Category Archives: stupidity

Thank you for not smoking…

Today Devilette had her 4 month immunisations. This in itself is not an event of great note.

However, it was our first visit with a lovely new lady doctor who I shall henceforth refer to, with great affection, as Dr. Vague.

As per usual with Dr’s and babies, we had to answer all the standard questions about how we were coping, if we had enough support, how she was feeding, sleeping, pooping, etc…. and then came one which I haven’t, in several years of being a parent, heard before.

“Does she smoke inside the house?”

“Umm No”, was my shocked and smugly pious answer. “It’s a filthy habit. We always make her go outside to smoke. And don’t get me started on her drinking!!??” 

Good thing I was thinking on my feet there… I mean, could you imagine the ramifications if I gave the wrong answer? I’d hate for anyone to think I was an irresponsible parent.

But as I left, screaming newly immunised baby in tow, I couldn’t help asking a question of my own.

“Does Dr Vague smoke inside the house? And if the answer is yes, what exactly is it that she’s smoking?”

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Filed under Devilette, stupidity

Broken conversation

I’d been told before even falling pregnant that a side effect of both pregnancy and new motherhood was abject stupidity – referred to in  more polite cicrles as ‘baby brain’. And not wanting to let the side down I duly embraced my new mental state. What no-one warned me was that it doesn’t appear to improve with the passage of time. The thoughts are there and the brain is ticking over but it seems like there is some loose wiring which has caused my brain/mouth co-ordination to short circuit. My conversation isn’t just broken… it’s been run over by a truck, scraped up and thrown from a ten story building shattering into a thousand pieces then trampled by a herd of rampaging buffalo (that just happen to be hanging aorund near ten story buildings)

Since Devilboy entered the world, my capacity for coherent conversation has exited. Speech has become a bunch of random words that someone else has to assemble into a sentence. Kind of like constructing something from Ikea… only not everyone has the right allen key.

Yesterday whilst we were standing amongst a flock of huge feathered birdlife at Lake Macquarie, I had the following conversation with dad of Deviboy.

Me:                  Don’t let Devilboy get too close to the penguins.
D of D:            What penguins?
Me:                  Those penguins!
D of D:            You mean the pelicans?
Me:                  Oh! Yes the pelicans.
D of D:            Would you like a drink?
Me:                  I’d me chocolate
D of D:            You’d what?
Me:                  Devilboy, not so close to the penguins!
D of D:            You’re an idiot!

Thank Gods for other mothers I say. I swear without them I’d consider a vow of silence at this point. This is a perfectly understood conversation I had with another new mum (om) while ordering drinks at a cafe today, whilst our partners looked on dumbfounded.

Om:                  You know what’s her name is umm…. coffee?
Me:                  Really? How far along is she? No I’d rather have skim… Devilboy, stop ripping the paper!
Om:                  Four months.  Ok… two flat whites and a skim hot chocolate, please?
Me:                  Thanks. Did you still want to do that… thing in a few of weeks?
Om:                  Sure I’m keen, what day?
Partners:        What the?

 Clearly though I’ve lost the basic skills of discourse, I’ve gained the skill of translating mum… a fair trade methinks.

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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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See Spot Sob

The waiting really is the hardest part! I would give anything for a needle to inject or a blood test to take just to feel like I am participating in this process still rather than it being in the lap of the Gods (mind you, I’ve been sucking up to them all so I should be covered there)

Speaking of Gods, I got a lovely Aztec ‘thing’ yesterday which is yet another alleged fertility icon, as one can never have quite enough. Ixchel, as she is named, is a quite charming lump of deformed clay with large saggy breasts who is hanging on with both hands to her fabulously flabby gut. On her head is coiled a fairly phallic snake. She is wonderfully obscure and has happily moved in next to the other icons that, like me, love her for her grotesque uniqueness.

I have to say that since the truffle shuffle I have been erratic, moody, emotional and my head is on a constant rotating cycle of contradictory thoughts… positive, negative, hope, despair until I’m dizzy from it.

I am mean and moody. I yelled at our local pizza dude so badly that we had to find a new pizza place (he WAS being a twat but I admit to overreacting just a tad) and then I screamed at a random Foxtel guy (mind you they had stuffed us around and we were Foxless for nearly a month and this during the time when I actually craved inane television.) Thus far I haven’t actually physically attacked anyone and M has escaped unscathed from my abuse… but he is sensibly wary and knows it’s probably in the post.

