cycle that ended in an encouraginly healthy positive beta.

    I bit my nails again when Charlie was born at 30 weeks, a result of HELLP syndrome. Thank you, in all probability, previously undiagnosed factor V Leiden for that twist.

    Needless to say when Julie bravely ventured into the land of IVF again, she handled more failed cycles with her own eggs (before turning to donor) with customary aplomb. She also got pregnant from her donor cycle, and despite a higher risk pregnancy due to her thrombophilia and gestational diabetes, delivered her second son at term. Healthy.

    I’ve personally only just breathed out.

    She now blogs about parenting her boys. She writes well people. Damn well.

    Care to read?

    ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    Want to see YOUR blog featured? Like to be in my blogroll? Let me know in the comments section below and I’ll gleefully add you, after all a girl can never have too many hyperlinks in her sidebar.

    Posted in BOTW. 10 Comments »

    Protected: Eff U.

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    Posted in Babies, f*cking, men. Enter your password to view comments.

    A guest post, courtesy of the great blog cross-pollination….

    Our Son Likes You Better Than Me, or, It’s Your Own Damn Fault

    Don’t be alarmed- your favorite Indian Takeaways have not decided to become the youngest recipients of gender reassignment in history, thereby guaranteeing their dominance as the Yahoo News headline of the day. No, your favorite Google Agony Aunt has decided to spread her own brand of internet humor in a galaxy far, far away. I apologize in advance to anyone bored to drooling tears by my much tamer brand of vomit stories.

    I challenge my readers to guess my secret identity in the comments section. There is a hyperlink below that will bring you to the real post of the day. No cheating, though. That wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

    Anyhoo, the aforementioned title is an actual conversation that occurred between myself and my spouse at 5AM this morning. Our Boy, 6 months old now, appears to be going through a sleep regression that has been lasting the past 2 months. Up every 3 hours. I’m not into the cry it out thing, so that means rocking and consoling him back to sleep.

    Those of you that are loyal readers know that I have been home with The Boy up until now, and have been trying very hard NOT to be home with The Boy for the last two weeks. However, the giant implosion of the American economy has resulted in my hospital canceling me for every shift the past two weeks. Those in my profession are going back to the hospital in droves, and those of us making the big bucks as pinch-hitter staffing are now screwed.

    My husband thinks that if I am at home, I am living the high life, eating bon-bons and sipping flavored international coffee while he slaves away in an office bringing home the bacon. He needs his precious sleep. And when he gets home, he needs to relax. He can’t be bothered to feed, bathe, or console The Boy. Instead, he interacts with our son only to play with him.

    Meanwhile, I spend my days being covered with vomited sweet potatoes, scrubbing said sweet potatoes out of our white carpet, reading Dr Suess, planning and cooking meals, grocery shopping, laundry, housecleaning, and keeping said child happy and occupied. I spend my evenings continuing the same things while my beloved life partner plays games on the computer or watches TV. I maintain a strict sanity-saving bedtime routine and rock our son to sleep at 730 PM. I go rock him back to sleep at 1030 PM, and feed him and rock him at 2-3 AM, rock him again at 5-6 AM, up at 7 AM. Repeat 7 days a week ad nauseum.

    I would just like to know when I get to surf my blogs uninterrupted by a vile waterfall of partially digested sweet potatoes landing in my lap.

    Last night, after being up all night with The Boy, who may or may not be cutting tooth #1, and who is so focused on trying to crawl that he spent the night marching on all fours half-asleep in his crib, I had reached my limit. When the infantile wailing started at 5AM, I kicked my beloved spouse in his warm ass with my freezing cold foot and told him , “We are CO-PARENTING this child. Get your ass up and put him back to sleep.”

    He tried. The Boy literally screamed for an hour, “Mamamamamama!” The husband came in after an hour, exhausted, saying, “Our son likes you better than me.” I retort back, “It’s your own damn fault. I take care of him 95% of the time, and now he expects Mommy to care for his needs. It isn’t that he likes me better, it’s just that we are used to each other.”

    I made him turn around and go back. He eventually was able to get The Boy to sleep.

    If I get the job I interview for on Tuesday, he will have to put our son to sleep every night 4-5 days a week. This won’t be a fun adjustment for any of us.

    Co-parenting, folks, it’s a good thing.
    ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

    Now, who am I? Click here to find out and read today’s actual post. Don’t forget to comment with a guess first!

     

    See the post below for the full list of participants :)

    Posted in xpol. 16 Comments »

    It is here, upon us…

    Well, depending on your time zone, of course. I’m sure we’ll all get there by Tuesday at the worst.For those who are horribly confused at what I’m up to, all the listed bloggers below have undertaken to swap posts with others on the list. No, I’m not saying who has swapped with who, that’s the fun part. Guessing!

