Sewing For The Weekend

This weekend is my second time at the Port Macquarie Artist’s Market. I’m feeling a lot more confident about it this time around, I have a clearer idea of what people are looking for and can prepare for that accordingly.

I stitched up some animal themed babygrows/onesies/rompers/whatever you want to call them, yesterday, they’re crazy cute, and I’d be lying if I said that playing with newborn clothes didn’t make me cluckier than Octomum looking at her benefits cheque. Is it August yet?

They’re not up in the store yet (they will be on Sunday night), but you can keep up with new things going into the store via the Aisling Milis facebook page.

Fire, Fire!

The boys and I spent the morning at the Firefighter Championships, climbing on old fire engines, watching fire demos and idolising the firemen that were all around us. I’m not sure what it is about firemen that gets little boys so excited, but the boys loved it, Declan has been telling me all of his plans to grow up and be a fireman, just like his “Gar gar”, Dan’s dad.

Four years and five days ago I sat on this same fire engine on my way to our wedding, I think I looked probably about as nervous as Conman looks up there, there aren’t seatbelts on that thing, and I had visions of falling off it onto the road, just my legs, uncomfortable shoes and knickers sticking up from a pile of tulle and satin.

We watched a demo of what happens when you throw water onto an oil fire – just 100ml of water caused this huge explosion.

Back when I was working in my Dad’s restaurant, one of the staff had a brain snap and poured a saucepan of water into the oil of the deep fat fryer, it wasn’t hot enough to explode (the oil in the picture was actually on fire) but it caused the hot oil to geezer right up to the ceiling. Scary as hell.

Unfortunately, that’s the end of any fun for the next fourty eight hours. This weekend has been dubbed, “The Weekend Of Doom”, I am spending it giving the house a thorough clean, and Dan is spending it doing his taxes, I might even make the kids eat vegetables this weekend just so they don’t feel left out.

Babies

Earlier this week as I tucked Declan into bed he looked intently at me and asked:

“Mummy, are you going to have a baby?”

I floundered, my brain did the mental equivalent of rolling over and playing dead whilst I racked my brain for an appropriate answer that he would understand and at the same time wouldn’t cause me to become an emotional wreck.

“Not anytime soon buddy”

“You need to have a baby with Declan!”

“That’s not how it works, Mummies only have babies with Daddies”

“Nope… Daddy is just far too tired for that.”

O.o

——————-

Babies will be soon, August the 19th marks the magical 6 month mark that I was given to wait until I even started trying to get knocked up. I still have to do some tests, and personally I don’t really see it actually happening any time soon as my cycle is completely shot to shit still. I’ve been playing crosshair bingo on fertility friend… you know the one, where you delete various temperatures until they tell you that you’ve ovulated. That’s probably the less scientific way to “take charge” of my fertility, but it makes me feel better and slightly less broken when a stupid website tells me that my uterus isn’t completely b0rked.

I started packing away the size one and size three clothes yesterday. Dan delights in each and every milestone, whereas I just want to squish them up and make little bonsai babies that I can hang on to. How dare they grow up without my permission.

The (Virtual) Pages Of My Life

Earlier this morning I was reading a friend’s livejournal, when Connor snatched the mouse from me, clicked some random buttons and brought me to my own livejournal, in particular the “just plain weird” category of my own LJ. I haven’t used LJ regularly for years, the most recent post was from November of 2006 complaining because my heavily pregnant belly was in the way of any lady garden shaving attempts.

I flicked through the posts, there was an intense hatred of Bobby Flynn (that’s still there, just typing his name makes me want to go out and stamp on bugs just to release the rage), there were silly conversations I recalled with my husband and my coworkers, there were posts written by newly married, newly pregnant 20 year old whose primary concern was the fact that someone with stupid hair and more than a passing resemblance to Eric Stolz in Mask was a favourite to win Australian Idol.

I said fuck and didn’t worry about offending my mother, I posted pitures of myself instead of hiding behind the camera – I was hot and pregnant and everyone needed to see it, I wrote posts in the ten minutes between arriving at the office and the clock ticking over to nine and receiving a glare from my boss indicating that I had to start working immediately.

At some point, and not just since Robyn, that confidence has started to dwindle, it made a steady progression downwards until taking a nosedive of Ricki-Lee proportions on the nineteenth of February when I discovered I was about to give birth to a dead baby.

Posts now sit half written in my browser for two weeks just because I couldn’t find the right image to go with them. Declan repeats something funny to me and I stop myself from posting it because it seems disrespectful to write about how funny my kids are when one of them is dead. Connor (finally!) started walking and I never even mentioned it… because Robyn never will.

