Shingle Bells

This absolute asshole of a year is almost over and I was just beginning to relax. I could see the proverbial finish line, and I was ready to slow motion run through the tape, crowd cheering and ticker-tape raining down. Chariots of Fire or Eye of the Tiger or some other inspirational bullshit music playing.

I had faith my birthday and Christmas would be the pinnacle of the year. A last ditch attempt from the universe to apologise for fucking up 2016 for almost everyone I know.

Instead, I find myself under a metric fuck tonne of stress as I go back and forth with school about a student making death threats to my Tricks and what seems like half the year one students, and the school now saying that the kids just need to stop reacting to the threats. Yeah, because a six year old should totally be able to remain stoney faced and stoic when told they are going to die. These kids still believe in Santa Claus and when their friends tell them they can do triple backflips while riding a motorbike. Grrrrr!

My nights are filled with reaching out to other parents, furiously researching who I can contact about this ongoing bullying (as the school is implementing safety plans... then not fucking following them) and worrying constantly about the psychological effects of sustained death threats to an entire bloody year group by one student.

Earlier in the year it would have been my mind that gave up and I'd be rocking in a corner.

This time though, with my mind so much stronger, this whole fiasco is manifesting physically. It is, quite literally, getting on my nerves instead.

I HAVE SHINGLES.

Fucking Shingles. But you guessed that from my hilarious and oh-so-cliche post title, didn't you?

There will be no ticker-tape and slow motion run. There will be no inspirational music. Just "All the Shingle Ladies" on repeat for the next two-four weeks. 

I'm in a lot of pain and feeling pretty damn sorry for myself, but luckily I was at the doctor getting anti viral meds within hours of the rash appearing, so fingers crossed it isn't as bad as it could be.

I've been given Oxycodone because "this will be really bad over the next few days". So along with the pity party for one, I'm also a bit delirious and struggling to keep my eyes open. Perhaps I should employ MG as proof reader of my official emails before I hit send, lest I end up with expletive laden correspondence. 

So to 2016 I say, on behalf of so many, fuck you. Don't let the door hit you on the way out... and once you're through the door, fall down the stairs. Break your leg. Get concussed. Go to hospital and while you're there get MRSA. Because that is how highly I think of you. 

The Itchy and Scratchy Show starring Tricky and Bobbin

I was sitting in the car outside Tricky's school when I first saw it. I'd been using the time to draft a blog post in my head about how I'm so tired that as soon as the kids are in bed I'm either at the gym, tidying up, or in bed. It was all tiny violins, neglected blog, WOE IS ME bullshit. But these tiny red dots blew all that away.

We were half an hour early because the rigmarole involved in going home, struggling to get a toddler out of and then back in to the car after fifteen minutes just wasn't worth it. In those fifteen minutes Bobbin would be guaranteed to strip off or fall asleep or hurt herself, or all bloody three. Because shit happens at pick up time, it's Murphy's Law.

I had her in the front seat with me and she was playing with all the buttons (I still don't have my wipers back on the setting I like) when I noticed a few red dots on her hands that hadn't been there when we'd been having a late lunch an hour earlier.

Oh, shit.

She continued to play while I consulted Dr Google on the symptoms of Hand, Foot and Mouth. All the photos I could find were well established cases, I wanted to know what it looked like just when it was popping up.

A pregnant friend pulled up behind me and I freaked out, grabbed my phone and texted her.

"Don't come near us. Bobbin has some spots and I don't know what they are."

I kept Bobbin as distant from others as I could at pick up and we didn't stick around. At home I examined Tricks and the only blemish on his skin was a bite on his leg that had been there a few days. Checking Bobbin again, there were more spots. Shit.

I consulted Dr Google some more and got afternoon snacks ready. As I handed Tricky his plate, I saw dots...

SHIT.

Within the next hour they'd clustered on his hands, elbows, and knees. It was insane how fast they popped up. I made a doctor's appointment for the next morning and wondered what the protocol was for taking highly infectious children to the local shopping centre that houses the GP's surgery.

Tricky was up six times before midnight, which is a new record for him. The Trickster wakes between three and six times a night usually (and yes, we've tried almost everything, and we're waiting on some help right now), but he was so itchy he couldn't sleep. I'd bathed him in stinky pinetarsol and dotted calamine all over him, but he was still wanting to rip his skin off his ankles. I ended up holding my warm cup of tea on the itchy areas, and the heat seemed to work.

By morning Tricky had more spots, but still mainly clustered in the same areas, and Bobbin only had the ones on her hands still. Despite neither having spots on their feet or in their mouths (that I could see), I was still thinking HFM.