    Enjoy. New bloggers at familiar haunts, without even having to type in a different url……

    Click on the icon below to be taken to the original list of participants, or if you’re slack like me, here they are again:

    xpol08

    Batters up for 2008 in the ‘avec’ group:

    Kami

    Martha

    Chili

    Kandace

    Delenn

    Babysteps

    Kristen

    Mel

    Nancy

    Alison

    Lori

    Wordgirl

    Dilasari

    MrsSpock

    Calliope

    Katie

    Jen

    Serenity

    Artblog

    Maresi

    Korechronicles

    And, obviously, myself…..

    And, batters up for the clever ladies of ‘sans’:

    Babysmiling

    Willow

    Phoebe

    Sarah

    Keiyou

    Spirit

    Sam

    Jenedis

    Mrs Spit

    GreenEggsNHam

    ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

     

    My Cross Pollination post to appear when My Mysterious Swapper (who is in a different time zone! Hint hint.) sends it my way via the fancy carrier pigeon service that is otherwise known as email.

    Posted in xpol. 8 Comments »

    I SAID not to mention it.

    My bad.

    Basil Fawlty was bloody right. I should Not Have Mentioned The Sleep, even in passing (and without goose-stepping in rather poor taste, no less).

    Those of you who have been up to date with recent events shall presumably rapidly surmise that things went comprehensively pear last night.

    To put it another way, Naan unilaterally decided that Sleep Was For Utter Losers (Like perhaps a thanks-be sound stone cold asleep through defcon-sodding-ten wailing Saag), and she would therefore comprehensively Not Be Having With It. Especially if it was, say, dark outside because it was bloody nighttime.

    Oh, my.

    To think the poor neighbour recently crept up oh-so-apologetically to me at the mailbox to apologise if her baby was keeping me awake at night.

    Ha. Please hold me while I wipe my eyes after laughing so goddamn hysterically.

    In reply dear unfortunate-woman-who-shares-a-wall, I wouldn’t worry about that one, love, I can return nocturnal enthusiastic high pitched yodelling in spades. Oh, yes I can.

    Lest I forget I have bloody twins to do it for me, and if one isn’t up to the task odds are the other shall not disappoint. Rocking and gentle mutterings of ‘Sweet Jesus, for the love of of all that’s holy just put a cork in it, SHUT UP and go to bloody sleep, already’ aside.

    Pavarotti, eat you no-longer-beating heart out.

    Next step, I Scratch My Eyes Out With A Blunt Spoon In Desperation.

    PS. Dear Internet-at-large.

    I recently had the privilege of attending a Fancy Dinner for which the invitation was related to a previous academic achievement (Before I lost my mind in twinville, anyway. I wouldn’t rely on me for much these days if you value leaving a hospital with all the body parts you arrived with. Really).

    Yes, it was a great big-arsed awkward ball of suck.

    I didn’t know anybody (or, even worse, knew the face but had no idea of the sodding name) AND the host took it upon himself to mention in my bio, and I quote without exaggeration ‘Geohde-who-does-not-know-a-single-person-here-AT-ALL-and-sucks-comprehensively-at-small-talk (so is the proud owner of the glowingly red face you see, who is also not-so-casually buttering her dinner roll for the tenth time in twenty minutes) is a mother and has 3 month old TWIIIIIIINS’ in his speech.

    Everyone stared at me like I had a nasty communicable disease that ends in several babies at once and then went ‘awewwwwww’.

    Not quite the recognition I was after, although it was nice to leave the house in Fancy Clothes and without vomitus on my person.

     

    Sigh.

    Rollover, Beethoven.

    She did it! May I cheer triumphantly to the Internet at large?

    Naan finally did it. Praise-bloody-be.

    Did what, you quite reasonably ask?

    Naan rolled over. Right over. Right in front of me when I had the camera close to hand, the clever child.

    Yes, I couldn’t help myself, and even though it wasn’t precisely her best angle I now have a million pictures of Naan’s bottom. Because clearly her face was firmly buried in the carpet at the time.

    I was beginning to think it would never happen.

    After all she’s been working up to it since she first absentmindedly rolled onto her side at nine weeks of age, before abruptly changing her mind and resuming her detailed inspection of the ceiling. The amount of times a tiny push would have completed the job are endless, and yet I resisted the urge. Mostly because I had a fair idea as to how she would react.

    I was right.

