Barren Mare

Losses and limbo and timeouts

I didn't mean to leave you hanging in zombie mouse limbo, but we're having a bad week here at the house of Mare, and not just with undead mice.

The business deal that Knox had been painstakingly negotiating for the last month fell through just as it looked like it was about to be sealed. Two days later, his grandfather died. Fortunately Knox was in town and managed to be there by his side when it happened, but unfortunately the reason Knox was here because he has a dreadful cold and was off work sick anyway. I feel like I'm on the verge of coming down ill myself- which after my extended lurgy last year is not a happy prospect. We're both tired and sad, not to mention feeling like we just can't get a break when it comes to finally being able to get Knox moved here once and for all. 

And, E. is out of the country on holiday, so no prospect of any extra assistance with child care just now.

Oh, and the results of the not-trying trying were decidely negative this month. I'm not at all surprised but still felt remarkably blue about it for a bit before resolving that in fact, perhaps trying harder is actually the right way to go.

And now I must go deal with Botany, who is in time out after pitching a fit following the swift removal of the advent calendar, which Knox just caught her raiding. The fun never ends around here, lalalala.

Don't let this put you off Thanksgiving dinner

I came home from work to find a dead mouse in the hallway. Stuffed full of the tasty poison on which it had gorged itself the last few days and now looking for a place to quietly expire, it had crawled in its final moments, to Botany's designated naughty spot. There it lay, motionless, next to the canvas shoe rack I had chucked there in a pile for cleaning (having been retrieved it, covered in mouse poo, from under the bed earlier this week).

In the immediate mayhem of our arrival home (MUMMY COAT OFF! BOTANY COAT OFF! SHOES OFF! Lunchbag DOWN! Scarf TANGLE! Zippers DO!) neither of us noticed the mouse's body. I finally spotted it out of the corner of my eye as I bent down to pick up the mail.

Is that? Oh gawd. It is. Botany, let's go play in your room until your Daddy gets here!

When her back was turned, I nonchalantly rearranged the canvas so that it covered the mouse's inert little form. Botany ran into the kitchen to get her usual post-nursery smoothie drink and began screaming "mouse, mouse!" while pointing behind the washing machine, since that is where she thinks all the mice reside (and some others probably do). Having ascertained there were, in fact, no evidence of living mice in the vicinity of the laundry  I decided it was best not to mention the dead one in the hallway. Particularly since after some further screaming, her initial response would almost certainly be "I want to pet him." Um, no.

Eventually, I managed to herd her into the living room and get a distracting DVD on while I plotted how best to dispose of the mouse body. Scoop it up with the dustpan and into the bin, was my thinking. But seeing how  the slightest movement toward the door alerts Botany to my possible escape (Warning! Warning! Mother attempting to leave the room! Latch, latch!) I wisely decided it was best to wait until E. arrived for his dinnertime visit.

During a particularly riveting moment of the movie, I stealthily stuck my head into the hallway to peer under the shoe rack. Yep. Small brown mouse still there. Still dead. 

Half an hour later, the entry door buzzer went. Botany charged for the hallway, wiggling in delight. I scooped her up, pressed the button by the front door, reached for the bolt lock, opened the door as E. bounded up the stairs... and SCREAMED at the sight of the previously dead mouse now crawling in hellishly slow motion across the hall toward MY FEET.

ARGHHH!

I confess what followed thereafter was not behaviour befitting the confident, competent, self assured  woman I pretend to be.  All I can say is that there is a big gap between the idea of a mouse (f cute, cuddly and pretty much harmless) and the sudden resurrection of a rodent previously known for tortuous scrabbling around under my bed at night, believed to be dead but now risen and moving about in grotesque slo-mo horror movie type fashion under the bright glare of the hall lights, in plain view of an impressionable two year old.

Somehow, I managed to heave myself and Botany straight out the front door past E., still screaming. DEAD MOUSE! BUT NOT DEAD ENOUGH! There, there, it's there, THERE by the cabinet in the hall, arrrggggh! DON'T LET HER SEE IT! DO SOMETHING- GET IT OUT!

