now with drug links!

Daniel cried when I picked him up last night. CRIED. The little ingrate, so I took him to one store to buy some Real Deal Thomas train tracks, and then took him upstairs to another store to buy him the Gordon Plus Carriage Plus some disaster making accouterments that go along with the Gordon Play Along set, (also with free DVD!)(with literally my last forty dollars for THE ENTIRE WEEK)(and my GOD, I cannot believe the changes that have been made to child support assessments. I'll be over 160 bucks DOWN each month, never mind that I now have to pay water rates [ which, who in the hell rents and pays water rates? hint: NO ONE] and the cost of living is KNOWN to be getting out of hand even for COUPLES who BOTH WORK. I'm fucked, seriously, and Strep is all jumping for joy because - and get this - while my child support goes down, he not only saves that extra 160 bucks, he just got a SUBSTANTIAL payrise, one that makes that 160 bucks barely out a dent in his salary) and now that I've bribed him for my love, he's watching the same old Thomas shit on TV that I usually let him watch when I'm feeling guilty about being a crapass parent, exceot now with Train Tracks! On the floor! While carrying Gordon (plus carriage!) back and forward between by my side (for providing narration) and in front of the tv (for providing material for narration). No wonder he cried when he left YB's because he had a whole family to have fun with there: the pretend older brother, the make believe father, and the proxy mother who I BET never jams on a dvd so she can complain to the internet about her child's supreme stay with another family.

Others might say that I'm buying myself some time out following a harrowing operation, but I OBVIOUSLY, I prefer to think that I suck.

ANYWAY, I'm doing okay. Swollen up like the elephant man on one side, and swollen around my ear so much that I'm partially deaf, all of which is to be expected. This should be the worst day with the swelling going down pretty steadily from here on in. I know this because I've done it FOUR times already. Jesus. You know what though? The biggest shitter of this whole deal has actually been the LIMITED amount of pain I've been in. FOR SERIOUS.

Let me explain: Maybe you all remember my surgeon hates narcotic pain relief? He'll allow you a teeny tiny dose of Pethidine in recovery and THAT'S IT. No kidding. Once that very short float on a cloud is over, it's just you and the Paracetamol. So for my first operation, the one that *warning, ick alert* involved my FACE being sawed through in AT LEAST seven places and moved and drilled and even bits of it removed? It hurt big time for FIVE DAYS, and all I had was Panadol. Fucking Panadol. Except that one time Nurse Ratchet, the night relief nurse, emptied the contents of a Capadex into a cup and made me drink it. I was all, uh, it's in a capsule for a REASON ie IT TASTES LIKE SHIT, and she as good as held my head and poured it down my throat. So I suffered, SUFFERED, through that and then threw it all back up again, which made my pain level at least TRIPLE, but by then I couldn't even have any panadol because I'd ben force fed the capadex, so had to wait at least another four hours for some more panadol which didn't work anyway.

Oh, and there was that other time when, on day 2 or thereabouts I had this massive migraine ON TOP of all my Giant Floating Head pain, and the on call doctor wrote me a stat script for Oxycodone and can I just say? LOVE. Also, no shit it's a drug "subject to abuse". It's fucking AWESOME. What I loved most about it was that the nurse made a mistake on the stat (ie once only) script and threw me back up to heaven again four hours later. Wooo!

And then my second and third operations were repeat of the first miserable one, vis a vis available pain control. ie THERE WAS NONE.

This time though, THIS TIME, when my pain scale was NEGLIGIBLE, another doctor, my anaethawhatever, wrote up the post op meds and he wrote up a whole lot of Fentanyl to be sued as needed while in recovery, and for four hourly doses of pethidine as needed for when I was back on the ward. People, that translates to twenty four hours of Pethidine, or in real terms, a FULL DAY, CONSTANT HIGH. Except that I didn't need it because I wasn't in any real pain.

RIPPED OFF.

I did, however, take full advantage of the Fentanyl and whenever anyone asked me what my pain was like, I groaned a believable "Seven. Or maybe an eight", because, Jesus, I'd only just come out of surgery, give me a BREAK here. Fentanyl doesn't whack my brain right out of my head though, so because the side of my mouth was kind of sore after all that Fentanyl wore off, and because my only other pain relief option was that fucking panadol, I made sure I got hit up with one dose of Pethadine before I lost even that excuse for a slice of the drug fest that was on offer.

