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

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