Botany of course began freaking out that I was freaking out and it's cold in the entry hall and E. was shouting that he needed a cardboard box in which to herd the (according to him) "very much alive mouse".  Botany began thrashing around in my arms so I managed to scoot into my bedroom and barricade ourselves in for the remainder of the mouse retrieval. Of course the whole "barricade" notion incensed Botany even further and she began to howl to get out, wanting to see her daddy, resulting in me having to stand in front of the bedroom door to hold her back.

"Hurry up!" I shouted at E.

"This is not as easy as it looks!" he shouted back.

Why am I not somewhere nice with my family, eating turkey and cranberry and that nice marshmallow goop my mother makes, I pondered, as E. dashed down the stairs with the undead mouse wrapped in a bit of cardboard and an old gardening glove. Liberated into the neighbour's garden, we are fairly certain the mouse is not long for this world, but at this point it would not surprise me to see it crawling back up the stairs tomorrow morning. Afterwards, peace restored, Botany enjoyed her festive dinner of spaghetti and "eatballs" as she calls them, while I partook of some soothing hot buttered toast to calm the nerves. 

Happy Thanksgiving!  

Things to make me feel better

This is going to be relatively short because I am just exhausted this week and I desperately want to go to bed by 9pm. I crashed out at 9.30 the other night and was astounded at how much better I felt the next day after having had a decent eight plus hours of sleep.

I think one reason I am so tired is the usual grind of the day to day wearing me down. The other part is that it seems like every weekend is one long battleground with Botany. For awhile there, Knox and I thought things were improving, behaviour- wise but then the parenting gods promptly jumped up and slapped us around the head for displaying such smug complacency. Cue endless boundary testing on Botany's part. She has perfected the art of selective deafness when asked to do something. She has developed a very annoying (and slightly disturbing) habit of voicing her refusal to comply in an expert Exorcist-style demon voice. When ignored or not given what she perceives as the requisite amount of attention- that is, undivided- she will clamp herself to my lower limbs like an obsessed limpet, relentlessly chanting "UP! Up! UP!".

And the tantrums- my God. We've implemented the technique of the naughty spot, which I might have have said she might still be a tad young for but she is so bright that I seriously doubt that she doesn't have some comprehension of what goes on. It works, to a degree but it infuriates her when she sees it coming. One problem is we don't actually have a very good physical location in the confines of the flat- an appropriately bland neutral ground- in which to to carry out the naughty spot routine. At the moment we've tried the hallway but it's not ideal.  Getting her to stay on the spot is the main challenge, especially since she managed to physically rip the damn thing apart, screaming at the top of her lungs like a possessed fury. Knox is about ready to move to Australia and I was seriously contemplating downing a shot of whiskey around lunchtime one day, while my child raged, howled, stamped and just generally behaved like a complete horror.

Remaining consistent and firm in the face of all that is of course essential, but ever so draining. We keep telling ourselves it's a phase, it's a phase, it's a phase and it will pass. Meanwhile, though, it's causing quite a bit of stress.

But then we have a moment like today, when Botany and I arrived home from work and nursery. I drove home in foul weather, the rain slashing across the road in the dark. I told Botany, "oh dear, we will have to run, run, run into the house so we don't get wet."  Then I contorted myself into the backseat of my ipod sized car, removed her from her seat, lifting her up and out. The wind gusted and for a moment, I thought she might whine about it, since she hates the wind blowing on her. As I moved quickly to cross the road, she raised her sweet little face to mine. She held on to me tightly with one hand while patting my shoulder gently with the other and she said, "Run, run, run mummy. I got your arms. I'll keep you safe".         

And you know, suddenly it all seemed a lot better again.

Polar explorers

We're into the dark days now, waking up in the dark, coming home in the dark. Dark. The urge to hibernate is sort of overpowering. All I want to do once I put Botany to bed is lie down on the sofa (or even crawl into my own bed) and sleep. Instead I hang up the laundry and make the lunch and sort out the clothes for tomorrow; when I finally get around to setting the alarm on my mobile phone for the next day, I am disappointed at the little data read out telling me I have to be up in approximately 7 hours and 20 minutes. Bite me. 

