hot stuff

Daniel woke me up around 4 Monday morning by curling up against me and burning a hole in my side with his temperature, which was nudging 40C. It dropped marginally after some iboprofen, but it was still up around the 38.5C mark, and would edge up again intermittently. It was horrific and scary and the eyes, ohmygod, the eyes. He looked dreadful. So flat and seemingly lifeless and all I could do was, well, nothing.

Then for added excitement, I had an emergency dental appointment on Monday too, one that, unless one of us was on life support, I couldn't miss.

I had a standard regular old appointment last week and while there asked about this sore patch on the roof of my mouth that had popped up a day or so prior. All hell then broke loose as it seems that somewhere in my quest for a nice smile, one of my teeth has died and the bone around it is dying and all sorts of other fucked up shit, and it may now be in danger of leaping dramatically out of my head. Great. All this work and I may be soon be smiling like a frickin' pirate. And because it's happened so quickly, this tooth developing a "pocket" thing (along its entire length)(!), all the appointments are URGENT as we don't know how fast it's progressing. Their guess? It's fast.

AND, I've started a new job this week and have had to cancel classes before I even started because Son v Work? Is not even a question.

AND, I'll probably be starting fertility treatment sometime in the next week too, unless I'm already pregnant which, HAHAHAHAHA.

Translation? Doubtful. Highly.

AND, in there somewhere I need to fit in my usual orthodontist stuff which is a standard every six weeks thing, but this time it's merrily fallen in the midst of all these crises.

I feel slightly pressed for time, is what I'm saying.

So tomorrow morning's crack of dawn appointment with the orthodontist has been rescheduled in order to see an endodontist at the crack of the crack of dawn instead, and I now have to wait an extra week to see the orthodontist, at which time I intend to tell him to take his artwork (for he really has performed some magnificent aesthetic feats) out of my mouth because, after this last week, I just can't stand it any more.

I've been very lucky in re the orthodontics as "some people's teeth move slow, some move fast, and yours move REALLY fast". Direct quote, no lie, so it looks like I'll be getting this framework off my teeth soon anyway.

The scene is during a random appointment three weeks ago to repair some post surgery broken brackets. The players are, me and my orthodontist's associate.
Him: "From the looks of things, these will be coming off soon anyway, so I wonder if I even need to do these repairs?"
Me: "!!"
Him: *ring ring* "...?"
My orthodontist: "Repair, as we need to take more time to move the bottom teeth even more now because the top ones have proved to be SO FREAKIN' AWESOME*".
Me: "[censored]",

So the only reason I need to wait longer than Right Now, Twinkly Teeth, is that my teeth have moved SO well, more that it was predicted as possible, and we've got to do more work on the bottom teeth to keep up. So it's good news on the Pretty front, but bad on the But I Look LIke Shit Now Thank You Bands one.

POINT BEING, I don't care how well my teeth are moving or how much potential they have to make me look like a toothpaste commercial, right now, this minute, I want them OFF.

But back to Daniel, who is the point of that whole intricate story being told.

And the point is that I had to drag the poor thing along with me on Monday morning. I'd called in to tell them he was sick, but the tooth thing is such an issue that they asked "Um, how sick?" before encouraging me to find a way to come along anyway. By the time we got there, thanks to some well timed iboprofen, Daniel was clingy, but not uncomfortable or upset for around 45 minutes. Daniel's favorite squeeze, Enn, had arranged to meet us there so she could drive him around he wilted in his car seat, but because he was THAT much better by then, we canceled that plan in favor of having him languish on my chest while smiling coyly at my dentist and his nurse for the entire time.

That appointment led to this morning's emergency one with a periodontist (who said that after all I've been through in re my face and teeth and BLABLA, it's great (and possibly confusing) to see that I've still got a smile on my face. Which is why I need this tooth to not fall out and why I've appreciated having bands. Well, not so much NOW with the bands, but WILL do, because I'm a smiler. I smile genuinely and a lot, so to finally ge able to do so with a nice smile will be freaking awesome. Dead tooth, listen up :scowly serious face: ) and tomorrow's subsequent on with the endodontist.

As stated previously, and which is again veering from the point.

Which is, we had a doctor's appointment for Daniel after my dental one, because while I'm sure some (a lot?) of you think I'm some kind of spirit stick waving hippy, I'm not an idiot and will always get a medical opinion because assuming your kid's fever is just a fever IS idiotic. Get confirmation that it's just a fever, is what I say, and then sit back and wait it out. Or, as it went on Monday, if your kid has tonsillitis, get him treated sooner rather than later so that he doesn't get any sicker.

