There is a stack of books sitting on one of the tallboys in our bedroom.
There’s Kaz Cooke’s Up The Duff and that classic, What To Expect When You’re Expecting.
They have stayed there untouched and unnoticed since the awfulness of last September.
This week I have longed to creep up, take one in my hands and tenderly wipe the fuzzy film of dust from its cover.
I have really wanted to flick through the pages once again; I yearn to have been given cause to do so.
I almost did that last night, but then I checked myself, and told myself to be patient. To wait.
We are just over half-way through our two-week wait and I am longing for so much.
Of course, longing to be pregnant this time and longing for caffeine and red wine on these cold winter nights; but also longing for some feeling in my belly, screw how early it is.
The first four days after the transfer I felt sick, and then this Monday afternoon,
I went back to normal. I have felt fine and completely normal ever since.
And I don’t like it.
I wish to be nauseous, vomity and bone-weary tired, thank you very much. Stat!
I can’t remember if I felt anything during the last two-week wait. I don’t think I did, just worry and vulnerability.
They are certainly back again, but I wish I felt more. Alright I don’t expect baby kicks per se, but something would be nice.
Plus I am also still taking progesterone, so even though I might get abdominal tiny twinges, every time I pass them off as some weird effect of that stuff.
I am due for my period in the middle of next week, and we can do a test on the Thursday. I also wonder what effect the progesterone will have on my period, if it will delay it...so I am cautious not to think about getting to excited if my period doesn’t come.
During some moments in the day, I will temporarily forget the limbo we are in, and then it will flick back into the forefront of my mind.
When that happens, a little part of me is disappointed because I wish I was back in that blissfully-ignorant state from a few seconds before.
The problem is that we know the precise minute the embryo is implanted.
The problem is that we have been counting the hours and the days since...a practice that only makes them hitch a ride with the Torture Tortoise.
No alternative but to wait.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Rule of three
I could be pregnant right now, as I sit here typing these words.
But I won’t know for sure until 13 more days have passed.
We went to Brisbane yesterday for a frozen embryo transfer (FET). It happened just before 12.30pm.
They thawed three embryos.
Earlier, we happened to randomly choose locker three to secure our stuff while we changed into hospital theatre garb, and we were in hospital theatre three.
Later that night when we went out for dinner, our table number was 133 and our son is 3. He often notices it on street signs or on TV and will proclaim it is “his” number.
Just sayin’.
And you know the other completely freaky thing? The transfer that resulted in our son happened on June 2 also. The very same date. We had no idea until T looked in her phone calendar last night.
One of the embryos didn’t survive the thaw, the other two did.
One performed ok, but the clear “leading embryo” had divided into eight cells and was a Grade 4, which the scientist told us was above average.
Five minutes later when he came in with the long white syringey thing containing the embryo, he said it had divided into another cell just that morning...so it is very strong.
As for the remaining embryo, I will ring on Monday to see if it will survive another freeze, as they like to wait until about day five before making that call.
The mood was quite jovial in the theatre, with many a joke about the speculum, Noosa, car parks and idiot former patients our doctor had had.
And if you can’t laugh about a speculum, what can you laugh at?
In a few minutes it was done, and the scientist’s voice through the theatre intercom signalled the end of the procedure: “Catheter is clear”.
Well I suppose you wouldn’t want to hop down and leave without some check that the minuscule embryo had in fact been ejected from the syringe to its womby home.
My head is certainly spinning to be back in this position again, shouldering the burden of losing our baby last year.
I wish I had a camera inside me so I could monitor it and see what it’s doing. That is reality TV I would gladly watch! 24 hours. A day.
But I am excited. I noticed yesterday that I often absent-mindedly started speeding while on the highway to our appointment.
I am taking progesterone pessaries, one at night, and will most likely go straight for a blood test in a fortnight, as the progesterone can confuse the home pregnancy test kits and I really don’t want to have my hopes unfairly raised!
In the meantime, it’s no coffee, alcohol, sushi, soft cheese, barbecued chicken and all that other good stuff.
It’s suddenly remembering the whole baby phase that toddler-hood evaporates from memory...the nappies, sterilising bottles, smashed food, lack of sleep, injections, crawling and tiny humans that cannot talk to you. Holy shit!
While we wait.
God I hope this one sticks.
But I won’t know for sure until 13 more days have passed.
We went to Brisbane yesterday for a frozen embryo transfer (FET). It happened just before 12.30pm.
They thawed three embryos.
Earlier, we happened to randomly choose locker three to secure our stuff while we changed into hospital theatre garb, and we were in hospital theatre three.
Later that night when we went out for dinner, our table number was 133 and our son is 3. He often notices it on street signs or on TV and will proclaim it is “his” number.
Just sayin’.
And you know the other completely freaky thing? The transfer that resulted in our son happened on June 2 also. The very same date. We had no idea until T looked in her phone calendar last night.
