The ‘C’ Word and The ‘F’ Word

One of the mum’s at school and I were chatting a couple of days ago.  She was saying that the kids all seem to be particularly gruesome at the moment.  I wholeheartedly agreed with her.  We put it down to general malaise over the hideousness of February.  She then said: ‘And I just don’t understand all this swearing in the playground.  It’s ridiculous.’

I was completely unaware that there was a swearing epidemic sweeping the playground.  Plus I am honestly and promisedly not that bothered about swearing in the playground. I have just kind of accepted that the playground is the first place all children learn things about deviant sexual practices, colourful swear words and intricate skipping manoeuvres as previously featured only on Malcolm McClaren videos.  Then there’s the fact that I am sweary parent, and Jason has managed to teach Oscar to say ‘fucky fucky’.  It’s a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.

Nevertheless, my friend was clearly quite bothered, which is no good. I asked her about it in more detail.  It transpired that her daughter had come home a couple of nights previously demanding to know about ‘The F Word’.  Apparently one of the girls in her class had been saying it to everyone.  My friend was shocked. I was rather shocked myself.  I know this supposedly sweary little girl and her mother and it is not the sort of thing that her mother would say let alone tolerate her five year old daughter saying.  I said this.  My friend said no! Apparently this kid is not saying ‘Fuck’.  She is going around the playground saying; ‘The F Word’, because my friend’s daughter wanted to know what the ‘F’ in ‘F Word’ actually stood for!

I thought this was hilarious.  My friend clearly did not.  Saying ‘The F Word’ and thinking it is a powerful expletive is almost as bad as saying ‘Fuck you mother fucker!’ in her book. I bit my cheeks because I did not want her to think I was laughing at her. Everyone has their standards of child rearing and I fully understand that mine are unacceptably low down on the moral high ground chart. 

Then my friend said; ‘And what’s all this ‘pooh plop’ business as well? Where do they get these words from?’  At which I looked away into the middle distance as if searching for my muse.  In reality I was trying very hard not to make direct eye contact.  I know full well where ‘pooh plop’ comes from.  It comes from Katyboo Towers, Glenfield, that’s where it comes from. 

I can’t feel too guilty about that one though. In my universe nobody is going to hell for saying pooh plop, even if they are only five.

But it is official. My shoddy parenting techniques are currently bringing down the moral fibre of the school.  That and my disregard for official uniforms being the saviours of the western hemisphere. Damn them and their smug cardiganned ways. I shall continue my path of evil nonetheless.  I am committed now.

On the same subject, we were in the car at the weekend when Tilly suddenly said:

Tilly: ‘Mama? I thought you said that they weren’t allowed to say the ‘C’ word in pg films.’

Me: ‘That’s right Tilly. They’re not.’

Tilly: ‘But I’ve seen one where they say it.’

Me: ‘No Tilly. You must have misunderstood. That’s not possible.’

Tilly: Indignantly; ‘I did! I did! When daddy took us to see Bolt! last week, they said it then.’

Me: Incredulously: ‘They can’t have Tilly.’

I was just about to qualify this with the words; ‘Are you sure they said cunt?’ which would really have thrown the cat amongst the pigeons, particularly as Oscar and Tallulah had their beady ears wide open and were drinking this all in in rapt fascination. Luckily Jason had his psychic radar on and could sense the impending disaster.  He cut right across me.

Jason: ‘Which ‘C’ word are we talking about here exactly?’

Tilly: ‘Crap! They said crap in the film daddy.’

We looked at each other, Jason smug in having prevented disaster, me stunned and relieved.

Me: ‘Ah! That ‘C’ word.  No! No Tilly. They’re allowed to say that.’

Jason; ‘Even though it’s not very nice and we’d rather you didn’t say it thank you.’ (although fucky fucky is completely acceptable obviously)

Tilly and Tallulah in unison; ‘So which ‘C’ word can’t you say?’

Me: ‘I’ll tell you when you’re twenty one.’

Saturday 28th February – Cat Breath Dreams

Had the most intense dream last night when I fell asleep on the sofa ‘reading’ my book.

In real life I used to have two cats, brothers called Ronnie and Reggie.  When I got them home from the animal rescue shelter I was going to rename them Bacon and Eggs. After a week I realised they already had the perfect names, and the Kray twins they stayed forever more.

By the time I divorced from UE they had gained an adoptive sister Pinkie (the getaway driver).  My eventual plan had been to get another cat later on called Jack The Hat McVitie and complete the gang.  Anyway this never happened.  UE did not love cats and we were moving in with Jason who not only did not love cats but had a rental house in which cats were strictly verboten.