This time too, with only ONE night to stay there, the nurses were FABULOUS, which was in stark contrast to the uber bitches who used to work that ward. This time around they called me sweetie and NOTHING was too much. The last time? God, even asking for PANADOL was a burden for them which, isn't that their fucking JOB? And it was like that for FIVE days. GAH. The afternoon nurse asked me if I needed more Pethidine ("no" *sobs*), as did the night nurse (*more sobbing*) , and even the nurse who was back on yesterday morning (I begged her to his me in the face so I COULD partake). They CARED, and yet fate gave them to me for only one day.

Where is the humanity?!

But! It's refreshing to know then, that after experiencing The Nice, it isn't my paranoia making me believe that the nurses hated me last time (which is what I'd convinced myself because I'm all about blaming myself for less that stellar interactions)(I suck that way, honestly), they really DID hate me, and probably every other patient that interfered with their work. which is really quite the circular argument because patients ARE their work.

ANYWAY, the prof said that while the plates were all AOK, there was a LOT of scarring around them - which hopefully it won't come back as badly this time - which may have been responsible for the excessive numbness. He also took a fat graft (sex-ay!) from NOT my c-section scar, so I have a pretty new scar just under my belly button, which I prefer, actually, as my c-section has faded to rather invisible these days and I'd rather not fuck with that amount of Not Noticeable. I'd rather have a new scar than have had my c-section one become more noticeable because c-section scars = SO NOT SEXY

So that's my news: possibly no fuck ups this time around, and the prof has been very congenial and not at all arrogant (well, okay, maybe a bit) like he has been in the past, the aneasthahowever you spell it wrote me up GOBS of good drugs which, while I couldn't use them, made me love him a LOT.

and I got no sleep last night and feel like crap today, and it's the drugs and the experience and the tiredness but god, I'm depressed. The end.

the one with no links

Tomorrow I'm going in for my fourth (FOURTH!) surgery in just over a year. The x rays showed nothing remarkable: no inflammation, nothing out of place, and no explanation for why I've still got extensive numbness. I can feel a loose something or other in my chin though, and I still have swelling on the left side of my face, it's sensitive to touch and it aches from time to time.

My surgeon initially stuck to his usual "wtf are you worrying about?" stance, and talked about waiting and being patient and bla bla BLA, which I am all for, but I also want to be HEARD.

This is concerning me and while I'm waiting, I wouldn't mind doing some non invasive shit like maybe seeing a neurologist because this is about nerves and my surgeon knows what a nerve is, he isn't a neurologist.

It was a LONG consult, almost forty five minutes, and by the end of it, he was less I'm The Brilliant Surgeon and more Ah Yes, You May Have A Point.

Maybe because I mentioned that in each one of my previous three operations, a fairly significant error has occurred.

Operation one, my maxilla was set crookedly. It was visible, it should have been checked, but the team relied on their experience and my surgeon still didn't give me the visual once over when I said "uh, dude?" while still in the ICU. When that godawful plate was removed from my wired up teeth, allowing for even more visual clarification of Holy Shit, That's Not Right, his nurse said nothing was wrong. I saw my surgeon the following week and he STILL didn't notice it until after he'd deemed me as "perfect!" and I again said "uh, dude?" while pointing to my off kilter grin. Before that, my concerns were ignored and I'd most likely been considered to simply be an overwrought patient.

That glaring fucking error was fixed three weeks after the initial surgery, and for an entire nine weeks following that, at each follow up appointment, I asked when the dissolving stitches would, you know, DISSOLVE. Each time I saw either him or his nurse - and I saw them A LOT because he'd already screwed up MONUMENTALLY so was being veddy veddy attentive this time round - was told, be patient, they'll dissolve.

I ended up cutting most of the stitching out (fercrisake) myself, which was something I could only do progressively as the swelling subsided enough to give me greater access, and then finally when there was stitching I couldn't get to because my own gums HAD GROWN OVER IT (and, uh,yes. This paragraph should probably have carried a MAJOR "eww, ick, oh my GOD" warning. My apologies, sportsfans), they cut the rest out and told me "oh yeah, there was a problem with the supplier, this suture won't ever dissolve.". To which I replied, "No shit?".

Jesus.

The third operation, my last, the surgeon didn't follow my instructions because the surgical team didn't read the part of the notes that said "Dermal fat graft".