One of the embryos didn’t survive the thaw, the other two did.
One performed ok, but the clear “leading embryo” had divided into eight cells and was a Grade 4, which the scientist told us was above average.
Five minutes later when he came in with the long white syringey thing containing the embryo, he said it had divided into another cell just that morning...so it is very strong.
As for the remaining embryo, I will ring on Monday to see if it will survive another freeze, as they like to wait until about day five before making that call.
The mood was quite jovial in the theatre, with many a joke about the speculum, Noosa, car parks and idiot former patients our doctor had had.
And if you can’t laugh about a speculum, what can you laugh at?
In a few minutes it was done, and the scientist’s voice through the theatre intercom signalled the end of the procedure: “Catheter is clear”.
Well I suppose you wouldn’t want to hop down and leave without some check that the minuscule embryo had in fact been ejected from the syringe to its womby home.
My head is certainly spinning to be back in this position again, shouldering the burden of losing our baby last year.
I wish I had a camera inside me so I could monitor it and see what it’s doing. That is reality TV I would gladly watch! 24 hours. A day.
But I am excited. I noticed yesterday that I often absent-mindedly started speeding while on the highway to our appointment.
I am taking progesterone pessaries, one at night, and will most likely go straight for a blood test in a fortnight, as the progesterone can confuse the home pregnancy test kits and I really don’t want to have my hopes unfairly raised!
In the meantime, it’s no coffee, alcohol, sushi, soft cheese, barbecued chicken and all that other good stuff.
It’s suddenly remembering the whole baby phase that toddler-hood evaporates from memory...the nappies, sterilising bottles, smashed food, lack of sleep, injections, crawling and tiny humans that cannot talk to you. Holy shit!
While we wait.
God I hope this one sticks.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Garbage trucks at dawn
What a week it has been.
Wow. I have spent some 14 years as a journalist, being a Stockholm Syndrome hostage to a cruel master who greedily holds close the Holy Grail secret that finally reveals the skill of writing a first par that grabs the reader’s attention sufficiently to ensure readership into pars two and beyond – and that is the best I can come up with?
Hmm, and supposedly 14 years learning to write more concisely hey? Not.
Anyway.
It has been quite a week. Throw in two 4.30am starts (did you know it’s dark then?) with a three-year-old in tow for two early weekday trips to Brisbane and one bizarre menstrual cycle that saw me break with a 20-year tradition and ovulate early rather than late and the upshot is, we missed our chance at an embryo transfer this month.
But that is fine. Honestly.
We didn’t waste an embryo, we became increasingly familiar with a new doctor and new IVF process after losing our baby last year and those dawn starts enabled more than 10 sightings of our son’s current obsession, garbage trucks. So you know, this cloud is silver-tinged on more than just its lining, people!
Our new doc is a bit different, in that he prefers to do a urinary LH testing kit, rather than blood tests, to determine when ovulation is happening.
We went down last Thursday and I started the test on Friday morning, finishing five days later. There was a slight mini surge on day four, and nothing on the other days.
Weird.
Even the doc’s face screwed up a bit in confusion – and this guy has three decades of practical experience in women’s goings-on “down there”. But he did say some women just have this happen sometimes; they don’t ovulate, they ovulate early or they ovulate, um, late.
It was a long weekend here, so I was told to call the doc’s office with a progress report on Tuesday morning. In my mind, I had vaguely anticipated ringing in on Tuesday and expecting to get an appointment to go into theatre for a frozen embryo transfer on either Thursday or Friday.
Instead, I got a second appointment the next day and an increasing feeling that we had missed the bus.
I had a bit of a cry at that realisation...but I now realise I only reacted that way because I had done my old trick of anticipating again.
When reality was different to what I had anticipated, I temporarily lost it.
Jesus Mary and Joseph, you would think I would have learned to go with that damn flow by now. Especially after everything that happened.
But you know that saying about tricks and old dogs.
Anyway, by the time we had gone for our second appointment and I had rung in for the blood results, I kind of knew our opportunity had gone.
Turns out I was three days post ovulation and while the doc said he could have tried a transfer today, it would have been guesswork and unlikely to take.
And by then, I was calm and relieved.
It is fine. Honestly.
And that bloody reason everyone bangs on about to explain the why of strange things sometimes does actually exist. Here I was thinking it was some new age figment...
Perhaps my body is not quite ready yet. Perhaps my mind isn’t either.
Some other force may have been at work here to ensure all this scheme of things stuff just works out in the end.
Besides, we will be back counting city rubbish trucks at dawn in four short weeks.
Bring it on!
Wow. I have spent some 14 years as a journalist, being a Stockholm Syndrome hostage to a cruel master who greedily holds close the Holy Grail secret that finally reveals the skill of writing a first par that grabs the reader’s attention sufficiently to ensure readership into pars two and beyond – and that is the best I can come up with?