The poor creatures were the orphans in the storm. My parents would not have them. They had already adopted two orphan catlings from me hundreds of years previously, the furry offspring of my doomed relationship with IF.  They had done their bit.  In the end, fabulous cousin Tom took pity on them and agreed to shelter them in his paternal bosom.  Thus bringing his cat count to four.  He already had a dog count of two. It was animal insanity.

Since that time Ronnie ran off, brain melted by the presence of dogs in his life. Pinkie and Reggie stayed, but Tom left. So his ex girlfriend is now their sole parent. This is why we never see the cats anymore.

To be honest, with three kids on my hands I don’t miss them like I thought I would.  I particularly don’t miss the high proportion of dead birds and rodents in my life.

As usual, I digress.

I fell asleep clutching my book.  I dreamed I was asleep on the sofa (my amazing psychic powers still as sharp as ever).  Suddenly a weight landed on my stomach and I felt the unmistakeable pad of paws walking up my chest.

Moments later I could smell warm cat breath (ewww!) on my face and whiskers tickling my nose.  I opened my eyes to find Ronnie watching me, his liquid green eyes staring right into my face. I could see the flecks of yellow in the irises we were so close, practically nose to nose.

I put my hand up and he moved his head to nuzzle into my palm.  He used to do this thing where if I made a kind of oval shape bringing my thumb and forefinger together he would try to push his snoot into it and kind of funnel his whole head through my hand. In the dream I made the shape with my fingers and he pushed his head into it. I could feel the bones and angles of his skull under the fur as he shunted into me.  I watched as the pressure of my hand pulled his skin back a little and made his sharp teeth sneer out from under his top lip.  His ears felt like silk and I ran the tips of my fingers round the base of them and under his chin, scratching, as he pushed his head into the air, whiskers fanning with pleasure.

In my peripheral vision I could see his brother Reggie sitting patiently by the side of the sofa waiting for his turn.

Then I woke up.

I was so surprised when I woke up that they weren’t there it seemed so real.

I felt quite bereft.

Friday 27th February – Quick, Quick, A Doctor with Ears AND Brains

So. This morning did not start well.  If I were an omen reading sort of girl I would probably have crawled back into bed and cancelled my doctor’s appointment.  Luckily I am not good at sheep entrail tossing and runes so I carried on.

The kids were vile this morning.  They did not want to get up at all.  I did not want to get up.  Andrea came round last night. We ate tons of garlicky Chinese food, ate mammoth quantities of ice cream and watched two excellent films which I highly recommend, ‘Man on Wire’ the documentary about the French wire walker Philippe Petit who wire walked between the Twin Towers in 1974, and ‘I’ve Loved You So Long,’ a marvellous French film starring the epically glamorous Kristin Scott Thomas.  By the time we’d finished it was half past twelve and I had indigestion and nerves about my upcoming starring role in a medical drama near you.

I waved Andrea off and spent until three in the morning roaming the hallways burping garlic and reading the first chapter of lots of books.  I was not in the best of moods this morning.

Tallulah farted about upstairs for twenty minutes, and came down wailing because she couldn’t find a cardigan. Today she had to have a ‘proper’ one because of her head teacher’s award.  I wouldn’t have minded her not having a proper one if I’d been there to shoot the head when she inevitably made a fuss about it in front of the whole school, but I was going to have my hormones prodded and didn’t want to leave my child undefended at the hands of an imbecile.  I turned to mention to Tallulah that she might like to try the clean washing pile, teetering dangerously at the end of the kitchen.  She was naked except for tights and a skirt.  Twenty minutes to achieve this level of dressedness.  Her hair was uncombed, her teeth were unwashed and she had a pen smut on the end of her nose.  I was not best pleased.

Oscar refused to get dressed for nursery, chanting; ‘I are just NOT goin’ to Donna’s house.’ until I rugby tackled him.  He did that very annoying thing when you are trying to pull their trousers up and they sag like a hundredweight of potatoes.  This added to my happy mood.

We finally got out the door and everyone to school.  One of the mum’s at school who is my friend offered to pretend to be me in assembly.  She was watching her daughter get an award and agreed to cheer for Tallulah as well.  This was very kind of her and perked Tallulah up immensely which avoided tears and recriminations.