I was given a fat injection instead, an operation that carries NO medicare rebate and costs upwards of 2.5K, and while it temporarily repaired the dent in my face, it also left me with a bigger, permanent dent in my upper thigh which is kinda gross, man.

The worst part of all these episodes was the feeling of not being listened too.

Which, for reasons involving a tragic childhood with a ton of neglect, boo hoo, is a feeling fraught with emotion for me.

So fucking forgive me if I was a little bit nervous to be told AGAIN to be patient, it may take up to eighteen months for the numbness to go, ESPECIALLY when I was initially told it would be six weeks, then three months, then six, then nine, then twelve.

And because of those previous experiences, I don't want to go home and wait if I feel like no one is taking my concerns seriously.

The prof has reassured me that there is no way a nerve could have been cut. He saw the it at the time of surgery, the surgery itself doesn't threaten the nerve's integrity, so he has every reason to believe it's still intact. He's never had anyone take this long to regain feeling though, so has no real idea why it's happening to me, though he kind of air thought that, if it's NOT a case of sit and wait, that maybe one of the plates has moved or some bone regrowth has got in its way or idea idea or idea.

So two plates and five screws will be removed from my chin tomorrow morning. The plate in my left cheek is going to be examined and if it looks even slightly hinky, it's coming out too. It's only coming out if it's hinky because the plates are titanium so your body kind of grows bone around it, so removing plates isn't a simple case of Undo Screw, Remove Plate. It usually involves a lot of scraping of bone away to get to the plate, which, in true shutting the door after the horse has bolted style, eww alert. Sorry.

And then we wait. If there is no improvement after three months, then I got to a neurologist and bla bla BLA.

And in celebration of this latest surgery, I amended my will last week (which is ANOTHER story ENTIRELY involving The damn Lawyer. Men, jesus) and have arranged for Daniel to stay overnight at a YB's house, and he'll be spending Monday and Tuesday in childcare this week too.

My very good friend, Enn, offered to take Daniel too, but her mother just got out of a nursing home and has moved in with her, and she requires care around the clock AND there's the twelve year old son who needs to be fed watered and taken to school too. Throwing my high energy toddler into her household? Would feel like a crime against humanity.

What a great friend though, to honestly and sincerely want to take on another responsibility amidst all her own.

*wells up with emotion*

YB works at the childcare centre and lives VERY close by, but best of all, she LOVES Daniel ("I know I shouldn't have favorites, but I LOVE him"). She wouldn't tell me how much to pay her for an overnight stay - and I think she'd do it for free because she keeps saying "we're friends, of course I'll help out"- but I can't NOT pay her. I just can't. Daniel is being delivered (by his most likely teary mother because I could die IT HAPPENS) to her at 6am tomorrow, she's taking him to work with her, bringing him home to stay, and then taking him in again in the morning, so fifty bucks is insulting, while a hundred I simply can NOT afford, even though it's the usual going rate for a standard overnighter without all the added extras. Seventy five is a good halfway between what I can just afford and what I really and truly can't, but it looks so messy with all those mismatched notes in an envelope, when sixty in the form of a neat 3 x twenty dollar bills looks neat and tidy. But sixty is also bordering on insulting when eighty is also out of my league.

Mostly, I'm as scared as all shit and am NOT going to clean my (filthy) floors today because I'd rather spend what could be my last day on this earth with my son. The plan: shower first, then train, train train, and train. And possibly MacDonald's for the play equipment, the lousy coffee and the chocolate dusted, frothy topped baby cappuccinos.

I GO GET DA FLUFF!

ANZAC Day march

Lest We Forget

We weren't heroes, we weren't born to be heroes.....though some really were-
Alec Campbell, Australia's last Gallipoli Anzac

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will, remember them.

publicly transported

Despite pulling the preparations together in about five minutes flat, yesterday went well. Daniel was all "Rosie, I go on da TWAIN!!" to the creche lady when we left the gym (which I got to a half hour late wearing not so gym wear and a pair of thongs but best of all, ah found mah pants! and so was wearing them)(hey, do you want to know about an interesting but rather annoying phenomena going on here? Yannow how I blabbed about my new keyboard is giving me mad typing skilz? Yeah, well, my skilz are getting SO mad that now I'm LESS accurate all over again maybe because now I'm used to this keyboard. Suck value of said? High. Seriously) then we got on the TRAM instead and Daniel was all *gulp* and sat glued to my lap and as silent as a little lamb the entire way into the city, and I'm certain that the phrase dominating his tram experience was "RIPPED OFF WHERE'S MAH TWAIN?".

