Tick. Tock.

10 hours until Dan and I head into the hospital for my post-natal check up and to discuss the results from Robyn’s autopsy.

Dan’s gone to bed early.

Me, myself and I don’t tend to make for a very stable mental state. I hate being alone at the best of times, when I’m nervous about something then I go a little bit psycho.

And I’m super nervous about this.

Best outcome – They know exactly what caused her death, it was some 1 in 20,000,000 freak accident and will never happen again, more babies will be in our future.

Average outcome – They don’t know what caused her death, but nothing is ringing any alarm bells regarding having another child.

Worse outcome – They know what caused it, there is a high likelihood of it happening again, in fact, the boys were complete miracles. No more babies.

I keep repeating in my head how lucky I am to have Declan and Connor, how I already have far more than some people do. But the fact that in ten hours there’s a possibility that someone is going to tell me that there won’t be another pregnancy and another, living, child in my future scares the crap out of me. A few weeks ago I couldn’t even process that as a possibility, and now it’s completely consuming my thoughts. This goes far beyond wanting another child, I NEED another child, children. I feel like a chunk of me is missing, and I know it’s not going to be filled by another baby, but I know it will do a pretty good job of starting to patch it up.

I’m just petrified now that it isn’t going to be a possibility.

Time for bed.

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.

The Voices Inside My Computer

The internet plays a big part in my life, I met Dan way back when through our respective blogs (although back in the dark ages they were still called “online journals”), most of our family income in generated through our sites and connections we make online, and, as sad as it may seem to most people, pretty much 100% of my friends live online as well.

Yeah, I’m the crazy lady with friends that live inside the computer. There are a myriad of reasons for why I quite like it like this; It allows me to be a lazy friend, there’s no gatherings to attend, no phone calls that have to be made, I can pop up a note one day and say that I’m going to be focusing on other things for a couple of months, and when that’s over I’ll be welcomed back with open arms. I don’t have to make plans for lifts to places, work things out around naps or anything like that, if I need it, there’s usually someone for me to talk to hanging out on the other side of the keyboard.

But the number one reason I love the people that live inside my computer, is that they’re awesome women. They’re women that I’ve spoken to for four years, since we all fell pregnant together with our 2007 babies, people have come and gone, families have grown and break ups have happened. And through all this there’s a solid core of wonderful women who absolutely rock my world in every way imaginable.

This afternoon a parcel arrived on my doorstep. Inside were some toys for Declan and Connor (I now have Mr Potato Head’s facial features scattered across my hallway) and two boxes, one for Dan and one for myself.

Inside Dan’s box was a beautiful silver keyring with Robyn’s name and birthdate on it. Inside mine (which was polkadots, and we all know how much I love polkadots!) was the most beautiful handmade pendant and necklace A little locket with a winged heart on the front and Robyn written on the inside. These women have already done so much, supported me through everything, sent me flowers, cards and donations in Robyn’s name, and now to receive something like this, that they’ve put thought and time into choosing for me and for Dan, I’m just overwhelmed with how wonderful they are.

So this is my big f-you to all the naysayers that insist that online friends aren’t real. I’ve found my biggest support to be the people inside my computer, whether they’re from my March Mamas or complete strangers sharing their experiences online. Whether you’re sitting across a room for someone or sitting at your respective computers, it doesn’t make the emotion and the solidarity any less genuine, and I am blessed to have such a wonderful group of women at my side. When the women I went to college with and who I’ve commiserated on every break up, celebrated every new job or high test score over the last seven years, even keeping in touch with them when I’ve moved to the other side of the world. When they don’t send even the emptiest words of sympathy or regret, and yet when a collection of mothers, who by most people’s standards wouldn’t even be considered “real” friends can take time out of their life to think of me and my family, and to help us heal, I think it says a great deal about what is real and what isn’t.