I was walking out of the school gate when I heard a crunching noise in the road.  In all the books and articles they always describe it as a ‘sickening’ crunch.  I know it’s a cliche, but it’s one that happens to be true.  I have no idea how it happened but a small child was hit by a car at the crossing.  The kid’s mum was there, the lollipop lady was there, but for whatever reason the car didn’t stop in time.

Everything froze for a moment in that horrible way and then the kid started screaming like a banshee.  This is a good sign.  Noise is always better when dealing with children and injuries.  Noise is reassuring in these circumstances.  I started moving towards them. I could see that nobody in the whole tableaux had reached for a phone.  I had my phone out and was just about to start dialling the emergency services when everyone jolted back into life and someone else did it.  I kept walking.  I was going to suggest that they didn’t move the kid.  They moved him before I could get there.

By this time a crowd had gathered.  I decided it would not be helpful to join the general melee just to gawp at everyone.  I turned and walked towards the doctors.  Poor kid.  The woman who hit the child had parked up and got out.  She looked absolutely distraught herself.  Poor woman.  What a nightmare.

I got to the doctor’s without further incident.  The doctor was on time which in itself is a miracle and certainly not to be sneezed at.  I decided to start with the softly, softly approach before getting out the big guns.  I merely announced that I had been to see a doctor on Tuesday, that I didn’t think she had really understood what I was trying to say, and that I was coming back to try again.  This seemed acceptable.

I described my symptoms.  She wrote them all down so that I could see her doing it.  Her handwriting was surprisingly legible which did make me wonder whether she was actually the cleaning lady in disguise.  I carried on.  She took my previous medical history, which the other doctor had totally failed to do.  She was very sympathetic.  She too has three  children.  it does make a difference.  She knew I wasn’t just a) making it up for effect b) mistaking my symptoms for what was really an ingrowing toe nail and c) being difficult.

She then, and this was what I was most impressed with, asked me what I thought might be the matter and what bothered me most.  I explained that I had suggested, probably erroneously, to the previous doctor that I was worried it may be an ectopic pregnancy, as this had been misdiagnosed for me before and although I was fairly sure it wasn’t, I had wanted some kind of reassurance because it was not an area where I felt there was much margin for error.  She nodded.  I said that I was sure she felt I was being silly because I had my tubes tied, but I wanted peace of mind.

What she said was interesting.  The previous doctor dismissed it out of hand and said the likelihood of ectopic was so slim she was certain it couldn’t happen.  This doctor said that because sperm are both tiny and determined, that even with the stitching or clipping techniques they use in sterilisation procedures there are always going to be some determined sperm that get through into the fallopian tubes.  This means that if a person’s egg is there at the same time as this happens there is still a chance of pregnancy.  Because of the sterilisation it means that this pregnancy is highly likely to be an ectopic pregnancy.  There is apparently, a one in two hundred chance that if someone is sterilised they can still fall pregnant.  That is quite a high probability as far as I’m concerned.  Much higher than I imagined.  As my friend later said, that’s about the same percentage as taking the pill.  I was quite shocked.

It also turns out that because I have had a previous ectopic pregnancy, that I am at a much higher risk of having another one than an ordinary woman who has been sterilised.  Great.

Consequently she drew up a blood test chart to test for levels of HCG, the hormone associated with pregnancy. Apparently they can tell from levels whether I have been pregnant, whether I still am pregnant and whether that pregnancy is ectopic or normal.  She also wanted tests for prolactin, which is another pregnancy related hormone which can apparently randomly surge in middle aged women such as myself, and cause these symptoms. As standard she tested for anaemia.  They always test for anaemia.  They always ask me if I am a vegetarian.  I may have on my tombstone: NO! I ARE NOT A VEGETARIAN. NOW BUGGER OFF! Not that I have anything against vegetarians.  Some of my best friends are vegetarian!

All this was good.  Then we talked about the possibility of my estrogen levels rising and dipping abnormally.  She has made an appointment to see me in two weeks, when this raft of test results come back, and we will look at that too.

She was nice, kind and thoughtful.  She got me in for my blood test straight away.  She even giggled when I mentioned the gastric ulcer thing that the other doctor had prescribed for me.

I love this woman.

Please god let her not fall under a bus in the next fortnight. Things are finally looking up.

Thursday 26th February – A fool for school

Tallulah has won a Head Teacher’s Award.  She is being given it for being ‘Hand Writer of the Week’.  She is very proud of herself.  I am very proud of her, although my inner anarchist wanted to say: ‘Fuck the system! Buck the trend! Deny their stupid hand writing rules.’  But I am putting that down to hormone surges.  I resisted and just nodded enthusiastically.