    This time, probably more by luck than design, she overdid her sideways lurch and ended up flat on her stomach, one arm wedged underneath her trunk, the other flailing freely and determinedly. Kind of like a beached turtle in reverse, if you get my drift. Needless to say, Naan was immediately right royally pissed at the turn of events i.e. she screamed blue bloody murder at the now too close for comfort carpet.

    Of course she couldn’t figure out how to right herself when recruiting the Angry Flail Sequence didn’t work. Therefore right after I spent five minutes taking a million pictures of her wiggling arse while she screamed and retrieving LS from upstairs to Share The Moment, I took mercy on her aggravated dignity and rolled her back 

    I predict the maternal baby tipping service will be heavily booked this season.

    Oooh-ieee. I SAY.

    I’m getting excited…and it’s NOT because the Tiny Tyrants finally put a cork in their overactive mouths overnight and slept. For eight hours.

    No, although that is pretty goddamn fantabulous and would in normal circumstance be worthy of a post chock full of drunken conga-dancing and ten-years-behind-the-trend-but-accelerating-rapidly abuse of The Macarena, I don’t want to jinx myself be mentioning it further, just in case. I’m sure you understand. Don’t Mention The Sleep. I might have mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it (thank you, Basil Fawlty).

    But I AM very excited about something else.

    Don’t tell me you’ve all forgotten, will you, or I’ll be positively heartbroken.

    Is it just me that has visions of bloggers scurrying to their collective diaries, like a guilty spouse who’s just realised their wedding anniversary was probably three days ago and suddenly the last few nights of grunted communication and cold leftovers for dinner all makes a terrible kind of sense?

    Yes, just in case anybody forgot, it’s the cross pollination at the end of the week.

    Now I know you’re all busily swapping posts merrily around the blogosphere, ready to publish on Sunday, right?

    Okay, just checking. No need to look at me like that.

    xpol08

    Posted in xpol. 8 Comments »

    Poo to you!

    Can you tell I’m very tired? I get especially puerile when I’m several days past my bedtime…..

    The Revolting Natives have run absolutely bloody riot in the last few days and I’ve been comprehensively held captive by a tiny army, armed solely with large amounts of Yell, Vomit, Wee, Poo and Scream. Sometimes all at once. Fun times. Fun times aplenty Chez MII

    May I make some excreta related observations?

    Excreta happens. A lot.

    When either Saag or Naan look me deeply, nay lovingly in the eyes these days they also usually take the golden opportunity to fart like an uncouth truck driver who’s eaten a dodgy curry. I must admit, it’s hard to know how to reciprocate that kind of ‘pfft!’ (‘scuze me) deep and meaningful devotion. I never know whether to smile or risk increasing the greenhouse effect some more myself.

    Do tell me, because I am unsure what the deportment books have to say on the matter (in fact, they seem to be strangely silent about Bottom Related Frivolities), what is the polite convention for returning a fart? Or is the lack of mention perhaps because Ladies Don’t?

    And if so, should I buy two tiny corks forthwith?

    Add to the observation the fact that this Bum Trumpeting transpires at eating time for the most part and, well, clearly I have two children with positively terrible table manners.

    Or perhaps I’m feeding them too much cabbage in their milk? It certainly smells rather that way when I change the rather delectably runny turdburgers they both think they’re so clever in manufacturing for me on a regular basis (judging by the satisfied grunts and grinning afterwards).

    There’s nothing worse than hearing grunting, seeing a red face pursed up in concentration and then that inevitable squitty sound that can only mean one thing right after one has just changed the millionth nappy of the day. Although, if the little sods don’t get result, they Get Cross At The Poo.

    Really. They yell in frustration. About poop playing hide-and-seek.

    How is this material not absolutely fair game to bring up at their twenty-first birthday party?

    The Poop is permeating my life, and that of LS.

    Why only the other day, I caught LS patting me rhythmically on the back, absentmindedly burping me.

    When I pointed out the error of his ways he remarked ‘ Well, on the plus side, at least you don’t crap when you eat, I knew there was a reason I married you’.

    Quite, my darling.

    Stop the world, I want to get off.

    No, really. Please could somebody pull the metaphorical brake on the earth’s bloody perpetual rotation so I can stop MY head spinning?

    Thank you.

    I begin this post by sitting my unbrushed-of-hair self comfortably in my best holey-groined tracksuit pants, crossing my legs in that position that always feels like something may imminently dislocate, taking a deep, calming, nay soothing breath IN…….

    aaaand then using it to best goddamn effect possible by yelling words of the four letter variety at the top of my lungs until I’m blue in the face.

    That’s (minutely) better.

