just breathe

Ahh, so clearly the locum GP believes that silly women make a very big fuss about things and should just get on with it.
I plucked up several tonnes of courage and stripped away my protective armour, in order to explain my current state of wibblybility. The Doc nodded intently and leaned in at all the right moments.
He then told me he didn't know how he could help, other than to refer me to the practice councellor who is very busy and to suggest I talk to my friends and do some breathing exercises.
"Of course you can come and talk to us in the surgery, and if you're worried about the children being ill you can always bring them too."
I pity the poor soul who throws themselves infront of a bus after that kind of advice.
I left with another appointment to see by regular GP on Monday, so to be continued, I guess.

fake

I am already worried about how convincing I will be when I visit the doctor tomorrow.
I keep going over my symptoms, discussing them with friends and family, and I am starting to realise that I am not alone in my irrational and disproportionate fear of certain imminent death of all my loved ones.
What is particularly worrying is that my Mum has been like this for 31 years!

crusty

Crusty is the theme for this week. Crusty noses, as all four of us have sticky crusty colds. Seth is snuffling his way through most days with a grimace. He has crying stamina, which almost outdoes his most famous older 'cousin'* at his ninging best. We are grateful that the crying seems limited to being in his pram or car seat, although my husband feels his head might explode after three minutes of warbling at traffic lights.
Ezra has- in true toddler fashion- gone off crusts. Yet he'll still devour an entire crusty baguette. Its the randomness of it all that gets me.
We are in full-fledged terrible twos' territory. Despair, contradiction and confusion fills our eldest boys days. This weekend he noticed his shadow and all hell broke loose. He was terrified of his dark and ominous follower until yesterday, when he made friends with 'dadow' and now chats with his other self frequently.
Speaking of Ezra, its his birthday on friday, and to celebrate we are off to a theme park with his friends and their parents. Lets hope the weather turns from freezing rain to sunshine.

*In the old-school tradition, his mother is my best friend and Ezra's 'auntie' making her son his fake, but very real 'cousin'

Mothering Sunday

My hero leapt to my rescue. As Ezra began to wheeze due to another cold, so my equilibrium finally tipped and my husband came home from work. And stayed off for the rest of the week. This means I have slept, shared drinks with my friends; shared my anxiety with them too.
I will see my GP next week in order to arrange some luxury time with a councellor. How decadent to be able to talk about myself, without any guilt or interruptions!

a little shaky

Following dramatic bolt from the blocks, and a confident start, the adrenalin of the first 8 weeks has run out and I am struggling to keep up the pace. Thankfully, I greeted the surprise start and smooth first leg with some shock and disbelief. When people asked me how things were going, I'd reply "ok, actually. Its not as bad as I expected, but everything could change." The lads haven't changed-Well, obviously they have, in that they've grown and Ez is eating a wider variety of foods and Seth can hold his head up and smile and gurgle and giggle, but I digress. I've changed, or mellowed or hit reality, or hit something.
My husband keeps mentioning post natal depression- especially as a diagnostic confirmation would mean he could start his redundancy leave early. I am feeling lower than before- but then I was artificially high. I was alive and elated at recovering fast and well. I leapt with joy at successfully changing a nappy, for goodness sake.
My mind is still scattered- concentrating is hard, remembering anything is impossible and I'm feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. The lads are predominantly sleeping well- but I'm not.
I don't feel depressed, I just feel sad about the way Seth was born, shocked at the enormous responsibility of having two children, and worried that we'll never feel safe again.

Mothers little helper

Then there are times when I am in peices. Like when Seth has had a growth spurt and feeds ever hour on the hour for 48 hours, give or take the odd two hour respite when he screams in his pram whilst I trudge round Sainsbury's buying random shopping items because I-just-can't-focus-on-anything-other-than-the-screaming.
Or when Ezra refuses a nap and instead slaps me around the face harder and harder as I try repeatedly to lay him down because I've got to get the washing done so I can avoid another arguement with my him indoors about our washing basket overflowing, and I think 'if I slap his leg will it shock him into realising that when he hits me it hurts?'
Or when He comes home from work and complains about a petty arguement He's had with his boss and explains how He spent three hours finding evidence to prove to his boss He was right, when He could've been using that time to look for another job.
Then there are the hundreds of meals I have lovingly engineered for my son and his ever decreasing range of edible foods that are thrown away untouched (although we are on a roll- last night- fish fingers and new potatoes, tonight- sausages and peas).
The grey hairs and wrinkles appearing everywhere. The stretch marks, scars and pouches of skin. The lack of money. Inability to communicate effectively or remember anything.
Cheers!

GP terror

Last night I enjoyed an evening with a friend, a few beers and a pizza. A little wibbly, we left to the chanting of St. Georges Medical School's Hockey Team.

This morning I took Seth (with Ezra in tow) for his eight week check and immunizations. Our GP is always slightly apprehensive when he sees us appear in the surgery. We've had a bit of a run of bad luck health wise.

"Ezra is looking well" he commented, then guiltily "I should've sent him straight in" referring to an earlier visit, when Ezra had a nasty chest infection which resulted in an overnight stay in hospital.

"How are you?" he asked, I assumed referring to my battered body after two c sections, two laparotomies, an amniotic embolism, 11 litres of many other peoples blood, a psoas abscess, secondary pneumonia, collapsed lungs, arthritic hip and stomach ulcers. Or perhaps he was just being polite.

"Fine" I replied truthfully.

Back to Seth, and convinced of his giant stature and bulging weight, I looked on proudly as he was weighed and measured. His stats are virtually identical to those of his brother at the same age and also prove that he is a little under average in the percentile stakes, and definitely a product of our diddy gene pool. Happily, our GP confirmed that he can see, and hear, has both testicles, a fully functioning penis, mobile hips and a fine set of pipes.

He is well other than a bit of immature baby eczema, and a slightly sticky right eye. Not at all bad.

On to the jabs and Seth disapproved loudly. Ezra was a little shocked by the noise his little brother was making and shot the nurse a menacing stare. She was appropriately intimidated and apologized profusely. I dressed the purple faced screamer and Ezra helped me carry our jackets and bags back to the car.

We dosed Seth after an hour of screaming and he fed and slept for the rest of the afternoon. Ezra and I watched ER, ate nuggets, chips and fruit and snuggled up for a three hour nap.

New addition in shock sleep-through pattern

Seth is eight weeks old and has done it twice.
Ezra did it for the first time when he was well over one.
Last night Seth slept from 7.30pm till 5.50am. Not quite 12 hours but hells bells, its better than we ever expected. The additional hours of sleep I'm getting are having a strange effect. I can shower in the morning, remember where I left my keys (some of the time) and even managed to tackle Ezra's bomb-site.
A whole new world of drinking heavily and socialising is presenting itself far sooner than anticipated.
I don't even mind that Ez has taken to waking at 6am and demanding to start the day with his friendly morning routine.
It goes something like this;
"Hello Mummy, Hello Dess (Seth). Light light. Telly, telly, telly, bickets, bickets (weetabix), Mummy, kiss, hello Dess, hello Dess, telly, light, telly, come on come on up up come on UP COME ON UP UP UUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!"
and all this shouted in my ear at sonic boom volume.

Moving house is messy

I may end up losing most of my stuff, but my new home is brand spankingly gorgeous, well decorated and much bigger than the other.
Welcome! Come in and have a drink, but please remove your shoes.