Hmm, and supposedly 14 years learning to write more concisely hey? Not.
Anyway.
It has been quite a week. Throw in two 4.30am starts (did you know it’s dark then?) with a three-year-old in tow for two early weekday trips to Brisbane and one bizarre menstrual cycle that saw me break with a 20-year tradition and ovulate early rather than late and the upshot is, we missed our chance at an embryo transfer this month.
But that is fine. Honestly.
We didn’t waste an embryo, we became increasingly familiar with a new doctor and new IVF process after losing our baby last year and those dawn starts enabled more than 10 sightings of our son’s current obsession, garbage trucks. So you know, this cloud is silver-tinged on more than just its lining, people!
Our new doc is a bit different, in that he prefers to do a urinary LH testing kit, rather than blood tests, to determine when ovulation is happening.
We went down last Thursday and I started the test on Friday morning, finishing five days later. There was a slight mini surge on day four, and nothing on the other days.
Weird.
Even the doc’s face screwed up a bit in confusion – and this guy has three decades of practical experience in women’s goings-on “down there”. But he did say some women just have this happen sometimes; they don’t ovulate, they ovulate early or they ovulate, um, late.
It was a long weekend here, so I was told to call the doc’s office with a progress report on Tuesday morning. In my mind, I had vaguely anticipated ringing in on Tuesday and expecting to get an appointment to go into theatre for a frozen embryo transfer on either Thursday or Friday.
Instead, I got a second appointment the next day and an increasing feeling that we had missed the bus.
I had a bit of a cry at that realisation...but I now realise I only reacted that way because I had done my old trick of anticipating again.
When reality was different to what I had anticipated, I temporarily lost it.
Jesus Mary and Joseph, you would think I would have learned to go with that damn flow by now. Especially after everything that happened.
But you know that saying about tricks and old dogs.
Anyway, by the time we had gone for our second appointment and I had rung in for the blood results, I kind of knew our opportunity had gone.
Turns out I was three days post ovulation and while the doc said he could have tried a transfer today, it would have been guesswork and unlikely to take.
And by then, I was calm and relieved.
It is fine. Honestly.
And that bloody reason everyone bangs on about to explain the why of strange things sometimes does actually exist. Here I was thinking it was some new age figment...
Perhaps my body is not quite ready yet. Perhaps my mind isn’t either.
Some other force may have been at work here to ensure all this scheme of things stuff just works out in the end.
Besides, we will be back counting city rubbish trucks at dawn in four short weeks.
Bring it on!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Doctor's note
For months I have had a small white piece of paper sitting snugly in my purse.
It has been there since we met our interesting new IVF doctor Dr Hynes to discuss the what-next details.
This is what it says:
Phone Hynes secretary (Barbara) about day 5 or 6. “See JH day 11 or 12 for scan/blood”
I particularly like his use of inverted commas to signify speech, as in my speech, when talking to Barbara on the phone.
I am seriously considering actually saying those words verbatim when Barbara takes my call.
And then I will hang up.
I guess given his previous efforts, I should be glad the small note is expletive-free. His speech is certainly not.
And I have decided that I will say something about that next time. If our boy is in the room, and he most likely will be, that sort of language is unacceptable.
Yes, that note has sat all-but undisturbed in my purse for months. I rarely have cause to trouble the note-holding compartments of my purse for I am someone not to be trusted with money in denominations greater than the rattling, gold or silver kind.
I have been reduced to shekels and may as well sport a Robin Hood-style pouch affixed to my belt (or indeed pop it on the end of a long stick I could jauntily carry on my shoulder) for the purpose of holding my jangling coinage, such is the rarity of my possession of any currency in note form.
Anyway.
I had cause to take that doctor’s note out over the weekend.
This is the month...the month I was waiting for my period to signal the date of day one. The cycle when we try again.
Well, it is day three right now and we are GO for launch Houston!
So I will call Wednesday and probably see the doctor just after Easter for an embryo transfer.
Holy shitting Easter eggs, Batman.
I am scared, but ready.
I think.
I feel an almost paralysing apprehension about this, but I know I have to get through it.
I try not to think about it too much, or indeed place too much weight on this first embryo transfer.
Of course, it would be wonderful if that one took, but I need to be mindful that it won’t. And I need to be prepared for that, because the disappointment this time, after everything that happened before, could cripple me.
Most days, I am not thinking about it, and just getting on with things.
But sometimes, it fills every fold of my brain.
I resolve to be ZEN about this. That’s Zero Encroachment of the Negative.
I figure if I write it down, I might just start believing it.
Eeek.
It has been there since we met our interesting new IVF doctor Dr Hynes to discuss the what-next details.
