Talentless Technophobe

As you may have noticed this Bogan Blog is bigger, better and more bogan than ever.

I am responsible for the 'more bogan' bit and my brother is responsible for the 'better' bit.

The bigger part, I just made up. It's still the exact same size as far as I can tell.

I have a new header. Thanks to my brother. He is talented.

"If you don't like it, let me know," he said " it only took me five minutes."

Bastard.

You see, I can't even draw stick figures.  You'd think that mother nature would have balanced it out a little and given me a few artistic genes as well. But no, my greedy brother took all of them. Hmph.

There are many more ridiculously artistically talented people in my extended family, so clearly this is genetic trait.  So why did this part of the gene pool bypass me completely?

Not that it deters Mr 4.

"Muuum! Draw Spiderman!" he demands, thrusting pen and paper at me.  My attempts are pitiful. This does not stop him from returning with further demands, each one more complicated than the next.  After Spiderman, he'll want Green Goblin. Then, characters and space ships from Star Wars that he has in lego sets. All way beyond me. 

As well as having zero artistic talent, I am also an astonishing technophobe.

Just using Blogger leaves me in a perpetual state of confusion, causing massive brain explosions. As my Mum says, if my brains were dynamite they wouldn't blow a part in my hair. (She has lots of other funny sayings too but I'll save them for another post.)

Walking home from school the other week Master 11 enquired hopefully:

"Mum, can I get an Iphone?"

" I don't even have an Iphone!" was my indignant reply.

Impervious he continued "Can I get an Ipod for Christmas? Or an Ipad?"

I don't have those either.  We are such a technologically deprived family.  It's quite tragic. 

If we ever do end up purchasing such gadgets, I may never work out how to use them. Or, by the time I do they are already out dated as the next model has usurped them.

That's the problem. Technology changes so fast, it's hard to keep up.  Especially for a technophobe.

I fear my boys will grow up and I will not have documented every second of their existence with photos, videos etc.  After all, shouldn't I have uploaded every cute thing they have ever said or done to Youtube?

Instead I miss photo opportunities on a regular basis. Despite charging up the camera, I turn it on only to have the red light blinking frantically at me.  This happened when I took Mr4 to Featherdale Wild Life Park last term with Playgroup. Consequently I missed a chance for a cute snap of Mr 4 with a koala and other animals.

This photo has no relevance to this post whatsoever,
I just don't have any current photos, of course. Oh, shut up.

Undeterred, I charged it again before our recent bogan road trip. Again, same thing. No go. This means there is no photographic evidence of our trip.

The only positive side is having no photographic evidence of my double chins. Bonus.

It strikes me as absurdly ironic.  As an introverted Aspergian I'm supposed to be a techie geek. I should have computer skills and knowledge of a genius like level rivalled only by Bill Gates, a suspected Aspergian himself.

Since my diagnosis I have been trying to work out what genius like talent or savant skill I possess, as many Aspergians are reputed to have them.   I have come up with: NOTHING.

I guess I can always  comfort myself with the knowledge that not being able to purchase or work out a computer, camera, phone or any gadget pretty much falls into the category of First World Problems.

Besides, my alarming lack of skills and talent will never stop me from banging on here in this boring as batshit bogan blog. So ner.

Do you have artistic talent? Are you a technophobe? (Somebody please say yes...)

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Heavens To Betsy Part Two

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barrelled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet. 

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

Oneday he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was (secretly relieved) saddened and dismayed. 

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See, I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. 

Now, my pesky children are demanding food, so I guess I should feed them.

And they'll be getting an ipod (or something that doesn't require feeding) for Christmas.

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Heavens To Betsy

I'm linking up this oldie for today's I Must Confess and Laugh Link. Even though it's not particularly funny, the old photos of me as a girl are worthy of at least a snort.  It's a tale about pets and the one where I confess to being a murderer.....

Before you call the police, read on....

With Christmas fast approaching my boys already have a comprehensive list of presents they wish to receive from Santa.  Top of the list is a dog.

"Can we get a dog?" Mr 3 pleaded, eyes shining with hope "Pleeease!"

 Mr 11 looked on innocently, having coached his brother to ask the question.

I gave the usual evasive answer that you do when you really mean no: "We'll see." 

Mr 3 pouted, crestfallen. 

"But why can't we get a dog?!" Mr 11 wailed, blowing his cover.

