Daniel, me, and the damn tree...

Time for a Pop Quiz!!

Why is Daniel crying? Is it because:
a) he can't feel his toes,
b) he too feels the curse of limited storage space, or
c) the late model Farrah Fawcett-esque tilt of my nose scares him?

fashion victim

The deebster is growing SO FAST folks, that I can hardly keep up. One minute I was cradling this little itty bitty thing, and the next *poof* I'm propping up this linebacker.

Pros of the job: biceps.

Over the weekend, I half arsedly sorted through the itty bitty clothes that Daniel will never wear again. Actually, there was a shitload in there that he never actually wore at all, seeings I was given like, a TONNE of stuff from my friend who's had three babies in the past three years and as she's since been zippered up, she won't be needing the itty bitty clothes ever again, thankyou Jesus, so she gave them all to me. The clothes, not the babies. So I tossed that shitload back in the plastic bag from whence it came, and sobbed as added a few other items that will never fit the little geezer again, not in this lifetime anyway.

Anyhoo, I left a truckload of the weenie clothes in the drawers because did I mention? Half arsed. I'm glad I didn't get rid of the whole damn lot too because yesterday, I totally stuffed Daniel into a onsie that doesn't fit him AT ALL, because it still looks major cute on him, which is probably the logic behind Chinese foot binding, but so what! Mr Deebs is stylin'!

also

*****

fyi: that smile from a few weeks ago that I went all gooey over? May have been gas. Hmm. Anyway, while his smiles to me are lost in a sea of the gooby faces he makes when he's imitating the gooby faces I make at him, he has started to smile real smiles. At strangers. The little shit. He gummed a beauty at this woman named Janine (her relationship to Daniel being that she sold me a bath seat propper upper thingy so that when I drop the deebster while bathing him, he won't, you know, sputter and choke on the bath water I've just dunked him in. Not that it's happened or anything. It's merely a precautionary measure *ahem*) and I was at my therapist's yesterday when Mr Deebs lit up a big cheesey grin for her. I missed it though. I was too busy expressing or emoting or something. Dammit.

*****

more importantly

Daniel is on the floor next to me right now, spending time with Mr Bunny and going apeshit over a silver star thingy on a page in the book I propped up next to him.

Fuck he's cute.

enough with the violins

let's get to the thrilling news of me being a bit calmer now, after being all kinds of furious last night.

Why is it that, when it comes to our mothers, we're afraid to tell them how we feel? Or is it just me? No shit, it's almost as if I was to be honest with her - not honest honest like " you're being here is killing me", because that would be rude, but honest dishonest like "I'm having difficulty with the idea of you deciding to return to my life without consulting me first", because that would be, I dunno, assertive? Would fluffy bunnies and kittens really die if I took that route? If not, what is it that prevents me from being assertive with my mum?

I felt like slapping her yesterday when I overheard her brightly dropping this golden snippet into a conversation: "I'll be back on the twelfth, so I'll be here for aibee's birthday*!". Everyone clasped their hands under their chins, warmed by my mum's selfless self. I nearly choked on the hangnail I'd been nervously chewing all afternoon. Then she said something about her having been here for so long as she's been looking after me....I shut down resources then for fear of imploding all over our friend's nice carpet.

But seriously, "looking after me"? Fuck off.

Mum has been here since I was 35 weeks pregnant. She announced her arrival via e-mail two days after I did assert myself when she asked when she should come down to "support" ("support"? HA!!) me. I told her to wait, please, as I wasn't ready yet, maybe in a week or two. She showed up anyway, thereby proving yet again, that she doesn't give two shits about what anyone else wants, thinks or feels anyway. But, as this is her first and quite probably only grandchild, I smiled sweetly and dealt.

We've had a zillion moments in the three weeks between then and when I was in hospital with Daniel, and a kabillion more between then and now, and each time, I sucked it up. I've stated before that it's US that's at fault here, that we're dysfunctional, and I mean that: I'm not wholly blaming her for our special brand of nice - but I can't fix our damaged relationship myself, especially as doesn't want it fixed. She's been playing the "We're Perfect Together!" game, which is really a poorly camoflagued "It's aibee's Fault" manouevre, alternatively titled, "Fix her!".