We got off several (okay, one) stop away from our actual real destination so we could beat our way through the crowds. Extra motivation points for getting off here? A freakin' FOUNTAIN. And a whole lot of pigeons, and the existence of the above seemed to make up for the deception I pulled on Daniel when his train ride turned out to be a tortuous sojourn on a tram instead.

While I was in the seat at the orthodontist getting my latest mishap repaired, Daniel was in the waiting room (no kidding, the place is so cool that it's like visiting grandma. Apart from the obvious instruments of torture, I LOVE IT THERE. Last time we were there Daniel played with a train set in the hallway right outside of where I was being manhandled, and the orthodontist's nurse spent more time with him than she did in my mouth - and the orthodontist was COOL with that [I KNOW! ] but this time he [Daniel, not the orthodontist] sat all the way out there at the reception desk, like NOT EVEN NEAR ME, and kept himself busy with the toys out there) and he'd wander in every now and yell "MUM!!" and then he'd wander back out to the way more interesting train set way out there. Repeat. Then I heard "MUM!" for the seventeenth time, the variation here being it was mere seconds before the receptionist came rushing in saying "uh, I think he's done a pooh".

Aside: does my rampant and rabid use of parentheses detract from the point of the story? Much?

To continue: People, I was blooded as a true mother yesterday with Daniel publicly pooping in his big boy pants. THANK GOD for me, the kid is a wee bit backed up at present (which is very odd because I do believe I gave birth to a descendant of Mr Whippy) so rather than his usual squishy deal, he presented me with a very neat, very containable package that barely soiled his Thomas The Tank Engine underdoovers.

Which is news you TOTALLY needed to hear, but in the interests of truth in the media, whammo! It's yours. Enjoy. You're welcome.

Then we walked back to the fountain and Daniel practically threw himself in seconds after her hurled in puppy dog, and then we caught the tram back home and this time he LOVED it. Man, it was packed though, and catching public transport with a stroller blows.

*waves breaking on beaches, sands through the hourglass*

Later that day, we had to take the fake grandparents to the airport for their trip away. We got to sit around drinking coffees while Daniel acted like an abandoned child in the play area over there. Then we hung around waiting for them to board, and then Daniel lost his mind when they left, all "NOO, GRAMMA NOOOOOO *sobs* POPOFFS NOOOO!" before trying to run after them. Tthen we watched and watched until the plane finally taxied down the runway and took off from the OTHER end so we didn't get to see the darn thing go whoosh, which is why we stayed until practically the wee hours of the morning. Okay, it was only 8.30, but still, RIPPED OFF

Their car is parked outside for the next two weeks and Daniel's noseprint tells the tale. He's been adhered to the window all morning saying "Gramma? Popoffs? Gramma? Popoffs? Gramma....?"....

and now I must away and deliberate as to whether or not I want to wash my hair.

Life is full of complicated decisions, eh?

quick and fascinating

quick update as I'm a) so interesting that you NEED to hear this and b) SO late ie am supposed to be there in ten minutes BUT ANYWAY

• I got ANOTHER broken bracket on my high maintenance tooth bling, and am taking Daniel in to the city on the TRAM today to get it fixed. I think we'll both lose out minds with thus one, him because holy fuck, a TRAM (him), and jesus, how many times are these things going to break?! (me)
  

• I'm teaching the veterans beforehand after canceling on them again today (what is my problem? I have NOT wanted to work AT ALL this week, good thing the vets work isn't paid work, eh?) but after a fit of guilt, have got us both dressed and packed for 1) the day trip and 2) Daniel's later trip to day care and 3) (which should be 1) ) a morning session at the pool

• except, where are my pants?

cruising

We had a great day on Sunday when we met with a friend at one of those indoor play cafes where, for the princely sum of seven bucks, your child gets to go nuts while you stare slack jawed at the exorbitant cost of the adult entertainment (ie food) listed on the menu board.

Certainly I can think of better places to sip on an overpriced cappuccino, but in terms of entertainment value for short people? We're talking total SCORE! baby, because it was so great to see Daniel tool around and have fun. He spent about 0.5 seconds in the purpose built and less frenetic toddler zone before zooming off in search of something more horrifying (for me) and exciting (for him).