This is what it says:
Phone Hynes secretary (Barbara) about day 5 or 6. “See JH day 11 or 12 for scan/blood”
I particularly like his use of inverted commas to signify speech, as in my speech, when talking to Barbara on the phone.
I am seriously considering actually saying those words verbatim when Barbara takes my call.
And then I will hang up.
I guess given his previous efforts, I should be glad the small note is expletive-free. His speech is certainly not.
And I have decided that I will say something about that next time. If our boy is in the room, and he most likely will be, that sort of language is unacceptable.
Yes, that note has sat all-but undisturbed in my purse for months. I rarely have cause to trouble the note-holding compartments of my purse for I am someone not to be trusted with money in denominations greater than the rattling, gold or silver kind.
I have been reduced to shekels and may as well sport a Robin Hood-style pouch affixed to my belt (or indeed pop it on the end of a long stick I could jauntily carry on my shoulder) for the purpose of holding my jangling coinage, such is the rarity of my possession of any currency in note form.
Anyway.
I had cause to take that doctor’s note out over the weekend.
This is the month...the month I was waiting for my period to signal the date of day one. The cycle when we try again.
Well, it is day three right now and we are GO for launch Houston!
So I will call Wednesday and probably see the doctor just after Easter for an embryo transfer.
Holy shitting Easter eggs, Batman.
I am scared, but ready.
I think.
I feel an almost paralysing apprehension about this, but I know I have to get through it.
I try not to think about it too much, or indeed place too much weight on this first embryo transfer.
Of course, it would be wonderful if that one took, but I need to be mindful that it won’t. And I need to be prepared for that, because the disappointment this time, after everything that happened before, could cripple me.
Most days, I am not thinking about it, and just getting on with things.
But sometimes, it fills every fold of my brain.
I resolve to be ZEN about this. That’s Zero Encroachment of the Negative.
I figure if I write it down, I might just start believing it.
Eeek.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Five things I don’t understand
1. Street lights.
Why they go off when you walk under them. Often. And right at that exact moment as you walk into the light they emit.
And it doesn’t just happen once, to be so inconsequential that you don’t even notice it or give it another thought.
It happens in waves of moments, like eight times in a week.
It serves no purpose whatsoever other than to freak the shit out of you and have you dreaming for weeks that the cursed evil god of fate has sent you a clear message that you will meet a gruesome death because the light was evidently a symbol of your life force. A life force that is now snuffed out.
Also, why are some of them never turned off? We have two just up the road from our house and no matter what time of day or night we drive past, they are on.
Every time I remind myself that I must call the electricity company, remembering a scheme where you could get paid (some ridiculous amount, but it was free money from the government) if you dobbed in a faulty street light.
Unfortunately, three seconds later, I am that goldfish in a bowl and the reminder is gone. Oh look, a light. (Swim, swim, swim)
Oh look, a light. (Swim, swim, swim) Hey, where did that light come from? (Swim, swim, swim)
2. Bogan ute adornment
I was driving to work the other day and I sat behind an ordinary ute that was made disgustingly extraordinary with the addition of two embellishments.
One was a delightful sticker across the base of the rear window that proclaimed the vehicle in front of me to be a “uterus”; and the other was a novelty scrotum, moulded out of shiny stainless steel and dangling from the undercarriage.
They are apparently called Truck Nutz.
I have nothing to say about that.
Back to the ute: here was a very hermaphroditic vehicle lumbering along the bitumen before me – one with a uterus and a set of testicles.
No confusing the human variety of the driver I caught a glimpse of as I drove past: genuine, bona fide ranga bogan neanderthal and I would willingly stake my life on the fact that he himself has neither a uterus, or indeed a set of balls that big.
Keep on compensating, partner...
3. Who the shit was Jack Russell and why a dog was named after him?
Ok, so Google can help correct this horrendous gap in my knowledge, but really. Apparently the esteemed Mr Russell spotted a “little white terrier bitch” while a student at Oxford in early 19th century Britain. He “bought the bitch on the spot” – surely no funnier words have been written – and she became the “foundation bitch” – ok, they are the funniest – of a line of fox hunting terriers that would eventually come to be known as Jack Russells.
4. Why there is not a pepper grinder on God’s green earth that works/lasts
Basically you can interchange pepper grinder with just about any manufactured product in these consumerist, disposable days. They do not make things to last anymore and I for one am not going to take it any more!
We have gone through about 17,267 in my lifetime alone. They either fall apart, work for a week and then freeze up, refuse to deliver any pepper at all, or when they do, it is either so fine that it is an invisible pepper mist or it is so coarse that you may as well bounce a teaspoon of whole peppercorns on your dinner while throwing the blasted thing at the dog.
5. Why your clothes don’t fit anymore
Ok, so barring major weight gain, why do tops that sat below your ass five years ago now could be worn as crop tops barely covering your boobs?