It fascinates me that Tallulah is so good at school.  She is always winning awards for this and that. She gets merit marks all the time. She does her homework and she is unfailingly neat, polite and orderly.  The only time she rebels is in her insistence on wearing tights with her shorts when it comes to getting changed for P.E.  It was P.E. this morning.  This is the morning that parents are expected to stay and help their children get changed, even though they have P.E. at other times of the week when the children are perfectly capable of getting changed on their own.  Even though I think it is an utterly stupid idea I still stay and help. I don’t know why. I am working up to rebelling and making her do it on her own.  Boundaries need to be pushed.

This morning I stayed and helped because I had already upset the apple cart when I refused to fill in the questionnaire about what parents think would make the school better.  The form consisted of a lot of tick boxes where you had to rate pre chosen ideas from one to eight in order of preference, and a tiny gap where you could write your own thoughts.  I hate this pre chosen idea malarkey and my inner polarity responder, which is never very far from the surface, always rears its ugly head at this point.  I got particularly mardy when I spied the fact that they had put adherence to rules on school uniform as one of the choices for making a better school, more Cliff Richard on the telly and world peace.

I know there was a space to write my own thoughts but it was one of those things where I knew that if I got started I wouldn’t actually stop.  When I was looking at educational options for my children I had boiled it down to two choices, home schooling or Steiner schooling, both of which I believed would nourish my children and allow them the creativity, flexibility and growth as people I wanted for them in their educational careers. 

There were several problems.  There were no Steiner schools within a fifty mile radius of my home.  There still aren’t.  This is a nuisance.  I don’t drive.  Even if I did, a two hundred mile round trip every day does not suit. It does not suit at all.  Then there’s the home schooling.  Unlike the wonderful Grit, for whom I have the most profound admiration, I know I would make a terrible, terrible home schooler.  I even hate doing homework with my children.  I know how it should be done.  I just can’t do it.  I become Hitler on steroids when homework time rolls around.  The children now wisely choose to do most of their homework with Jason who is kind, patient and resourceful, three skills which consistently escape me when faced with having to teach a nine year old their eight times table.

So we found the least horrible and most convenient state school and try to inculcate in them enough anarchy, independent thinking and creativity to counter the negative effects of cardigan wearing smug faced fascists of the educational system.  I didn’t think I could write all this down, so I ripped up the forms.

The girls were horrified.  Apparently the head teacher had announced that this was parents homework and that it was mandatory.  This incensed me even further.  I ripped it into smaller pieces, made a valedictory speech about the fact that at the age of nearly thirty seven if I didn’t want to do bloody homework I wouldn’t do bloody homework, rah, rah, rah, and stomped to school.  The children trailed behind me in shocked silence.

Consequently I was quite pleased to see Tallulah fighting her own, small tights war.  She was struggling into her ensemble under my baleful eye when a gaggle of small girls approached me.  One of them said: ‘Are those tights part of Tallulah’s school uniform?’  I looked at her and said: ‘No. They’re just the tights Tallulah chose to wear today.’  The small child said: ‘But they’re the wrong colour. That’s not allowed.’  I looked at her and said: ‘So. What do you want me to do about it?’  She looked puzzled.  Another child stepped up to the fray; ‘Is Tallulah going to wear those tights with her shorts?’  I looked at Tallulah.  She looked at me.  We both looked at the child, slightly pityingly, as it was clear that as Tallulah was already wearing shorts and tights, that this needed no further explanation.  I said; ‘Yes.’  Second child said: ‘But that’s not allowed.’  I said: ‘Tallulah knows that, and if she wants to get into trouble for her unorthodox costume choices that’s up to her isn’t it?  She has to learn things her own way.’  They all looked at me.  I looked world weary and full of ennui.  I announced philosophically; ‘Life is too short to worry about the rights and wrongs of tights/shorts combos.  Let us move on.’  They parted like the Red Sea to let me pass.

As I was leaving another child came up to me and tugged my coat.  ‘Katyboo?’ she said; ‘I turned to her; ‘It is my birthday. I am six today.’  I said: ‘Congratulations.  Will you be leaving school and getting a job now? I hear that climbing chimneys is still a good option for small girls?’  She looked at me and said: ‘No. My mum won’t let me.’  Fair answer.  I said: ‘What did you get for your birthday?’  She said; ‘A doll.’ I said; ‘Good. That’s good. Not a pipe and slippers then?’ She looked baffled and said; ‘No.’

I left.