Dan and I said within days of her birth that we can’t let this define who we are, it’s far easier said than done. I don’t cry about it often any more, but it’s still there, this constant nagging feeling that I should be watching my daughter roll over around now, I should be buying ridiculous amounts of size 00 clothes in purple and I definitely shouldn’t have enough free time to be working on a new business and attending markets at the weekends.

Today is a fresh start, I don’t think I’m going to ever get back to the care free 20 year old (particularly now that Aus Idol’s gone to shit!) but I would like to get back her blogging style. The one without obligation, the one where I don’t linger over posts for weeks and most importantly, one that actually represents who I am right now at this moment in my life, because although at times I’m paddling madly under the water, sometimes I’m hanging out on the sand and just enjoying my kids and the positives that I have in my life. THAT is what I need to remember when I look back at this in five years from now, not how overwhelming the sadness can be.

I think a new shiny blog layout is called for

I’ve had this post sitting in my browser for three days now while I try and come up with a title. I am now admitting defeat, and you get this stupidly long title that is going to screw with my formatting.

My first appointment with the psychologist was amazing, I walked out of his office feeling about fifty pounds lighter. There was no lying on the couch discussing my parent’s failings, there was no awkward silence as I flounder around trying to work out what to say.

We sat at his desk, drank a cup of tea and he told me that it’s okay to be really fucking angry the hand I have been dealt.

We laughed, a lot, I had this vision of me spending an hour sobbing, but he only made me cry once. We laughed over pretty much anything, we discussed how much last minute changes wind us up. How when you’re set up to have toast for breakfast, but the bread is mouldy, so you have to have cereal… how it throws you for the rest of the day, you’re pissed off about the last minute changes, finding it hard to focus and next thing you know you don’t know what to have for lunch.

We talked about my issues with transitions, he asked me how I’d gone through this particular transition. He said it better than I ever could, my baby died… and now I don’t know what to have for lunch.

Most importantly he told me I was normal. That the anger, the sadness, the guilt, the resentment, they were all normal.

I wish I’d have done it months ago.

Only Words

Last week I bit the bullet and got a referral from our GP to go and speak to a Psychologist. He gave me a referral to who I had requested (Declan’s pysch, who announces on his card that he “does big kids too!”), but not before making me do the dreaded “How Close Are You To Jumping Off A Cliff” questionnaire and suggesting that based on my responses I shouldn’t even contemplate getting pregnant for another 18  months.

Then I burst into tears and don’t remember much else of what he said.

I left with my referral, I have an appointment booked in for Friday, and I’m a little bit stumped about it.

I don’t know what there is left to talk about. I feel like I spent the entire first month just talking about it until my jaw ached, there is nothing left to say. Robyn died, I am sad, but I need to keep functioning to look after my two living children.

I cry when I see sleeping newborns. I am jealous of their parents. Because at some point those babies will open their eyes, and mine never did.

I can’t look at ultrasound screens, on telly, on my mum’s forums, I can’t even look at the old sonograms of the boys. Because all I see is the dead upside down baby, with no movement in her chest and a room full of silent people, none of them knowing what to say next.

I can’t watch telly, I don’t want to see the news, I don’t want to see stupid fluff pieces on morning shows, I don’t want to see adverts for products offering “the best protection for your baby”. I was the best protection for my baby.

I can’t sit still and let my thoughts take over, that would be instant doom.

I can’t imagine having a baby. I can visualise my next pregnancy perfectly. I can picture myself running around after the boys with huge belly once again without any hesitation at all. I can’t imagine myself with a newborn, or with three children living under our roof, I am prepared for the death of my fourth child more so than I am for its birth.

I have irrational hatred to people that I consider to be parenting badly. The mother in the cafe mixing up formula, I deserve a child more than her, because I would breastfeed. The parents standing in the same aisle as me in Target, complaining because they can’t find anyone to babysit on Friday night, I deserve a child more than them because I would never leave it, ever.

Don’t even get me started on the emotions I have towards the people that actually ARE parenting badly. Another reason why the news is a no-go area.

I don’t want to pick up her ashes, because then we will have to scatter them, and I will lose the last little bit of her forever.

I’m not ready for another pregnancy yet, but I still sob every time my period starts.

The logic in that one fails me completely.

I am sad. I have moments of uncontrollable emotions, but on a day to day basis I am competent, I am coping well, in fact I even feel far better than I did during my PPD with Declan.

I want to go and see the psychologist and just get him to tell me that this is all normal, that everything I am feeling is what I’m meant to be feeling.

I don’t want to sit down and talk for hours about all that could have been, or why what happened, happened. It doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t make her come back, it doesn’t even make me feel better, it just forces me to dwell on every emotion.

I just want him to tell me I’m normal, that everything I’m feeling is normal.

An Apology

You know when you get a little distracted and don’t post for a while.