According to her, I'm ungrateful and no wonder I'm alone as I treat people terribly and I always will be alone if I don't change bla bla bla. Even though I know it's how I appear only to her, I believe her anyway, which is why I've spent an hour every Friday afternoon for the last four years in therapy, never mind the fifteen or so years before that when I starved as a (totally ridiculous) way of not hearing her words. God, what a waste of a life, and all because I'm a fucking moron who won't roll my eyes in amusement at her antics.

But I digress.

Continuing on my theme, when I was in hospital with Daniel, mum told me she wanted to get a Christmas tree for my mouse. Err, that'd be "house". That was a typo. I left it in because a Christmas tree for my mouse? Is amusing me. Anyway, imaginary rodents aside, I thanked her and declined as, where in hell would I keep the damn thing (tree, not mouse) during the rest of the year? Only I didn't say damn, or hell. I was codeine-ed out of my fucking mind, but I'm pretty sure I was lucid enough to mention the shoebox nature of said house, and I know I mentioned the lack of storage facilty for containing a Christmas tree and its decorations for the rest of the yar.

Guess what greeted me when I walked in my front door on my return home?

It's still up, by the way, because where in hell and I going to keep the damn thing?

(aside: am I going to Hell for referring to a representative of a major Christian holiday as a "damn thing"? Twice? Discuss.)

Mum's been doing this for years: grandstanding herself before and after walking all over my preferences.

The list includes, but is not limited to, the VCR I told her several hundred times I didn't want, but thanks anyway. She was all hurt that I wasn't thrilled with my Christmas gift that year, and my brother went over all judgemental of his ingrate bitch sister. I'm sure I've mentioned the Mr T style gold rope necklace before. Not surprisingly, she has it now. She bought it for me after I told her I didn't wear necklaces, but yes, thankyou, if you want to buy jewellery, I really like this *points to specific piece* bracelet. When I opened the necklace - again in front of an audience who, on cue and in awe inspired at its Mr T-ishness tones, went " ooooooh" - I paled instead of effusively thanking her. Mum told me later than she didn't like the bracelet I'd pointed out, but she'd liked this. Meanwhile, my brother reprised his judgmental role.

Is it odd that the sentiment of this type of gift hurts my delicate potato peelings? I mean, each one has represented an occasion where mum has totally ignored me so she can feel good about what she wants. Waah, poor me and etc, receiving gifts I don't want. Gack. I am an ingrate.

Anyway, the point is that she's returning on the twelfth, and that she never bothered to tell me this, much less ask if it suited me. I overheard it after counting down the days in eager anticipation of her departure this Sunday. Don't get me wrong, I'd have been sad to see her go because I'm a moron and she's my mum. I'm sad (and guilty) that our relationship is the same as ever, despite our new roles. It pisses me off too, this return, this unannounced return as it's to see Daniel, and as the caretaker of this glorious boy, it's to be in my life too - and her actions say that in her opinion, it doesn't matter if it's okay with me, as long as it's what she wants.

I hate that I'm such a frikkin doormat.

retrospective

We went to the cemtery today. Had my sisters lived, they would have been 37 and 32. There's no headstone there, and nothing to show they lived or died.

The first was buried on November 11, 1968, the second on August 4, 1972. I don't when they died. I only remember mum being pregnant once, when I six years old. When I was eighteen, I found the deed for a burial plot in amongst some paperwork of my own. Until that day, I never knew my sister had been named Christina. I'd never known I had two sisters, that the elder had even existed and that her name was Alessandra, and it was years after that day, that I ever told mum and dad that I knew.

Both girls had died shortly after birth as a complication of mum's Rh negative blood not being compatible with theirs. These days a vaccine exists for that condition so it's no longer life threatening.

I remember being at a family friend's house the night Christina was born, and I remember dad coming over later. I remember thinking that something was wrong because dad's eyes were red, and I remember him telling me everything was okay. The next thing I remember is being at nan and pop's. Dad came over again and nan and pop both left the room. Dad held us both, one on each knee, and with tears in his eyes, told us the baby had died (and even though it was years agoi, and even though I was so young, I'm crying writing this) I think he said the baby was too small because I remember asking dad if the baby was as big as Thumbelina (a newborn doll I had that cried when you pulled the string in its beli butone region. I loved that doll, by the way) and dad saying yes, she was.

