“Bullshit. You heard correctly. Now good night! “

And you know what? It really is.

Fridays are somewhat of a luxury for me, in that when miss Immyjim goes down for her nap I get the chance to have some time and space to myself. And the washing.  And the dishes.  And the niggling sense that I should be doing more household chores in general.

This Friday has been lazier than usual, as our usual post preschool reading group and grocery shopping has been abandoned for the the day after I had one of those early morning WWM11 moments upon finding my littlest miss in a cold spew covered cot.

(In my defence she had grizzled once in her sleep for less than the minute it took me to wake up and head down the hall to her room to investigate.  As all had gone silent I went back to bed, assuming it had been a bad dream).

Then I had to face miss A’s disappointment at Mummy not coming into the classroom, expressed in her usual hostile I will speak rudely to you until you snap style. Which will be followed later with a perfectly worded note of apology*

On a brighter note, miss E was thrilled to head off to preschool, self dressed proudly in a style her teacher aptly coined as “Scottish with bling”.

Anyway. Where was I?

With my slightly off colour but eternally cheerful bonus baby still slumbering peacefully after a self determined early nap time- offers of food and boob met with a determined “Na!” accompanied by a shake of the head, then a toddle to her room, finger pointed at cot and a “Nigh-nigh’s!” (got to love a fourteen and a half month old who can so clearly communicate what she wants)- here I am, tapping away on the keyboard.

Can you even follow my scattered non train of thought?

I realise my last post was a sensitive topic, and I hope that I worded it appropriately so as not to unduly offend anyone.  As an update on this issue…I did speak to my friend about not wanting visits for a little while and she has been fantastic and understanding.  The situation has reached crisis point after her daughter attempted to push another student in front of a bus and so there has been medical and behavioural intervention put in place which of course is going to take time.

It is a heartbreaking situation, and I hope that the child in question gets the assistance that she needs.  In the meantime I am relieved that my reaction was the appropriate one….

…is it terrible to admit to being relieved that it was not miss A that was pushed in front of the bus when a year or two earlier she was the focus of her friend’s fixations?  (Guilty as charged).

All of that was my long winded way of getting around to the original topic of this post, which was to ‘fess up to having had a rough time when it comes to female friendships of late.

Those of you who put up with me on Facebook might be aware of my reference to passive aggressive behaviour.  What I was talking about was having to consistently dodge barbs from many mother friends of late.  My crime?  Being a by no means perfect parent who has managed to produce three bright and mostly kidlets with no significant and/or ongoing issues beyond the usual childhood concerns thus far.

Apparently being quiet, listening to the concerns of your friends and trying to offer support in the form of sympathy rather than assvice is a crime.  Being asked how your kids are going, saying “Fine for now *touch wood*” and then when pressed for specific details carefully and somewhat reluctantly admitting that I has adjusted to daycare, E is possibly going to school next year and A is in the highly capable student group makes me a stuck up cow. And apparently I have real  nerve for dealing as I go with getting three kidlets to care and the two hour each way commute to work.  A job that is demanding but interesting.   That I am trying to get fit to cope with it all by committing to a regular gym program.  BITCH!

Far out.  And they wonder why I don’t actually volunteer information often.  I’m aware that I am incredibly lucky. I’m aware that this is a mostly good patch that could change any second (didn’t mention that I am still woken up every night by two out of three kidlets now did I?).  I make no claims that any of this is due to my parenting, although I hope it does show a little bit that I am not as bad as I often think I am.

Why do women always seem to think it is always about them?  That somehow someone else’s unrelated fortunes or misfortunes are inextricably bound up with their own?  Why are my male friends not like this (thank dog)?

I think I am long overdue for a catch up with the select group of ladies I have affectionately and wryly dubbed the Faulco foxies.  Honest, strong and funny women who tell it like it is to your face and not your back.

I wish I could be in real life contact with those of you inside the computer who are like exactly like that.

And now the ramble must come to an end. I hope I didn’t come across as a smug prat. Sorry about that.

* Have to take a photo but it said “Dear Mum, I am sorry I was being Silly. Love A x”   And yes I have cried. More than once and for many reasons.

Right?

And yet here I sit, somewhat despondent, largely apathetic and unsure what to do.  Wasting a precious hour or two on Fa(r)cebook and forums (albeit a very interesting, eloquently discussed and thoroughly validated by the relevant data argument for vaccination which should at least be stickied….hell it should be  stamped onto the forehead of every selfish moron who chooses not to vaccinate without compelling and professionally verified medical reason).

Sigh.

Now that I have fired up the old blog again I am wondering just what purpose and direction it will take.  Of course I want to post about the kidlets but I also want this little corner of cyberspace to be a little more than that.

I don’t want it to always be a dumping ground for the latest hormone induced mood swing.  I’m a fan of some self reflection but I find too much naval gazing to be self indulgent.  Feelings are feelings.  Ephemeral and highly changeable.  Most of the time I rather let the unpleasant ones wash over me and fade away.  As for the poignant and tender moments of sheer joy, I’m aiming to be fully present rather than worrying about how to document them.

Still.

Let me have a think about it. Or not.

Perhaps it simply boils down to no posting under the influence of PMS unless it is a piss funny story?!

Until the next round of verbal diarrhoea

PS  I’ve joined the gym.  Guess that means I will have to go….

How do you translate the endless to do lists into proper action before you are overwhelmed and at the mercy of anxious procrastination yet again? 

Is routine- not just for the kids- for yourself a good thing?  How do you make it work? What activities do you schedule?

If you want to start on changing your diet and exercise habits…where do you begin and how do you actually motivate yourself into moving beyond ideas into action?