I blame point four – they don’t make things like they used to. So all our clothes are being made of cheap cotton in cheap overseas factories that essentially shrink as they age.
Humans on the other hand, do a simultaneous expand with age. Depending on genetics, this expansion can happen either up or down.
And while I don’t think I have stacked on much more weight than my 20s, my torso has seriously lengthened.
I shudder to think what I will look like in my 50s. Maybe something like this...
We will resume normal IVF programming in a few weeks. Thank you for your patience.
Why they go off when you walk under them. Often. And right at that exact moment as you walk into the light they emit.
And it doesn’t just happen once, to be so inconsequential that you don’t even notice it or give it another thought.
It happens in waves of moments, like eight times in a week.
It serves no purpose whatsoever other than to freak the shit out of you and have you dreaming for weeks that the cursed evil god of fate has sent you a clear message that you will meet a gruesome death because the light was evidently a symbol of your life force. A life force that is now snuffed out.
Also, why are some of them never turned off? We have two just up the road from our house and no matter what time of day or night we drive past, they are on.
Every time I remind myself that I must call the electricity company, remembering a scheme where you could get paid (some ridiculous amount, but it was free money from the government) if you dobbed in a faulty street light.
Unfortunately, three seconds later, I am that goldfish in a bowl and the reminder is gone. Oh look, a light. (Swim, swim, swim)
Oh look, a light. (Swim, swim, swim) Hey, where did that light come from? (Swim, swim, swim)
2. Bogan ute adornment
I was driving to work the other day and I sat behind an ordinary ute that was made disgustingly extraordinary with the addition of two embellishments.
One was a delightful sticker across the base of the rear window that proclaimed the vehicle in front of me to be a “uterus”; and the other was a novelty scrotum, moulded out of shiny stainless steel and dangling from the undercarriage.
They are apparently called Truck Nutz.
I have nothing to say about that.
Back to the ute: here was a very hermaphroditic vehicle lumbering along the bitumen before me – one with a uterus and a set of testicles.
No confusing the human variety of the driver I caught a glimpse of as I drove past: genuine, bona fide ranga bogan neanderthal and I would willingly stake my life on the fact that he himself has neither a uterus, or indeed a set of balls that big.
Keep on compensating, partner...
3. Who the shit was Jack Russell and why a dog was named after him?
Ok, so Google can help correct this horrendous gap in my knowledge, but really. Apparently the esteemed Mr Russell spotted a “little white terrier bitch” while a student at Oxford in early 19th century Britain. He “bought the bitch on the spot” – surely no funnier words have been written – and she became the “foundation bitch” – ok, they are the funniest – of a line of fox hunting terriers that would eventually come to be known as Jack Russells.
4. Why there is not a pepper grinder on God’s green earth that works/lasts
Basically you can interchange pepper grinder with just about any manufactured product in these consumerist, disposable days. They do not make things to last anymore and I for one am not going to take it any more!
We have gone through about 17,267 in my lifetime alone. They either fall apart, work for a week and then freeze up, refuse to deliver any pepper at all, or when they do, it is either so fine that it is an invisible pepper mist or it is so coarse that you may as well bounce a teaspoon of whole peppercorns on your dinner while throwing the blasted thing at the dog.
5. Why your clothes don’t fit anymore
Ok, so barring major weight gain, why do tops that sat below your ass five years ago now could be worn as crop tops barely covering your boobs?
I blame point four – they don’t make things like they used to. So all our clothes are being made of cheap cotton in cheap overseas factories that essentially shrink as they age.
Humans on the other hand, do a simultaneous expand with age. Depending on genetics, this expansion can happen either up or down.
And while I don’t think I have stacked on much more weight than my 20s, my torso has seriously lengthened.
I shudder to think what I will look like in my 50s. Maybe something like this...
We will resume normal IVF programming in a few weeks. Thank you for your patience.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Just plain weird
T's parents visited from country South Australia this week.
But I didn't see them. Her father refuses to see me or acknowledge me.
They stayed a week.
An entire week, from Sunday to Sunday and I did not see them once. Not even for a split second.
They stayed a suburb away.
T took our little boy to them each day, or she took him to his regular weekly activities like swimming and gym. And they tagged along.
There were no combined dinners, no "let's go out together and try this new Italian place I heard about" or "let's just grab a shnitty at the RSL tonight".
We dropped him off yesterday, Saturday, to spend the day with them while we had a hit of tennis and did some shopping.
I sat by myself in the car while T took him upstairs, and I contemplated the ridiculous situation as the traffic whizzed by my open window.
T's father would rather not have me around as a reminder of the sort of relationship his daughter is living in. A relationship he does not condone.
We think he believes I have corrupted their daughter...that I have got my hooks into her and turned her gay.
They must be pretty powerful hooks that attach with some sort of crazy-concrete super glue, because they've stuck and stayed in for coming up to eight years now...