The doctor looked all over Tricks.

"Is he fully immunised?"

"Yep, they both are."

"I think it's Chicken Pox."

Part of me was all "OH FUCK" and then the other part of me was "HOORAY IT'S NOT HFM!". You can re-catch HFM from yourself over and over again if you're not careful (the virus sheds in fecal matter for up to 11 weeks after you've had it), and let's face it, kids are pretty feral sometimes, at least with Varicella you build an immunity.

She called in another doctor for a second opinion because of the unusual presentation. I wanted to tell them that it's always my bloody family that has atypical presentations (13 days in hospital for atypical pnuemonia anyone?), and to keep their minds open. Doctor two disagreed. He said it was something else. They had a fabulous debate with big medical words in it, and all the while gently looking over Tricks.

He stood there, silently, for fifteen minutes while the doctors tried to figure out exactly what was going on.

"You're doing so well, mate, you're being super brave" I said.

His little face crumpled and his lip quivered as he said "I don't want to be here any more."

My heart broke and I scooped him up in to a cuddle, while Bobbin stripped off her own clothes and played with the curtain, grabbed the stethoscope and declared "I a doctor, now!" to anyone who would listen.

We left with a diagnosis of "most likely Chicken Pox" with an unusual presentation because of the vaccine keeping it milder.

I think this is just the universe having a joke on me for complaining about being tired. It's telling me to shut up, stop whining, and get on with it. So that's what I'll do... mostly. I'll still complain a bit, yeah?

Bed goes up, bed goes down: Adventures in hospital

I’m in the hospital. I’ve decided to use this time productively, which is code for: I’m going to put a hospital selfie on Facebook and soak up some attention for a few days. Thanks for the well wishes, guys, it made me feel so loved. So the story behind it? Well here goes.

I’d been feeling a bit short of breath since the start of the weekend and by Sunday afternoon I was exhausted to the point where I had to send MapGuy in my place to a five year old’s birthday party that I wanted to go to. No, really, it was one of our mother’s group kids, and now that they’re all at school, birthday parties are almost solely about our catch ups with the added bonus of cake.

Instead of going, I slept all afternoon. Then I coughed all night. I was sucking down Ventolin but it just wasn’t really doing anything. On Monday I headed out to do my Volvo Hot Laps (AMAZING!!! More on that later) and when I came home I fell asleep until school pick up while my parents looked after Bobbin. Then they and my sister, Aunty Penny, let me sleep and took care of the kids. They were fed and bathed and ready to go to bed when I woke up.

At night I consulted Dr Google, which is never the smartest thing to do. Dr Google said I had blot clot in my lung. Way to freak me out, Internet.

By Tuesday morning I was really short of breath and needed a day to rest. I cancelled a blog meeting and my parents took Bobbin again, then picked up Tricks. I stayed in bed and subscribed to Netflix. Because if I was being forced to sit on my butt all day, may as well be entertained, yes?

I complained to my dad that this didn’t feel like normal asthma, that my lungs felt pretty clear but the centre felt strange and I just couldn’t get in enough air, so in the afternoon I headed to my GP to see what he said. He listened to my lungs and said there was no wheeze, no limited air entry or whatever it is. He asked if I had calf pain.

Yes. Oh shit, he’s going the same way Dr Google went.

He made some calls, made some appointments and sent me around the road for an ultrasound with strict instructions to go straight to hospital if my breathing was getting worse. Way to freak me out, doc.

I went to the local ultrasound place as an urgent case and got the death stare from half the packed waiting room as I got called ahead in front of them. Sorry, guys! There was no sign of a clot in my leg that had been sore so I relaxed a little, but alas, relaxing did not improve my breathing.

I settled in to bed again when I got home and commenced binge watching old House episodes because they always make me feel better about hospitals and I was starting to think that that is exactly where I was heading. I was starting to worry that I had an embolism, would fall asleep, it would shift, and I'd never wake up. Because that’s how my brain works sometimes.

By mid evening Tuesday I was struggling so hard to breathe that Aunty Penny took me to the emergency department, meaning MG could stay at home with the kids. We waited for hours on hard, plastic chairs with my fellow patients. Master Dog Bite, Mrs Drunken Fall, Mr Hernia Repair, and the man who vomited everywhere over and over again, Mr Gastro. Bored as anything and desperate to get some help to breath, and yet I was still “take Mr Gastro first, please”.