Mum came home with no belly and no baby. She went to bed and she cried a lot, even though she and dad never spoke of why.

That's how it was in those days. My parents buried their dead children and pretended they'd never existed. They pretended they hadn't had their hearts ripped out and their souls destroyed. They held their heads up and they pretended they were okay.

Years and years later there was a show on tv called 'Twenty Good Years' (man, what a memory for minor details I've got) and on it, the family's young daughter had died. During the scene with the funeral, dad broke down and sobbed. I went and hid in my room and dad dried his eyes. Once again, he never said a word about why he'd cried like his heart was breaking.

I know that mum never went to the funerals, that dad went alone, stood alone, was alone, and that he buried them alone. I don't think though, that he ever said goodbye. Dad's wish was to be buried with them, which is why when he died in Italy, his ashes were brought home. That's yet to be done, and I have no idea where his ashes have been for the last thirteen years.

My heart aches as I write this, for the pain my dad felt then, and for the pain my mother still feels now, and because now there is Daniel, I feel their pain even more.

******

Today, I finafuckingly got the paperwork required to transfer the license from my father to me, as I'm the youngest family member who doesn't involuntarily crap their pants. With that done, (the license transferring, not the pants crapping) we bees can finafuckingly put up a headstone, not to commemorate their death, but to honour their lives. We could even bury dad as he wanted to be buried - with his girls, for all of eternity.

a mystery, as yet unexplained.

miniweenie pointed down: check
miniweenie contained in hermatically sealed and highly absorbant undergarment: check
no gaps: check
baby right side up: check

Then how on earth did he just pee on me?

It's as hot as fucking hell here, by the way, and my boy STILL wants to snuggle. Aww. Which reminds me, when it's hot out, if you ever see a mother out at the (airconditioned, for god's sake) supermarket with a baby in a sling while pushing a stoller, with all respect, shut the fuck up, okay? He's not whining because he's hot, hungry, thirsty, dehydrated or any of the things you determine him to be. If I wasn't busy with other things like, ooh shopping with a five week old, I'd explain that my son is not whimpering because I've stuffed him in a sling on such a hot day, it's because I didn't stuff him in it soon enough. Seriously, do you think I'm pushing this stroller with my other hand because I like multitasking that much?

re supermarkets: Every time we enter one, Daniel screams. Well, he kind of whimpers loudly. He doesn't scream much at all actually. I think he must have been debarked in utero.

Also, my boy is growing up but fast. Hell, he gained 430 grams in the last week alone, and has beeing gaining 200 grams each week before that. Last weigh in he was 4.61 kilos. Multiply that by 2.2 and you get a whopping 10 pounds 2 ounces.

I think.

Anyway, I think that with this information, we can confirm that my bazookas are indeed, the mammary and nutritional equivilant of nuclear warheads.

addendum

The process should've been done and I don't know what went wrong. The registry is filing its shit, but medicare apparently can't pick up a damn phone and confirm Daniel's birth with that department, and then our version of social security are too busy with their heads up their arses to make their damn phone call, and meanwhile, the registry office can't issue an official birth certificate yet, even though his birth has been confirmed and is stamped and dated and certified and official with them, as the father is being an arse about admitting paternity, which means that a different agency has denied our case, which means that our social security equivilant can't be finalised as I haven't been able to officially name a father, which means that my head hurts. A lot.

Also and on an unrelated streak of Oh For Fuck's Sake, the insurance company that insures my Bowen Therapy practice sent me a letter cancelling my insurance because they are a bunch of fuckwits, so I need to get onto them as well, so I can verbally shove their policy up their damn arse to rectify (bwah! get it?) the situation and get myself insured again.

God.

ohforpetesake

The documentation of a child's birth shouldn't be so fucking complex. Surely the hardest part is gestating the darn thing? Kerist.

I got home today and there were several letters waiting for me, all from different government agencies and all denying me my submissions unless I provide further, certified fucking paperwork that deoesn't actually exist.

Perfect.