The older kids' area had a ball pit, just like the toddlers' did, but unlike the one populated with shortasses, this one was infested with would-be ninjas, all with the ability to simultaneously mosh and pick up a ball and hurl it HARD, and usually at someone's head. It was scary from an observer's (mine) perspective, but as I never want to be one of those mothers who hover over there kids calling out things like "Don't climb that, you'll fall off!!" because Hello! Self fulfilling prophecy, I shut the fuck up and watched from the sidelines as Daniel took to the chaos like a duck to the proverbial water.

He actually and really did get some sleep when we got home too, which raised the SCORE value of the place substantially.

Yesterday though, we...did nothing all day. Oh, I ditched my morning class and we to the gym instead, but it was like, 25 minutes before the creche closed. Daniel got to run around like a fool with some other kids for a while though, which is why I bothered going there at all.

Then later we went for a walk, mostly to get to the pharmacy to get some more of those saline sachets because jesus, my hayfever is KILLING me. At least, I hope it's hayfever and not a damn cold because that would totally put a harsh on my pre op buzz. I planned on salting the bejesus out of my antsy sinuses last night but ended up forgetting all about it. Man, my life, eh? Full of fun times and exciting new experiences.

I wouldn't change it for the world though. We were out this morning too (I ditched another class this morning to spend it with Daniel instead) and for a time was just watching the back of Daniel's head bob along as he sat in the stroller and took in the sights. He had (one of) his (several) puppy dog(s, all of who are named "puppy dog") stashed in the crook of his arm and a Thomas the Tank Engine held firmly in his hand, and I took it all in, this picture of utter contentment set out in front of me and forever in my world, and practically breathed the thought that, man, I'm SO lucky to have this little guy.

It was one of those moments when you take stock and re-realise the magnitude of your good fortune. And then the magnitude becomes so overwhelming that you must start thinking about mundane things before your brain explodes.

enjoy

capslockapalooza

We went shopping for a new mouse because Daniel broke my old one by whamming it on the desk, and because I'm MADE of money, I figured why not get a new keyboard too because my typing sucks, as we all know, but it sucks EVEN MORE thanks to this godawful mac keyboard (ask ANYONE, they'll tell you I'm not making it up). Also, one new mouse? forty bucks. One new mouse plus one new keyboard in a boxed set? Forty bucks. So we went to Big W (Daniel, on seeing the sign outside: *loses his shit* DUBBLE YEW!! DUBBLE YEEEEEEEWWWW!!) and the choices there scared me so we went to the IT warehouse. The prices there scared me even more (no shit, overinflated much? MY GOD. Even the sales girl was all talking out the side of her mouth to me and suggesting I "Go to Officeworks next door, they're much cheaper" so we went to Officeworks and the only keyboard/mouse combo in my price range scared me because HUGE and UGLY much? Jesus. ANYWAY, by this time Daniel had shifted from being congenial and sweet to being a tad churlish, which RAPIDLY accelerated into nightmare screaming and throwing himself on the floor boy, so we left and Daniel groused the whole way home, then I took him inside, put him to bed, snuggled with him (aww) and then said "sweet dreams, see you soon", and the little shit pinged his eyes open and WOKE UP. I left him there anyway on the assumption he was SO tired that he'd drift off immediately, and that if I stayed, he'd be so taken with my company (seriously, he does this) that he'd stay awake until next September.So I tyip toed out and all was quiet - except lo! When I checked on him later, AWAKE. Also with the usual Nap Time Protest Package steaming up his drawers, so I threw him in the shower where he had a wild old time as I blatantly thumbed my nose (and gave the finger to) the stupid water restrictions imposed on us by the government.

aside: I'll take the water crisis seriously when they does. They're trying to save our supply by making us take shorter showers? Oh yeah, very serious, especially as domestic water usage is at around the 0.1% mark of the our main river's load. RIDICULOUS. Bring on the desalination plants and get serious about water catchment, and then I'll think about shaving my shower down to two minutes, tops. There should be catchment areas on EVERY government owned building, and privately owned buildings should at least have the option to lease available space for more. All new structures should come with catchment as a matter of building policy - a ruling that should also apply for private homes, and all other home owners should get tax breaks for installing catchments on their existing homes. And all this water crisis shit is happening because of global warming, remember, so we should be addressing that problem rather than dealing with its symptom. How to start? GROW MORE TREES. So it's unfortunate and reflective of the lack of planning (and seriousness) that we're being forced to let all our greenery die. Dumber still is that council land is also dying off, in some misguided show of solidarity, so yes, dumbfuck water restrictions that can bite my wll showered ass.

