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.

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.

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

For the first couple of years of Declan’s life I was convinced that it would all get easier as time went on. This whole parenting shebang couldn’t be this hard forever, right?

It didn’t.

In some ways it’s almost getting harder, as he grows I have more expectations of him and I’m more aware as each week passes how he’s moving further away from “normal”. As the months and years go by, certain problems get solved, only for new ones to pop up in their place. Just when I think he’s finally hit the ceiling and it can’t get any more difficult, he turns it up to eleven and shows me that, in fact, it can.

During my pregnancy with him this is not how I saw my future, parenting shouldn’t be patting yourself on the back because you went an entire 24 hours without looking up terms and conditions on eBay to work out whether your three year old counts as livestock, or whether you should just go the local route with a classified ad.

My niece asked about some of his behaviour and why he acts how he does. I explained that Declan just thinks a little bit differently to other kids, he has a harder time controlling himself, and doesn’t process things in the same way that they do.

“Yeah… but why?”

I wish I knew.

My Kid Is “That Kid”

I’m sure you know the one.

Declan was the toddler who would put a bucket on his head and spend half an hour running into walls at high speeds… just to see what would happen.

I’m “that mother”.

The one that let her child run into the wall repeatedly, probably bashing out any last bit of sense he had remaining. He’ll either get bored or knock himself out, right? But either of those options were far better than telling him that it isn’t wise to attempt to crack your skull open, even the mere suggestion of another activity will resort in a meltdown of Chernobyl size proportions.

When people ask me about Connor I tell them about his sweet nature, his awesome non-verbal communication skills and how much he loves to be cuddled.

When they ask about Declan, I generally use the phrase “He came out screaming, and hasn’t stopped since”.

Declan was a handful from day one, he was demanding, he was argumentative and he was possibly the most stubborn newborn you could ever imagine, he was able to argue with me before he could even support the weight of his own head.

Health wise he’s kept us on our toes, he was sick with severe reflux in his first year, started having febrile convulsions eleven months ago. Then on top of that we have all of his little “issues”, he can’t cope with day to day changes, his curiosity in how things work causes him to be incredibly destructive, he generally can’t focus on things for more than a few minutes and his independent streak leads to him getting in trouble far more than he should.

We plan every day around how Declan will react to what’s happening. I don’t generally allow anyone else to look after him, just because I know how much work it is, I don’t want them to have to experience that. It’s reached the point where I dread picking him up from a day at preschool. Once or twice a month we’ll hear how good he’s been, once or twice a week we’ll hear how feral he’s been, the rest of the time the report is “he’s been Declan”.

That’s sometimes the only way to put it. He’s been Declan.

At the beginning of February we started having fortnightly visits to a child psychologist, with the thoughts of diagnosing him (if there is anything to diagnose other than Feral Child Syndrome) and to teach Dan and I some coping techniques to make our life easier. I think I expected a magical cure. It’s not that I wanted to stop him being Declan, I just wanted our day to day life to go smoother, for my interactions with him not to be so constantly negative, and to understand how to parent him in the way he needs, to understand why he is how he is.

I just feel like we sit around and talk. I know that’s part of the diagnostic process, but I’m so frustrated with being “that mum” with “that child”, I’m fed up on the constant battles over every little thing and I would really like to drive to preschool without dreading what the day’s report will be like. I love my spirited little boy, but at the same time, I would just really like a break from it all. I know parenting isn’t meant to be easy, but it isn’t meant to be this hard either, I want that magical fix that will make everything flow more smoothly, I don’t want to be angry at my son all day and I’m getting so frustrated in waiting that to happen.

On the upside, Dan and I have worked out that with his persistence, temperament and intelligence, Declan is likely to either be a millionaire entrepreneur, or a crime lord, either way, we’ll be looked after in our old age.

Today’s post was brought to you by severe impatience and the fact that my bloody son decided to cut several holes into his tshirt with a pair of scissors today whilst at preschool.

Bunnies.

Today I made bunnies for Declan and Conman.

We went to the playground with the boys. I watched the families around us, the brothers and sisters interacting with one another, I got jealous of the large families, which quickly turned to bitterness as I sat there and tried to work out what I’d done wrong and those parents had done right.

Was it because I slept on my back? Or when I climbed up a ladder during my second trimester? Were the Wasabi cravings in the first trimester the reason for it all?

I just wish there was a way of knowing why I’m only making two bunnies for Easter instead of three.