Let me explain: all of this paperwork needs to be completed in order to officially recognise Daniel's existence, so as requested, it's been dutifully filled out and sent off so that, wahoo! The state recognises that I have a son. Simple - except that instead of processing this shit, they've advised me that they require certifed copies of the paperwork that officially recognises his birth before they'll process their paperwork that officially recognises hsi birth.

Does anyone else see the conundrum here?

Jiminy creebus.

in which there is a fizzle at the end

A million years ago, my porn star uncle (not that he was ever really a porn star, it's just that in 1972 when I was a wee, impressionable snapper, he dressed like one. Not that I should have, or even could have known what a porn star dressed like, what with being the tender age I was back then, but dayum, the man's clothes screamed "PORNSTAR!!", and screamed it quite literally, in neon lights. Lordy, he was six foot two, and clomping around in platform shoes brought his height up to at least gigantic status, and the nifty rig out that remains burned into my retinas consisted of a brightly coloured, striped blazer with wide as shit lapels, worn with velvet flared and cuffed trousers. He accessorised the look with a handlebar moustache and chunky silver rings on each finger so what was I supposed to think??!?) was married to a sweet, blonde piece of fluff that we'll call Jane-1. The reason she's been given that moniker is that his second wife has the same name and is still quietly referred to as Jane-2. His having a second wife at all brings me to the reason for this entry. Pornstar and Jane-1 divorced all that time ago, not because during their separation she fell pregnant to her new squeeze, Brian-the-bastard, who left her and promptly euthanised their labrador puppy, Emma, when she (Jane-1, not Emma) was six months pregnant with their now 21 year old son, while wearing an everloving and apparently not-so-reliable IUD, which is another story entirely, but because Pornstar was already screwing Jane-2 who, at the time was, I think, number one in a row of seven, or was it eight? other numbers with varying names.

At the time, Jane-1 was an international flight attendant, which mad the Star's indiscretions ridiculously easy. He'd have got away with them all actually, if he wasn't stupid about forgetting to hide errant bits of lingerie from his wife. Actually, the blatant-ness (whatever) of his stupidity suggests to me that he wanted to get caught, but that's probably another story and one best left to the psychologists among us.

Annnnyway, when their marriage broke up, I was devastated because their marriage was of course, all about me, so bla bla bla and let's skim over the yearly Christmas and birthday card exchanges we shared as our two lives were being led on opposite sides of the country, with as many phone calls in between as I have toes - and pausing here to comment that this lack of contact never meant we weren't still friends, it just exemplifies how fast time rushes by when you're busy just with being alive, and fast forward to today: Jane-1 is in town this week. We saw each other yesterday for the first time in twenty one years. She hasn't changed a bit and at 55, is still blonde and fluffy and incredibly nice, and she still means the world to me. It means the world too, that after all these years of both of us saying we'd love to see each other, she's come this time to meet Daniel before he grows up in the blink of an eye, like her son did and because my son will.

cruisin'...

a month ago today

Daniel was born, and to celebrate, he smiled at me for the very first time.

Oh, he's smiled before, but they were more baby smiles and I doubt he had any idea he was doing it. Today though, we were facing each other and I was making faces at him - you know, opening my mouth wide, closing it, opening it, closing it..the usual thrilling stuff...and also for the first time, Daniel was imitating me. Then he smiled - for real - and snuggled his little self into my neck before lifting his head to look at me and smile again.

Meanwhile, my heart is still in a bajillion pieces all over the floor.

About the lifting his head thing. He's been doing that since he was frickin' born, and we're not talking holding his head up for the millisecond it takes for it to come crashing back down again. We're talking holding it up, looking around and then losing it to face plant on whatever it was he was lying on. Usually my chest, come to think of it. Anyway, babies are supposed to be like, at least four weeks old before they can do that.

Today is also the anniversary of his namesake's birthday. My dad, or rather, the Sergio component of Daniel's name, would have been 69 today, so let's have a rousing Hip Hip Hooray! and maybe a chorus or two of the old standard, For He's A Jolly Good Fellow.

