Reading the warning signs

Interesting time at the dentist. Sigh.

Mr Z got a bit over-excited at the playground and smashed his front tooth (his adult tooth) on a concrete dolphin. As you do. Who on earth puts a CONCRETE dolphin in a playground?!

Cue panicked phone call to dentist. An after hours one. Dollars. Sigh.

Cue hurried introduction to dentist I don't know who's probably hungry and tired and just wanting to get home to his dinner.

Cue panicked 8 year old, huge injection and eyes wide open in fear (mine).

Poor Mr Z, trying hard to be brave. I'm trying hard to be brave.

Then I saw it. Something I hadn't seen in years. An odd jiggle in one of his legs.

You see, Mr Z has inherited my panic attacks. When he was small (between 18 months and the age of three) he used to have at least one, most days. He would drop to the ground, rigid with fear and start thrashing around while turning blue. Then he'd pass out, regain his colour, and go on almost as if nothing had happened. Scared the life out of me the first... I dunno... fifty times they happened. Scared a lot of innocent bystanders too!

Initially we weren't sure what they were. Were they fits? Was it asthma?

We had electrodes stuck to his head, visits to paediatricians and other people before we worked out they were panic attacks. Plain and simple. Over minor things like spilling his milk or losing his truck or stubbing his toe. Often they happened at playgroup or the shops or places he felt out of control. They were often about things I couldn't see/find/work out at the time of the attack.

We worked on relaxation techniques and a plan for when he felt 'wobbly'. I learned to watch for the signs - that restless leg, the sudden stillness - and help him to feel safe before the panic had a chance to take hold. Helping him helped me with my panic attacks, too.

So, when I saw that jiggle in his leg, in that huge dental surgery, I had a moment of panic. What if he started thrashing while that injection was going in?

I acted. I don't know whether I made the situation better or worse. I blurted, "Um... he has panic attacks! If he goes blue or starts thrashing, don't panic, he'll be fine". The dentist turned to me, with fear and perhaps anger (I'm not so good at reading people so not really sure), "Why isn't it in his file? What medication does he take? Why wasn't I told?". Of course, then Little Z did start to panic. By the time I'd mumbled something about it not being part of their form, no medication required, just calm voices and explanations about what was going to happen, he was in full twitchy glory.

I eventually calmed us both down but repeating, over and over, "We are BRAVE, Z. We are brave." I was comforting myself as well as my son.

So.... There's now a temporary cap on his tooth. It's wonky but functional. We have to wait to see if the nerve will die and then go for a more permanent solution.

Little Z seems OK about it all. Now he knows what it will feel like (both of us hate that numb feeling) and look like (injections and all) when it all happens, he says he'll be more brave next time. I believe him.

I wonder what that dentist thinks of me. Probably hysterical mother who caused her son to have a panic attack by mentioning it in the first place. But. He didn't know about the twitchy leg. He doesn't know Mr Z's signs.

I do.

Beauty Disasters

I'm not one who pays much attention to my appearance. I mean, I like to dress well but I find makeup a tedious bore (mostly in the removal) so I rarely bother. Usually, I just smear on a moisturiser with sunscreen and put on a smile.

My friend Jo is awesome at selfies. I, clearly, am not!

Despite rarely bothering with beauty, I seem to have a bathroom full of products. Some are left overs from the time I tried to sell Avon (disaster), some are bargains I picked up on impulse (I love a bargain bin, especially after a disastrous day), others are gifts from people.

Who buys beauty gifts for others? Are they trying to tell me something?

Anyway. I've discovered that the most frightening mirror isn't the one in the Big W change rooms (fluoros and cheap mirrors are a bad combination, I'm sure you'll agree). It's the little mirror in the sunvisor in the front seat of my car. In that little mirror, I've discovered that you can see your wrinkles up close and personal, without even wearing your prescription sunnies. Eeeeek!

Which brings me to my latest disaster. After said discovery of road map of fine lines on my forehead, I brought out all the bottles that said anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, anti- anything.

They had collected a lot of dust and all had tiny writing which I had to find my glasses to read. Dust and glasses. That doesn't scream old person, does it?!

Result?

My bathroom basin is sporting a vintage look thanks to Vit-C serum that has gathered some colour with age. As my friend said, you don't want a vintage glow to your face. So probably good that a small person seems to have tipped most of it down the drain. After using a night cream, my skin is still wrinkly but now sporting pimples (do pimples count as anti-aging? I look like the wrinkliest teenager in Australia).

So, am giving up. Wrinkles draw attention away from my grey hair. They show you have lived. They show character and courage and perseverance, traits I'm wishing for my kids. Why bother? Really, what can I do about it?

I resolve to drink more water, keep slapping that coconut oil* on (it has improved the redness on my neck) and not look in the sunvisor mirror again.

That's a plan, isn't it?

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* Coconut oil is great for killing lice, apparently. I tend to pour it in once a week or so, leave it for an hour while I do housework eat tim tams and then wash it out. Hairdresser says that hair is lovely and shiny. While I wash it out, I let it run all over me, makes my skin soft, too :)

Linking up with Maxabella Loves Weekend Rewind

 

Knowing you're done

The other day a colleague brought her newborn niece into our staffroom. While I watched everyone fussing over the tiny little thing I felt pangs of actual pain in my stomach. So much so I actually got up to have a chat to someone on the other side of the room just to take my mind off it all.