Eighteen days till the autopsy results… time is going so slowly. I so badly want it to get here so I can get some reasons, some closure, but at the same time I don’t want the day to arrive, just in case they don’t have any answers for me.

We still haven’t picked up her ashes.

My Parenting Theory

I took a break today whilst I was eating lunch to wander through some of the old photos on flickr. Connor is 1 month old in the picture above, Declan is around 20 months. They’re on my mum’s bed.

My Mum doesn’t like to make her bed.

She will usually wake up in the morning complaining of aches and pains, only to discover she’d been sleeping on a water bottle that got lost  in amongst her sheets, or her glasses that she’s been searching for the past week. There are always pencils and notebooks, if you sit on the edge you generally risk being stabbed by stationary lost in the mattress

________

The little trip back in time got me thinking about the kids, and how I’ve raised them so far.

My belief is that our children are on loan to us, from the moment they’re conceived we slowly start paying back that loan, to them. They start off 100% relying on their mothers in the womb. They’re born and their body takes over the automated actions, but they still rely on us as parents, to nurture them, both physically and mentally.

As each year, month, even moment passes, bit by bit they lose their reliance on us, very slowly as they gain independence and step away from needing Mum and Dad. By the time they’ve reached adulthood you would hope that most of that loan is paid off, but it will never be completely finished, I think every parent holds onto a little bit of their child, even when they’ve up and grown and moved to the otherside of the world and had babies of their own.

Our children do not belong to us, we’re borrowing them, and just like when you borrow anything, you need to hand it back in good condition. With every parenting decision I make, I think how this will affect them, in the present, and in the future, whether that’s tomorrow or in their teens. I hope the boys feel nurtured, loved and secure and that they grow to learn responsibility, compassion and right from wrong. I want them to be comfortable in themselves, no matter what choices they make in life, but also to be respectful and understanding of those who make different choices.

Looking back at my boys when they were so little and helpless, it makes me think whether I’ve achieved that so far. I believe I have, it hasn’t all been roses, there has been mistakes, I’ve changed the rules half way through the game before, and sometimes even completely changed the game. But overall, I think that Dan and I have done an acceptable job of looking after the two little beings we’ve been placed in charge of temporarily. We haven’t been perfect, no one is. But, most of the time, when I look at my sons I feel a sense of pride in the fact that we’re still all in one piece, we’re all fairly well adjusted and we’re all content and happy.

Of course, when my kids are in therapy in their 30s, they may say something different.

Declan will speak about the time he asked for alpha-getti and I didn’t look at the tin properly and gave him number-getti instead, or possibly the time when he was mentally scarred because I made him wear his hood up when it was raining.

Connor will talk about the mockery he had to face at a young age for still being mute and immobile, waaaaay past the time that he should.

It will all be my fault, it usually is

_____

Hmm. I think the TLDNR version of this would be “don’t fuck up your kids”.

I prefer my version though.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

[picture from our frame painting yesterday, see the post on CraftBlog]

Anyone that follows me on twitter knows that we have on going issues with Declan going to sleep, if it takes less than an hour between putting him into bed and him falling asleep then I consider it an achievement, but it can sometimes go as long as two, sometimes even three hours. He’ll ask for drinks, he’ll ask to go to the toilet, he’ll even poo in his nappy so he can get up and get his bum changed.

So when he came running into the lounge at about 8pm tonight, it was nothing unusual, nor was it unusual for him to announce the moment he stepped through the doorway, “Mummy, Daddy, I just pooped!“.

Was wasn’t expected was the follow up to that.

“…and it was BEAUTIFUL!!”

My kid takes pride in everything he does.

Including bowel movements apparently.

Second Child Syndrome

A couple of days ago I backdated a photopost about Connor, I was hoping to sneak it in under the radar, but forgot about the magic of RSS, and of course the people reading my feed saw it pop up.

Why am I backdating posts about my littlest babe you ask?

Guilt.

No. Worse than that. Mother’s guilt.

Connor already gets the short end of the stick on a lot of things, most of his clothes are hand me downs, his brother’s temperament and issues means that he dominates our time, the poor kid doesn’t even get a room of his own, he has to share it with piles of paperwork, dead computers and furniture that won’t fit anywhere else.

See the mildly annoying moving thing just underneath my header? I noticed that there was photo after photo of Declan, and the only photo of Conman was about to drop off the end into the oblivion of the interwebs, in favour of yet another Declan post. I had fallen into the trap of second child syndrome without even realising it.

So I tried to sneakily backdate a post and now I feel even worse because I got totally busted by my RSS readers.

Mother’s guilt could send a woman crazy.