Fast forward a few hours and I’ve got a bed in the ED and had a chest xray that shows ‘something’ but nothing special (which I refute, because, well, it is showing me) and the lovely doctor with the British accent (let’s call her Dr Brit) is saying that despite my symptoms, it’s still really unlikely I’d have a clot because of my age so instead of doing a CT, they’ll do a blood test that has “clot markers” and when that’s negative we can all relax. Maybe even go home and just keep sucking on Ventolin, hoping it gets better. She sticks a needle in my left arm, draws some blood, and off she goes, letting us know the results take two hours.

Aunty Penny has been making me giggle the whole time. Which is HORRIBLE because it makes me cough, yet I still keep responding and we fire off each other. When she notices the security guy’s shirt has “SECURTIY” on it, we crack up laughing while trying to take a photo. Because such spelling fails need to be Instagrammed.

Dr Brit walks back in my little fabric cubicle and says the blood results have come back positive for signs of a clot. Well, fuck. Way to freak me out, other doc.

It’s now four in the morning so I send Aunty Penny home to get some sleep, but not before saying fuck a lot. I’m hooked up to an ECG machine because my heart has been playing silly buggers since I got here. My little pattern lights up the screen and I can see just how erratic it’s being. Nothing too bad, though.

Dr Brit sticks a needle in my right arm with a cannula for the contrast dye for the CT and I head off to the big machines. It was daunting, and I had to give myself a little pep talk, especially when I heard that the dye makes your body flush hot and feel like you’ve peed your pants. “You’ve peed your pants before, Glow, you’ve got this.” Day-um, I give the best pep talks.

I spend the next few hours hooked up to oxygen because my saturation levels are going down rapidly. Without the oxygen my levels are as low as 79 and respirations at 45 but with it, I’m up around 95 with respirations near 25. It hurts to inhale deeply, so I’m just breathing shallow as I listen to the woman in the next bed tell her doctor how Satan puts bad thoughts in her head. The ED is a horrible place, really. So sad.

Fast forward again and the results are back. No clot is visible. YAY. But that might mean it’s small and “hiding” BOO, so Dr Brit gives a tentative diagnosis of pneumatises. Which is not fun to say at 5:30am when you haven’t slept and can’t breathe. It is recommended that I am admitted and she will have to do a blood gas to complete the chart before sending it. That’s a blood test from your wrist. They hurt. A LOT. Know what hurts more? When they dig around in one wrist and fail, then have to do the digging in the second wrist. Faaaaark.

I’m passed over to the specialist who is trying to find me a bed in the assessment unit before I can go up to the ward. After hours of waiting, they get frustrated enough to come down and do the assessment in the ED.

It’s like being in House. The awesome specialist (let’s call her Dr Lung) and two students, doctors already, so whatever that word is. They take my history and at the end of it, maybe three minutes of talking, I am completely breathless and my stats have bottomed out again. It looks like I’d come to the ED at the right time, because I’ve been steadily getting worse the whole night.

She quizzes the students about tests and risk and lots of stuff, and I’ve watched so much House in the last day that I follow almost the whole conversation. I tell them this is like TV and they all laugh – I secretly think the students think it too, though. I’m told I’m an interesting case and can more students come in the morning please? Sure, bring ‘em all. Because then OMG IT WILL BE EVEN MORE LIKE TV.

I’m given a final diagnosis of pneumonia by Dr Lung. She hears things through the stethoscope that others couldn’t and points out the noises to her students. It’s quite fascinating and I’m so impressed by her, and not just because she reminds me of Edna from The Incredibles. Plus she thinks my jokes are funny (I make jokes whenever I’m nervous so I’ve been saying a shedload of inappropriate shit since I got here). She is not entirely convinced that there are no blood clots, so on top of the hard core antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, I’m to be given a prophylactic DVT treatment.

Now I’m up in the ward, in an isolation suite with a negative pressure door. Anyone coming in has to wear a mask, though the staff don’t seem too strict on that, half of them happy to just sneak in and grab something quickly. It’s a precaution because though you can’t actually catch pneumonia, you can catch the bug that caused it… but we don’t know if it was a nasty bug or just a run of the mill bug that everyone carries. Hopefully because there was no runny nose or fever, chills and the like, that it isn’t a nasty bugger. But for now, my visitors have masks that make them look like ducks. Quack.

Yeah... so the mask didn't really float with Bobbin. But we figured she'd been sharing a bed with me the whole weekend, so she'd have got anything off me by now.

I’ve been so overwhelmed with the love and support we’ve gotten from everyone, but especially our families who have all pitched in because it’s really hard for MG to take time off work right now. It is times like these that you see just how many have your back.