There are so many things wrong with this situation.
Firstly, let me just vent in my not-always-fair black-and-white way. T and her mum should grow some balls, tell this idiot to get his head out of his own bigoted ass and wake the fuck up to the fact that life is short, his daughter is happy, and this is her CHOICE.
They should both STOP, right now, bowing down to this fuckwit and stop letting him call the shots, stop him standing in the way of the happiness that should come from seeing their daughter living the fulfilled, nurturing life she does: as one integral part of a three-person family.
If he wants to sit in a chair and grumble and moan about a kid having two dykes for parents, then he can do it. BY HIMSELF.
How dare he draw everyone around him into that swirling black hole of hatred and ignorance?
Right, now might be a good time for the rational me to step in. T has always had a brilliant relationship with her father...daddy's little girl and all that.
Of course, that went haywire and pretty much exploded into nothingness when she revealed the truth about us.
If any of my parents or loved ones had have reacted the way he did at the time that news was shared, not only would I never speak to them again, I would in fact take great glee in cutting them completely from my life. Much like a cancerous boil is sliced off with a white-hot scalpel. And with much relief afterwards.
I would be flippant and carefree about denying them, and gain salacious pleasure from rising an axe above my head - the rustier the better - and slamming it down on our relationship with a hefty cleave of intent.
Yes, you would be wise not to cross me.
But of course, that is easy for me to say when I am over here in the fortunate comfort of a supportive and loving reaction from every single member of my family.
And you know what is even weirder about all of this? He doted on J and both of them were delightfully astounded at his personality, his speech, his development, his mannerisms and his good behaviour (he really is an angel and this might sound corny, but almost every day, I thank whoever was responsible for blessing us with such a beautiful boy).
So, put that in your freaking pipe and smoke it, old man. Two women - and two women you knew and really liked before you found out we were in a relationship - can raise a smart, sensitive and caring boy.
If it was me, you would never get to see him. Because this type of behaviour makes me come over all vindictive. If it was me, I would take great joy in depriving you of him. Just as you are depriving your daughter from being completely honest about her life and the person she is, in her beautiful soul.
But I am slowly learning to chill about it. Firstly, it only makes me angrier if he dares to steal emotional energy from me, so I must put it out of my mind.
And secondly, I don't want to be another source of anxiety for poor T in all this. I won't be a slice of bread in this disgusting, mixed-up sandwich - and she should not be forced into the middle.
I understand it is not so easy for her to cut him out and stand up to him. We are different people and this is her father.
But she has always said that once the next baby comes along, if they wish to treat the kids differently (because I will be having the next one), that will be the end of their involvement in our lives.
Another reason why I so wished to be cradling a two-week old in my arms right now.
The final, relieved cleave could have already been cleft and we might be able to move on from this torment limbo...
But I didn't see them. Her father refuses to see me or acknowledge me.
They stayed a week.
An entire week, from Sunday to Sunday and I did not see them once. Not even for a split second.
They stayed a suburb away.
T took our little boy to them each day, or she took him to his regular weekly activities like swimming and gym. And they tagged along.
There were no combined dinners, no "let's go out together and try this new Italian place I heard about" or "let's just grab a shnitty at the RSL tonight".
We dropped him off yesterday, Saturday, to spend the day with them while we had a hit of tennis and did some shopping.
I sat by myself in the car while T took him upstairs, and I contemplated the ridiculous situation as the traffic whizzed by my open window.
T's father would rather not have me around as a reminder of the sort of relationship his daughter is living in. A relationship he does not condone.
We think he believes I have corrupted their daughter...that I have got my hooks into her and turned her gay.
They must be pretty powerful hooks that attach with some sort of crazy-concrete super glue, because they've stuck and stayed in for coming up to eight years now...
There are so many things wrong with this situation.
Firstly, let me just vent in my not-always-fair black-and-white way. T and her mum should grow some balls, tell this idiot to get his head out of his own bigoted ass and wake the fuck up to the fact that life is short, his daughter is happy, and this is her CHOICE.
They should both STOP, right now, bowing down to this fuckwit and stop letting him call the shots, stop him standing in the way of the happiness that should come from seeing their daughter living the fulfilled, nurturing life she does: as one integral part of a three-person family.
If he wants to sit in a chair and grumble and moan about a kid having two dykes for parents, then he can do it. BY HIMSELF.
How dare he draw everyone around him into that swirling black hole of hatred and ignorance?
Right, now might be a good time for the rational me to step in. T has always had a brilliant relationship with her father...daddy's little girl and all that.
Of course, that went haywire and pretty much exploded into nothingness when she revealed the truth about us.
If any of my parents or loved ones had have reacted the way he did at the time that news was shared, not only would I never speak to them again, I would in fact take great glee in cutting them completely from my life. Much like a cancerous boil is sliced off with a white-hot scalpel. And with much relief afterwards.
