Monthly Archives: August 2009

Romance is dead

I feel so foolish. Never go back they say. Never go back.

But go back I did… in spite of  the callous way he treated me last time. I even found out he’d been fooling around with some of my friends behind my back.  But still I went back to the unfaithful arrogant bastard.

And on my return there was no warm embrace, no apologies, no compliments, no flowers, no dinner… not even a relaxing glass of wine to calm those ‘first time’ nerves. All he wanted was to get into my pants and get on with it.

I am, of course, talking about Dildocam, also known to regular folks as the transvaginal ultrasound.

Dildocam discovered that there are 17 plump little follicular chickens pecking about in the ovarian coup and we’re hoping that they’ll all be good layers. The battery farm is looking good and there has been no sign, thus far, of the ovarian hyper-stimulation that occurred last time. This means the chickens get a bit longer to prepare their nests and I won’t be dropping dead in the foreseeable future, which is a big plus, in my humble opinion.
 

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D’evil Kneivel


Yesterday morning I sent my beloved Devilboy to childcare dressed as a Buddhist Monk.
 

To some this may not appear to be completely normal behaviour for the agnostic mother of a blonde blue-eyed urban Aussie toddler. And they would be right – it is a trifle on the wrong side of bizarre, but there was a valid rationale behind his flowing orange robes.

No, we aren’t preparing him for a monastic life and we aren’t under any delusions that he is the reincarnation of some shining deva destined for a life of hanging with the Dalai Lama, Richard Gere or his gerbils. Nor are we trying to raise him to become the charismatic leader of some obscure cult, (though allegedly there is good money to made from that, so we certainly won’t discount that as a potential future career for our little weirdo.)

It is Children’s Book Week and we were requested to dress our little lovelies as their favourite character from a book. This week, in the house of Devilboy, that character just happened to be the very wise Guru Walter Wombat, an orange robed marsupial from the Zen Tales series of books. If Book Week had occurred a mere two weeks earlier, Devilboy would have gone dressed as a talking racing car. Thank gods for small mercies I say, as a crappy piece of orange fabric safety pinned to a t-shirt is a much less traumatic challenge for a maternal costumier than somehow turning a small boy into a racing car.

You see Devilboy, last time I checked, is not a transformer.

It is, however, becoming increasingly apparent that he is a lunatic.

Yesterday afternoon, Devilboy came home dressed as a Buddhist Monk wearing a lime green bicycle helmet… an unexpected and somewhat random addition to his costume. Stopping to pick up milk in our  snotty suburb with a squealing small boy draped in a bright orange dress and an oversized fluorescent green bike helmet raised similar levels of interest as stopping to pick up milk accompanied by a naked Angelina Jolie.

Discretion was not an option as he was a little hard to miss in all his noisy neon glory… strangers stopped to point at the pint sized freakshow and local shopkeepers were pulling out their mobile phone cameras to snap photos of my eccentric little madman… but only once they’d contained their mirth.  I lowered my gaze and tried to scurry along as fast as possible lest they thought I too was unbalanced for allowing him out on the street dressed like a psychiatric patient.

The drama didn’t cease once we arrived home and he still refused to remove the helmet. His howling objections to anyone even approaching the helmet made bed time a particular challenge. How does one put a 17 month old to bed for a quality night of sleep whilst said 17 month old is still adorned with a giant bicycle helmet?

Not being the kind of parents to back down from a challenge, the helmet was forcibly removed and Devilboy slept reasonably well, obviously still dreaming of his beloved helmet as his protests continued throughout the night. “Noooo… noooo” he whimpered as he patted his helmetless head in his sleep.

Devilboy’s unhealthy obsession with this helmet is, we think, related to his even more unhealthy obsession with motorcycles.  The devilish once can repeat his favourite word ,“bike,” a thousand times before realising it isn’t getting him anywhere, pausing and then repeating it louder another several thousand times before giving up and moving on to “vroom vroom” and screwing up his little fists in an attempt to imitate revving a bike.  

If he simply sees a picture of a motorbike, he is delighted.  If he sees an actual motorbike parked on the street he is thrilled. If sees his daddy on a motorbike he is euphoric. If he actually gets to sit with daddy on a motorbike, he has conniptions. His mummy is not a great fan of motorcycles and wishes M didn’t ride one. In fact, they scare the crap of me… making it a sad irony that my eccentric spawn appears to be the reincarnation of Evil Friggin’ Kneivel.