I'm allowed home pretty much when I can have a conversation without becoming breathless - fingers crossed it is tomorrow because I'll be so bummed to miss Tricky's mother's day concert at school! Whatever happens, I'll laze around here, in my Wonder Woman jimjams, binge watching Orange Is The New Black until I get out.

Of Boats, Booze and Barfs

Yesterday I went on a wine cruise that my mum had bought through one of those daily deals sites. We decided to make it a bit of a girls day, cruising up the Swan River on a gorgeous summer's day, wine glass in hand. Ahhh yeah.

I've been on a wine cruise before and figured it would be similar - cushy and air-conditioned with obligatory snack/wine bar and tourist commentary that you're too busy talking over to hear. Instead we were met with a dingey boat that had seen better days. It appeared that they were trying to hide the fact that the boat was ancient and could do with a really good scrub by covering it with lashings of bright turquoise paint on the inside and hear-it-coming-orange on the outside.

Kinda looked like this...
CC wdlindmeiers

About three minutes in to the cruise I was wondering why I even said yes because my stomach had already started doing flips. Not an issue, surely they'll turn on the aircon soon? Wrong. They didn't have any. On a boat where the windows didn't open and half of the roof was made of glass...

It was sweltering and despite it being a calm day I was starting to turn a lovely, and appropriately festive, shade of green. I asked Gopher Smith for a sexy spew bag. I thought he was taking the piss, the way most people mock me for intense sea sickness (I got sick on a cruise ship with 12 decks...) but no, they didn't have any. They don't stock them.

Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of public boat, particularly one that is on a WINE CRUISE serving a tonne of cheap goon to it's patrons, doesn't provide spew bags? Boats and booze, people! One of those is going to make at least one person yack.

Gopher, who looked like one of the Waugh brothers (the sexy one), gave me a shopping bag, complete with hole in the bottom. He might as well have handed me a paper cup and gone all Garth on me. "If you're gonna spew, spew in to this".

On disembarking, after having managed to not lose my lunch (if I'd had lunch - you had to pre-order food on the boat and we weren't told until we got there) I let the guys know they might want to invest in some vom pouches to which they replied "But people don't get sick on the Swan River". I'M PEOPLE, I GOT SICK! Fucker.

It got me thinking, what places have you been that have had the most obvious thing missing? Pub with no beer ala Slim Dusty? Hotel with no mini-bar bed? Tell Aunty Glow and she'll write them all strongly worded emails.

I'm a (slightly silly, vlog making) Claus for a Cause

I have gone fun run crazy it would seem. Yes even I, the girl who doesn’t exercise, can be active when it’s for charity. If you've watched the video you'd already know that I'm one of the Blog Ambassadors for the Variety Santa Fun Run! If you haven't, you really should watch it now if for no other reason than to piss yourself laughing at me. It's OK, I'll wait...

The Variety Santa Fun Run is being held almost nationwide (sorry, Tassie) on Sunday 25th of November and this year I'll be dressing up (along with Map Guy and Tricky) and heading to Freo to be a Claus for a Cause. You can go here to register and receive your Santa Suit!!

If dressing up as the big guy doesn’t float your boat but you’d still like to contribute, you can sponsor me here. And really, I think I deserve to be sponsored after prancing around Perth in my suit to show you just how fashionable it is, don't you? And the dancing bit? That's at least worth a $20, surely?

Images used with permission from Variety

Last year there were 1200 West Aussie Santas that raised $40,000 for local children who are sick, disadvantaged or have special needs. Your dollars will do so much for the kids in your state, so here's an idea of exactly what your money can do:

♥ $75 can send a child with special needs to the annual Variety Kids Christmas Party

♥ $200 can help a child who is non-verbal to communicate with iPad assistive software

♥ $1,000 can give fun and freedom to a child living with disability with their own customised tricycle

♥ $3,500 can provide an electric bed and pressure mattress to give a child with special needs a good night’s sleep

♥ $5,000 can help a child living with physical disability with a customised standing frame

I would love it if you would join me or sponsor me today.

Will you be a Claus for a Cause? Would you wear your suit to the shops?

The Weekend Whine - Episode 5

<a href="http://www.wheresmyglow.com/search/label/The%20Weekend%20Whine" target="_blank"><img alt="Where’s My Glow?" src=" http://i968.photobucket.com/albums/ae167/Glowless/TheWeekendWhineButton.jpg "/></a>

So, do ya think I should start working as a phone sex girl?

Laryngitis: Creating Phone Sex Workers Since 1877

I have Laryngitis.

What does a Blogger, equipped with an iPad do when she has Laryngitis?

Vlog, of course.





And then I went on to charge $4.95 for people to call me on 1800 GLOW JOB. As you do.

