I am the very model of a modern major mother

On the weekend I went on an adventure to a ghost town with Hubby, Tricky and my Dad - the brochure we read (and we double checked it when we got home) said "free gas BBQs" but when we got there the only thing they had were concrete pits to light a fire in and a cast iron griddle on a pivot. So for the first time in my life (after accosting some passing tourists for some matches) I built a fire with my Dad. It was pretty exciting for a city slicker like me - foraging for sticks and branches that were dry enough, getting that first leaf to catch alight then watching it really take hold (my inner pyromaniac thought it was fab). Because I like my fingers where they are, burning them off while shoving new sticks in to keep the fire going long enough to cook our sausages wasn't quite as fun. My foray in to being a Girl Scout got me thinking. We have it so easy compared to only a few generations ago.

In the kitchen

I don't have to light a fire (even with the latest technological advancement - the cigarette lighter) every time I want to cook something. All I do is turn a switch and my electric oven heats up to the temperature I tell it to then stays there without needing half a tree shoved in to it. And the veges I put in there come from a fridge so sometimes they're not even very mouldy.

In the bathroom

I don't have to go chopping firewood every time I want to bathe Tricky, I just turn the tap and a little plastic tortoise's bum goes white if I make the water too hot. And whilst I do sometimes lament choosing white tiles for our bathroom, I have access to powerful environment destroying cleaners to keep them blindingly shiny with barely any effort.

In the nursery

Oh the joys of a vibrating bouncer! My 21st century knee is too snobby to bounce children, instead I have a machine do it for me. And don't even think about having to carry your child on your hip when Baby Bjorn's and Hug-a-Bub's are here to lighten the load. Even going down the cloth nappy path is easier today - they're shaped to fit and have press studs instead of being a giant square needing pins (just quietly, if my record of injuring Tricky with sharp objects is anything to go by, can you imagine how bad I'd be at pinning a nappy?).

In the laundry

Do I stand there with soap flakes and washing board and rub our family's clothes against it day after day? No. I throw them in to a machine and it does it for me while I go and do something much more exotic like lay by the pool sipping cocktails (OK so I don't even have a pool and am more than likely changing/feeding/rocking Tricky, but at least it makes for a nice mental image). Plus if it's been really cold I schlep down to the shed and throw them in the dryer - those nappies can go from dirty to clean and dry in two hours even in the middle of winter.

So take a minute to think about how easy we all have it now compared to our grandparents and great grandparents. But if you don't mind, could you conveniently forget I've said any of this the next time I complain that I've had a hard day full of washing, cooking and cleaning? Thanks!

Don't forget Where's My Glow will be holding it's first ever competition next month and I can confirm the prize is worth a whopping $275! You must be a follower to enter, so do it now!

Call me Daisy

Question: How do you go about making yourself feel better when you're feeling a little bit helpless (with a side dish of self pity)?

Answer: Do something for someone less fortunate!

On Monday I made my way to King Edward Memorial Hospital, home to the largest Special Care Nursery for pre-term and seriously ill babies in the Southern Hemisphere. Some of the babies I got to see there (through glass - only the immediate family are allowed in for infection control purposes) were born weighing under one kilo and as early as 26 weeks gestation. I had a textbook pregnancy and Tricky was a week overdue so what was I doing there? I was being interviewed to become a donor at Australia's longest running milk bank!

The Perron Rotary Express Milk Bank or PREM Bank (don't you just love acronyms that match!) provides human breastmilk to pre-term infants whose mothers, for whatever reason (sometimes the stress of having a sick baby), cannot produce enough milk themselves. Their immature digestive systems can handle breastmilk much better than formula and they are ten times more likely to develop severe gastrointestinal infections if fed formula instead of human milk. Plus the antibodies found in breastmilk (most of which remain after the milk is pasteurized for safety) really help the little ones immune systems.

The milk donors are screened in an interview which is why I was there. I had to fill out a few forms and have blood tests to ensure I didn't have any communicable diseases and was then given a super duper pump, sterilizing equipment and a dozen sterile bottles to fill with my milk. Each morning just before Tricky's first feed I wash my hands, then sterilize my hands, sterilize the equipment, sterilize my hands again (there is a LOT of sterilizing, can you tell?) then set myself up with Tricky on one side and the machine on the other. I am now a cow who is milked once a day for the benefit of some teeny tiny bubbas and it makes me feel fantastic!

Moo!

If you have a new baby and would like to share the boobie juice love with some babies in need, contact the PREM Bank - I promise you will feel fab for doing it!

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?

MANicure

In life BT (Before Tricky) I was a makeup artist. Well I still am, I'm just on hiatus. But before I focused on makeup I was a slashie. What's a slashie? A slashie is someone who has multiple titles (with a slash in between) because they do lots of things. I was a beauty therapist/makeup artist/masseuse/nail technician/dermal therapist which meant I used to do makeup plus massages, facials, peels, IPL, manicures, acrylic nails and waxing. I really enjoyed the work and (even if I do say so myself) was quite good at it. But I must say, I have pruned more lady gardens than I care to mention. So who would have thought, someone who has actually trained as a nail technician (such a fancy name for someone who files nails or puts on acrylic ones) would actually be afraid to cut their own child's nails? But I was petrified.

It took me three and a half weeks to work up the courage. Like most babies, Tricky was born with quite long, sharp nails so by the three week mark they were claws. Other mums gave me their tips on infant manicuring, saying to do it while they were asleep or feeding so they wouldn't try to move around too much. But at that stage I was still needing two hands to actively hold Tricky when I was feeding him and I was sure he'd wake up if I attacked him with miniature scissors in his sleep.

So I chickened out and got a nail file. Not just any nail file though, a proper 'Black Beauty' file from my nail tech days. It worked! Hurrah! Those deathly sharp talons were filed down to a much more respectable length and I felt super proud. I even announced it to Hubby when he got home from work - he wasn't as impressed as I was.

A week later though, those suckers were back. Are you serious? They grow that fast?! When I stopped and thought about it though, it made sense - the rest of them grows pretty quickly too. The file came out again and did the job but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work out that in a week they'd be back again. I was going to have to pull out the big guns. I was going to have to use nail clippers.

Even the baby nail clippers seem the size of garden shears next to those tiny little fingers. I did it straight after a feed when he was nice and milk-drunk and am pleased to announce it was a complete SUCCESS! This is what my life has become. Cutting an infant's nails is a high point that deserves being celebrated with streamers, balloons and cake. I got a full two weeks out of that nail trim (that too made me want to high five every person I passed in the street) so there I was, feeling confident for round two of Small Innocent Child Vs Sharp Instrument but alas, the scoreboard did not show 2-0 at the end... I CUT TRICKY!

Screaming? Crying? Wailing? Umm, no. He was so blissed out on the good stuff that he did not notice. And because he didn't notice it meant I didn't notice - that is until I walked back in the room after putting away the nail clippers to find blood streaks all over his little jacket. It looked like something out of a horror movie - how can that much blood come from such a small finger? And if there is that much blood surely the kid that it is coming out of should be letting the entire street know by now?

When Hubby came home I confessed my sin to him and rather than tell me that it was OK, that other people have done it before me and that no permanent damage was done, he instead turned to me with a completely evil grin and said "Aren't you trained in this?"

Have you accidentally injured your child? Who cried more, you or them? Leave a comment below with your story.

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!