When the devilicious one awoke this morning his first word was “bike” and it was a matter of seconds before he was clawing for his helmet to be returned to where it apparently belongs – his crazy head.   We drove to school with the helmet firmly in place but somehow, someone one will have to forcibly remove it by the end of the day.  I waved him goodbye and skipped back to my car buoyed by the knowledge that it wouldn’t be me… as it is now his teachers’ problem and not mine. 

Hoorah!
 
 

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It’s not you, it’s me.

Things are weirding out in the house of Devilboy. 

I am moody and still feeling withdrawn. It’s almost like I’m not properly participating in my own life at the minute, which is most peculiar.  I expect to get a warning letter from myself to me any second saying that I am not being a team player!

The reality of the situation we once more find ourselves in is also making me feel a little detached from Devilboy, which in turn is making me feel more awful. Going through this process again should be making me thankful to have him, because making babies is clearly not our strong suit. But I think it’s causing me to put up a subconscious wall, which I am fighting, because of some irrational fear of loving him and needing him too much if he is to be our one and only. I know that I should just be leaping on him and squeezing him and loving him to bits like I normally can’t control myself from doing but instead am watching him with suspicion, knowing that he alone holds the power to truly break my heart.

I feel almost like I have to force joy right now, something that has been so very present since he was born, but that wonderful feeling seems to have vanished under a haze of medication. So dreary am I that I wonder if I shouldn’t remove myself from all social circumstances until this is over – lest I bore my friends to death with my blahness!

I guess the detached feeling must be diminishing a little as I appear to have arrived at that point of the process where the ususal  empathy I have for people has well and truly buggered off and I start sulkily resenting random pregnant women in the street. In fact, even some men boasting larger scale beer guts are starting to be on the receiving end of my covetous gaze, such is the sorry state of my infertile imagination. 

While I am not nearly self obsessed enough to expect the pregnant folk of the world to go into hiding just to make little old me feel less reproductively useless, I just wish that the twelve million that I bump into on a daily basis didn’t have to lay the proverbial boot in with such comments as “Hey guess what? I’m preggers… you know it happened on like practically our first try!” to quote this days object of my envious derision (not only for her fecundity but for her abuse of the English language and inane use of the word ‘like’).

Before pregnant folk begin collecting sticks and small rocks to fling at the silly barren chick, I have to add that I also resent myself for being such an uncharitable bitch! I confess to being a total cow, though in my meagre defence it is apparantly a very natural and common reaction to this situation.

To all my lovely friends who are currently with child, please allow me to elucidate. It’s most definitely not that I lack happiness about your pregnancies but more that I lack the ability to control my own feelings of disappointment in my lack of one. And whilst I confess that there is a tinge of green in my vision, it is nicely offset with the pinkish glow of genuine delight at your news and I continue to love your fabulously fruitful selves lots and lots. Mwah!

As punishment for my mean spiritdness I have put together a pile of consumable baby goodies for the Red Cross Refugee Services girls to help some of their new mums. It makes me feel more motherly to help out some other mums.

Meanwhile, my obsession with obscure fertility symbols continues unabated. M despises the new beaded African Ndebele Fertility doll I recently acquired. I think it’s quite quaint in an Afro/bespoke Dalek sort of way, whilst he thinks it’s simply creepy. But you see, I am stabbing myself twice a day whilst he is not… which clearly makes me right!

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My boy, Madeleine

I’d love to be regaling you all with wild and witty observations of Devilboys nutty behaviour and the mayhem of motherhood (fear not, lunacy still prevails in the house of Devilboy) but alas, my brain has shrunk to the size of something very, very small that I can’t think of right now. Words evade me. I have been rendered a moron.

My memory is so battered from all the ghastly Casa Conception medications that  when I went to pick Devilboy up from childcare this afternoon, I signed him out then left without him! I realised after I walked out the door and was almost at the car that it was afternoon and that I was picking up, not dropping off and that I had forgotten my son.

Sheepishly I returned for him. Luckily, the girls at childcare were already on high stupidity alert as I’d left his bag behind twice last week and signed him in as ‘Madeleine Burge’ yesterday. Please do not ask me who Madeleine Burge is, for I know not. Nor do I know why I would confuse my beloved Devilboy for she. After these little indiscretions I figured it may be an idea to let them in on my little IVF secret so they didn’t call DOCS about the crazy lady.