Silence is not Golden

I have a little problem with men. Some men? Most men? All men? I don’t know. It’s a problem I’ve had with every single one I’ve ever met, but having not met a large percentage of the world’s men it’s obviously presumptive of me to say all men. But screw it, it's my blog and I’m gonna say it any way. All men.

You just don’t bloody speak up. And we all know what can happen when the hiding and the bottling up gets to breaking point.

But I’m not talking about the mental health side of things, I’m talking about the physical body and how anything wrong is kept quiet. Out of embarrassment or machismo or sheer stupidity. If it’s Man Flu you don’t bloody shut up but if it’s anything more? Silence.

When my Dad was in hospital after his open heart surgery, he fell squarely in to the sheer stupidity section – He was experiencing unusual tingling in his left arm and didn’t say a thing for almost 24 hours. We all know what that tingling can mean, even he did.

But he chose to stay silent; Didn’t want to hassle the nurses, didn’t want to make a fuss. Dickhead.

The only way we found out was when he whispered it to me when my Mum left the room. I yelled at him and paged the nurse.

This morning it has come to my attention that the entire time I was with him yesterday he was experiencing severe chest pains. He mentioned it in passing to my Mum last night. So let me just reiterate in case you missed it; Dickhead.

So, Dad, I’m going to make you read my blog for the very first time, and this bit right here, well it’s just for you:

At what point does it become acceptable to ask for help? Must you be lying on the floor gasping your last breath and clutching your chest? Cos if you ask me, that’s a bit fucking late. Or is a grave marker how you'd like your grandson to remember you?

Sick as a Dog

WARNING: On a scale from one to whinge-o-rama, this post is right at the top!

I don't often get sick. Not proper sick. Not stay-in-bed-and-sleep, use-an-entire-box-of-tissues sick.

Yet here I am with a constantly running nose, a thumping headache and a cough that feels like it is ripping my throat out. And the aching, oh the aching!

I've only been sick once since Tricky came on the scene - I ended up in the emergency room being pumped full of FOUR LITRES of fluids because I so dehydrated from throwing up so much.

Because I was so sick last time and could barely move, Map Guy had some days off work to look after me and ten week old Tricks (and then some more time off because I was so caring that I shared my bugs with him), but this time... well this time I'm just normal sick so there will be no 'carer's leave'; no bringing of water, no making of lunch, no time to laze about while someone else watches Tricky and definitely no ringing of small bells when I want someone to fluff my pillows.

Aunty Penny will be so proud I've used a LolCat

I know. Toughen up, Duchess Princess. Mamas do this all the time.

It's a prerequisite of motherhood that you be willing to suck it up and keep going. To soldier on. To cook dinner with one hand while you hold a screaming baby in the other and figure out which way to turn your head to cough. To smile and clap while your child shows off his skills and looks to you for encouragement when all you want to do is curl up with a cup of tea, a box of tissues and hard-core flu medicine.

So my dishes sit in the sink, the nappies remain unwashed, and the entire lounge room floor is covered in blocks and toys. And I don't care. It will all be there waiting for me when I'm better, so why bust my gut doing it now?

How do you cope when you're sick and looking after kids?

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Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

I {heart} Heart Surgery

Well it's been a tough week for me. But it's been about a million times rougher for my Dad.

We were told that the surgery to replace his damaged heart valve would take only two hours - when the two hour mark came and went with no sign of my Dad, funnily enough I didn't start worrying (well I was already worried, I didn't start worrying more).

Instead, because I hadn't anticipated being at the hospital this long I was faffing around trying to find food for Tricky. He had eaten all the food I had brought with us (an entire lunch box full) and he would be getting hungry shortly - I'm normally so organized, but my head just wasn't in the right space.

After much kafuffle, calling the kitchen and walking to the hotel down the road, two pieces of bread was all that could be found. It was one of those moments where I was so grateful that I was able to breastfeed because I was able to 'top him up' and keep him happy.

At least it kept me busy, because by now we'd passed the four hour mark and I was getting antsy. My mind was reeling and every minute felt like an eternity but I remember thinking that time didn't drag quite this slowly when it was Tricky under the knife.

Because we were trying to keep Tricky quiet-ish and were getting sick of walking around the cupboard-sized waiting room, my Mum took one step outside the door and there he was... being wheeled past us to the Intensive Care Unit, almost five hours after surgery began.

A while later we were allowed to go in and see him. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Three IVs, plus five separate syringe pumps, a ventilator, drainage tubes, wires everywhere. Even some which led straight to his heart that were connected to a defibrillator, ready to be zapped should his heart stop.