ANYWAY

In between typing (on my rad new keyboard that, while it hasn't made me type at the speed of sound, has certainly improved my accuracy. FOR REALS) this, I'm wasting hot air blowing up balloons for Daniel before we count to one together and let them loose (ooooonnnnneeeee...GO!!) to fly around the room powered by fart noises. Fun times! Every so often when Daniel is being toted around in the back pack and we're wandering around the supermarket, I grab a whoopee cushion (remember them? The store up the road has them and they're self inflating OHMYGODTHEPOSSIBILITIES) and we fart noise our way around the until we need to leave. Which is usually shortly after we've exhausted the entertainment value of the pthhhhhhhhhhh. I'm a class act, baby, no shit.

We went to the city yesterday and we took the train and Daniel about LOST HIS MIND. Now he's lying on the floor moaning in grief because of some invisible mishap with the last balloon launch. I somehow did something wrong with the last balloon launch. I called Daniel's father too, and we met him for lunch because I'm a nice person and while we were there, bla bla BLA.

It was orthodontist day AGAIN, which is why the train trip into the big (HA) city. I swear, these things are more high maintenance than Naomi Campbell. You think you only need to go for six week tweaks, when in fact your bands are all throwing telephones at your head because GOD CAN'T YOU SEE THAT BRACKET IS BROKEN FIX IT!!!!111!!!1

Stupid bands.

Then we had to go back to the orthodontist AGAIN BEFORE WE CAUGHT THE TRAIN HOME BECAUSE THE BUTTON (WHICH IS A CODE WORD FOR "TONGUE SHREDDER") oops, unsolicited caps lock, sorry. ANYWAY, this "button" thing was glued to the inside of two of my big assed back bottom teeth, and it fell off *ping* just like that, moments after we left from the first appointment, so I called them before we left and the rest is history. In short? Fun times, especially the tongue shredding part of the whole "button" equation.

The other highlight of the day was when we were outside Strep's office building, doing, in retrospect, our best impression of family life (proving yet again that there is NO truth in advertising). We had the cute as a bug toddler running around, Stef and I talking and probably smiling prettily at each other as we did so, me looking AWESOME (okay, maybe not, but this is MY fantasy and I looked AMAZING in it), and then this woman walked past and said to Strep "Hi! I see you here out here all the time, is this your beautiful family?". AND HE SAID YES. The asshat identified me as his "family" and I about choked before smiling wanly as I held back the left hook. She continued with "your daughter is adorable" and then she turned to me and said (WAIT FOR IT) "and you're expecting again, how wonderful!".

So of course I told her I WASN'T, not only to get the facts straight, but so she could spend the next fifteen YEARS kicking herself for suggesting I was.

Man, did she hit the trifecta with me or what? According to her, I'm married, have a daughter and AM PREGNANT

Note to the stupid: Unless a woman is actively giving birth IN FRONT OF YOU, it is NEVER appropriate to congratulate her on her pregnancy because chances are, she's just FAT. LIKE ME. GOD.

So I punched her lights out and am now awaiting trial for aggravated assault. The end.

for a short time only

click!

more wa wa wa

and this scintillating update is brought to you by Daniel and his failure to nap. He hasn't had an afternoon sleep since I don't know when. Too long, and he's not old enough to not need to avail himself of The Nap because he gets all overtired and annoying without one, and quite simply, Boy + Nap = Good, while Boy - Nap = I need more vodka. Stat.

I thought I'd lucked out today when he was so tired he was practically asleep on his feet today, so I put him to bed and wished him sweet dreams, and when I left, all was quiet. When I checked on him later though, I found the contents of all the drawers spread across the floor, and the boy wonder standing innocently by the door with steam coming out of the back of his pants. Hey, did you note the rhyming there? drawer, floor, door. ANYWAY, back to the steaming pants which, if "ohmyfuck" came in a colour, as in green, amber, red and ohmyfuck, that's what colour code would have been called on this emergency. Jesus. Those same contents also prove that miracles really do happen because the law of physics would suggest that you can't eat more than you poop, but the dude does. Daniel is depriving himself of food as much as he is of sleep, so I have NO idea where a poop the size of his own head came from.