The doctor also commended me for a) not rushing Daniel to the hospital with his 40C temp. He agreed with calling an ambulance if he had a febrile convulsion, but unless he got worse, avoiding taking him out to wait in a cold and germy waiting room was preferable, and for b) not waiting another twelve hours (and I quote, "like most parents do", HA) to get him to the doctor because, as he was being treated so early in the piece, he won't get any sicker than he is. And, he said ominously, he could have got sicker, to mere concept of which boggles my mind.

Maybe I've been spoiled by Daniel's good health, but man, it was SO awful during those early hours of the morning. Gah, waiting for the iboprofen to kick in, which it did marginally around 45 minutes after taking it, and then staying around for only three hours anyway (and the dose recommendations are "every 6-8 hours". AWESOME), and then stripping him down and virtually tossing him in the freezer until I could dose him again.

Oh, and the doctor commended me on taking him outside into the chilly predawn air wearing only a nappy to get his temp down. I figured I was just being lazy, but he thought it was less of a shock than a cold towel and much less traumatic than a cool bath. So, sportsfans, I rule at this Florence Nightingale shit. Obviously.

Daniel is SO much better now that it's almost comedic. He's had two days off childcare to hang around at home, and to see him rushing around you'd never think he could barely lift his head such a short time ago.

He goes back into care tomorrow, and I go back to work. In the meantime, I've lost over a hundred dollars in potential earnings, and forfeited two days worth of childcare fees. I hate that I can put a price on my child's wellness, but despite my preference to not work, I do work, so I can put a monetory value on a sick day.

Which is another good reason to not work! Free sick days, woot!



*possibly not an entirely direct quote

I have opinions, you know

I'm back.

Not that I've been anywhere, mind, and having cleared that one up, let's get on to my riveting summary of the past week's activities:

Mother's day came and went and now that I'm a veteran of all the fanfare, I can confidently say that this prestigious day falls under the same heading as my birthday, Christmas, and to a large degree, Fathers Day. That is to say, it was sucky. It's going to be a few years until Daniel can wield a frypan and an espresso machine, so without the fully cooked breakfast, a short black, and the single rose in a vase to wake up to, it was a day just like any other. Except that, it being a family type day, visiting was out of the question, so we went for a walk in the morning, and then after Daniel's nap, we headed out again and walked to MacDonalds for my Mothers Day coffee and his run in their playground. Bonus Mothers' Day points were scored by all the families there because apparently nothing says I Love You, Ma like a trip to MacDonalds does. Seriously, it was like ANTS were all over the play equipment, there were so many kids out there. Daniel ran around with them all until it got too dangerous with the vast population of squealing preteens high on the wholesome goodness of Coke, coke, and more coke increasing by the minute, but it was bedtime by then anyway, so we headed home and that was that.

The non highlight of the day was when my brother and SIL called late in the day and while on their way home from her parent's place. They would have literally been passing my house as they dialed as her parents live five minutes from here. They're there AT LEAST once a week and yet never drop by to see their nephew. We rarely hear from either one of them. They don't call, they never visit, and they fail to show my son that they care.

Daniel is the most important thing in my life, and they may not realise it, but he is WAY more important than anything else in their lives too. I'm projecting bla bla BLA, but it hurts that Daniel isn't important enough to them for them to make time to see him. It hurts because my brother left me when I was ill (which, in rationalising my abandonment issues, is okay because you've got to save yourself from the sinking ship, and not go down nobly with it)(and he was my brother, not my parent)(on the other hand, not contacting your dying sister AT ALL? Not cool, not really)(obviously this IS all about me)(ANYWAY), and it hurts more because their (HIS) abandonment of Daniel feels like their (HIS) abandonment of me is SO complete that even my children aren't good enough to save.

Daniel's a child, and regardless of their lack of interest in me, they should be falling all over themselves to spend time with him. They'd deny that, of course, but to look objectively at the serious lack of ANY meaningful contact initiated by either one of them, there's no way you'd think we were related and that Daniel was AD's only nephew.

I hate that (what feels like and obviously needs more therapy to not feel like) my past failures have resulted in Daniel's isolation from my )(loser anyway, what is my problem?!) family being as complete as my own.

Whenever we talk (which, while it isn't a lot, is still about 34521% more often that we've spoken over the last twenty years), AD's all "Bring Daniel over!", and you know what? Fuck that. I've brought him over efuckingnough.