I keep getting period like pains and twinges (that I am told to read nothing into by the staff at Casa Conception as it is probably just my drug addicted uterus having withdrawal symptoms from all the drugs I’ve been pumping into it)

Of course, being a human female, I am reading whole epic novels into the pains. The two most popular themes being “it’s the truffle happily implanting… joy!” and “It’s my period coming… it’s all over… Misery!”

I have been unsuccessfully trying to distract myself with anything at all… walks, chats with friends, movies, old favourite books, tidying, pretty shiny objects and even our newly restored foxtel in all it’s utter crapulousness and the cathode ray brain degenerator has proven to be my downfall.

Yesterday, somehow, I ended up engrossed in the tail end of the Channel 9 Midday Movie, the truly awful ‘See Spot Run’, starring a random Arquette. I have never desired to watch this movie and ordinarily such a movie would inspire me to shoot my television Elvis style… but ordinarily I am not a hyper hormonal, vague and moody idiot.

Only coming in, as I mentioned, at the tail end of the film, I was immediately engrossed in the exciting story of a clichéd bratty kid, a clichéd dickhead adult, a clichéd and clutzy Mafioso crime lord and a clichéd large unspotted dog called spot who is also an undercover FBI agent. Clearly this was essential viewing for a woman who has watched… and enjoyed… over the last few weeks the movies Syriana, Little Miss Sunshine, Eat Drink Man Woman and Babel.

I would like to share with you some real reviews of this tour de force of a film.

“It is possible, in fact highly probable, that the writers of this movie are as idiotic as the fat-headed lead character on screen.” Michael Thomsen, BBC

“What’s amazing about See Spot Run is that, granting how wretched it looks from the trailers and TV ads, it’s actually so very much worse even than that.” M.V Morrehard, New Times

“See Spot Run is one of those movies that make you put your head in your hands and mourn the death of popular culture.” Gene Seymour, Newsday

Sadly in this tale, the spoilt brat child has to give the dog he has had for all of 24 hours back to the FBI when it’s real identity has been revealed. My reaction to this was to sob… and sob… and sob… and sob.

Luckily, five minutes later the boy is given the dog back when the FBI trainer, who has loved the dog for years and invested his entire life into training said dog, that Spot loves the boy he has known for 24 hours much more than him and gives the boy the dog back. My reaction to this was to sob… and sob… and sob… and sob.

My reaction is telling me something. Firstly, hormones are very dangerous things. Secondly, IVF turns educated and relatively sane people into blubbering certifiable morons.

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Filed under iconography, impatience, IVF, stupidity, waiting

Are you there Gods? It’s me, Stupid.

The list of my accomplishments in the field of abject stupidity is growing daily.

In the office yesterday I walked into a wall. We only have four and it isn’t that hard to navigate a square virtually unfurnished room or so I thought back in the old days when I was still capable of them.

It occurred to me last night that ‘perhaps my brain just needs feeding’ but after an hour I realised I was still on the first page of my book and that many of the words had more than one syllable. I decided instead to send my beloved to fetch me some trash of the type that really has no words… only pictures of thin blonde heiresses. By using the full force of my three functioning brains cell I managed to finish that… though with some difficulty.

Phase two of Operation “Entertain the Idiot” was to watch a movie. Nothing too complex… just a generic action blockbuster designed as fodder for the great unwashed. Unfortunately my skills of concentration meant that I was still mentally processing scenes ten minutes after they had finished and couldn’t even keep up with a plot written for and by the sub literate. I gave up on that and went to bed early to enjoy millions of little dreamettes of random ridiculousness. Another alarming side effect of Lucrin is that even my dreams are dumb!

So dumb do I feel that it has crossed my mind that they’ve been injecting George W. Bush with Lucrin for years. That’s right, I feel ‘W’ stupid! Though whilst the IVF fairies are making me a vacuous, vicious arse… I haven’t as yet felt the need to invade another country or become a fundamentalist religious hypocrite… so far.

Although… in saying that my house has turned into a virtual religious shrine. I, who have never been particularly suspicious or indeed secularly inclined for many years and who counts amongst her favorite books this year, Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, has been picking up every possible piece of mildly symbolic fertility crap and fecund religious iconography that I cross paths with!

