Thursday, January 31, 2008

the silver lining? there was no gunfire

You know how when it's the middle of the night and a cat fight breaks out, it sounds like it's right in the room with you? Yeah, well the same thing happens when a real, live, ridgey didge human fight breaks out down the end of your (rather short) driveway.

I was up late last night, futzing around on the computer and feeling guilty for not updating more when this godawful racket started up in what appeared to be my front room. There was a LOT of "motherfuckering" going on, and the standard Woman In The Background doing the usual screaming. Some other guy's voice appeared briefly, but a sickening battery of *thunks* seemed to shut him up pretty quick smart. Mr Motherfucker kept at it though, long after Possibly Beaten Up Guy possibly had the shit kicked out of him.

So I turned off my lights off and called the cops.

The fight itself seemed to go on for AGES, but it was probably more like a couple of minutes, then I could hear them in the distance, Mr Motherfucker and Screaming Woman, possibly leaving Mr Possibly Beaten Up Guy possibly lying bleeding in my driveway.

and that was the last of it untill a couple of hours later when I had even more shit scared out of me when two heavy sets of footsteps stomped up my driveway. IN the midst of seeing my life flash before my eyes was the announcement that it was the police (thank FUCK!), could they ask me a few questions? As it turns out, there WAS a fight and someone DID get hurt. THat's why it took them so long to get back to me. Also, it WAS right outside on the street. They needed some details of what I heard, when it started, what did I hear, you know, all the usual Cop Show shitola, and while it wasn't an official statement, I may have to give one in the future.

It's broad daylight now too, and the vague noise I just heard outside made me nearly shit myself again, so it's probably safe to say that the whole incident has kind of impressed upon me.

Man, what a night.

And what a neighbourhood.

Did I ever mention last year's siege involving a standoff, some guy off his meds, his crossbow, smoke, flames and ultimately a death that occured around two hundred meters from here? Because that was pretty freaky too.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

sand boy

Daniel and I have only been to the beach twice so far this year, mostly because the first time we went was about as enjoyable as eating worms. Dude's opinion of all things sandy and salty had vastly changed from that of last year.

One word to describe the proceedings? Horrific.

As well as the giant pain in the ass it is to single-handedly lug a toddler to the beach, there were the bonus points of having a lousy time while there.

Daniel clung to me like some kind of multi-limbed climby thing, having seemingly grown several Inspector Gadget type extendor arms, useful for optimal adhesion, increased leverage, and maximum distance between him and that icky sand stuff.

So yes. That first trip back to the dunes this year did not go well, so I was a little hesitant to go through the whole business of getting organised to go again any time soon.

There's so much to remember before you've even left the door. Sunblock? Check. Wipes? Check. Rash vest, dry clothes, pull ups, baby budgie smugglers, a bucket, four spades, and a hat? Check, check, check, check, check. Then once you've packed the fourteen water bottles you need because short folk who poop their pants have a habit for dissing the golden rule, "thou shalt not get sand in the drink bottle", you realise you've forgotten the minimum number of towels it takes to defrost a waterlogged two year old, as well as the fact that you're going too and might need more than that bottle of vodka you've been slugging on for the past half hour to get through the next hour, the one that all this intensive planning relies on.

So you pack another two towels: one to sit on, the other so that hopefully you'll have at least one thing that isn't sand encrusted by the time you leave. Then instead of throwing on some shorts and a t shirt, you don't, because god knows they're only good for collecting more sand once they're off you and crammed into one of the many beach bags you've tossed in the car, so you say "fuck it" and climb in yourself wearing only your bathers and a pair of thongs.

If things go well, you get to spend a a relatively short time there frolicking in the sand and spending at least a quarter of your allotted time manually extracting handfuls of sand from your kid's mouth. Then when you're done, you've got to somehow get him out of the wet and slightly used speedos and into a nappy without getting any more sand up his crack, preferably after you've got to somehow cram the whole amount of everything you brought along with you back in their bags with less that half the beach tagging along for the trip home. Then the trip back to the car is mighty, what with the screaming toddler you've jammed under your arm, but somehow you make it home alive, sandy, salty, and realising that the amount of sand that's now in your car is probably enough to pose a threat to the coastline.

None of which is getting to the point of this entry, the point being it was a beautiful weekend again last weekend, and that my memory is short enough to want to do it all again.