I would be flippant and carefree about denying them, and gain salacious pleasure from rising an axe above my head - the rustier the better - and slamming it down on our relationship with a hefty cleave of intent.
Yes, you would be wise not to cross me.
But of course, that is easy for me to say when I am over here in the fortunate comfort of a supportive and loving reaction from every single member of my family.
And you know what is even weirder about all of this? He doted on J and both of them were delightfully astounded at his personality, his speech, his development, his mannerisms and his good behaviour (he really is an angel and this might sound corny, but almost every day, I thank whoever was responsible for blessing us with such a beautiful boy).
So, put that in your freaking pipe and smoke it, old man. Two women - and two women you knew and really liked before you found out we were in a relationship - can raise a smart, sensitive and caring boy.
If it was me, you would never get to see him. Because this type of behaviour makes me come over all vindictive. If it was me, I would take great joy in depriving you of him. Just as you are depriving your daughter from being completely honest about her life and the person she is, in her beautiful soul.
But I am slowly learning to chill about it. Firstly, it only makes me angrier if he dares to steal emotional energy from me, so I must put it out of my mind.
And secondly, I don't want to be another source of anxiety for poor T in all this. I won't be a slice of bread in this disgusting, mixed-up sandwich - and she should not be forced into the middle.
I understand it is not so easy for her to cut him out and stand up to him. We are different people and this is her father.
But she has always said that once the next baby comes along, if they wish to treat the kids differently (because I will be having the next one), that will be the end of their involvement in our lives.
Another reason why I so wished to be cradling a two-week old in my arms right now.
The final, relieved cleave could have already been cleft and we might be able to move on from this torment limbo...
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Present and accounted for
Where on earth did that time go?
My due date has been and gone since we last spoke, so that may go some way to explain the intermittency of my posting.
Hell, that was a bad weekend. March 5 fell on a Saturday and it was horrific, and not only for the trip to a shopping centre.
Ha. I don’t know what we had to buy there, looking back now, but we had arranged my relatives to take Jay from lunchtime Saturday until Sunday morning...just because of the day it was.
So, whenever we manage to extricate ourselves from toddler-ville, thoughts automatically turn to what toddler-free activities we need to get accomplished. Somehow in the course of a busy life, carefree whimsical things of such wicked abandon like sleeping in, watching what we want on TV, reading entire book chapters or a newspaper uninterrupted, going out for dinner and not wolfing down our meal because we are already 45 minutes past young master’s bedtime ... disappear from our thought possibilities. Such naughty spontanaeity will never do. In fact, there, I have spelled the word incorrectly and will not check it to prove my very sad point. You know that will kill me, but I am as steadfast in my martyrdom as I am in my, er, point-making. Instead, we are ever-practical in the knowledge we have but a few precious hours to get absolutely the highest priority things done first. And somehow that always ends up being a trip to a shopping centre, where we can browse (impossible concept with a toddler) and inevitably purchase some book or toy or shoes or clothes for the young master who should be the furthest thing from our minds, but is often the opposite...cause we are missing him so much, to be honest.
Do those swords really need two edges and how come the grass on my side can't be verdantly Photoshopped?
Shopping centre errands are a nightmare at the best of times (although not sure when they are), but with a toddler, you are essentially saying to the world “kill me, kill me now – and play me the Muzak version of Ebony and Ivory as I lay on the too-shiny tiles being slowly trampled by the bargain hunters, but can you get me a cake donut from Donut King first and oh look Best & Less actually have an item of clothing that is A) more expensive than $5.99 and B) vaguely acceptable in public and oh look another stroller to dodge and oh look there’s a posse, not a family, but a bogan posse with two trolleys, three strollers, a bad attitude and 73 chicken nuggets between their 10 kids”
I guess I digress, yes?
We got home from shopping, too buggered to see a movie (another impossible toddler-inclusive activity), so went home to consume some of the stash leftover still from T's 40th: a nice bottle of champers and about 18 million spring rolls, samosas etc
Party food. But no party.
To tell the truth, that entire week had been a bloody shocker. Suddenly I was snapping at people, my fuse was shorter than it had been in a while and I was downright exhausted, often going to bed and going to sleep sooner than our three year old.
Saturday it all hit. When night fell, I felt more able to descend into tears and sobs, as if I could hide in the dark somehow...just like I had been in the thick of the worst of it last September.
It ached, it hurt my head, it made me thirsty and so so tired. I felt black and heavy. One part of me felt as if I was hovering above myself, looking on with T, worried. The other part just felt lost, really.
But after a little while, I took a few deep breaths and acknowledged that while I felt September...it was a new feeling, one I hadn't felt in months.
Progress, I had made some. I had gotten a bit better, or better enough to realise when I had momentarily lost sight of the very same stars I had somehow managed to see quite clearly in recent months.