    I’ll spare you typing the contents of my personal blue cloud of foul language. After all, it’s bad enough that the neighbours who are unfortunate enough to share a wall with us have to endure it. I think I’ll buy them earplugs as an early Christmas present if things keep up.

    Sigh.

    Alcohol is okay, as long as it’s after midday, isn’t it? Even if it isn’t necessarily midday here? After all, it’s afternoon somewhere.

    Yes, I’m feeling about as frazzled as a hairy cat with a bad static electricity problem.

    To put it another way, let me summarise my day thus far:

    • Babies kindly woke me up at an ungodly 4am for no discernible reason. They weren’t hungry but also steadfastly refused to sleep until their 6am feed instead getting in what must be Early Morning Exercise. What did they exercise, you ask? Why, their Yelling Muscles, of course.
    • Naan completed her morning greeting extravaganza by puking all down my front, presumably just for the hell of it.
    • Babies both have had noses which have progressively got further out of joint as the day has unravelled (I cannot think of a better descriptor of today than ‘unravelled’) i.e both of the Tiny Tyrants have decided to demonstrate their lung capacity and vocal ranges all morning.
    • They’re not tired, they’re not cold, they’re not hot, they’re not wet, they’re not especially hungry, but they are loud and they only soothe for the briefest of moments if I hold them and coo as lovingly as I can muster about the virtues of e.bay for the trading in of disagreeable infants. Obviously I cannot hold both at once, so really all I achieve is a fifty percent reduction in the horrendous din for about thirty seconds at a time. My eardrums are starting to hurt.
    • For a heart-stopping six hours my Internet connection went comprehensively tits-up. Because my darling beloved failed to pay the bill for the last several months, apparently. For no particular reason at all. I found THAT gem out when I called his mobile for urgent I’m-about-to-flip help and discovered that his phone was disconnected for the same reason.
    • Oh, and guess how the ‘net bill needs to be paid? Online, of course. Ah.

    Suffice it to say that I’ve been running around like the proverbial blue arsed fly (one who, by the way, since the day was clearly not excellent enough already, discovered that her pram tyres were all flat when she tried to soothe Screaming Infants with a relaxing stroll, spent twenty minutes hand-pumping the darn things up whilst The Screamers did their thing in the seats and then realised it was pissing down rain outside anyway.)

    By virtue of the fact that I’m posting, clearly I’ve got the ‘net connected and presumably staved off the threat of debt collectors turning up unannounced to requisition our telly in the near future, but can I please give up on today and go back to bed? Please?

    Yes, I know I’ve got more than half of it to go. Awesome.

    Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear the dulcet tones of screaming infants drifting down the stairwell. Clearly naptime is not the magic cure for babies who seem to have got out the wrong sides of their cots today.

    The retrospectoscope.

    Or on how blind-sodding-Freddy could have seen this one coming.

    Although it is not precisely easy  to venture out of the house these days, I persist in doing so. Yes, it takes me simply hours of packing the car boot chock full of rather random crap that seems to be positively indispensable or that I simply will not risk being Caught Short without. Like, for instance, Naan’s beloved Upstairs DumDum which is mysteriously more popular than any of her other five, Saag’s favourite Chuck Towel for Vomitus Inevitabilus, a million nappies, my behemoth of a toe-crushing stroller, Butt Paste #1 (the best at avoiding Spotty Red Arse syndrome), two feeds just-in-case, a squeaky toy and, oh my sanity….Yet, strangely, I persist in getting to my flustered and sweaty destination, pasting on extra deodorant, glaring at any child that threatens to breach the pretend-peace by Being Vile and then flicking my (thinning!) hair in triumph like it’s all just so easy.

    Ha.

    Trust me, it really IS all show if I look remotely together in public. In private it’s all old dressing gowns, moth eaten slippers and vomit down my back.

    Anyway, I have a point to make. The Natives are Revolting. Truly Revolting. 

    No, I don’t mean my spawn are unlovable, but just that Naan (especially!) has her limits.

    I’m sure YOU, dear reader, will predict with ease what happens when one highly strung infant is fed to her eyeballs then shoved unceremoniously into a car, then a pusher and THEN wheeled pell-mell around a fun place full of ‘Whee! WHEE! Sounds! Flashy lights!! Oh OH FACES!!! Ahhhhhh……‘ a.k.a a shopping centre?

    Yep.

    When you try to put said Infant On Crack Of Over-stimulation back in the car, yes Virginia, she shall scream her bloody head off. Except when the car is moving enough to keep the buzz going.

    Suffice it to say that Red Traffic Lights are no longer my friend.

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