Both Botany and I are continuing to fend off what seems like an endless bout of threadworms. At least, I'm pretty sure she still has them, judging from recent nappy inspections (phwarg) and from my ongoing...symptoms. We've been through two dosings of anti-worming medication but it only kills the worms, not the eggs, which can live for up to something like six weeks, clinging onto everything in sight. I have done multiple loads of laundry, washing seemingly everything in the house, including many of Botany's soft toys. I've hoovered and dusted. We've clipped our fingernails down to nubs. And I wash my hands about nine hundred gazillionity times a day. Yet still the little bastards persist! Knox brought me a whole box of rubber gloves as a present the other day (sexy!) for nappy changing purposes. But it sort of defeats any hygiene advantage that may be gained when an uncontrollable Botany goes wriggling off the mat, running starkers down the hallway screaming "Look at me, I'm skipping!" and no doubt shedding thousands of little egglets as she goes.  

I can tell you that I was initially a bit hesitant about owning up to this particular problem. People don't really talk about such matters around the water cooler (or indeed, much of anywhere, it seems)- I guess somehow the notion of parasites just generally gives folk the shudders. And so where better to unburden oneself about such an annoyance other than in front of the entire internets? Also, ever since my days of invasive infertility treatment, I've tried to take the Ranulph Fiennes approach to life. For those of you not familiar with Sir Fiennes, I can tell you he is a charmingly eccentric  British adventurer, probably best known for a number of successful but rather bonkers polar expeditions. You know, the type of person who tries to walk to the South Pole with nothing but a cat named Molly, a wooly jumper and packet of rich tea biscuits, ending up starving and delirious on the Ross Ice Shelf. Oh, and after one such endeavour, once back at home he amputated his own frostbitten fingertips with a hacksaw in his garden shed, rather than endure the rather inconvenient wait for surgery.

Anyway, he's written some interesting books, most of which I have read and I seem to recall that in one chapter he recounts how he is never embarrassed about anything, ever. How refreshing that must be. I reckon Sir Fiennes wouldn't bat an eyelash about having threadworms. He's probably had some sort of exotic bug that lays spores in your inner ear, creating a strange fondness for irritating pop tunes and Morris dancing.

The bottom line (oh ha ha ha) is I gather these particular parasites don't do any real harm. But ideally,  if I were to get pregnant, I'd really like to get shut of them beforehand- since the medication is apparently not suitable during pregnancy. One additional passenger for nine months would be enough, thanks.

Trifecta

To complete a trilogy of posts debating having a second child, I bring you some of the random, stream of thought musings that pass through my head on the subject, on a more or less hourly basis.

Sleep. I don't know if I can cope with the lack of sleep associated with a newborn, not to mention a toddler. By the time a baby arrives, I'm guessing Botany will have dropped her nap or be close to it and then what will I do when I need to catch up on sleep and I cringe at at the very idea of getting up at 4.30am for months on end. And I know Knox says he will get up but I'm not sure he really has any grasp of how hideous it really is while it's going on and besides, while he has many many strong points as a potential father, I'm not completely convinced that "getting up" is going to be his forte. Then again, we both love to sleep so much that maybe we'll produce one of those mythical "good sleepers". Or maybe the baby will be even worse than Botany was, and they will find me crouched, gibbering under the bed, clutching a Gro-clock, moaning about...

Time. I worry about not having time enough for Botany and I worry about the loss of our special one-to-one relationship. Could I ever love another child even a fraction as much or is the new one going to feel like a permanent interloper? What if I love the new child even more than Botany? What if I wind up a gibbering wreck (see above) and am unable to love either? And then there is Knox- I often feel like he is shortchanged on my attention and I so much want to give him more than I do now. But I already feel like I never have any time to myself, and that is not likely to get better with another little person in the mix, is it? No. As it is I barely even have a chance to shave my legs and sort out...