He's asleep in a different room right now (Daniel, not my deceased father) and that too is a mark of just how grown up my little man is getting. He used to spend all his time with me, either in my arms or at my side, eating, sleeping, pooping and peeing (preferably in his pants) lather, rinse, repeat. Now that his brain is operating on more than one cell, he needs down time. All that together time we had that calmed him down before, suddenly became time for him to process information, which meant he was processing shit all the damn time, which led to a big ol' case of overload which meant there was the dramatic nightly appearance of High Dependency Boy. No shit, I thought someone was infiltrating my baby's headspace because this freakish little goblin kept appearing at 2am exactly to yell and scream and be inconsolable and basically fuck with my perfectionsist streak. Then exactly three hours later, he'd leave and Daniel would reappear and pop himself right off to sleep, just like that. *snaps fingers* Last night though, and hopefully as the result of our new "Sleep Patterning" practices, Daniel didn't turn into an arsehole. Anyway, the point being that he's snoozing happily right now, twenty feed and one closed door away from me. He drifted off listening to the dulcet hiss of an untuned radio, the little freak, because the lullabies were doing jack diddly shit today, and I'm out here typing this drivel so I don't nip in there and wake him up so he can play with me.

Over the last month, mornings have evolved into the time of day that totally floats my boat. We generally wake up at the regular time, say 6 or 7am, then if The Deebs isn't already in bed with me, I scoop him up and make a space for him under my chin, and then we drift in and out of sleep for another couple of hours.

Having this child is funny, in an interesting funy way, not a funny ha ha kind of way (although there are a lot of funny ha ha's in each day with this little clown. He's so goddam serious about everything that he's as funny as hell, particularly when he farts as that's when he's most serious and that's what makes it so funny) I kind of expected to feel a change in myself because I'd suddenly become A Mother, and in the end, all that happened is that my belly went away and now I have this itty bitty person to look after. It's me with a new job, you know? That's all. Oh yeah, and the new boobs. Yup, motherhood is nothing more than the same old me with a new job and a rack.

Happy one month today, my darling, precious boy.

:::::

I know I should write here more often, and the reason I don't isn't soley because motherhood stole my grey matter. Some, part or all of it is that my mother has been here since I was 35 weeks pregnant, and as the title of this entry suggests, Daniel is one month old today. You don't need to be a genius then to work out that mum has been here for the grand total of Entirely Too Long. I don't write here because I don't want to write each day about how her being here affects me, because what stresses me most isn't her per se, but how I am when I'm around her. I don't want this journal to be filled with diatribes about how awful my mother is. Because she isn't. I'm mad at me, not her, for not feeling all the things a daughter should feel about her mother. Then again, I don't have a fucking clue abut how a daughter should feel because I've never really been one. It pisses me off that she still treats me like she did when I was a kid, and it pisses me off that in response, I feel like I did then, all those years ago. I'm done with the "you're so this, you're so that, you're so whatever it is I deem you to be" because I'm NOT those things, not even because she says I am. I'm done with it but I won't say anything to her about enough being enough, because to retaliate like that, to say to her "now wait a minute missy, it's not me who's like that, it's you" would be to be her, and just because I see her in a certain light doesn't mean that's who she is. I wish she'd learn that fucking lesson and leave me and my personality alone. She doesn't have a clue who I am no, and is operating on who she thought I was then when even then, that person wasn't me, it was who she saw in me with eyes that were damaged by what her mother saw in her. Mostly though, I feel sad about our relationship. Not angry or resentful, but a bone deep sadness, tinged with more than a hint of guilt, and that's why I don;t write more. Because writing more makes it sound like all of the above is all my mother and I are to each other.

and the prince awakens.

the end.

countdown

in 37 minutes, Daniel will be exactly four weeks old. To celebrate, he's wearing his festive holiday teatowel, and I'm wearing my underwear and a smile.

Please be ignoring the bodacious rack. Thankyou.

the three faces of awww

sell out

For the past twenty four days (already?!), I've allowed what I want for my son to cloud what he wants for himself. Daniel wants to feel peaceful and calm, and I don't want him to have one of those godawful pieces of plastic crap sticking out of his mouth, but for him to have those warm and fuzzed up feelings for more time than I'm able to give them to him, I bought Daniel a pacifier - and folks, they do, as the name suggests, pacify. like magic, in fact. Of course, the alternative name for these tools of the devil is 'dummies' which in my opinion, is kind of self explanatory.