Speaking of, Daniel finally had an accident in his big boy pants (BIGBAHPAHS!!) the other day, and while it was, on a scale of 1 to 10, a 72 in re its grossness, it was also a learning experience, and since then, the boy has done two poops on the potty. Also, one more in his pants, giving him a two for two score as we go to print.

I can handle the poop though (in a not too literal fashion, mind), especially as it generally arrives while he's still wearing his sleep nappy, but I'm having trouble coping with the sleep deficit, and I reckon I'm crankier than he ever is, so he gets it. I'm not talking hitting him because thank god, I've (so far) been able to (quite easily) escape my (morbid and quite unrealistic) fear of losing my shit and cracking him a good one, but I get short tempered and mouthy and god help me, I YELLED at him yesterday.

Ah yes, that was a proud moment when my sweet little boy fussed around my feet until I told him to "get out get out GET OUT!!", and let's not talk about the time I turned on him and demanded "What, Daniel?? WHAT??!".

He might get antsy and irritating when he's tired, but it's not because he's being a disgruntled little shit, it's because he's so damned HAPPY that he gets a little out of control, and I just want him to calm the fuck down and while he's at it, maybe shut the fuck up already, because I get disgruntled and irritating when I don't get to close that bedroom door, breathe a sigh of relief, and get my time out, you know? Which in NO WAY excuses shouting at him like that. I've made him cry so much these past few days because I feel so overwhelmed with being on duty every. single. moment, and right now, a wedding band and a father sound disturbingly attractive because in that particular fantasy, I can hand over the reins and not feel guilty for doing so once in a while. .

I'd like to blame my overwhelmedness (IT'S A WORD) on hormones, and maybe I even can because I do feel hormonal and this is my first cycle after loading up on the fertiltuy drugs, but even if it is all that, none of it excuses being so damn mean to anyone, much less a child whose only crime is loving life a little much for his mother to handle right now.

I feel like a total failure for feeling stressed out by motherhood, and I feel totally guilty for wondering if a night without him sometime soon isn't something I need to do.

Talk about lose/lose situation thoguh, because I KNOW that if I had that night off, I'd feel guilty for that too.

and then

I've been miserable these past few days, all full of dark thoughts and woe, so thank GOD I feel less like a huge black hole and more like my usual self.

I finished up watching the entire series (again) of Six Feet Under last week, viewing pleasure that ceased the evening before the morning of my Dark Mood appearing, so I blame that. Which is a welcome change from blaming my upbringing. Oh, kidding. Of course I blame that above and beyond anything else for my every so often morose self, but if you've ever sobbed your way through the last three episodes EVER of Six Feet Under, you'll understand why I woke up the next day wondering about the meaning of life and if it, indeed, was worth all the damn fuss. You've probably also felt like that much shit apres the final viewing too, if only for the fact that that's it. IT! No more Six Feet Under EVER, never mind that Nate fucking died.

Which, if you've never watched it, may or may not be a plot spoiler. If that's you, take this -> *punt* That's a kick up your ass. Please deliver it to yourself so you can up off it and go rent the dvds, borrow them or download them all. And Nate doesn't die, I was just kidding.

The other thing too, about Mood Watch 2008, is that I should probably slap myself upside of the head before continuing with some wisdom like "Dear self, well DUH you feel low, you idiot. You've just been through a cancelled IVF cycle, so not only did you get to experience that particular joy, you also got to experience the special kind of fun it is to cancel one right at the end.". Then I'd go on about all the other baggage that went along with the whole party like, how about that NEGATIVO ON THE PREGNANCY THING, SUCKAH, and my true self would be all "Oh yeah". But I prefer to think I'm bullet proof and immune to all that pussy emotional shit, so I'll continue to blame my emotionally fraught childhood instead.

You know what I think it is though? These rare yet boringly periodic dips in the Ocean of Blah, I think that when I'm distracted with processing issues (like the fallout from an IVF cycle)(or that fucking Nate dying) that have been stamped "Urgent, your immediate attention is required" by my brain, my entire cerebral staff drops what it's doing and heads off to deal with the crisis at hand, and does so spectacularly well.. All the regular shit though, the baggage that is left over from an unsteady foundation, is left unattended, so while I usually don't notice that stuff either, I find that it's all I can feel when I'm in the middle of something that should be occupying my emotions. So yes, I must usually have some brain related resources dedicated to making sure the boring daily shit remains unnoticed. Which it does unless a crisis intervention is required, which is when they scurry off, which brings us back to the beginning of this paragraph.