Clothes. My wardrobe in desperate need of updating, I bought a couple of nice new items for autumn. I look forward to getting dressed for work at the moment, going out of the house looking more or less like I have it together (although I did spot a big glob of white toothpaste in my hair this morning when I finally looked in the mirror in the office bathroom. Nice.). My heart sinks when I think about how long it took me to get back into my pre-pregnancy clothes (nine months and the stress of a bad breakup to get the weight off). Then there is the hidden scaffolding. I just started wearing an underwire bra again for the first time in over two years. I like it. My boobs like it, and more importantly, they need it. The temptation to burn all my skanky old pregnancy and nursing bras is strong. Even the thought of treating myself to some nicer models second time around does not stop the urge to shudder at the image of reaching up to undo the shoulder clip. That infernal little plastic *pop*. Much as I enjoyed breastfeeding Botany, I'm sort of enjoying being finished with that stage and not so keen to go back to... 

Nursing. Spraying milk aside, how do people manage the logistics and demands of breastfeeding an infant while also attending to a squeaky toddler?  For that matter, how do you manage to do anything at all with two kids? I know Botany would be older and more independent, but still. Can you order an extra pair of arms and eyes for the back of the head to go with the new car seat and crib? Paying for which would be a considerable...

Expense! Oh god. Can we afford a second child while starting up a business? I looked into doing an extra day at work to start building up some financial reserves but when I asked about increasing Botany's hours at nursery, they laughed and told me there probably wouldn't be a space until July 2010. I rummaged around online for a bit and found an alternative that looked fantastic, so much so that I sort of fell in love with the whole idea of it and decided I would seriously consider moving Botany there if they had an opening for a child of her age. Of course when I enquired, they also laughed, then politely told me to try again next autumn. Speaking to a newly pregnant colleague, I discovered she was signing up there (apparently, it's easier to get babies in, since you get on the waiting list at four months along) and standing there with her looking all glowing with her bump made me feel suddenly jealous and worried, realising that for all my casual dismissals...

Infertility. It's still lurking in the shubbery of my subconscious and it's going to bug me far, far more than I can bear to admit. While it's easy to talk about trying for a second as if it's actually going to happen, it's also easy to revert right back to the mindset I was in for so long. Doom! Doom! And even if I do get pregnant, let's face it, I'm nearly 40 and we're rolling the dice on some much scarier statistics for abnormalities. The prospect of having to do an amnio has always wigged me out even more than having an epidural and...

Childbirth. Yerrrgh. 'Nuff said.

The funny thing is, despite all that messy mindchurning doubt, last weekend I found myself putting the birth control pills to the back of the medicine cabinet. And the next day, I stopped taking them.  

Sun signs

We changed the clocks back on Sunday, and already it feels like a sudden plummet into winter. The dark, it makes me sleepy. And cold. Already I feel the urge to huddle around the radiator for warmth (since my fireplace probably doesn't function and is blocked off with a really ugly tile which I painted over immediately upon moving in.)  Botany's grandmother keeps knitting these funny hats for her; the designs are sweet but are about six sizes too big. I'm wearing one now, plunked on top of my head in my chilly study.  

Thanks to a dedicated approach to bedtime scheduling, we survived the time change transition with almost no problems whatsoever. I just kept pushing Botany's sleepytime fifteen minutes later each night and on Saturday managed to keep her up until 9pm. That was the worst of it, actually- she had woken up at 6am, had a one hour nap and it felt like the day was just.never.going.to.end. It was worth it though when she slept in until 7am on the new timetable. 

I may have mentioned this here, briefly, or elsewhere but the gadget which has helped enormously with  our sleep battles is the Gro-Clock. Oh, it is a thing of fabulousness. I'm not sure you can easily acquire them in the States or Canada, but if you can get your hands on one, I highly recommend it.* Basically, it's a jazzier version of what I was proposing to do with the blue light on a timer; that is, teach Botany that when the light comes on, I will come in. It has sun image settings and moon image settings; all you do is switch to the night time setting at bedtime and the sun does this little sleepy wink, goes away and a blue half moon (and countdown stars) come out. In the morning, at the pre-set time of your choosing, the sun automatically comes back up. It was relatively simple to convey the concept to Botany, but for added assistance, the clock comes with a small board book with a cute story about a sleepy pig. 