 "We used to have dogs," he reminded me.

I know.  That may be the reason why I am reluctant to go there again.  It's not that I don't like dogs. I do. Well, some of them.

 I'm not a great fan of gigantic horse-like dogs. Or tiny little over grown rat-like yappers. But some dogs are okay. 

Growing up we always had sausage dogs.  A black and tan one called Samantha.  I named her that after Samantha from Bewitched.

 Sammy was a wise, comical old woman in the body of a dachshund.  That dog was whip smart.  A kindred spirit. I adored her.

Sadly, she fell victim to the fate of many a sausage dog. She had back problems which couldn't be fixed and eventually she had to be put down.

The whole family were devastated, as if we had lost a person.  She was such a one of a kind dog that we resisted replacing her for a few years.




Right: Sammy and I, chillaxing in the groovy 70's Left: Me, Penny and Skippa

Then, when I was teenager, we got another sausage dog, Skippa. Then
Penny. Skippa and Penny had puppies.  I loved those dogs so much.

Of course I never had to deal with the difficult side of owning a dog.  My parents (read my Mum) took care of all that. Scooping poop, washing, grooming, de-worming and treating for fleas. 

I just enjoyed the cuddles and comfort of having a canine friend to pet and coddle. 

Years after Penny and Skippa were departed my parents possessed a beautiful beagle named Maggie.  By now I was married and not living at home.  They decided to let Maggie have pups. I wanted one.

I had to convince Micky Blue Eyes.

"I'll clean up after her," I promised. I never did it once. Oops.

Now, we also had Jake.  Jake was a little overgrown rat-like yapper black terrier cross. We were never sure what the cross was. 

Jake and I had a love/hate relationship. I loved him, but hated his tendency to yap. I wanted another kindred spirit dog like Sammy.

Enter Betsy the beagle. Daughter of Maggie. She was beautiful. Gentle. Kind. Adorable. Timid.

And I murdered her.

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barreled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet.

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everyday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

One day he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was secretly relieved saddened and dismayed.

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

Not my actual pet rock, but you get the idea.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See? I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. Ahem.

Fast forward to now and we finally have another dog!  I promise not to murder her! Shut up.

Her named is Cookie, as decided by Mr 10. We adopted her from an animal shelter. After only a week or so, she already seems like a part of our family. 

Do you have any pets? Please tell me I'm not the only one is old enough to have owned a Pet Rock???

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Meep Meep

Today I am linking up this past confession with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. Thanks to Kirsty for hosting the link up and giving me the opportunity to take part!

Now to the stunning revelation(s):

I have a confession to make. More like two confessions to be honest. The first startling revelation is that I have actually been watching Big Brother.

Gasp! Shock! Horror!

It's purely for research of course.  After all, I have to keep up my reputation as a Bogan for the sake of this blog. That's one excuse. The other is that it's my bonding time with Master 11. Where once I used to dance around to the Wiggles with him, now we watch Big Brother together. The things we do. He totally forces me. He does! Oh, shut up.

Besides, watching a bunch of gregarious people who love the sound of their own voice and seek attention in the form of cameras on them 24/7 is oddly fascinating to me.  Perhaps because I am the polar opposite. An intensely shy, introverted Aspergian who flees in alarm at the sight of any form of camera. 

I destest drawing attention to myself.  In fact, I just realised that I haven't had a photo taken of myself since March. As for talking, well, let's just say that conversation skills are definitely not my strong point. Slight understatement. That's like saying that sensitivity is not really Alan Jones's strong point.

Anyway, I was getting to a point with my revelation, and that was to my second revelation.  The house mates on Big Brother invented the expression of a 'Meeper.' This is meant to describe a person who doesn't really fit into a group as such, so they kind of 'meep' or hover around conversations, then ineffectually try to join in.  However, somehow it doesn't quite work for them, so it's almost as they've just gone: "Meep Meep!"  Inevitably, Meepers seem to end up draining and dampening a conversation instead of keeping it flowing.

My point is, watching this, I realised that I am probably something resembling a 'Meeper'.  Worse still, I am not even particularly good at 'meeping' As I've mentioned conversation skills are not my forte.  Particularly in groups.

Whenever I take Master 3 to Playgroup, I suspect I 'meep'.  I awkwardly hover around conversations taking place, utterly clueless as to how to join in.

I'm a Meeper like Road Runner,
shame I can't run fast like him too.