I like to keep them guessing.  I am training them up to be more interesting adults.  Hopefully when they get to the school gates they won’t have to spend their lives talking about grade four flute and potty training.

Tallulah’s award ceremony is tomorrow morning.  I have a doctor’s appointment at the same time as the award ceremony where I shall be baring my hormones for the awed respect of the NHS. Tallulah went from being proud to being upset in a nanosecond this morning when I announced that I could not go to the assembly. This is so annoying because if they had given me a little bit of notice I may have been able to book my appointment for later on in the day. As it is, telling me on Thursday morning at nine o’clock is not a lot of help to me, or to her.  Why they can’t postpone it for a week so that I can go I’m not really sure.  Still, like the tights/shorts thing, it is something she’s going to have to manage on her own.  Hormones win over handwriting whether she likes it or not.

Love is also…

Knowing that their angelic behaviour won’t last and that you will spend your afternoon remaining cheerful in the face of:

• Small boy refusing to have a nap because he is quite categorically not tired despite being hideously shouty and repeatedly rubbing his eyes.
• Small boy registering his protests at his mother’s refusal to believe a word he says and putting him to bed anyway by taking his nappy off, going to sleep and peeing all over his bed clothes.
• Small boy waking up just in time to go to school and only then doing the big wee ‘reveal’, hence distracted mother dragging slightly wee smelling boy to school at the speed of light, making it to the school gate by the skin of her teeth.
• Small boy hitting his sister on the head with a rolling pin because he didn’t want to share said rolling pin with sister and making her cry.
• Small boy sneakily eating big lumps of Play Doh, having a good chew and then angelically announcing that he would never eat Play Doh because Play Doh was really ‘hobble’ mama.
• Small boy trying to steal everyone else’s pudding and flicking the Smarties he doesn’t like at the ‘hobble’ people who do not give in and give him their nicer pudding, despite the fact that small boy chose Smarties in the first place,
• Small boy putting toilet roll tubes on both arms to pretend to be a robot,  cornering his sister by the bunk beds and lamping her one in the eye with the corner of his robot arm.
• Small boy having at some point in the distant past snuck under daddy’s desk in the study and done something horrible with his ‘scroop’ driver to daddy’s hard drive, thus ensuring that when daddy comes to turn it on this evening that it has died the death of a thousand scroops and will never work again.
• Small boy having to be dragged upstairs to have a shower to avoid daddy battering him with scroop driver.
• Small boy having no future in higher education because daddy has had to spend his college fund buying a new p.c.

Wednesday 25th February – Love Is…

He stands on a chair at the sink.  He is washing up. His back to me, he is oblivious. He washes up as if it were the most important and enjoyable job in the world. He can think of nothing else he would rather be doing in this moment.  It is the very best thing.

 

Absorbed, he carefully holds an old yoghurt pot up to the light, pouring streams of water back into the bowl, watching the flow and splash, absurdly pleased with himself. He plunges his hands into the bowl up to the elbow, swirls them around like agile seaweed, making bubbles to grab and smear on his face. I catch sight of his profile. He has a rakish foam beard. He looks like a mad professor until it starts to tickle and he swipes the bubbles free with a wet hand.

 

His neck curls gracefully like a swan as he bends to his task. I watch the hollow nape arcing and stretching. It is possibly my favourite part of him, the vulnerable dimple and slender bone supporting the unfeasible weight of his head. He is so very beautiful, his baby face starting to morph the angles and planes of the boy and man he will be.  He is a journey waiting to unravel before me.

 

His play becomes more frenzied.  Water is pearling off the work surfaces and dripping in plashes onto the floor.  I do not interrupt him to clean it up, there are more important things in life. I savour this moment.

 

We are listening to music.  He starts dancing on the chair.  His stance precarious as he bounces along to Lily Allen.  He turns for a moment and rewards me with a beaming smile.  ‘Lookameee dance mama!’ He laughs and shimmies in his saggy nappy, water dripping from the crook of his elbow onto his foot. Distracted for a moment, his face serious as he wipes it with a tea towel, then he carries on dancing.

 

Lily sings on about the ‘fear’.  He responds purely to the melody. There is no fear in his life, not now, not ever.  He is immortal, invincible, brimming over with joy.  He is a creature of sensation, the feel of the water on his skin, the freedom of movement as he dips and twirls, the laughter pouring out of him like the water splashing to the floor. He is totally alive.