I gave it to Botany for her second birthday, and it took a couple of weeks before she seemed to fully understand. The key, it seemed, was to be completely consistent about not going in to get her until the sun came up on the clock. Initially, in order to avoid a long hideous early morning crying session, it meant choosing an appropriately early wake up time so that she didn't have to lie there for ages, awake and waiting for me to come in. Gradually, I started setting the timer a bit later and now she quite often just sleeps through the wake-up sun changeover.   

I won't pretend it's a magic wand; there are still the odd occasions where she might wake up, either in the middle of the night or very early in the morning. On the whole, we've noticed a huge difference. Sometimes I hear her stirring in the crack of dawn and I still hold my breath. Sometimes I think she's probably awake and reading a book in her cot (or perhaps doing the crossword). But she usually stays quiet and often it does seem like she goes back to sleep and ultimately, I don't really mind what she does in there, as long as I don't have to go in to start the day before 6am.  

The other thing which doesn't seem to have made all that much difference is that we have finally done away with the morning nursing session once and for all. It took about two weeks, with the odd relapse, to break the habit- and in the end, I was convinced that habit was all that it was. Part of my decision to persist with the early morning weaning was, admittedly, down to the ongoing difference of opinion between Knox and myself on the subject and my secret and somewhat childish desire to demonstrate that Botany's early waking had nothing to do with boobs and that I was right, right, right. But I stress that I wouldn't have done it unless I felt like the end consequence- that is, that she would effectively be more or less totally weaned as a result- was the right way to go at this point. And you know, I did feel that way. 

There was one morning when we sat together for ages and she would not let go and basically gnawed on me, while attempting endless spare nipple twiddling (a quirk that I used to tolerate but which was gradually starting to make me want to climb out of my freaking skin). It had none of the pleasure and sweetness that our bedtime nursing still has. And I thought to myself- "I am starting to detest this, and we're going to be late for work/nursery again, and I am done."

 She kicked up a fuss for awhile, that is, until she discovered the alternate joys of back rubbing ("Fingernails, Mummy! Use fingernails!") and in the end, it was so much easier than I had anticipated.

So, we're really down to one nursing session just before bedtime. With varying degrees of tolerance, Botany will allow other people, including Knox, to put her to bed if I need or want to be elsewhere, so I see no overwhelming reason to stop until she's more ready. Some nights, she doesn't even ask, so I am pretty sure we will get there before too long.    

*The only criticism I would make about the clock is that the back lighting is adjustable but when even when it is on on the dimmest setting, it can seem quite bright in a dark room. This worried me initially, that Botany would be awakened but it doesn't seem to be causing a problem, especially as it's more of an ambient sort of light and I have the clock positioned such that her head is still lying in shadow. Oh, and if they could come up with a remote control to change the pre-set times without having to go in, that would be absolute genius. 

Clean slate

I'm reading all your comments on the last post with great interest; many thanks to those who took the time to respond and share your own experiences.

Since several people asked, I think I may as well address the infertility angle to the discussion about having a second child. Essentially (and as strange as this may sound initially), I have no actual reason to believe that Knox and I are going to have the same experience that E. and I did in having trying to have a child. The only diagnosis, if you can call it that, that E. and I ever received during our infertility travails was "unexplained".  Further evidence would suggest that I can, in fact, get pregnant and carry a baby to term. So,given that history together with starting over with a new partner (with no infertility issues of his own that we know of), I like to think that in most respects, it's a clean slate as far as trying to conceive.

Ha. Just like that, I've canceled my own infertility subscription.