If you know that breastfeeding and cosleeping are leaving you so stressed and sleep deprived that it is affecting your parenting to the point where you feel almost disconnected from it all and yet you can’t stomach weaning and controlled crying…what do you do?

Help please…….

It has been four years since I’ve last had my body to myself- and in some of that time I have been both pregnant and breastfeeding- and I’m completely. burnt. out.

Breastfeeding is proving to be challenging. Again.  My littest ‘un is making it extremely difficult to achieve my goal of a minimum of twelve months of breastfeeding thanks to the fact that she will only feed at sleep time, wrapped and in  the dark of the bedroom and has been this way for months.  As if trying to fit life in around sleeps isn’t freaking hard enough (and something I have been dealing with for over five years now) I feel completely housebound by this arrangement.  Little miss won’t feed when out, and won’t sleep without a prior feed, even though it is the dummy that she actually falls asleep with.  My anxiety levels go through the roof.  When we are out we are usually at least half an hour from home. You get the drift.

Don’t even get me started on the monthly breastfeeding strikes around the time of my period, and the several days of expressing to get it all back on track. 

In spite of this I already feel guilty that I am not capable of considering feeding until two and beyond like I did with Evie because I truly believed she was my last baby.

The lack of sleep is getting to the stage where it is no longer tolerable.  Immyjim still wakes in the night and ends up in bed with us because I am too bloody tired to resettle her in her cot but then I end up not getting quality shuteye thanks to the rolling and space hogging baby.

The net result is I am the snappiest most unenthusiastic mother I have ever been…and that’s saying something. I yell at the slightest non provocation.  I am constantly irritated and always on edge.  I am so unmotivated and feel almost disassociated from my husband and kidlets.  I wonder where my sense of humour has gone.  I am eating crap in an attempt to boost my energy levels and am now the fattest I have ever been. And for someone who was once on the brink of an eating disorder this is very confronting.

It’s revolting.

And although my rational brain knows some of the steps that I need to take to get out of this vicious circle (ie get baby to sleep in her own cot, probably even in her own room, consider- gasp- weaning, me time, exercise, meditation, a return to part time work blah blah fishpaste) I am too emotionally drained and guilty  to know where to start.

Sorry for that internets, even I can’t handle the sound of my own whining.  Don’t get me wrong, I adore my family and appreciate that I really do have a charmed first world life.  I do however need to make some positive changes so that I feel more like myself again and can then be a much more positive and engaged mother and wife.  Especially to my two oldest kidlets, both extremely bright, one very intense and who desperately need a calm and responsive mother who can meet their needs.

And here’s the dumb thing.  If given the opportunity to add to our family (and it isn’t an option, but still) I would do it in a heartbeat.  What is wrong with me?!

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

PNFFS, in case both you and the mental health professionals didn’t know, stands for Post Natal For Fark’s Sake.

And it as exactly as it sounds.

I am tired. I am anxious. I can’t focus.

I go from loving to monster mama in three nanoseconds flat over the most trivial of things.

There will be no wife of the year prize for me either.

Don’t get me wrong, I love and adore my kidlets (and I would write you a lovely blog update post if the thought didn’t stress me out) and the amazing husband. It’s just that I am a bundle of uneasy nerves.

Is it the sleep deprivation? Hormones? The stress of parenting solo from pre 6am to post 6pm? Lack of vigilance when it comes to unhelpful ways of thinking?

I don’t really care what the cause is, I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.

But I’m not sure where exactly to begin…..

There are exceptions to every rule.

Today was at my place and I was happy to see everyone…bar one.

Tell me, why would anyone bring a clearly under the weather and snotty toddler into my house when they know full well how sick miss I has been, and proceed to let them paw and mouth any toy they wanted?

Why would they organise to pick up a nebuliser from another Mum at my house for their so obviously unwell child?

Why would they change the runny nappy of said child on my floor without a mat?

I could scream.

And guilty.

And detached.

And that it’s not just the blogging either.

Instead, the husband decided to get out of Christmas lunch with the inlaws and opening/assembling any further craptastic plastic toys by developing pancreatitis and, rather scarily, drivibg himself to the hospital at 7am.  Leaving a certain heavily pregnant wife to deal with Santa present opening, car packing, getting the troops ready and doing the hour long drive to my parents’ place solo.  No mean feat.

I do not apologise for the fact that my children had chocolate and lollies for breakfast, nor for the fact that getting out of the house necessitated a lot of screaming and some tears on my part.

Anyway.

Long story short, mr hissychick’s gallbladder was found to be the cause of the pancreatitis (much, much less scary than the other possible causes), the kids survived and enjoyed Christmas Day blah blah blah fishpaste.

The husband was discharged yesterday morning after a three night stay….and his gallbladder removal surgery scheduled for next Tuesday.  The day before my due date.

Fast forward to today.  I woke at 5:50 am this morning after another totally relaxing late pregnancy night’s sleep (think waking three times between 10 pm and 12 am to go to the toilet, 1 am with night sweats, and everytime I needed to pee or roll over thereafter) and I felt….like I had dropped my bundle.

After a shower and managiing to nick my pink bits when I stupidly decided to give the ladygarden a tidy up sight unseen I sat on the edge of my bed and cried with exhaustion and frustration.  Perhaps it’s was the last of the adrenaline of the last few days leaving my body…but I don’t think it’s that.

Yes people, I’ve reached that point where abject fear of childbirth is outweighed by the desire to feel semi human again.

And it seems Bertramina is sympathetic to my cause.  OB checkup this morning revealed she is well engaged and good to go, with the lovely and calm Dr J reassuring me all was well and that he would be seeing me before the husband’s little surgical jaunt.

My feeling is soon, very soon. 

So on that note I am off to eat fresh pineapple and watch as many episodes of Mad Men as I can.

Until next time….smooches.  Scared smooches.