This was meant to be a wonderful post celebrating how awesome my online mum’s group is, but this has been bubbling over inside me. It really is true what they say about events like this making you realise who your real friends are. I KNOW that they know what has happened, and the only thing I can hope, is that it’s not that they don’t care, it’s just that they don’t know what to say.

Sew Happy

I love sewing. The process of cutting up bits of fabric and putting them back together seems completely insane to some (aka, my husband) but I really can’t think of anything I would rather do with my spare time. I love fabric, I love trying out new techniques and colour combinations, most of all I love the sense of accomplishment when I finish something. Being a mother is such a thankless task, there’s no end point where you can sit back and say that you did okay, sewing gives me that feeling I crave of a job well done.

Of course, if housework gave me that feeling I would probably be richer and my house would be far cleaner, but that’s an ongoing task as well, which is why I avoid it to the best of my ability.

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.

Verruca’s Red And Aqua Kitchen

I want a house. Possibly the only thing I want more than a house right now is a baby.

They are both quite a way off.

But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming.

I still wander around the shops and pick out clothes I would buy my newborn, sweet purple tops with owls, deep blue babygrows with pirates on them.

I read (and steal) my mother in law’s decorating magazines, read design blogs and bookmark things that I would put in my house. I dream about the day when we no longer have to live in a rented magnolia box and I can have the freedom to make a house my own, to paint the boys’ rooms, and not have to deal with rent inspections.

1. Sweet-Pills, 2. Kitchenology by Jenny & Aaron ~everyday is a holiday~, 3. bobb and cherries, 4. Kitchen, 5. heart apron, 6. Tea Towel Swap, 7. ::vintage kitchen swap::, 8. Fruity Photography, 9. Handmade Brooch Bambi fawn deer red white flower blue

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to have a roof over my head, but sometimes that little brat inside me rears her ugly head and has a tantrum about not being able to paint the walls lime green.

I’ll call her Verruca.

This is Verruca’s dream kitchen:

The walls are bright aqua, the cupboards are clean and white, it’s perfectly accessorised with red canisters and teacups, there are plenty of polka dots everywhere. The dining table is large and surrounded by mismatched chairs, all painted bright cherry red. It has original art prints that she’s picked up from the local artists markets and a tin Coca-cola sign that she nabbed for $4 from an opshop. There’s never any flour splatters on her Kitchenaid, and the oven is big enough to cook for an army. It’s retro, but not overwhelmingly so.

Oh. And everything is self cleaning.

Verruca makes an awesome lasagna, she also lives in a world where she doesn’t have a stack of opened mail sitting on her worktop, just next to the pile of dirty dishes, she has angelic kids that don’t pull all the plastic plates out of the draw when she’s not looking and, most importantly, Verruca has a husband that doesn’t roll his eyes and say that red and aqua combined is the gaudiest thing ever, and no way in hell would he ever have a kitchen like that… oh, and by the way, mood boards are  “full of shit”.

Word of advice: Whenever you hook up with someone you may one day end up living with for the remainder of your life, make sure your design tastes don’t completely and utterly clash.

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ETA: Verruca’s husband also doesn’t threaten to delete her blog when she writes bitchy things about him, he’s nice like that, he also has a six pack.

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

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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

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

I prefer my version though.

Good Days

When someone asks me how I’m doing I’ll normally answer something along the line of “I have good days and bad days”, even if I feel fine at that particular moment, I’m very aware that if I say I’m fine then people will start to think I’m in denial and not coping. Then if I say I’m not fine then they’ll think I’m having a breakdown and, again, not coping. I have visions of them carting me off to the nuthouse if I say the wrong thing and so I try to remain neutral in what I say to most people. It’s true that I have good days and bad, most of the time I just don’t feel like going into details about which side of the scale I fall on at that particular time.

Maybe I just over think things.

Today was one of the good days. Both of the kids are sick so the house remained fairly calm, Connor slept most of the day, and Declan was content to read and play with his cars instead of spending the day bouncing off the walls.

It felt normal, and normal is all I need right now to consider it a good day

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.