Finally, not wishing to appear totally aloof, I make a fumbling attempt to say something, but never overcome the awkward feeling that I am, as they say on Big Brother, 'meeping'.

This probably has a lot to do with two things:

1. My shyness
2. My Asperger's

Since having children, though, I have to regularly be in situations that require making small talk.  Something that, as a shy, introverted Aspie I am seriously woeful at. Hence my 'meeping'.  Sometimes, however, it becomes even worse.

Take for instance, the time I took Master 8 to a McDonald's party for a school friend.  What was hours of Happy Meal filled fun for him, was excruciating for me. I was forced to sit with all the other Mum's and make chit chat.

It all started okay with banal comments on the weather and how the year was flying by. Then, the conversation took a serious turn when one Mum remarked that a friend of hers had recently suffered a late miscarraige but had still had to deliver the baby as the pregnancy was so advanced.

"Imagine having do that," she said, her eyes wide with horror "I don't think I could do it! It would be so awful!"

"Yeah, it is," I responded "that happened to me."

Her eyes widened further. She gaped in disbelief, obviously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. But she could never have known. Trust me to drob a  bombshell and kill a conversation.

Another time, a Mum at Playgroup confided how worried she was as her father was in hospital having various tests. I helpfully shared how Micky Blue Eyes had had cancer, while her worried expression turned to one of blind panic. Realising my mistake, I hastily apologised. But it was too late.

I truly mean well, it's just that I have terminal foot in mouth disease combined with 'meeping'. I'm a 'Foot in Mouth Meeper'.

So, to avoid such social gaffes I usually stick firmly to what I do best. Shutting right up. That, or, where I once used to be extremely self-concious about eating in public, I now enthusiastically shovel food into my mouth at social occasions. After all, it's rude to speak with your mouth full, right? As long as I keep shovelling I don't have to talk.

I'm unsure if it's too late to cure my 'meeping' and general social awkwardness. All the literature I have read regarding social skills in ASD seems to be directed at children.  So, at the mature age of 41, am I stuck with my 'Foot in Mouth Meeping' tendencies? I guess so, since the only answer I have is this:

Meep Meep.

Do you 'Meep'? Say the wrong things? Or are you the king or queen of chit chat?

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Holiday Happenings

Since our recent holiday was such a (tedious bore) resounding success, I thought I would take a break from the sweeping sagas of our past and bring you up to date with recent happenings.

Micky Blue Eyes had booked a motel in Denman in the Upper Hunter Valley for a few days.
"What are you coming here for," the man taking the booking had asked "for work, is it?" This wasn't exactly selling it as a tourist destination, but we made the booking anyway and then another at Maitland.

The drive there was actually quite pleasant. No puking! Hurrah!  The boys were delighted because they actually scored Macca's drive through. I decided to try the lamb burger only to discover the thing is as big as my head.

Driving on, we stopped at a park for a break and had a spirited game of 'tips.' I had to at least pretend that I was still getting some exercise.

Upon arriving, we checked in.
"What's on?" the woman at reception asked, quizzically "what did you come here for?"
"No reason," I mumbled.
"Just to get away from the rat race," Mick chuckled.
"Oh," she said, shortly, obviously deciding we were nuts.  Apparently even the locals can't imagine why anyone would want to go there. Interesting.

After a day or two the boys were (bored shitless) having a blast.
"Can we go in the pool? Pleeeeeease!!!" they begged.  Reluctantly, we agreed.  Trudging out to the deserted pool, we gingerly  dipped our toes in.  Holy shit! It was beyond freezing.  Master 8 and 11 were not to be deterred, however and defiantly splashed in out of the water for 20 mins, with their teeth chattering, before we all finally bailed.

The following day, we visited Muswellbrook. The boys were keen to see some serious shops. We pulled up outside a Vinnies Store. Yay! Cheap books! I weighed the pro's and cons of going in.

Pro: I could score cheap books.

Con: Micky would inevitably buy some woeful old shirts.

In the end, the lure of cheap books was too much to resist.

Half an hour later, I heaved my bag full of books back into the car, now heavily weighted down and we headed down the street. We drove past a shopping centre sporting signs for Big W and Woolworths.
"Yes!" the boys chorused "Let's go in there!"
They were hoping for a food court with a KFC.

Sailing up the travelator, we then traipsed in. It was eerily deserted.  There was the food court. Resplendent with a total of three shops, not one of them Macca's or KFC. The boys sulked and glowered.