I stood next to him, held his hand, and even though he was unconscious and would be kept that way for another day, I told him I loved him and that Tricky was just outside the door and couldn't wait to see him. I bawled my eyes out, then, as we'd arranged earlier, I took his picture so that when he's all better he can see what he looked like.

No, I won't put that photo here, because it's pretty confronting. Instead, I'll put this one, taken just two days after, when he was still in ICU, barely able to move, but still gave a thumbs up.

In the days that followed, the machines (that go PING), the wires and tubes were gradually reduced and he was moved from ICU to coronary care.

It's a bit strange to see a man who has shoveled 4.5 tonnes of crap from my garden in one day become so exhausted after doing his breathing exercises that he can't talk; so tired after a shower that he needs a two hour nap; so weak that he can't lift the Sunday paper.

But that's to be expected after having your sternum sawn in half, I'm told.

And today... well today he comes home. One week. Apparently that's all it takes to heal from open heart surgery. Though, after seeing how overworked the hospital was, I'm convinced he's not so much "recovered" as "taking up space". Taking up a bed that some other poor sucker, who is about to tread the same path as my Dad, is quite literally dying to have.

Major thanks again to everyone who sent their best wishes and prayers, and to Kim of All Consuming who reminded me that my Dad now has to say "That's not a scar, THIS is a scar"

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Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

The Seventh Food Group

One of my Mama friends, Mrs O, nearly made me throw up the other day.

Unlike the last time I felt sick, which was as a result of rockin' out at an awesome party being a bit dehydrated, on this occasion it was preempted by a story about her son, Mr Messy, and his latest snack. Being the wonderful friend I am, after gagging then laughing I asked if I could blog it.

Last weekend Mr & Mrs O grabbed the keys to their new house and opened the door to find the place completely filthy. Crap left in cupboards, junk in the yard and bugs everywhere. Delightful stuff.

To her credit, Mrs O went head down, bum up and had the whole place spick and span within a weekend thanks to some hard yakka, a couple of cockroach bombs and using up all her babysitting credits. There is obviously something seriously wrong with her me because I've lived here for years and I still have boxes that I haven't unpacked.

A few days later, after the lovely new-home excitement has worn off a bit and it was back to the usual mundane tasks of mamahood, Mrs O turned around to find Mr Messy chomping happily away on something... something brown, with six legs and wings... a gigantic cockroach. Gag.

Image Credit: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

After doing the whole 'my child is eating something icky' dance, complete with arm waving, she remembered the cockroach bombs. So not only was Mr Messy eating a brown bomber, he was eating a bombed brown bomber.

PANIC STATIONS! A poison cockroach!!!

Mrs O kept her cool and rang the Poisons Information Centre - should she give him milk? water? induce vomiting? Apparently the amount of poison he would have ingested was minimal and that it's not really harmful to humans anyway. Phew. They did tell her to give him a drink to make sure he washed it all down and there wasn't any left in his mouth to choke on... which induced her own vomiting (and my own).

So I put the call out on Twitter, asking people to name the grossest thing their child had ever eaten, half because I wanted to reassure her she wasn’t the only one and half because I wanted to know just how much I have to prepare myself for as a Mama... after hearing some of the results I'm thinking I will have to either be really vigilant or develop and iron stomach.

Some of my favourites were:

@MotherMoments Whose son was such a fan of kitty litter they had to rig up a system on the laundry door so the cats could get in but he couldn't;

@Our_Adventures, @TutuAmes and @CollinsWeribee Whose children all ate dog poo (some more than once!);

@MeganBlandford and @katesaysstuff whose kids both ate worms, then remembered their table manners and ate dirt with a spoon;

@Hey_Bambini whose child ate an old piece of toast crust with a mysterious green substance on it (was quite likely to be mould but will be referred to as "avocado") that they found in a basket of toys in a café;

And Mrs O – you’re not alone:

@MrsGMach’s son ate a cockroach and after she fished it out of his mouth and threw it away, he went and got it back out of the bin & kept munching!

@MummyMcTavish ate an entire cockroach when she was little even though her Mum found her part way through – she left her eating it so she could get a tissue, not wanting to touch it!

So what is the grossest thing you or your child has even eaten?

For a poisons emergency call the Poisons Information Centre on 13 11 26

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Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

Jinxed It

Have you ever written a post about the one thing you’d hate to see happen, then it’s happened and you’ve felt like you’ve caused it? Just by thinking about it?

When I asked this same question on Twitter, Tiff from Three Ring Circus was quick to answer in the affirmative, feeling like she'd jinxed Ivy's health at times by writing about how well she was doing.