Tuesday 24th February – In Which I Consult Possibly The Stupidest Doctor in the World

Oscar and I flogged our way to the doctor’s surgery this morning. It took quite a lot longer than usual due to the fact that he is absolutely fascinated by everything we pass and we have to stop and have a chat about it.  I would much rather have this than a monosyllabic, grunty baby, but it does tend to double our journey times everywhere.  He was particularly excited today because lots of spring flowers have started blooming and all the birds are going absolutely mad building nests and partying on down.  We passed a thorn bush which was just alive with sparrows.  Oscar was so excited I thought he might take off himself.

By the time we got to the doctors and spent twenty minutes in the waiting room where he barricaded himself in the corner to play with one of those tables with all the wire loops and beads on, he was bored and hungry.  This made my consultation with the doctor somewhat difficult, particularly because Oscar had decided that this was in fact the dentist’s.  He kept trying to show her his teeth and demanding a drink of pink water.  She wasn’t having any of it.

She wasn’t really having any of me either.

I described my symptoms to her.  She lay me down and prodded my belly.  I pointed out that it was tender and sore, not agonisingly sore.  She said that this was ‘normal’.  I wondered in whose book.  This passed her by.  We then sat down to chat.  It was not very productive.  She had decided that I have either acid reflux or an ulcer.  She did not tell me this, because that would be too helpful.  Oh no.  Instead she let me talk to her while she looked at me like aliens were dropping out of my ears.

I asked her lots of questions about my state to which her replies were generally; ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’ and ‘not very likely’.  She then wrote something on a prescription pad.  I asked her what she was doing.  She said that she was giving me some medicine for indigestion and vomiting.  I said: ‘I don’t have indigestion.’  She said ‘I know. It’s just a layman’s term.’ I said; ‘For what? A symptom I don’t have?’  She kept writing.  She said: ‘It will help with the vomiting.’  I said: ‘I don’t have any vomiting.  I just feel nauseous.’  She said: ‘I know,’ and carried on writing.

She then said that a head cold could produce all these symptoms.  I pointed out that I didn’t have a head cold either.  I felt like adding that I didn’t have impetigo, testicles or a beard either just in case she was thinking of listing these as possible causes of phantom pregnancy symptoms.

I said; ‘Can I have a blood test that will at least establish my current hormone levels?’  She said: ‘You’ve had a blood test. It was normal.’  I said: ‘Yes. That was when I came to see you six months ago with the same complaints. You did one test. Hormones don’t stay level all month or nobody would ever have PMT.  I want to know if my hormone levels are fluctuating or have changed in the last six months.’ 

She looked at me.  She said: ‘If the medication doesn’t work come back in two weeks.’  I said; ‘What about the blood tests?’  She said; ‘Come back in two weeks.’

I tried explaining to her my understandable concerns about this area of my health given my past history and the fact that I know my body quite well and I don’t think I have indigestion, vomiting or acid reflux or I might have noticed.  She said; ‘Come back in two weeks.’

I gave up.

What else could I do?

It was like talking to a very stupid brick wall.  The stupidest of brick walls.

I went home and wailed and gnashed my teeth.  I kicked the cat we don’t have and put plan B into operation.

This involves getting another appointment with a different doctor, complaining about the first doctor, demanding to know on what grounds she is basing the assumption that I might have an ulcer and whether this indeed would account for all these symptoms (unlikely, but I have to play the game).  Then I’m going to ask for a referral and go private with someone I am actually paying to listen to me drivel on pathetically.  I have some names and ideas.  I have already spoken to the Bupa people and they are quite happy to take my money off me once the referral letter comes through.

So. Once more unto the breach dear friends.  Friday at half past nine with Doctor Mark II, the revenge.

I was feeling quite down about things after this. It’s all such bloody hard work.  No wonder people are dying like flies if it’s this hard to get someone to actually listen to you and not just hand out random pills like Smarties.

Then I had four pancakes with maple syrup and clotted cream and my mood lifted quite dramatically.  Amazing eh? I bet they don’t give you that on the NHS.

Monday 23rd February – Wee Willie Winkie

I apologise for last night’s frenzied outburst of soul searching and blog writing. I don’t know what came over me, but I do feel half a stone lighter today.  I think I shall leave sex, death, relationships and politics for next month though.

I rang the doctors this morning.  They said; ‘Oooh. You’re not dying.’  I said: ‘Well spotted.’  She said: ‘Well you can’t have an appointment today then.’  Apparently Monday is only for those about to shuffle off this mortal coil.  Tuesday however is built for us malingerers.  I shall be seeing ‘a’ doctor tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.  Oscar will be coming with me, which may or may not be beneficial.  It will certainly help me to sharpen my focus.

