And all I want to do is drink..and other cliched life affirming activities.

All my plans fell through my hands,
They fell through my hands on me.
All my dreams it suddenly seems,
It suddenly seems,
Empty.

~ The Cranberries~

For those of you who have read this far I just want it known that I am very, very fragile right now.

I am the woman you are on friendly terms with, but not the first person who comes to mind when organising a social get together.  Or the last one you think of, so you won’t feel any guilt when you leave me out.

I am the social networker who writes the occasional little pithy remark that makes you laugh and sometimes comment, although mostly you simply move on to chatting with your real friends.

I am (or rather used to be) a blogger who might have made it as far as your blog roll, one to scan over in your RSS feed, leave a word or two comment if it was a particularly amusing piece but mostly lost in the haste to get down to the interesting and talented writers’ posts of the day.

I am the witty chick at work, someone to share political jibes with on your way to your next important meeting. The one who is on the mummy track, the one you don’t set aside interesting projects for anymore, the one you know is pretending to be busy because she knows you are quietly hoping she will resign because it really is full time or nothing, lip service be damned.

I am the one you have been married to for almost ten years, the ship that passes in the night, the one handing out chores the minute you arrive in the door. The person sized chore you tolerate in the hour and a half before you get to escape to the gym when it is your night (thank dog). Or usher out the door when it is her turn so you can watch something interesting on telly.

I am the busy daughter who copes, the one who you quickly check in on but allow the grandchildren to monopolise your attention…when your other daughter isn’t.

I am the parent who is whined at and constantly asked when Daddy will be home for large portions of the day.

I am an oversight.

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.

I will be that parent dropping her year one child off before seven am and then waiting outside the daycare centre until 7 am ticks over.  It will be a rapid goodbye so that I can make the 7:20 am train to the city in an attempt to be at my desk by 9 am.

I will not see my children until 6 pm that evening.  Rinse and repeat the following day.

I could cry.  In fact, I haven’t stopped.

Yes it is my choice.  A choice to ensure my own financial independence- of utmost importance to me- to contribute much needed finances to our household income (not so much choice as necessity) and to continue in a highly skilled career that I have worked hard to attain.  To exercise my brain, and be known as hissychick in addition to Mummy.

Yet the costs are mounting.  I despair of leaving miss I at such a tender young age when she is very much attached to me.  I am beyond furious at the Family Assistance Office who keep screwing me over and ensuring that any financial gain is so paltry it is almost farcical.  The commute is enormous, a hefty price to pay for a profession that does not lend itself to working locally.

Moving is not an option because our children are so happy here- so many friends, a genuine community and space- and a house the equivalent of which we could never afford closer to the CBD.

The temptation is there to scrutinise our budget, to make sacrifices so that I can stay at home.   Or to find a school hours friendly job like night fill or the like.

But why should I have to resort to that?  What was the point of education and career building if the best I can hope for is stacking freaking boxes in a local supermarket?  If my days are to be filled only with household tasks? Where if anything were to happen to the husband (not death or divorce- he’s not allowed those options- rather health wise or if he needed time to step away and reevaluate his own career, to reduce hours to spend more time with us) I could no longer step up and be able to provide an income we could all live comfortably on?  What kind of message would I be sending my own daughters?

Sigh. Time to be an adult I guess and do what needs to be done.

Still I can’t help but be a bit annoyed when my own job could be readily done at home with the occasional meeting thrown in.  And with a new childcare centre due to open across the road at the school in just over twelve months I could get an awful lot done without four hours of commuting per day thrown on top.

I am woman hear me roar.  With frustration that mostly lip service rather than common sense is applied to the so called work/family balancing act.

(Sorry about the poor grammar and wording.   Cranky clouds the brain and I need to get on with the next task from my to do list rather than edit).

Anyway.

The title of this post refers to both the state of my house….and me.

Let’s just say that out of the two our abode is in far less of a state.

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?!

And guilty.

And detached.

And that it’s not just the blogging either.

That’s what you gotta do

Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts

And a smile’ll come back to you

Thanks for all of your kind messages everyone.  I’m pleased to say that mr hissychick has started the ball rolling in terms of appropriate treatment and has been making a concerted effort in terms of his own behaviour.  No it does not take away the pain of what I discovered but it helps somewhat when action is taken rather than platitudes mouthed.

Bertramina is doing well, she has decided to recommence the whole lock and load procedure, so much so that I spent a large portion of last night somewhat panicked about the possibility of a pre Christmas birth.  However I am keeping my legs dutifully crossed on the sage advice of Simone, who reminded me that a post Christmas birthday would be far more cost effective as I could purchase presents in the sales.

Miss A and miss E are their crazy unique, intelligent, gorgeousi yet exasperating selves, who are each expressing unique and challenging reactions to the impending arrival of their sister.

Our youngest imp has been ensuring that we do not get cocky enough to enjoy an unbroken night’s sleep before Bertramina arrives (hey, why start after two and a half years?).  Apparently only Mummy in Mummy’s bed will do and right now I just can’t be arsed dealing with it.  That honour shall fall to the husband while I am in hospital.  Thing is…she gets away with this and murder in general because she disarms us with a smile and a cheeky comment rather than an argument. Little minx.

My mini me is as fragile as a delicate flower wanting so much attention but rewarding us with some of the most vile behaviour yet, which I won’t share with you readers because the parents of threenagers and the like in case you lose the will to live don’t need to know just what is in store for them just yet.  There has also been a hell of a lot of incessant whining about being last, and ultra competitiveness that would do an Olympic athletes head in.

I try to hide a lot, which is not easy when you truly are a Christmas pudding.

Anyway I’d best get back to using my last two daycare hours (ever for Miss A and until late Jan for miss E) to do nestingy stuff so that I don’t have yet another panic attack about the whole birthing gig.

Smooches.

I know, I know, I have not been the bestest blogger of late.  It’s just that I don’t do the third trimester well.

More specifically, I don’t do the sleep deprivation from flailing around in bed like a beached whale coupled with mood swings from massive hormonal surges at all.

I have been a total bogan fishwife mother of late…and the main target of my less than desirable parenting by screeching approach has been miss A.  I am not trying to excuse myself, but let’s just say a totally bored and ready for school intelligent daughter with a sassy mouth combined with a less than patient equally hot headed mother is as explosive as…I don’t know…a nuclear warhead.  I do not exaggerate.

Miss E has learned quickly to escape my wrath by continuing to emanate the kind of adorableness that will see her exonerated from charges relating to burning down the school, even as she stands there lit match in hand.

Bertramina is not forgotten in all of this, continuing to grow and kick and stretch and hiccup, hands up around her face as if to ward off the chaotic world she will soon enter.  It is frightening to think that in around five or six weeks there will be another little person joining the hissychick family.

Guess that means I should, um, actually start washing clothes, packing hospital bags and organising a place for her to sleep, instead of buying yet another new pram and having to list several others on ebay.

Told you I was nuts.

Enough of the crazy lady rambling. Here is a belly, bits and all shot from last week to distract you from the crappy writing.

Off I go.  This hastily snatched blogging time has come at the cost of a poo filled nappy to change and newspapers strewn across my entire loungeroom. And no neither of those was me. This time.