Today I’ve been writing some posts to go up next week when my Dad has his heart surgery, thinking that I probably won’t feel like doing too much. I was writing about how we’re all understandably anxious and how I’m particularly worried the infection he has (from a frickin boil) will spread and that, at the eleventh hour, they will cancel his surgery.

I’d not long written those words when my Mum called...

A chest infection.

More antibiotics.

Surgery in doubt.

I know I didn’t cause this. I know my words have no impact on the world; that I’m not some fanciful omnipotent being who can write something and make it happen. Yet there is still that tiny little voice, at the farthest edge of my conscious that says I shouldn’t have written it. I should have just stayed quiet and this wouldn’t have happened.

He needs this surgery. He’s had to wait a month longer than they wanted him to because of scheduling conflicts. The conflict being the surgeon was going to Rotto for a holiday and didn’t want to pass the surgery to someone else. I’d call him a heartless bastard but if I’m not nice to that guy I’m afraid it will be my dad who will be the heartless one.

In this one, incredibly long, slow month I’ve watched him deteriorate from a man who was just a bit tired to one who sleeps most of the day and spends his nights on CPAP.

I have tried to spend as much time with him as possible but he stays away when he’s at his worst. Not wanting to be a burden. But all I want is to be near him; to drink in the joy of him and Tricky playing together; to help him sit down when he has one of his ‘turns’ and his heart races and he can’t breathe; to just be with him.

I’m worried his body is shutting down. He’s been on hardcore antibiotics and had penicillin injections all this week to try and knock the small infection yet he’s developed a bigger one.

I’m worried they won’t do the surgery.

I’m worried he won’t make it out of surgery.

I thought I was OK with it, this circle of life.

I thought I was learning to accept that these things happen, and to enjoy every day like it was your last because it just might be.

But I’m not.

I’m just a scared little girl who wants her Daddy to be better.

 

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Head case

Have you ever had one of those moments in life where something goes wrong and later on you thank your lucky stars it happened because it brought attention to something you would not have otherwise discovered? I had one of those this week. Tricky had a rash. A rash that may just have saved him months of pain and possible disfigurement. The scary thing is, I'm not exaggerating.

Last week when I had gastro the doctors had told me to keep a close eye on Tricky because if the virus landed a grown woman in hospital then imagine what it could do to a little baby with only the beginnings of an immune system. I didn't have to be worried, just alert to any change in his behaviour. He cried a little bit more, wanted to feed more regularly, threw up a bit more and had a low grade temperature - nothing though that was really concerning, he was just a little bit under the weather and was still smiling from ear to ear and talking all day long. Then he got a rash and I didn't know if it was related to the illness or if it was an allergic reaction to the washing powder (Hubby was notorious for reacting to every different type of washing powder as a kid) so we decided to take him to the GP to get it checked out. When we couldn't get in to see the doctor for two days it didn't bother me - it wasn't one of 'those' rashes that they have on the posters at the doctors' offices, you know, the horrible 'Get your kid to the ER now' type rashes.

So we get to the doctor's office (Hubby was off work getting over the last of the gastro I so lovingly shared with him) get asked all sorts of questions and the doctor looks at Tricky's skin and thinks it looks like a combination of a mild eczema and a viral rash. Knowing that Hubby and I had both been sick he checked Tricky for signs of dehydration by feeling his fontanelles (the gaps in the skull bone that allow for compression during birth and for brain growth afterwards). Because it is a little window to the brain, the fontanelle can tell a doctor very quickly if an infant is sick - if it is sunken then the child is dehydrated, if it is bulging then there is excess fluid on the brain. Whichever one you have it's not very good. So which one did Tricky have? Neither. Because the doctor could not find his anterior (front) fontanelle. We were sent for x-rays.

We rang the x-ray place and asked if we needed to make an appointment but I wasn't thinking completely clearly and forgot to mention that it was for an 11 week old baby, so they told us to come on down. On arrival we were told that it would in fact be two weeks before a paediatric radiographer was available to do the scan. Up until now I had been fine (according to the movie The Italian Job, FINE stands for Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional - did they know me when they wrote that?) but being told he would have to wait two weeks was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The tears started. Not Tricky's, mine. The woman serving me came around the counter to comfort me.

She offered me tea. What is it with times of crisis and tea? The shit hits the fan and a cup of tea is meant to make it all better? I didn't want any tea. Was I sure I didn't want any? It would only take a second. There was biscuits too, I could have one of those. Was I really sure, it would be no hassle. She was being so nice, going out of her way to help me and all I wanted to do was tell her where she could shove her tea. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to run away. Away from the people in the waiting area that were starting to stare, away from the staff who were looking at me with pity in their eyes, away from the gallons of tea to a place where everything would be alright. But instead I choked back my tears, smiled, nodded and listened as she said I could go to the hospital.