IVF is such a different experience this time around. ‘Tis quite odd – we’re over a  week of serious stabbing in and yet it still feels to both M and I like something we’re planning on doing soon, as opposed to a process that’s been underway for weeks. This may be because at our advanced ages we’re in the early stages of senility, or that we’re distracted by a lunatic 17 month old whirling Devilboy… or simply because we are quite thick.

It’s probably a good thing as we’ll be less prone to fret about the process and its possible outcomes if we aren’t so focused – but I feel so uninvolved compared to round one. Whilst elements were icky, I actively enjoyed most of the process last time. It was an adventure and scientific and weirdly creative, like I was involved in some Frankensteinish craft project to make a baby. This time it’s almost like background noise.

The presence of a small devilish man makes even needle time less ritualistic than before and has certainly seen an end to cups of tea being delivered to my bedside each morning with my fully prepped needle. Now it’s all quite mundane. The cat gets his insulin injection, I get my stupid injection. Job done. Brain dead. If I get the injections muddled up, which given the sorry state of my head is a definite possibility, the cat may be up the duff and I’ll be laying prostrate in a hypoglycemic coma. With so many needle dependents – coupled with a house that has been trashed by the loony little one – anyone looking in our window would think they had stumbled on an injecting room in Darlinghurst.

Mind you, morning stabbings aren’t completely without ritual as Devilboy has added his own special touch to proceedings. As I take the cap of the needle ready to jab myself, he lifts his t-shirt, pokes his belly and loudly announces “OUCH!” on my behalf! He then pisses himself laughing at me. Bastard!

This morning I had my first bloodwork at Casa conception and even that felt humdrum as I was looked after by Nurse Dullard who spoiled all my fun as she didn’t even make the presentation of the glamorous Puregon show bag exciting. Harrumph! So matter of fact was she, that I didn’t even get a second to imagine all the lovely gifts that could have been in the bag, had this been Hollywood and not an IVF clinic and it weren’t filled with boring drugs, syringes, icepacks and a sharps container.

My favourite nurse from round one – she who we refer to, with affection, as ‘The Stabber’ – is still about and she rang me today for a conspirital giggle and to let me know that it’s already time for the bastard injection to rear its ugly head and for me to start double dipping the needles. What fun!

From tomorrow those teensy tiny chickens will once again start scratching about in their ovarian henhouse to prepare lots of comfy little nests for all the eggs.

Go chickens, go.

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Needlepoint

 

 

This week, we’ve had two new additions to our home.  Freya and The Venus of Lespugue.

Anyone familiar with my previous waffling on the world of the infertile will know that I have a fairly silly and pointless collection of obscure fertility icons secreted around the place. Some find this peculiar given that I’m bordering on atheist and would call myself agnostic at best… making good luck charms and religious iconography a bit left of field. But I never claimed that my crazy infertile actions made any sense.

Freya is the groovy and attractive Norse Goddess of love and fertility and The Venus of Lespugue, whilst not so pretty, is a charming multi breasted prehistoric Gallic blob who Devilboy has already, quite unreasonably, tried to destroy by smashing repeatedly into the face of a Cambodian Buddha of reason.

The rest of my unruly mob of icons (who you may remember rejected the golden hued lump of plastic  ugliness that was Kwan Yin) hail from a variety of cultures and religions and thus far haven’t given the new girls any evil death stares – well, except for the Black Madonna of Rocamadour who is a bit uppity and looks down upon all the other icons a little piously. I suppose she is the mother of ‘God’ and all that, so fair play to her for having a healthy ego.

Whilst those of you have been around a while may have clicked on what a sudden influx of icons means – those newer to my musings may not.

That’s right folks, it’s time once more to start sticking things that aren’t penises into my body to make a baby. We’re off to Casa Conception once more to make Devilboy an IVF sibling.  Sadly, the conventional method doesn’t seem to favour us and Dr. Sickboy (our lovely baby maker) has suggested we don’t wait around and that I just jump straight back on the good old smackhead express and start injecting myself daily.  We’re in the suppression phase for the next week or so and then my macabre needlepoint project will commence. Sigh! How dull.

Whiny arsed tales of IVF angst will appear between postings on Devilboys latest escapades.

For now, I need to take my suppressed self off for a cuddle with said Devilboy and remind myself how happy we are that we have him before I start feeling all sorry for my crap at baby making self.

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