I shouldn't have to place Daniel right in front of them for them to notice him, and I'm not going to do it anymore. What kind of message is that to send a child anyway? That you don't exist unless you're visible? That's how I was raised and I'll be fucked if I'm going to raise my son that way too.

Projecting. I KNOW.

Regardless, it's been two and a half years of them dodging my invitations and of me being sociable and pleasant and calling on birthday's and Christmas and keeping in contact in between times and of putting in the past how AWFUL my brother has been to me over the years, so fuck it. I'm done. I'm done accepting that if they're going to be significant in Daniel's life, I need to literally drop him in their lap in the comfort of their own home for that relationship to occur. I'd rather Daniel had NO relationship with his uncle that have one that was dependent on Daniel's locale.

And that about covers Mothers Day.

The rest of the week passed in a blur of ferrying Daniel around as I worked my regular classes and observed the additional classes I'll be taking on for the next nine weeks. For the most part, it's been an experiment as I've been able to have Daniel mill around while I've taught in the past, and I wanted to see if we could wangle it again. Answer? Hell no, because Daniel behaved like a TOTAL PILL for all but one class, and that seriously harshed my work orientated buzz. Man, I'd really been looking forward to these new classes before then as because of the extra workload, Daniel is in childcare four days a week now, and I wanted to be able to take him with me so that I wouldn't be away from him all day. The Grande Plan was to spend the mornings together before he went to childcare to nap half of the afternoon away anyway, and then I'd have picked him up sometime after three, later if I needed to do something that is best achieved when sans a midget tugging at my pants' leg. Now it's going to be that much PLUS all morning, and that adds up to ALL DAY.

Quel horreur because seriously? Thanks Germaine, but I don't want it all. I want to be Daniel's mother, and I don't want to work at all, much less work more, and when I do work, I want to be away from him as little as I can while still managing to not turn to drink before selling him on the black market. The rest of the world seems to not want to lose themselves in motherhood, but I can think of no greater privilege than to exist only for my son. If they were reading this, a million feminists' heads just exploded, but isn't all this equal right bullshit meant to be about choosing the life we want? Why then, is virtually every woman I know busting their guts to have a life they don't really want? Hands up anyone who, when handed a crayon and asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, wrote "I want to feel guilty for working at all, guilty for not working enough, and guilty for being a working mother".

It's taken Daniel's entire lifetime to accept that not wanting to work doesn't mean I'm lazy. I haven't fully integrated this new knowledge though, because I still wrangle with guilt for being just that. Lazy. As if this life is one of peeled grapes and bon bons.

So, uh, yeah. That's the week in review. I had a shitty mothers day and a few life, the universe and everything thoughts.

Daniel's playing on the floor next to me now, and because Target had 50% of selected Thomas items today, he's building an entire branchline through our house. In between times we've been sticking stuff onto other stuff, and thumbing through his well worn Thomas books.

Life is good.

B12 makes me chatty

I saw my naturopath today and woohoo, I'm super healthy, which is good news - though it would be nice to have something to FIX that might explain my bone and mind numbing fatigue. That sounds lame, but I guess you know what I mean. I don't want to be NOT well, but in being SO well, my fatigue is nothing I can treat. Except with speed. And don't think I haven't thought about it.

The dude does live blood analysis and for bonus points, is really nice. He has a son who is five months older than Daniel, and he and his partner have just had another boy, Ivan, born four weeks ago. Last year they gave Daniel HEAPS of stuff that Henry had grown out of by the time he was eighteen months old, and I shit you not, Daniel has only JUST grown out of most of it now, and STILL doesn't fit into the hand-me-down shoes. Henry, it's worth pointing out, looked like a four year old when he was not even two. And Daniel has small feet anyway.

HENNYWAZE

I scored me a B12 shot today too, and for the first time EVAH, I can actually feel it. I kind of feel like Superman meeting something kind of anti-kryptonitey. Usually I get a B12 shot and wonder what all the damn fuss is about becaue everyone else apres a shot is running around all "Weeee!", whereas I'm still dragging my ass and feeling ripped off. Right now though? Clear headed and wondering where that fatigue I just spent a paragraph whining about it.

So maybe this time round my urge to lie down and rest mah weary bones 24/7 IS all about a vitamin deficiency?

Next riveting topic? My ex. Who(m?) I saw today for lunch. It's actually always nice to see Strep in this context, so it's a pity he's been such a toe rag in the past because - and I think we've had this conversation before - I have to REMIND myself that dude really can't be trusted because when the chips are down, he's a dickhead. I'd rather accept him at face value and not have to worry about what might still be lurking underneath because, saint that I am, I always assume that underneath the exterior is more of the same. Then something happens and *BAM* he's been hit with the idiot stick AGAIN and I'm all wondering how ON EARTH I forgot about his inner dipshit.