The next morning we went to the hospital. In hindsight it was pretty stupid to go on a Saturday - they work on a skeleton staff because apparently kids only injure themselves midweek. But surprisingly we were seen pretty quickly (broken bones tend to come in after 2pm) and after a consult with one of the ER doctors the head paediatrician was called in and x-rays were taken. It was clear. Tricky's anterior fontanelle had closed. Even though I'd had a day to get used to the idea of it being a possibility, when it was actually confirmed my heart sank. Tricky has Craniosynostosis. 

So now it is a torturous waiting game. We have been referred to the Craniofacial Surgical team at Princess Margaret Hospital and should have an appointment in the next few weeks for a surgical evaluation because they will have to operate to correct the fault. The doctor may have been using words like surgical consult and correction but all I was hearing was "We are going to slice open your son's scalp and crack his skull."

I'm trying to remain positive in the midst of it all by remembering there are so many things to be grateful for, even in a situation like this. We are so lucky that it has been found early - the earlier it is diagnosed the sooner the corrective surgery can be done. We are so lucky that it appears to have only just closed because it was still there at his six week check up. We are so lucky that he is an otherwise healthy, happy little boy. Left undiagnosed, Tricky's skull would become deformed and the pressure on his brain would cause developmental delays, so this early find, all thanks to a little rash, is fantastic news. Now, where's that cup of tea?

Bowing before the porcelain god

Here I was, all ready to blog about exciting things like yoga, annoying bus drivers who don't lower the access ramps and obsessively tidying up my house when I was sidelined by an ever so lovely bout of viral gastroenteritis. I won't go in to the nasty details, but I was violently ill every 15 minutes or so for about five hours so we decided to go to the hospital.

Hubby dropped me at the emergency room door while he parked the car and I stumbled in to triage helped by a man who was already sitting there waiting (thank you, kind stranger). It took about ten minutes to go through to the bed because they had to make up a private room (OK so it was actually an isolation room, but hey, I'll say it was private and fancy) - they'd already assumed I had the dreaded gastro that, as is always the way, "was going around at the moment".

I was immediately hooked up to IV fluids and given anti-nausea drugs. I wanted to kiss the nurse who gave them to me, partly because they worked and partly because she went and double checked the doctor had prescribed something safe for lactating mothers - she would have run away screaming had I tried.

Tricky had so far stayed in the nurses area with Hubby (much to the delight of the nurses and my doctor who would tell me how much he was smiling every time they came in to check my vitals) because it was decided that he should, until they were sure what was wrong, keep well clear of me. So rather than stay around being bored and unable to do anything, my boys went home. With the drugs starting to ease my poor tum, I fell asleep. Who would have thought that a trip to the hospital was the only way for a new mum to get uninterrupted sleep!?

A few hours later I was still feeling like death but now had the added bonus of massive, sore boobs that hadn't been 'milked' in six hours - now normally six hours is nothing, but in the past week Tricky has had a blocked nose which means he's been feeding every two hours (hold your nose and drink through a straw and see how long you last before you get tired). A breast pump was delivered but, not being something used very often in emergency, the nurses couldn't figure out how to use it! After two hours of different people trying to work it I called my Mum, who then came up to the hospital with my own pump. Just as I started the lactation consultant came down from the maternity ward (suited up in protective gear to protect the rest of the babies she would see that day from my icky germs), moved one tube to a different slot, and hey presto, we have milk. Oh the relief!

I ended up staying for 12 hours and having four litres of fluids. Even though that's not very long it felt like years since I'd seen my Tricky so I was so glad to go home where I found him asleep in my Dad's arms (yep, my Mum and my Dad took turns while Hubby had a well deserved sleep). He'd had a long day of 'talking' and smiling so was completely exhausted. I wanted to pick him up and never let him go... but I didn't want to wake the poor fella.

So will he catch it off me? The answer is, unfortunately, that no one knows. However the doctor and lactation consultant both encouraged me to keep breastfeeding him for the antibody protection, saying that sometimes a whole family will get sick except for the infant on the boobie juice. Plus being so sick and lacking in fluid there was a chance my supply could drop, so best to get him back on (or pumping religiously) straight away. In the days since it all happened I've been taking it easy and am starting to feel so much better - and so far neither Hubby nor Tricky show any signs of being sick. Phew!

I may have been sick but the competition for next month is still going ahead! You have to be a follower to enter so click on follow now!