I have Buddha’s multiplying rapidly – a Buddha of compassion, the biggest fattest most extraordinarily jolly lucky Buddha I could find, serene Buddha for moments of calm, and a few little generic Buddha’s scattered around the house. I even have the most peculiar Buddha I have ever met… a ghastly kitschy thing surrounded by comical babies that is in fact an ‘official’ fertility Buddha but on closer inspection more resembles a lardy pedophile.

I also have a skinny and malnourished looking Cambodian interpretation of Ganesha… the lord of beginnings and overcoming obstacles (and allegedly the god of intellect so he’s clearly malfunctioning in that area – have a sandwich Ganesha and get back on the job!) and his much sexier dad Shiva, the destroyer of evil and creator of the new – also known in our house as the Toilet God because this is where he lives.

There is our beautiful little ‘Turtle Dragon’ which is bestowing upon us long life and lucky new beginnings as we speak. Then we have ‘Wasll’, named thus by my beloved for reasons completely unknown to myself, he is a rather large 100 year plus old Burmese man with an enormous penis wearing what appears to be rather full nappies. Wasll (pronounced Wassell), who has become a very important member of the family, has a rather unfortunate moustache and is doing an alleged fertility dance…  and looks more than a trifle queer.

Diana, the Roman goddess of nature, fertility and childbirth has been with me a long time, in fact I uncovered her in a little shop in Ireland years ago. She is a beautiful little thing lolling about starkers with her legs in the air whilst shooting something from her bow an arrow. It’s probaly a dart full of Lucrin.  I’ve always found it amusing that she is also known as the ‘huntress’ as shooting things and fertility/childbirth seems a somewhat unlikely combo – though ironically my own battle with fertility has had me so frustrated that there has been more than one occasion that I’ve been ready to shoot things too.

An Egyptian cat, protector of family and good omen of fertility and birth looks upon this confused collection of multicultural and multitheistic idols with typical feline disdain and all these magical fripperies are complimented by the lovely double happiness candles given to me by a dear friend.

The newest addition to my collection is Kwan Yin. Kwan Yin is a girly Buddha of Mercy who moonlights in fecundity – although there is some dispute over whether Kwanny is actually a boy or a girl. Kawn Yin is an essential part of any obsessive catalogue of fertility icons. And so she was purchased in haste. And there lies the problem. Unlike the other members of my collection who, besides the pedophilic fertility Buddha, who does have his own special charm, have all been lovingly collected on our travels and are antique, artistic or simply beautiful, Kwanny is a thing of inspired ugliness and simply isn’t floating my aesthetic boat.

There better be some good vibes coming from you soon Kwanny – until then consider yourself on notice!

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I’m so vague, I probably think this song is about me.

Yesterday whilst wallowing in my new found vagueness I sent an email to a client I know reasonably well. The kind of client you sign off with a “Cheers'” instead of a “Regards”. 

Now, this wasn’t very exciting at all, until this morning when said client responded to the email in question and I realised upon reading it back that instead of  “Cheers” I had actually signed it off  “Cheese” which is ironically what my brain appears to be made from.

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I wonder…

… if IVF drugs are supposed to simulate the effects of the alleged latter stages of pregnancy on your brain to get you used to being a pregnant woman. Every intelligent woman I know has said their brains have turned to goo during pregnancy but after a few days of injectable drugs and my brain is already like soft cheese.

For example, yesterday I left my handbag at home when I went to a meeting. I realised half way there and returned home, picked up said handbag and headed back to my meeting.

On the way from my meeting to the office, I realised that I left the very same handbag at the place of the meeting. I returned, collected it and headed off one more on my merry vacuous way.

At lunchtime I went to retrieve my wallet from my handbag and realised I had left my handbag in my car. do you see a pattern forming?

The day finally over I collected my laptop and all my bits and pieces and headed to meet M in Kirribilli for dinner. When reaching for my bag to get some coins to pay for the parking meter I realised that I didn’t have it. Quel Surprise. It was still at the office.

This is the same handbag I carry everyday. The same handbag that I have used for years and years and have never ever left behind even once. It is so much part of my daily attire it would be like leaving the house nude.

I spoke to the IVF clinic to see if this was somehow normal and they said yes. Stupidity is a definite side effect. Great.

The other fabulously exciting side effect is that I get short of breath walking up stairs and my heart rate is around 482,000,000 beats per minute. It’s a good thing we only have about three thousand stairs at our flat. I have also managed to burst into unsolicited tears on average once a day since the first injection. Aide moi! This is going to be fun.

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Filed under Infertility, IVF, stupidity