Today Oscar has been undecided about the subject of wee and what to do with it.  This has actually been going on for some days now in truth.  Last week he had a day when he decided that nappies were so last year and he was moving on.  He wandered about all day, as free as the proverbial bird, widdling in the potty and demanding biscuits for being so good.  I caved. I provided one biscuit per widdle.

It seems he has the capacity, much like a dog, to widdle on demand and to hold enough back in his tiny bladder to pee about nine hundred times.  Consequently at the end of one afternoon we had been to the toilet twenty seven times, he had no teeth and raging diabetes and I had run out of custard creams.

The next day I moved on to bribing him with money.  He has no real concept of money or how it works, but his magpie brain tells him it is shiny and that this therefore is ‘good’.  He has also noticed how excitable Tallulah gets around money.  Consequently he was swayed by the promise of five pence pieces.  He became quite wealthy.

I was beside myself with pride.  It has always been my theory that children, given enough opportunity and encouragement will wean themselves off nappies.  This is a theory I cling to like a drowning woman clutching a spar, mainly because it allows me to be incredibly lazy and whatever the opposite of proactive is.  My mother in law thinks this attitude is shocking.  Apparently Jason was potty trained by the time he was eight months old due to her diligence and application.  She actually said that she thought I was just being lazy.  I agreed whole heartedly, pointing out that I was not interested in spending that much time getting up close and personal with a small child’s nether regions and already felt I was doing my bit.  I fully intended to be as lazy as possible for as long as possible. I did add a caveat that if he was still in nappies by the time he went to school I might look into it.  She was stunned.

I really thought we’d cracked it.  Then he just as suddenly decided that he was bored of swinging his tackle about and wanted his nappies back on.  Occasionally he will rip his nappies off, piddle into his potty and trot up demanding money or biscuits, but there has been no regularity to any of it at all.

I am not going to make a fuss about it.  Life is too short to install a phobia of toilets in a child.  It’s not like he’s going to be able to avoid them forever and I want him to have a healthy, European attitude to bodily functions.  Not an uptight, laminated British attitude.

Today he spent the morning in his nappy, but when we were out at a restaurant for lunch with my mum, decided he wanted to be sans nappy.  We discussed it in the toilets and he agreed that he would notify me when the need to wee arose.  We did great.  Lunch was fine, the trip home was fine.  Then he got inside, stood with his legs neatly splayed and filled his shoes with pee.  He then jumped up and down in the overspill laughing maniacally and demanded a biscuit.  That didn’t work for me so well.  It was his modifications to the original agreement that I wasn’t so keen on.  Piddling in the potty, yes.  Filling his shoes, no.  He sulked and stuck his lip out.  He feels I am being unreasonable.

I have sent him to bed to sleep off his lip.  I have emptied his shoes and stuck them on the radiator.  I have mopped the floor.  I have decided to carry on as before.  Eventually we will get there.

I  have thought about bribing him with fabulous pants. It worked for the girls.  It turns out that he is not interested in pants much. It’s not his boyishness coming out here.  He is interested in clothes.  He has very strong opinions on his wardrobe and questions of sartorial elegance.  He just isn’t convinced by the world of pants.  Not even pants with orange lizards on.  No. He prefers going commando.

This would be o.k. if he didn’t seem so keen on squashing his nether regions around in his fingers and generally giving them a good old bashing.  It doesn’t seem to hurt him in the slightest. It makes me wince though and it positively brings tears to Jason’s eyes.  Last week Jason was taking him upstairs for a shower and he was mangling his nethers on the way.  Jason said: ‘Oscar, what are you doing?’  He said: ‘I am just squashin’ my willy.’  To which Jason said: ‘But why?’ Oscar replied: ‘Cos I has got one.’

Seems fair.

Bouncing Babies Part Twelve and The End. I promise

And so to Oscar.

 

Oscar was a miracle baby.  After the miscarriage with Jason I became convinced of the fact that eventually we would have a baby together.  Jason was not so sure. I do not know why I knew this was going to happen. I just knew.

 

He is a brilliant father to my girls, better than UE ever was or could be. He had a steep learning curve when he landed a ready made family, and he managed beautifully.

 

He has always been totally honest with me about everything, even when it is hurtful or difficult, just as when we made the decision about the abortion.  He has never shied away from painful things, and never said anything just to make me feel better.  I knew that however he felt about things he would be a brilliant dad and he deserved to have a child of his own as well as mine.