Eventually Master 11 agreed to have a beef kebab, while the other two had hot chips. Happily stuffed with kebabs and hot chips, we then meandered around the shops. Inevitably, we ended up in the toy section in Big W, where I proceeded to repeat the word NO approximately every 2 seconds. I'm pretty sure I would have been able to experience such holiday (hell) bliss at home.

After about 16 million No's, we ventured to the front exit, where I agreed they could have a lolly/treat.  Fifteen minutes of whinging about the crap selection of treats ensued, while the cashier looked on with a pained expression.  Finally I paid for some Tic Tacs and a Mars Bar and left, forgetting to pay for a small packet of pins I'd stuffed in the pocket of the pram. Oops. I had unwittingly become a shop lifter.  Little did I know, this is apparently a common occurrence in Muswellbrook.

Next, we went for a walk down the main street, noting how deserted the place was. We came to club and decided to go in and have a drink.  This time there wasn't even the obligatory local drunk to turn around and stare at us like we had two heads. It was completely empty.  The boys had a jug of lemonade to add to their sugar high, while I mellowed out with two scotch and cokes, and Mick with a beer, before he headed back to get the car.

The Best Movie Ever

Back in the car, the portable DVD player started up with the familiar strains of Shrek 4 Ever After. Henceforth to be known as The Best Movie Ever. Not only does it have a Carpenters song in it, but the boys were so transfixed by it in the car, that we managed to drive past Macca's and KFC, then turn around and drive past them again, and they didn't even notice.

Next stop was Maitland. This time the room was exactly right for (paralysing claustrophobia) cosy, comforting togetherness.  Bunk bed battles began. As well as balcony paranoia, as they had put us upstairs. With no other rooms available we had no choice but to panic over Master 3's whereabouts at all times.

The highlight of Maitland was, once again, a massive Lifeline shop. More books! Yes, we are such classy people.

The Griswald's. We are classy, like them...

The final evening we settled in to watch  National Lampoon's Vaction starring Chevy Chase. Ah, those crazy Griswald's. And we're just like them! See, I told you we are classy people. Just like movie stars. Yep. 

The movie ended and we all settled in for the night. Except the boys decided to get an attack of the giggles.  Finally, in a frantic effort to make them go to sleep Mick helpfully made the fatal mistake of saying: "Quick! You better get to sleep, I thought I saw someone near the window!"  Good one. Great way to get kids to sleep. Scare the bejesus out of them!

The next day we arrived home (exhausted and drained) rested and relaxed, ready for them to go to back to school. Yippee!

Except...Master 8 was sick, then Master 3..and me.. boo hoo...

But, on the positive side, plans are already under way for another bogan trip in January. So move over Griswald's, it's now our song: Holidaaay Roooooaad....

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Bumps To Baby Part Two

This week's Lounge topic is adult temper tantrums, so I am linking this old post about the time I slapped my own mother. I know. Shameful. I blame hormones. Ahem.

It seems like the years of trying to have a baby are now the Wilderness Years or the Forgotten Years. I'm trying hard to remember them and I seem to have blocked quite a bit of it out. Weird.

After receiving the devastating news that IVF was our only chance of a baby, we put off making a decision for a while.  I wasn't sure if I could face another Linda Blair/Exorcist experience.

I remember having some rather irrational thoughts.  I thought Micky Blue Eyes should leave me and find someone else.  After all, the problem was with my plumbing, not his. 

Then, a friend of Mick's suggested we visit a naturopath.  This had worked out well for them and they were currently expecting after having seen her for a few months.  I was horrified and indignant. How dare these people come along with their hippy drippy new age theories that were not going to work for me. The professor dude had said IVF was my only chance. However, Mick was keen on the idea, so, I reluctantly agreed.

Next thing you know we were both swallowing some hideous herbal concotions, taking vitamins and eating healthy.  I was charting my temperatures to predict ovulation.  All to no avail.  We trotted backwards and forwards to the naturopath and persisted for a good year. Nothing. 

At this point, she informed us.  "I'm sorry, it should have worked by now. You might have to do IVF."  Gee, thanks.

Proving how desperate we were by this stage, however, we decided to try another hippy drippy  alternative treatment. We went to a Reflexologist. And no, I can't explain what they are, or do, even though I've been to one. There seemed to be a lot of tapping involved. The woman tapped away while Mick I gave each other pointed looks. We never went back.