Pretty much the only hitch we had this time was getting there only to discover that the bag containing the nappies and a dry change of clothes had been left at home by the front door, which is where I'd left it so as not to forget it, my reasoning being I'd have to trip over it on the way out. Which I did not do because I stepped neatly over it instead. For I am still harboring a bad case of the pregnancy stupids, despite not having been pregnant for over two years.


We got there and Daniel looked at me as if to say "Riiiight. We're here again because it went so well last time?" before we took down the hill and found a nice nesting spot by the rocks and about thirty meters from the water from the water. Which is a massive guess for I do not do perspective well, but I'm setting a scene here.

Because he was so scared before, we weren't there to do anything more than enjoy what he was able to. If we had a nice time in the sand with his bucket and several versions of spade? Then that was enough. If not, we'd leave toot sweet. It didn't take long though and he was all "Cah'mon mummy!", and my regular Mr Do-NOT-Be-Holding-Mah-Hand, all independent and charging ahead on his own, was waiting for me to take his handbefore leading me down to the water. We stood there a while, my feet in the water, him propped on my hip, and when he'd had enough he asked for "down!", and took me back to the business of buckets and sand.

I don't know how to describe the process of what came next without boring the living shit out of the internet, suffice to say the boy so obviously went through a learning process. It was like he weighed his fears against the experiences of those he'd been watching around him, and so ended up in right in the midst of the waves, squealing with glee as they took control of his balance.

I'm SO proud of him because he lead the change from being the little boy paralysed by fear to the daredevil laughing out loud each time a wave crashed over his head.

And that's pretty cool.

And the reason there's no photographic documentation of this monumental transition by the sea is that my stupid camera doesn't die a long, drawn out emphysemic death. There's no struggling for breathe while reminding you it needs a recharge. It simply drops down dead *bang* just like that, with barely enough time to clutch its metaphoric chest with its hand.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

yes, there are limits

and I do totally get that that mentioning Daniel's poopage is possibly an abuse of my parental rights - but y'all, he just pooped in the potty!

And while some may curse me for not providing an advance warning of the subject matter in the above title, be thankful instead that I decided against providing any photographic proof.

Because don't think that, if only for a second, I didn't think about it.


Thursday, January 17, 2008

not surprisingly

I've made it through the last three days and, you now, bla bla. It wasn't hard, and I don't think the next four and a bit weeks will be hard either.

Oh, I wept bitter tears on Monday, but in hindsight they were mostly because the whatchamacallit nurse was such a hag, all [insert uppity tone here. And quite probably an indignant 'Hmmph!'] "It's not my fault", "I don't know what you expect me to do about it." and "I don't know you so I can't help you.".

For serious. Given that this is a fertility clinic, I'd expected a little more sensitivity to the patient's needs when well laid plans went south.

She went on and on and on about how she couldn't help me and how dare I have feelings, and I reckon that out of the ten or so minutes we talked, I spoke for two of them.

Anyway, that was my (kind of pathetic) actual problem on Monday. Not the fear of never having anothe child freaking my shit out. It was the lack of a kind word when I was faced with a situation I totally did not expect. For obviously I am lame. But! My emotions have been held in a holding pattern for the last ten weeks because of my expections of what happens next, so having a(nother, god help me) date go kerput, well, it kind of made me lose my shit.

Which sounds kind of dramatic.

Losing my shit is kind of less than that, but as I'm hang on to my emotions so tightly I'm practically turned upside down, the occasional leaking of tears with only hint of associated snuffling and sniffling constitutes Losing My Shit. An all out howl session with streams of water spouting from my eyeballs? Would indicate this particular shit loser is not likely to be me.

So that's that.

Four a bit weeks, rock on.

In other news and as long as his pants are off, Daniel has been peeing in the potty like a true champion. We've had zero accidents and maximum score every time. If he's clad in a nappy? He pees in them, and while we've not tried the Big Boy pants yet, but I suspect he'd let loose in those too. I'm not fussed because I'm happy for him to learn the difference between peeing on command and peeing whenever the urge takes him. Which he has. Childcare are all "but it's not the right way to train them". I dont know. Is it? I mean, isn't helping your child demonstrate control a good thing? I'm mixing my metaphors but I'd think it's okay to build on the lesson to eventually get to the the whole enchilada. Daniel's already learned half of the equation, I expect he'll be able to add to that and reach the ultimate Pants On, Nappy Free goal regardless of my lack of respect for how it's (apparently) meant to be done.