Now, I don't mean to tempt fate and I certainly don't mean to be cavalier about something that dogged my steps in such a terrible way for such a long time. I'm fully aware of the steady drum beat of impending doom that accompanies conception attempts for those of us pushing forty. But at the same time, unless a problem emerges or until there is something to suggest otherwise, I don't see any sense in panicking about ART. In any event, I'm fairly certain that's not a route I would want to go down again. I'm not going to categorically assert that I would NEVER avail myself of assisted conception treatments, since oh ha ha ha, that's exactly what I said when E. and I started trying to have a baby and look where that got me. I like to think that we could approach this on the basis of "well, if it happens, it happens and if not, there is at least a Botany." That we could set out with the equivalent of an infertility living will- no conception by extraordinary means, please.

But the mind is a funny thing, and I'm fully aware that there's a big emotional seismic shift when you discover that the thing you sort of wanted but weren't quite sure about? Oh, you actually can't have it anyway. Whereupon you burn with the white hot desire of a thousand suns for that which cannot be yours, and all bets are off as to what you would or would not do to get it. And I know that I would probably be content with just a Botany for the rest of my life, but Knox? Well, as someone quite rightly pointed out, there's a longing on his side as well that must be recognised, and I'm not entirely sure where it will take us, ultimately. 

My mindset to medical intervention at this point would include egg freezing- I confess I hadn't really considered such a thing. I think, if we were to delay trying, at most we'd be looking at six months or so, which doesn't seem like it's really worth it, somehow. And whether or not it's technically possible to freeze and reuse eggs in my case, neither Knox or I want to be embarking on parenting when we much older than we are now (I'm 39 and he is almost exactly one year younger than me.) If nothing else, dealing with sleep deprivation as we age seems to me a bit like recovering from a hangover- it takes us both that much longer to bounce back. And aside from any of that, it's expensive, it's not widely available in this country, and in light of my current battles to find time to get to the grocery store, I honestly don't think I could manage the scheduling required.

Speaking of scheduling, we change the clocks back here this coming Sunday. In anticipation, over the last few days, I decided I would slowly try to push Botany's bedtime back later so that by the weekend she's on target for a 9pm downtime. Meaning that she will be more likely to wake up at something approaching a civilised hour of 6pm (as opposed to, say, 4 or 5am). Unfortunately, my cunning plans are being thwarted by her persistant renewal of a 5.15am kick off the last couple days- which makes it hard to keep her up past 8pm.  Goddamn DST. I am grumpy and more than a little irritable about it all.

 

The arguments for and against

Having struggled to compose something coherent, I came to the conclusion that my feelings on having a second child are proving difficult and big and complicated (read: long-winded)- too much so to be dealt with in a single post. So I'm going to chop it up into a series, which I hope doesn't come off as too navel gazing- but if it does, at least it will be bite sized. Also, I realised that I tend to frame all my considerations on the subject quite negatively, so to ensure a sense of balance to the overall question, I'm going to try to put more in terms of arguments for and against. Ultimately, the whole discussion is perhaps futile in some ways, other than making me feel like I've thought it through properly since in many ways, it's really not all up to me.

Let us begin.

A.  How can I even think about having another child when I am often completely exhausted by the one that is already here?

This is probably the biggest stumbling block for me, and the area in which I have a lot of trouble deciding if I have I anything resembling perspective. I love Botany, I love her I love her I love her, but as I've explained previously, there are days when I feel like I've had every last wisp of energy sucked out of me by her relentless life force. In all honesty, it's recently become a tiny bit better- some of her behavioural wobbles have calmed down a bit and she is beginning to embark on a certain amount of imaginative play which does not seemingly require my constant, focused input. Some of the raging tantum tendencies have subsided. And she is quite a bit less prone to supergluing herself to my leg every moment and wailing the second I leave the room for any reason. But there are still good days and bad days; on the latter I want to hide in the pantry until her bedtime.