Around this time, I started to read as much info on this pesky PCOS thing as I could find.  The thing that seemed to come up a lot in all the literature was that exercising was of extreme importance in managing the condition.

So I gritted my teeth and started to exercise.  I kept on exercising, even though I thought I might explode and die from the effort.  I did aerobics like a possessed woman. I sweated buckets. It sucked. Still, I woke up the next day and did it again.  Then a funny thing happened.  I started to like it. I hardly ever missed a day. 

I had a body like Denise Austin. Well not really, but I
did used to have hair like that...

Then, an even funnier thing happened.  The girl who'd been absolutely hopeless at anything sporty or physical, and was a total unco-ordinated klutz suddenly found herself becoming *gasp* an Exercise Addict. I LOVED it.  I knew all the annoying things Denise Austin would say on the tapes before she said them, I was so familiar with them.

"If you rest you rust!"

"If you don't move it, you lose it!"

Oh, and apparently I was always 'doing great!' and a 'champion' though I'm not sure how she knew that.

Not surprisingly, with all this exercising and eating healthy stuff, I dropped a few kilos.  Funny about that. Eat less. Move more. Lose weight. Hmm, not exactly rocket science. I'll never understand  why mother nature or whomever couldn't work it out so lazing about eating cakies could have the same effect. Hmph.

I also went back to doing some casual library work and secured a 12 month position with a law firm in the city. If I was never going to have a baby, I may as well work, I reasoned.

My 30th birthday rolled around. I went out and celebrated with friends, where I whined about not being able to have a baby with other friends in a similar circumstance. Not a particularly classy thing to do, when you are already, in fact, well and truly, up the duff. But, I swear to God. I seriously had NO IDEA. 

A month or two later, still firmly in the grip of Exercise Addiction, I attended a friend's hen's night. I wondered why my clothes were becoming too tight. And why I felt extremely ill after only a few drinks.

Additionally, all the energy I was now used to having from my Exercise Addiction seemed to have deserted me and I found it a herculean task to simply put one foot in front of the other. My boobs were permanently sore and my periods had disappeared.

All common symptoms of PCOS according to all the info on it I'd been reading.  It couldn't be anything else.  I'd tried for years to become pregnant. Even fertility drugs didn't work and the professor dude said IVF was my only chance.

So, when my poor mother had the audicity to gently suggest that perhaps I might be pregnant, I turned into a shrieking, shouty, insane woman, who slapped her own mother in the face (sorry Mum)  and sunk onto the floor in a sobbing heap.

Upon hearing this, Micky Blue Eyes had had quite enough of my moodiness. I suspect I was rather unpleasant to live with really. (Sorry, Micky) He made me go with Mum to the doctor's the very next day.

At the doctors surgery, he had me lie on the bed and examined me. My belly suddenly looked ridiculously huge compared to the rest of me, when I lay down.

 "It looks like you're pregnant," he told me. It was like he was saying: "It looks like an alien has invaded your body and presently will burst out of your torso, like Sigourney Weaver in ALIEN" for all the sense it made to me. No way, I wasn't pregnant. "But  you better have an ultra sound to make sure."

A few hours later I went in for an ultra-sound. The examiner squirted the gel on my suddenly ridiculously huge belly and started prodding me and saying nonsensical things in her Asian accent. I thought it sounded something like 'oh yes, there's the head, and the arms..." What?! It really was an alien?!

  "I'm pregnant??!!" I finally managed to gasp. The woman looked completely startled. "Yes, yes! Pregnant, 26 weeks! You didn't know?"

All I could do was laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, while the Asian lady kept repeating "26 week! And didn't know! Ha ha ha ha!" I'd like to think she was laughing with me, but I suspect she wasn't. She also mentioned the baby was a boy without asking if I wanted to know, which was slightly inconsiderate.

Still laughing and crying, hysterically, I finally went out and told my ecstatic Mum she was becoming a Granny again in only a few months! Then, I rang Mick.

"Hello Dad," I said, when he answered.
"No, no it's Mick, " he said "you haven't rang  your father."
"I know!" I replied.

We all went out for dinner that night to celebrate. It felt better than winning lotto.  Well, I've never actually won lotto, so if that could be arranged so I can tell for sure, I probably wouldn't mind.