Monday, January 14, 2008

in which a whole lot of sentences run on

It didn't take me long to realise that my initial concerns about my period arriving at an inopportune time for a January cycle were based on my only in my ability to freak out over nothing and NOT on the actual date. December 28, for those of you taking notes, was perfect for a January cycle, given that down regulating would be starting the week after I next ovulated. Which was January 12, for those of you taking even freakier notes.

For close to ten weeks now, after philosophically dealing with the punch in the stomach disappointment of having my December cycle cancelled on November the first because my period arrived a single day too early for them to fit me in before the unit closed over Christmas (It's all for the best. I might get pregnant in the meantime. There's a reason for everything. Trust), I've been staring at the instruction sheet blue tacked to the wall (it's right in front me now, right here as I type) stating that I call the unit the day they reopen - today - to book on for a January cycle.

In the meantime, my job was to get a second opinion on my thyroid, which I did on November 29, and the report on that would have been on my RE's, Marc's, desk within the week.

Which is relevant to this story.

And after ten weeks of literally counting down the days, today arrived.

And I called the unit this morning and was told that, as my RE is away for another week, they can't book me on until he's read the report and made his recommendations.

Which is not what the nurse said when I met with her last November.

And I know that report is there somewhere and has probably been read but it doesn't matter anyway because now I've got to wait another five fucking weeks.

Which would be okay if they hadn't given me another date to hang my entire life on. The booking nurse was all "feel sorry for me because the doctor hasn't updated your notes and I've got to deal with your emotional fallout", and I was all "don't you GET it? I'm not angry at you. I'm not even angry at all. I'm devastated. I can't breathe. I feel sick and there's this rock on my chest and it's crushing me and please please tell me how I can breathe because I can't. I just can't. Please. Tell me how to get through the next five weeks because I don't think I can make it through the next five minutes.".

But I did and I will, and I hope this pit in my stomach goes away soon because it hurts so so much.

Sunday, January 06, 2008



more live feed

He just did another one and I totally wasn't there for it!

He put himself on the potty and pee'd, all on his own!

Then, THEN! he took the potty to the bathroom, emptied it into the toilet and flushed!

I kid thee not!

I'm so proud, and am also perfectly willing to accept that the non stop Thomas Marathon may have something to do with it.

news you probably didn't need to hear

This is aibee, coming to you live from the Bee household where, moments ago, Daniel did his first pee in the potty.

He's been running around sans pants all morning and when he limped up to me, all caving in at the knees and grabbing at his block and tackle, asking for "Dress? Dress?!" - which is code for "mummy, are you able to encase my nether regions with an absorbant undergarment? I need to pee" - I took him by the hand and led him to the potty instead. It's the same routine we've been following for a week now and usually he sits there for a while and forgets he was about to burst.

Which is okay as this is meant to be fun, and while I say we're toilet training, all we're really doing is running around with no pants on (uh,him, not me) and looking at the potty from time to time. He's happy to sit on it for ages though, and anything more he does is a) unexpected and b) a bonus.

Point being, he usually sits down and enjoys the scenery, and I praise him and he is praised, and consequently thinks that this whole Big Boy thing is a) a cakewalk and b) unreal, banana peel.

This time though, he let loose a drop or two while sitting on the appropriate receptacle.

"Dude!", I yelped, "you did weewee!", and I gave him a high five and then we both cheered and hooted, and when we were done I sat with him for a bit longer waiting for the rest of the deluge to follow.

Which it didn't.

So I stuck Thomas The Tank Engine onto the dvd player and left Daniel sitting on the potty and staring slack jawed at the tv while I wandered off to clean the bathroom or some other amazingly interesting chore. A short time later, I wandered back in to find Daniel standing by the television, burning out his retinas and numbing his brain, and about a gallon of pee in the potty.


Then we cheered and we hooted some more, and when I asked him if he wanted to put it in the toilet, he picked up the potty and precariously (OH MY GOD) carried it all the way to the bathroom before tipping its contents in the john, placing the potty on the floor, flushing the toilet and then froofree-ing* his hands.

Weeee! Obviously.

* I have no idea how toddler ears work, suffice to say that when I say "wash", Daniel hears "froofree(!!)".

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