I have a lively, intense, spirited child. From the moment she was born until quite recently, I've been more or less left to deal with her on my own much of the time, all the while juggling the demands of dealing with a messy breakup, holding down a job and starting over. Now that Knox and I are finding our groove a little bit, we're doing better at sharing the parenting burden (at least as much as possible with him still away three days a week). It's lovely to see us gelling as a family and on those occasions, I feel like someone has lifted a weight off my shoulder. And I suddenly realise that this is what a great many other mothers have always had. That this was the way it was meant to be, with two parents in the equation. That the fact that I was grossly shortchanged on the help and support I needed for a major portion of her life should not colour my expectations as to what it would be like having two childen. And I get this wave of hope that we could pull it off, that it would be OK, that it wouldn't be like last time. But- at least in the short term, I'm still partly stuck managing on my own with Botany, which makes it hard to see my way to that with complete clarity and certainty. 

Knox once pointed out to me that he didn't want the fact that Botany has been, to a degree, "difficult" to be the deciding factor in whether we had a second child. I thought that was fair enough point, since why should be effectively be up to her? I am also perhaps foolhardy enough to believe that all kids are different and we could actually wind up with a easygoing baby. I also think that some of the problems I have encountered with Botany are largely the result of my inexperience and anxiety as a first time parent together together with the circumstances we found ourselves in and my role as the one constant presence in her life (as well as my earlier tendency to give in to her every whim so as to function day  to day/keep the peace).

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that- whether due to Botany's inherent temperment or from other factors- there are some things which I am very loathe to even contemplate going through again.

So, argument one for- Chances are, it'd be so much better the second time around, for so many reasons! I'm older! I'm wiser! Inow know that I am one tough cookie and clearly I can handle all manner of chaos and complication. Plus, two parents in a committed relationship! Imagine! 

Argument against- I've already been through a certain amount of crap in the first two years of my first child's life and I'm feeling a little drained as a result. I'm not sure I'm up to dealing with whatever comes my way. If anythings went badly- not so much in terms of the short term bouts of suckiness but more in a large scale pemanent sense, I fear I would probably go nuts or else expire in a quiet *whuft* of tired air.

 

Tweeting with my coat on

When I was a kid, I vividly remember coming home from being out somewhere with my mother- probably from one of the endless trips to ballet lessons, flute lessons, voice lessons, Girl Scouts, drama club, gymnastics or visiting one of my friends- all of whom lived at least 45 minutes away. Bear in mind that I grew up in rural Driveforeversville, USA. My mother, without even taking off her coat, would immediately embark on a task, such as unloading the dishwasher or feeding the cat or heating up something on the stove. It's that last one I can recall so clearly- her small back in her bright red winter coat, stirring earnestly over the burners while I stood on the other side of the kitchen watching her and (obviously not doing much to assist, other than staying out of the way.)

For years, I never understood what would compel someone to behave that way- to be so frantic and consumed with chores that they couldn't even take time to get their outerwear off when coming inside. And then I became a mother. Tonight I caught myself opening the mail, unwrapping a smoothie carton to give to Botany, including precision straw work, unpacking her lunch bag and starting up the crockpot with tomorrow's dinner, before realising that I myself had failed to remove my own coat. Huh.

I'm sort of sick of blogging about how busy I am all the time, probably as much as you are tired of reading about it, but as a theme in my life, it is absolutely pervasive. It is definitely on the list of reasons (that I will soon share with you) as to why I am petrified- oops, I mean ambivalent, about having another kid. I often feel that if I am stretched any thinner, I will just become totally unglued. And then I worry that I am just a big, selfish whiner, and I should just get used to (and get over) the reality that parenting-at least in the early years- means No Time to Do Anything for Self, much less Remove Coat.

But more on that another time (if I ever finish writing the post.) In the meantime, I have discovered Twitter. Ah, Twitter. You know, I'd like to say that I was simply resisting it for ages for a number of reasons but the bottom line is that I just didn't get it. I mean, I knew roughly what it involved and I knew people that Tweeted or Twittered or whatever you call it, but frankly, I could not quite grasp what all the fuss was about. Or why anyone would actively want to do it.

And then it started to bug me that I didn't get it. I began to have this sneaking suspicion that everybody else in the entire Internetoverse had discovered something that I was too dense (or, erm, too lazy) to figure out. I found myself having entire conversations about it in my head- that is, my lack of Twittery- first, in the small spaces of the day when I was too tired to think about anything else, and then in the shower, driving to work, rocking Botany to sleep in the dark.