Lotus flower: pretty, but not helpful during Child birth

3 months or so later our son (now Master 11) was born, but I won't describe the birth. If I did, I would end up sounding like one of those awful hippy drippy new agers who just use the power of positive thinking while imagining their uterus opening up like a lotus flower. Ugh. Hate them. After all, epidurals were invented for a reason, right?

But I never had one. Or any pain relief, for that matter. Yep, that's right. I was TERRIFIED of child birth and I aced it. After a 3 month pregnancy. You can hate me if you want. Okay, I'm shutting up now.

Hang on. One more thing. Obviously I have 3 boys now. All conceived naturally. So, the Professor dude was wrong. That, or I just finally figured out what caused it...

Right, I'm off to dig out those Denise Austin tapes to see if I can become addicted to exercise again, instead of cakies.  After all, if  you rest you rust.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Robomum.

What was your worst adult temper tantrum?

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Bumps To Baby Part One

A word of warning. This blog post could be a tad tedious until you get to the twist at the end. Which most of you already know anyway. So, I apologise for boring you.  Then again, it is what I do best.  Boring people, that is. It's a gift I have. The ability to be a crashing, heaving bore.  We shouldn't waste our gifts, presumably, so here goes. Brace yourself.

There came a time after Micky Blue Eyes and I were married for a year or so, when I fervently desired to become Up The Duffian.  This was in spite of an overwhelming, irrational fear of childbirth.  Actually, let me re-think that. It's not entirely irrational to be afraid of growing another human being inside you, then having to push said human being out your,..erm, va jay jay.  That shit hurts. Like hell.  The idea of that kind of, sort of, um... actually totally FREAKED ME OUT.

Professor type dude

So, consequently it was somehow rather ironic when it seemed as if it wasn't going to happen after all.  My girly bits were not co-operating and doing what they were supposed to. Apparently this was due to some pesky thing called PCOS or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.

This led to me having to see some Professor type fertility dude,  and being jabbed with drugs.  Not the fun kind that might make you happy, the crappy kind that make you moody, bloated and basically like you have a permanent case of feral PMS.  It may have been worth it had it worked. It didn't. I was pumped full of drugs and still not in the pudding club.

By this time we were several years into trying and beginning to become extremely despondent and disillusioned with the whole bumps to baby  thing.  We decided to take a break from the treatment.

Then, one Saturday shortly thereafter, we were having a lazy day at home. I started experiencing stomach pains. Figuring it must be something I ate, I put up with it.  The pain intensified and before long I was doubled over agony.  The pain was excruciating, I had never experienced anything like it.

Then came the projectile vomiting. I was Linda Blair in the Exorcist, only scarier.   I was only able to lay there while pain gripped my insides with brutal ferocity, in between bouts of hideous, projectile vomiting.

Linda Blair in the Exorcist.  I was scarier. Eeeek!

"I can take you to the hospital." Mick would say.
"Noooo!" I wailed idiotically and writhed in agony. Unbelievably, I survived the night. I was certain I was going to die.  I visited the nearby medical centre, where they told me I just had a gastro bug and sent me home.  Where I proceeded to remain in agony for another two days, before my Mum took me to her doctor who ordered me straight to hospital.  They suspected my appendix were in trouble and never connected it to the fertility drugs

Emergency surgery revealed I has a massive blood filled cyst. The surgeon seemed quite shocked saying he'd never seen anything like it. This (the agony/projectile vomiting/blood filled cyst thing) was actually a wonderful side effect to the fertility drugs called Ovarian Hyperstimulation.  I didn't learn until later that this condition is also potentially fatal. So I hadn't been exxaggerating to think I might die.

 To cut a long story short I went back to the Professor dude only to discover I now had endometriosis as well as PCOS and in his professional opinion I would never be able to have a baby without IVF. 

"It's your only chance." he informed us, expressionless. Micky Blue Eyes and I sat there dumbfounded.  No doubt he had to deliver the same news to equally dumbfounded, distraught couples every day, so it was nothing new for the Professor dude. It was a punch in the guts for us though.

My only chance of a baby was through IVF which involved me taking drugs which would more than likely cause this potentially fatal Hyperstimulation thing again.  I would have to consider risking my own life for the sake of creating a new one. Heavy stuff.  Devastating actually. 

We really believed it was never meant to happen.  But, as you probably know, it did. With a surprising twist...

Stay tuned for the details.

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