I was driving to collect J from day care this week. Thinking I should update my blog. And this random thought popped into my head: we were grieving for the idea of a baby more so than the actual baby. And the in-between-ness of it all made it all the more difficult and messy.
That sounds quite wrong and callous now that I have written it down. But I was honestly struck by that...because I have so struggled with how to grieve properly for something I didn't see or touch or smell...someone who had only engaged us on an almost ethereal, dreamy level. Yes of course there was desire to meet him, expectation about him, excitement at the thought of what magnificent things he might bring to our family. But the connection was imaginary, while the loss of that connection was so intensely real.
It doesn't mean the grief is any less or more, it is most certainly there, let me tell you. But looking back, I feel it is on a strange, other level...like in a different time zone.
Hmm, hard to articulate...but gee, I see I've again given it a good crack here!
Got to go do some work. Love to you all.
My due date has been and gone since we last spoke, so that may go some way to explain the intermittency of my posting.
Hell, that was a bad weekend. March 5 fell on a Saturday and it was horrific, and not only for the trip to a shopping centre.
Ha. I don’t know what we had to buy there, looking back now, but we had arranged my relatives to take Jay from lunchtime Saturday until Sunday morning...just because of the day it was.
So, whenever we manage to extricate ourselves from toddler-ville, thoughts automatically turn to what toddler-free activities we need to get accomplished. Somehow in the course of a busy life, carefree whimsical things of such wicked abandon like sleeping in, watching what we want on TV, reading entire book chapters or a newspaper uninterrupted, going out for dinner and not wolfing down our meal because we are already 45 minutes past young master’s bedtime ... disappear from our thought possibilities. Such naughty spontanaeity will never do. In fact, there, I have spelled the word incorrectly and will not check it to prove my very sad point. You know that will kill me, but I am as steadfast in my martyrdom as I am in my, er, point-making. Instead, we are ever-practical in the knowledge we have but a few precious hours to get absolutely the highest priority things done first. And somehow that always ends up being a trip to a shopping centre, where we can browse (impossible concept with a toddler) and inevitably purchase some book or toy or shoes or clothes for the young master who should be the furthest thing from our minds, but is often the opposite...cause we are missing him so much, to be honest.
Do those swords really need two edges and how come the grass on my side can't be verdantly Photoshopped?
Shopping centre errands are a nightmare at the best of times (although not sure when they are), but with a toddler, you are essentially saying to the world “kill me, kill me now – and play me the Muzak version of Ebony and Ivory as I lay on the too-shiny tiles being slowly trampled by the bargain hunters, but can you get me a cake donut from Donut King first and oh look Best & Less actually have an item of clothing that is A) more expensive than $5.99 and B) vaguely acceptable in public and oh look another stroller to dodge and oh look there’s a posse, not a family, but a bogan posse with two trolleys, three strollers, a bad attitude and 73 chicken nuggets between their 10 kids”
I guess I digress, yes?
We got home from shopping, too buggered to see a movie (another impossible toddler-inclusive activity), so went home to consume some of the stash leftover still from T's 40th: a nice bottle of champers and about 18 million spring rolls, samosas etc
Party food. But no party.
To tell the truth, that entire week had been a bloody shocker. Suddenly I was snapping at people, my fuse was shorter than it had been in a while and I was downright exhausted, often going to bed and going to sleep sooner than our three year old.
Saturday it all hit. When night fell, I felt more able to descend into tears and sobs, as if I could hide in the dark somehow...just like I had been in the thick of the worst of it last September.
It ached, it hurt my head, it made me thirsty and so so tired. I felt black and heavy. One part of me felt as if I was hovering above myself, looking on with T, worried. The other part just felt lost, really.
But after a little while, I took a few deep breaths and acknowledged that while I felt September...it was a new feeling, one I hadn't felt in months.
Progress, I had made some. I had gotten a bit better, or better enough to realise when I had momentarily lost sight of the very same stars I had somehow managed to see quite clearly in recent months.
I was driving to collect J from day care this week. Thinking I should update my blog. And this random thought popped into my head: we were grieving for the idea of a baby more so than the actual baby. And the in-between-ness of it all made it all the more difficult and messy.
That sounds quite wrong and callous now that I have written it down. But I was honestly struck by that...because I have so struggled with how to grieve properly for something I didn't see or touch or smell...someone who had only engaged us on an almost ethereal, dreamy level. Yes of course there was desire to meet him, expectation about him, excitement at the thought of what magnificent things he might bring to our family. But the connection was imaginary, while the loss of that connection was so intensely real.
It doesn't mean the grief is any less or more, it is most certainly there, let me tell you. But looking back, I feel it is on a strange, other level...like in a different time zone.
Hmm, hard to articulate...but gee, I see I've again given it a good crack here!
Got to go do some work. Love to you all.
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