I'd intended to go straight from the city (which sidebar, OH MY GOD: I parked my car in some OVERPRICED parking lot on Something Road or street or whatever the fuck it is [which, additoal sidebar and interesting aibee factoid: I've lived in MyTown my entire life and still have NO idea what any of the major arterial and inner city roads are called. Someone will say "it's on Significant Street Name" and I, as I always do because I don't really like coming across as a complete moron, pretend to know where in hell they're talking about) because, like a total tool, when I paid my bill I gave my naturopath ALL MY CHANGE despite KNOWING IN ADVANCE that I was going into the city and needed it for the meters. BUT THAT'S NOT THE STORY. The story is that I parked my car in this carpark, then merrily toddled off for a peppermint tea [because after AN ENTIRE YEAR of fending off all the congratulatory virtual high fives, I've finally worked out that Milk + My Tummy = FOUR MONTHS PREGNANT] with Strep, then came back to retrieve said vehicle an hour or so later, then couldn't find my ticket so I could pay to get out. Thinking I must have left it in the car, I went upstairs to find my car and what found instead that I'd forgotten where it was. So I had to wander aimlessly until I found the fucking thing and once found, I found the ticket in my bag anyway. OF COURSE. So then I went back downstairs to pay the damn thing [TEN FREAKIN' DOLLARS, ARE THEY HIGH?] then went back up the stairs to find that I'd lost my car AGAIN)(bonus question: I really should keep these "I am so stupid" stories to myself, huh?) to pick up Daniel, except ducked in at home on the way and found the MOUNTAIN I'd forgotten about in the middle of the floor that had come out of the drier that morning, and the mountain of stuff I'd draped around the joint to dry off a little before putting them IN the drier, then I went to peg some towels up outside and found even MORE shit that needed to be brought inside. Also, the sand, the tons and tones of sand that came out of Daniel's shoes last night. Fucking sandpits. Christ, the kid isn't even three feet tall and yet the amount of filth he creates would rival that of a rugby team playing on a rainy day. So I've swept, unpegged, pegged, folded, and placed in the dryer SO MUCH stuff, then I turned on my mac and lo! Shiny! Also, thoughts that the internet would LOVE to hear about this shit, which brings us to the current minute.

Which has been deemed to be Internet Interaction Time: How's your day going? Is it sunshine and fluffy bunnies or thunder and lightening? Do tell, because you might be a quiet bunch of shitheads, but I know you're out there.

bla bla bla bla BLA

Daniel and I took off for a walk today at around 11am, the plan being to be home in time for a late nap for him by 1pm, tops, and it went to plan until it all went to shit because, uh, we got home about a half an hour ago, so Daniel is sans sleep and merrily playing with the new Annie and Clarabel Tag Along Thomas thingies he scored today. They go with the new track I bribed him to love me with, and he loves Gordon ("ai lah gornan" SO CUTE) and the carriage I got him last week to pad the bribe for TWICE as much as they sold for today in Target. GAH. We had a crisis at about T + 45 mins when hise other Gordon, the one buck Gordon that isn't the twenty buck motherfucker I bought last week, went missing somewhere in Target. Now, this is about the SEVENTH much loved, albeit cheap shit, Gordon that Daniel's either stashed on a random shelf or chucked out of the stroller when out and about, so I was all "Daniel, focus. Where's Gordon?", and Daniel was all "ai lah gornon", except he isn't the sucker who has to console him when he asks for Gordon when it's bed time, and he isn't the hardass who tell him that particular Gordon won't EVER be back because the store promotion is over and they're fresh out of cheapass Gordon because WE BOUGHT THEM ALL because he keeps THROWING them away. People, it got to the point where I was all "WHERE'S GORDON??", and he was all *weeps*, which while it broke my heart it was either stress the kid out with the vague hope of relocating the errant tank engine, or having the kid stress out later that evening when he realises the Gordon lack, but by then, there'd be NO HOPE of ever finding him. Which we did, thank god, so all the child abuse was worth it and my, isn't this an interesting story.

Then we went to the salvos and stayed there for EVER, and Daniel was so good, tootling around and having a whale of a time looking at himself in mirrors and messing with the pots and pans and announcing to anyone who cared "Ai cookin'!". I have no idea where he learned that because me + cooking = guff + faw.