Finally it dawned on me that part of the problem was that before now, I wasn't really sure that anyone would be remotely interested in my micro-streams of consciousness. But then, I was thinking of the Real Me, not the Alter Ego that inhabits this blog and writes freely about all manner of things that people occasionally seem to find interesting. It also seemed a tidy solution for being able to spurt out those little clips that do occur to me but which I can't see a way to making into big long blog posts. So when I had the great epiphany to join the Twitter collective as Barren Mare*, it felt like I had solved some tremendous puzzle.

Which for everyone else is possibly like, "Yeah. Obviously. Duh".

Anyway, should you happen feel compelled to follow whatever it I have to say on a (hopefully more frequent) sound bite basis, the linky thing for doing so is now on the blog sidebar. Or you can just read the most recent entries when you visit here, thus throwing a few pence toward some ad revenue into my begging hat.

*I had actually considered at one point changing the name of the blog. But then, you know, it might be relevant again depending on how Project Second goes. And also, it seems a bit like bad luck. You know, like changing the name of a boat spells certain doom.

Temporary surfacing

I had this somewhat wacky notion that once the wedding over, I would find myself with more spare time. The reality is that in the months leading up to the event, and during all the planning, I was simply burning the candle at both ends even more than usual- stretching myself to 11.30pm or midnight (or even later) bedtimes, instead of the more sensible 10pm needed to maintain the health and sanity of someone needing to get up again at 6am with a lively toddler. Now that the normal routine has resumed, I have discovered that there is still the same endless amount of stuff to do in the short space of evening once Botany finally goes to sleep, bar fretting over place settings and menu choices and play lists of music. To my disappointment, I also realised that a backlog had accumulated in other places- long overdue emails still needing to be sent. A winter wardrobe woefully in need of freshening up. The festive season wriggling like chorus girl in her underwear, one foot in her stockings and half made up, but about to burst forth into as a full blown Christmas diva, demanding cards and presents and lovingly hand crafted decorations.   

For the moment, though, my foot has had to come off the gas a little. Part of it is Knox's influence- he is much better at chilling out than I am. I am trying to give myself permission to get to bed at a reasonable hour, even though everyday it means I leave a list of items undone. When I get a minute for some down time, I am forcing myself to take the opportunity to relax a little. And I am becoming aware that my body- and perhaps my mind- really needs it. When E. came to take Botany for the day over the weekend, I went back to bed, thinking I would have a short nap, and I woke up five hours later. Tonight, instead of sitting writing the gazillion thank you cards that are now a month overdue, I sat melded to the sofa, watching some mindless pap on television for an hour. 

It feels more surfacing for a short time, before taking a long breath before the next deep, deep dive, than a permanent change of pace. That's particularly true, in that it looks like we're going to solve the Knox employment/two city conundrum by buying a business to run. The location is perfect in that it's just up the street from our flat. The downside is that he's never run a business of this type before and it's a little risky and at least initially, it's likely to be incredibly stressful and consume all of his waking moments. Which means that I'll probably continue to shoulder much of the burden of running our home- I'm in a happy position in that I feel confident about managing it, given that I've basically done so for this long, but I also feel a bit weary about the whole prospect. I was ready for things to get a little easier; however, I'm becoming resigned to the idea that there is no perfect solutions and there are a hell of a lot more pros to at least having Knox and I living in the same place seven days a week. And if nothing else, it's going to be fun and challenging and exciting, though possibly in the same way that paddling a canoe through a crocodile invested swamp gets the heart rate going.  

Oh, and Knox really wants to start trying for us to have a baby together, as soon as possible. It's of course far from being the optimum time but the old saying is true in that there never really is a perfect time, is there?  I turned 39 a few weeks ago and it's difficult to have a conversation about our future without being drowned out by the sound of the ticking toward the deadline of the expiration of any remaining fertility. And other than a panicked sense of being about to run out of time, the thoughts I have about the whole idea of a second child are so complicated and confused I am not even sure how to begin talking about it except to say Oh. My. God.