 

Once we were settled, the divorce was through and we were in gainful employment again, the question of having a baby reared its head when I ended up having another early miscarriage. 

 

We sat down and discussed things. I said I wanted a baby.  Jason said he didn’t.  I said that I respected his decision and as long as he was sure then we should do something about it.  I wanted a baby, but not enough to split our marriage apart, and I was still understandably nervous a) about whether I would carry another baby to term or just keep miscarrying, which seemed likely or b) if I did carry a baby to term, how ill I would be and would it do to this relationship what it did to my last relationship.  I didn’t want that risk if he was sure he didn’t want a child.

 

I decided to have my tubes tied. I am older than Jason. I already have children. If he had a vasectomy and left me for a nubile blonde with a life he might regret it. I knew if I wasn’t going to have children with him, I wouldn’t have them with anyone else.

 

We went for the consultation.  They agreed I was a disaster and that the best thing to do would be to tie me up and not let me near babies again.  We booked a date.  I was still convinced Jason and I would have a baby. I didn’t know how, but I knew we would.

 

It was the night before my surgery. We were cuddling and chatting.  Suddenly Jason said: ‘Don’t do it!’ I said: ‘Don’t do what?’ He said: ‘Don’t have the surgery. I want babies with you. I love you. Let’s have a baby.’  As you can imagine there were lots of tears.  Good ones this time.

 

Two months later I fell pregnant with Oscar.

 

I would like to say that everything was wonderful and marvellous, because that would be the perfect fairy tale ending.  Unfortunately this is me we are talking about.

 

I had a Tallulah plus pregnancy with added Tilly.  I ended up in hospital for a fortnight before they would deliver me because of pre eclampsia. I ended up with a section because I have so much scarring they were afraid I would burst. I had a horrible surgeon and a terrible time with itching, vomiting and bleeding copiously mandatory.

 

I got mastitis shortly after the birth and gave up breast feeding to be violently ill instead.

 

You will be pleased to know that this really is the end of the story, which I’m sure you’re all heartily sick of now, that is if you haven’t crawled off to the dying hole to kill yourselves already.

 

When Oscar was delivered I got them to tie my tubes. It saves me having to worry about any more accidents or quirks of fate. It saves me having to go through all that again.  And even though I love my children madly and wouldn’t swap them for the world, I really don’t think I can go through that again.

 

So, now you can see why I am a little bit doctor shy and very much pregnancy shy.

 

You think I’d be man shy too after all that, but I’ve found the right one now and I’m going to keep him, even if it’s only to annoy him for the rest of his life.

Bouncing Babies Part Eleven

In the first month Jason and I were together I fell pregnant.  I was amazed. He was amazed. It was a total accident.  I knew I found it very difficult to get pregnant and that I would never fall pregnant ‘just like that’. I did. I couldn’t get my head around it.  Neither could he.

 

It was the worst timing. The kids weren’t with me, I had no real home. I was starting divorce proceedings. UE had kicked off splendidly about Jason and wanted to kill him and me. I had no job because he’d also thrown me out of the company I had saved, which was nice. I had no money.

 

Jason didn’t want children. He was prepared to take on my girls because he loved me, but that was going to be hard. We both knew it was going to be hard. What would we do if my pregnancy was as bad as it had been with Tallulah?

 

We made the painful decision to have an abortion. It was anguish. After all those years of trying and all that pain and effort I was now going to get rid of a baby. It seemed inconceivable and stupid and evil, but it also seemed like it would be suicidal to go through with it.

 

We booked a private clinic in Nottingham and drove up one night when UE had the girls.  He had been late and we were frantic to get there and not miss the appointment.  We hardly said a word in the car.

 

We made it by the skin of our teeth.  The woman insisted on talking to me first without Jason, in case he was trying to force me into having an abortion I didn’t want.  She was very sweet, but it just upset the both of us terribly. We had made the decision together and it had nearly killed us. We wanted to see it through together.

 

She filled out all the forms and I signed them. I went to the toilet while she went outside to try and calm Jason down, who was frantically pacing the halls, rather ironically like a new father to be.

 

I got to the toilet and found I was bleeding. I felt sick with relief.

 

I rushed out and told the woman.  She tore up the forms and told me to go to hospital the next day for a check up.

 

We got in the car and drove home. Half way home we stopped in a layby and cried our hearts out, holding each other and sobbing.

 

It was a terrible day, but I’m still glad I didn’t have to go through with that procedure.