And then your mum comes to visit (with less than a weeks notice!), and of course you shouldn’t be messing around on the internet during the first time you’ve seen her in 18 months.

Then you get sick, and spend two days refusing to leave bed.

And then you agree to do your first ever market and spend every spare moment you have sewing.

Then you take on about 20 custom pieces in the same week, ranging from appliques to full blown quilts.

Then one day in the shower, you realise that you have a little blog sitting out there on the internet, and you wonder how it’s dealing with your unashamed neglect.

You figure that now would be a good time to write something, but it’s been so long, so whatever you write should be suitably epic.

So you wait another week to come up with something.

And nothing comes.

(apart from more custom work, and you start to worry that maybe, just maybe, you may have over stretched yourself)

Sorry little blog. I promise I shall squeeze in a few minutes each day to water and tend to your browning leaves, and together we shall cross our fingers that real life doesn’t interrupt again any time soon.

Since Robyn

It’s never “since Robyn’s birth”, “since I had Robyn” or “since Robyn’s death”. It’s always just “since Robyn”.

I think everyone waited for me to crack. They all waited for the breakdown, and instead I picked myself up every morning and went out of my way to be okay. They all told me how proud they were, how well I was doing, how strong I was.

I have no idea what happened a couple of days ago, but I am struggling to be okay all of a sudden. It’s almost like I’m back in that first week. I’m full of anger and bitterness and overwhelming sadness. I’m trapped in this room full of negative thoughts, and instead of handling it and finding my way out like I did two months ago, I want to lock the windows and bolt the door and just wallow in the darkness.

I don’t understand why everything feels so raw again.

Snips And Snails…

and puppy dog tails.

That’s what my little home is made of.

Connor is fast on his way to two years old, and still has yet to talk or walk. He tries, he makes plenty of progress, and then stops and regresses back to where he was.

Declan’s psych says not to worry about it at all, that his understanding of what we say to him is far too advanced for anything to be an issue.

I am inclined to agree. He has everyone of us wrapped around his finger, knowing that he can get the entire room looking and cheering at him if he takes a couple of steps unsupported, or being able to communicate without any kind of effort, just a series of nods, head shakes and points.

In my continuing attempt to cut down on the amount of unknowns in Declan’s diet I made homemade cordial last night, I slaved over a hot stove, boiled rasberries and sugar syrup down and made a beautiful 100% natural bright red drink for him to enjoy.

I gave it to him tonight, I told him it was “Mummy’s Special Cordial” and how it was much better for him than the usual stuff. He took an enthusiastic swig, pulled a face, handed me the cup back and suggested I poured it down the sink.

It’s a good job I love them.

Grotty feet and all.

Relief.

I have nothing but good news from the autopsy meeting.

They found a very aggressive infection in her lungs from the amniotic fluid. They have no idea where in infection came from, why it sprung up despite the anti-bs and most strangely, why it wasn’t picked up on any of the checks. They took blood and swabs when I was first admitted which were all absolutely fine. They did the same after her death and found the infection on the vaginal swabs, and my white blood cell count had doubled in a matter of hours. What’s odd is that at no point did I even develop a temperature or feel unwell. Her heart rate and mine were always steady, there was just nothing that could have clued anyone in.

Everything else came back in the clear, there were no chromosomal or genetic issues and all of her organs were perfectly formed.

Basically it just boils down to some really bad luck, which is pretty much the best outcome we could have hoped for. We won’t be wondering what happened forever, and we know that there are no issues with having another baby as it’s so unlikely to be repeated. The whole thing feels like this beautiful light in the pit of darkness that I feel like I’ve been living in for the last two months.

In the process of genetic testing it was discovered that I have a gene issue called Factor V, it puts me at a higher risk for blood clots, meaning I can’t go on the normal contraceptive pill, and also need to be aware of miscarriages, so finding out that is another positive thing to take from all this.

As for my next pregnancy, before we even start trying to conceive I will have a series of blood tests and swabs done and will possibly be taking aspirin to thin my blood. Once I am pregnant I will be seen at the hospital straight away (instead of GP care up until 20 weeks) and will then have regular testing to monitor for infections. Once the PPROM kicks in (which after 3 times is pretty much guaranteed now) causing my waters break, and assuming it’s after 30 weeks gestation, I will be induced immediately.

It was awesome to go back and see the doctors and midwives that helped me so much and I feel very happy and positive about everything we spoke about, I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome (other than an alive baby of course). I’m over the moon that nothing was found that will affect future pregnancies, and to be quite honest, I’m gagging to start on the testing and get pregnant, but trying very hard to be sensible at the same time. As much as my heart may want that, my brain is taking over and reminding myself that I still need time to heal in so many different ways.

I told the midwives that I would see them all again next year and this time they’ll be delivering a screaming squirmy baby.

I’m very much looking forward to that moment.