BUT ANYWAY

The weekend was a blur of activity. If by "blur of activity" I mean "I went to the store for less than an hour" on Saturday. Big fat whoop, eh? But it was fun and my friend got me out of the house and feeling useful as I'm her personal dresser. She'd bought a dress for a christening on Sunday and needed me to pull The Look together (note upper case T and L. This is because we fashion professionals like to use uppercase as much as we like to use words like "team", "pull" and "accessorise") . Picture it: white dress (which, seriously, is not your first impulse to grab her by the neck and scream "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??!") with a kind of Grecian feel. And that's it. I didn't choose the dress for I had not the time to shop with her in the morning, which is when she made the totally unsupervised purchase. My advice at the time was to "go forth and choose something you'd never dream of wearing", so she did. GOOD GOD, the challenge ahead of me. ANYWAY, one pair of gold (but not brightly so, more like an ancient yellow/amber gold) strappy sandals later, one khaki with gold flecky whatsits through it, and one awesome pendant and a pair of gold hoop earrings later, and I was all eating my words and saying shit like "Girl, that is one HELLUVA dress", because apparently fashion experiences make me start talking like Oprah Winfrey.

Then on Sunday we......did nothing, to the best of my recollection. Monday? Monday...hmm. Oh yeah. I worked with the Vietnam vets, and then Daniel chose to NOT nap for two hours (which, joyous), and then I packed the little shit up and we went to visit his proxy grandma and granpops. Except he calls them "grammer" and "pop-offs". It's so nice to visit them. Mostly they baby sit him when I work every other Tuesday evening, but yesterday I got to sit around while Grammer entertained my son, then Pop-offs came home and entertained him some more, and Daniel was stuffed full of sugar and other rocket fuel type crap, and I silently worried and kept my complain hole shut about the cab loaded fool I'd be dealing with on the way home, and as al this was going on, I thought , I bet this is what real families are like.

In a nice way.

Then Tuesday was a flurry of I have no idea because I achieved absolutely nothing and yet found myself at the end of the day wondering how the heck I'd got through it all. Oh, that's right, it involved poo, a lot of it, in Daniel's underwear, moments before we were due to leave for work. GACK. I was all swooning from the horror and saying things like "well go you dude, good job on the quantity". Is it wrong that I also said "if it's the potty you've taken issue with, maybe next time take a dump on the floor?"?. Then I whipped out the baby wipes and worked some incredible kind of magic because I got him to daycare and arrived at work with minutes to spare. Then yesterday with the irradiation which brings us back to today.

Finis!

radiant

I'm about off to get a damn x-ray taken, which was ordered the other day, which was before I discovered the loose plate in my chin. Yes, I said in my chin. In my chin, no less. You know, in my FACE.

Fark.

But the x ray isn't to check on that baby, oh no. It's to check the other loose plate, which is one of the several other plates in my face. I'm sorry, didn't I convey the horror of that statement well enough? Let me try again: MY FACE HAS LOOSE BITS IN IT.

I think. I mean, I know the bits shouldn't be loose but maybe (hopefully?) I'm imagining the weirdass move-y clicking in my chin.

But it does click, forgodsake, right on the tip (where I can't feel a fucking thing anyway, thank you extended numbness factor)(seriously, it's so numb that I can stick a damn sewing needle [theoretically, it's not like I tried something as barbaric as that, not even for test purposes, on purpose][ahem]and not feel a thing. Nothing. There is nothing there. Point being, if I went blind and needed to read braille with my chin, I'd be fucked), which I found out after I went back to the surgeon to tell him about the weird patch on my still swollen cheek that aches.

He wants to rule out the rejecting of another plate (my face: "I don't love you any more!" The Plate: "but I can't leave you! How about I get inflamed and be a pain in the ASS in your FACE instead?") and I was all, hell yes, because this thing is FUCKED UP. And then I found another level of fucked up in my aforementioned chin.

Word. I swear.

So today's x-ray will confirm or not these icky (and hopefully imaginary) things.

Which is in half an hour so READ FAST.

Oh, I am such a wit.

Anyway.

Yes.

My face is aching so this shit had better show something fixable. Also, my chin. I'd like to feel it was attached again, you know? You have no idea how disturbing (and lately, distressing) it is to lose sensation to sections of your face, or to have big chunks of it constantly experience altered sensations. It's like going to the dentist and being novocained out of your gourd, and then having it NOT LEAVE. Except it's worse.