It reminds me though, that have so got to buy him a toy kitchen because he plays with one at child care and my heavens, the passion! And the other day at the reproductive unit's playroom there was another kitchen and seriously, "Ai cookin' da CHIPPIES!", is a phrase I have GOT to hear again. Seriously, this kitchen had fake CHIPS in a fake chip fryer basket. TOO ADORABLE.

So yes, that's been our day. I'm still unshowered with the most glamorous hairdo, and Daniel is wearing clothes I was going to wash this morning before thinking, am I mad? We'll go for a walk to the store, he'll steal lollies again from the bulk foods section, and honestly, they let him walk away with handfuls of that shit. He dutifully passes his score over at the checkout, and they usually get handed right back with an "OHMYGODHESSOCUTE" while I sputter "but it's like, the FIFTIETH time he's STOLEN this shit!") POINT BEING, he doesn't eat the lollies, he unwraps them then holds them in his sweaty hands until they melt all over him. He gets mighty sticky so going to the store in clean clothes is total and utter lunacy. No, it's much better that he goes out in public looking like a (very dirty) neglected child.

And lookit! Again with the rivetting stories!

revisting the old fertility deal

I was at the reproductive unit today, planning my next IVF cycle because dudes, a face swollen out to here *gestures widely* needs to be Out There, In Public, and On Show.

Not really, but fuck. Appointments are booked WAY ahead so no way in HELL was I going to wait another EON just because I've only just staggered out of the operating theatre.

Karen the uber bitch was working today too, which a) joy and b) get this - I was apologised to for not being warned. Which was very nice, especially as I don't give a rat's ass about that idiot anymore.

I really don't. We could be at the same party together and she is SO nothing to me that I wouldn't even notice if she was standing behind me making bunny ears over my head.

BUT ANYWAY, the appointment. It went like this:

We're going to do an entirely different regime this time, a "short" or "flare" cycle, the one they use as a last ditch effort for little old ladies, because I failed so miserably at the standard long cycle last time. This protocol gives lower conception rates, but as there's no down regulating, it places less stress on the body (and the fragile, hormone fueled psyche), and as the treatment time is considerably shorter, you can do more cycles within the year. Pushing, I expect, the conception rate up to an acceptable level on a PER YEAR basis, even when not comparable with the per cycle conception rates of the long stimulation regime.

Don't quote me on that because I'm pretty sure that last paragraph is based more on my assumptions than it is on actual fact.

What fucked with all this good newsy joy was the frikkin' Sophie's Choice type situation I was subjected to this morning. Y'all, I was asked if I wanted to start this month. As in, tomorrow, in preparation for an egg retrieval in as little as ten days, and of course I WANTED to do it, especially since booking on today meant that I had a confirmed booking for the retrieval in the appropriate week, and I KNOW I've got three follicles on each ovary AS I TYPE THIS that, technically speaking, could all mature under this regime.

Six wouldn't, obviously, but the possibility is there bla bla BLA.

Point being, it could all go to shit in the next month and there might be NO follicles getting their groove on. On the other hand, there could be a whole fuckload of them in there the next time round because fertility, especially that of an old fart like me, is a crap shoot, every time.

BUT! I've just had surgery so really, I'm not running optimally at present so, theoretically at least, I might not respond as well to the drugs as I would if I were NOT sporting the 4x2 Meets Face look. BUT! By next month, when I call to say "game ON!", they unit might just say, "How nice for you. Thing is, we're fully booked. Call back in a month." because there are only a finite number of egg retrievals booked each week, and the women on the long stimulation regimes book on an entire MONTH before we old dears do. Which might only mean another month, but then there's the whole revisiting of the "but what if I have no follicles" that time round, when I've got six juicy ones on the boil right now.

DILEMMA

Jesus.

My doctor thought it would be fine to go ahead, the treating nurse said it would be fine to go ahead, but that if it were her, she'd wait, and I was all "aw crap, can I just buy the damn vowel?".

I SO wanted to go ahead with this but there was this annoying voice in my head asking me, "ARE YOU NUTS??!".

If I'd listened to the aibee that didn't give a shit, bring on the tequila, this would be another entry entirely and you'd all be wondering if I actually was nuts, but I listened to alternate aibee and as a consequence, have now begun the count down to my next period.

If it behaves and arrives when it should, I'll be starting my next IVF cycle at the end of May. If it doesn't, I may just throw myself off a cliff because seriously, is it just me or does every day of my life seem to be stamped with the word "URGENT"?