Anyway, the point is that today, I gave my son his first addiction.

Next? Heroin.

Thing is, drug deals aside, it's so easy to keep Daniel happy. If he's bleating, all I need do is touch his little forehead for him to hit pause, and to pick him up and tuck him under my chin for him to sigh happily and chill the fuck out. There are times though, because there is only me, that I can't tend to the mundane tasks of, for example and not limited to, unpacking the car, packing the groceries, doing the mountain of laundry left over from the nappy change this morning that took us through three (THREE!) changes of clothes and four nappies, eating, showering or brushing my teeth AND keep him from feeling lost and alone.

So while I sit here feeling like a total failure because I can't keep him in happyland all on my own for all of the time, and because I threw away my principles when I bought the damn pacifier, Daniel is sitting beside me sucking the living crap out of that thing, and the blissed out look on his face is telling me that my principles are full of shit.

a title eludes me because I'd rather be asleep

Daniel is nearly three weeks old now, and we've been home for nearly two. Each day fades into the next with a predictability that has yet to become boring, because while each day repeats itself with veritable Groundhog Day monotony, Daniel changes with every minute.

In less than three weeks, my tiny baby boy has disappeared forever, leaving in his wake a little boy who no longer fits in the curve under my chin. Meanwhile, those three weeks have done jack dippity shit to my hormone levels, so that last sentence reduced me tears.

:::::

And in the last few days I've had so little opportunity to put together more than two conherent sentences without Sir Squirmy needing something, even if it is just an audience as he performs yet one more remarkable feat of cuteness, that he is now three weeks and two days old. Also, as it's now 2.45 in the goddamn am and I'm tapping this entry out to the melodious tunes of I Want Something Non Specific And I'm Gonna Make You Pay Til You Specifically Guess What It Is emanating from my bedroom, a room which for now and it would seem until I guess what in fuck it is, shall be called HELL!!!, I want to know who stole my sweet tempered child and replaced it with this little arsehat.

What's that? No noise? Good god, the swaddling, is it working? Or is Daniel turning blue because, I dunno, some random piece of fluff feel dpwn his gaping maw to block his airways? Back soon to report....and before I even lift my butt off the seat, I can advise that he is not blue, is still screaming, so *beep* the answer is c) none of the above.

And this is after the little ingrate fed for like, an hour and then somehow peed through the cracks in his absorbent undergarments and all over me. Babies are so deliciously hedonistic and I can Gah-ruh-ntee that he wouldn't be as calm as I am now if wandered back in there to return the favor. I, on the other hand, wear the produce of his scrummy little self with pride and a good deal of nonchalance. That's French for If I Scrunch My Eyes Up Real Tight, I Can't See No [Pee/Puke/Dear God, What Is That?!] Stain.

So I just visited the squealy little shit in his swaddly little prison and lo! his left arm had escaped and was unceremoniously bashing him in the head. Have rectified the rogue arm, turned the clock radio to "Loud", selected the "Hissingly Not Quite On The Station that Oh God, Appears to be Country and Western Music" option and then tip toed out. The ensuing silence tells me that Mr Deebs either died of shock (or the aforementioned terminal fluff) or is asleep.

Will report back anon.

He's asleep.

God, how? With all that fuckawful noise?

Kids, man. They're weird.

Anyway, in case anyone thinks I'm complaining, which I am SO NOT because while Grumpy McGrumpypants may have me wide awake at 3africkinm, I cannot begin to tell you how much I love this little dude. In fact, I can't tell you because each time I try to ennunciate these overwhelming feelings, I collapse into a pile of gooey loved up emotional tears.

Apropos to nothing, hissy radio station is playing the Captain and Tennillle. Man, I haven't heard that in a bazillion years. Almost makes being awake at this hour worth it. Almost.

Here, have some cute. Then I'm going to bed.

dear son, be thankful it's just a picture of you wearing your dork hat on the internet, and not that one of your boybits flailing in the wind.

and he just woke up again.

God.

and I bet he's peed in my bed again too.

It's now 3.46 in the freakin am because those quick images I planned on posting, took a fuckload longer to post because my brain, she is high on prolactin. Or something. Also, photoshop crashed. Argh.