It was the end of a long day and I could have just gone home, but I felt a sort of internal conflict going on in my body - some sort of strange baby-magnetism kept me there, despite my feet wanting to take me elsewhere. M, a new grandmother whispered to me as she sidled past to get a closer look at the little poppet. "It's ok - we know you're a breeder," she winked conspiratorially.

It's true. I think that had I been born a hundred years ago, I would now have ten or eleven children. All driving me insane. Perhaps I may not have wanted ten offspring, but some sort of biological urge would have kept me permanently knocked-up, I am sure of it.

I know that for my circumstances, three is my absolute limit. When Small Boy was born, I wished that we had the opportunity for one more - for a little 'mate' for him to play with. I've always loved that closeness my older two share. As time has gone by, I've realised that one more would have meant that I had no time/energy to do all the things that Small Boy needs me to do for him. But part of me still wonders what just one more would have been like.

I am so lucky - THREE little children to call my own. I know I am blessed with the most amazing gifts that life can offer. I feel greedy even thinking about wanting a fourth when I know so many people are desperate to have even one.

There will be no more babies (Hubby has seen to that). I am perfectly content with my three little people who I love wildly. At least until the next little newborn visits our staffroom ;)

This is a self-portrait I took while 32 weeks pregnant

with little number 3. He was a whopper!

       

 

This is the life

I feel like a posh lady today. I'm not at work, my hair is wound into tight curls at the back of my neck and my nails are done.

This morning, I drove my kids to school and dropped them off, wiping lipstick kisses from their cheeks.

"Have a great day, I love you!" I called cheerily as I waved them off from the car park, knowing that nutritious snacks were packed away in their bags.

It's quite a departure from a normal school day, where I hurriedly put my hair in a bun, wipe any toothpaste that might be lingering on my face and literally shove small people from my car as I wrestle with the bag of marking/craft supplies/sporting attire I need for the day. Usually, Daddy has packed the lunchboxes filled with all sorts of packaged treats and a few healthy things to placate me.

Usually I'm stressed and tired and grumpy and rushing to get into work.

But today, I am on leave from work and I am going to a Melbourne Cup function. I feel like a proper lady. Later, my friend's nanny is going to drop me and a friend at the track, all frocked up in our finery. Just like Gwyneth might do. Or Madonna. Or Danni Minogue. I am so excited, I could almost pop!!!

Mind you, I've been up since the crack of dawn - nutrition-and-makeup-and-painting-of-nails-and-fancy-hairdos all take time and straighteners and that bottle of 'goddess for a day' hairspray that I finally tracked down at the bottom of a drawer. I hope I don't fall asleep after the first wine!

My makeup is probably a bit wobbly because I can't see what I'm doing without my glasses on and I realized that while dirty hair makes for easier upstyling, it also makes your greys stand out like neon lights. My dress (under $40 delivered from ebay) may have an iron mark on it, but it's hardly noticeable and I'm sure I'm going to get rained on/spill something anyway...

That sounds a bit more like me, doesn't it? I'm still in there under all this.. fancy.

Breathe in. Breathe out. This is no time for panic, self-criticism or doubt, this is MY day and I'm going to enjoy it :) And just hope nobody else is wearing their glasses, either.

The Misunderstood Child - by Kathy Winters

Love this poem. With help (and fantastic teachers), this child grows into a thinker, a doer and a generous person with a deep heart.



The Misunderstood Child

I am the child that looks healthy and fine.
I was born with ten fingers and toes.
But something is different, somewhere in my mind.
And what it is, nobody knows.
I am the child who struggles in school.
Though they say I'm perfectly smart.
They tell me I'm lazy - can learn if I try -
But I don't seem to know where to start.
I am the child that won't wear the clothes
Which hurt me or bother my feet.
I dread sudden noises, can't handle most smells,
And tastes - there are few foods I'll eat.

I am the child that can't catch the ball
And runs with an awkward gait.
I am the one chosen last on the team
And cringe as I stand there and wait.
I am the child with whom no one will play -
The one that gets bullied and teased.
I try to fit in and I want to be liked,
But nothing I do seems to please.
I am the child that tantrums and freaks
Over things that seem petty and trite.
You'll never know how I panic inside,
When I'm lost in my anger and fright.
I am the child that fidgets and squirms
Though I'm told to sit still and be good
Do you think that I choose to be out of control?
Do you think that I would if I could?
I am the child with the broken heart
Though I act like I really don't care.
Perhaps there is a reason God made me this way -
Some message he sent me to share.
For I am the child that needs to be loved
and accepted and valued too.
I am the child that is misunderstood,
I am different - but look just like you.

Kathy Winters

I caved... Aussie Animal Cards

When Woollies announced their swap card promotion a few weeks back, I barely registered it. How could I possibly get involved? I mean, I shop at Coles!

When I realised the promo ran over school holidays, I pushed it even further back in my mind. No peer pressure, the kids wouldn't even notice it was on. But then...

A trip to another town where we were forced to visit a Woolworths combined with late nights up watching 'holiday viewing' (lots of Woolworths ads), card mania kind of crept into my house.

We started with twelve cards piled under the TV.

Then, Miss Piggy asked her grandparents to collect cards for her. After a few generous donations from workmates (who heard we were collecting), she had quite a collection of cards. Enough for a good sized rubber band, but I didn't think it warranted an album. After all, she was just going to be disappointed by all the empty spaces.

Then hubby switched to Woollies for the twice weekly pick up of milk and fruit. Apparently if you are a thirty-something dad with a small pig-tailed girl in tow, you are entitled to more than the stipulated 1 set per $20 spent.

Suddenly we had HUNDREDS of cards. And when I counted the cards out, we were actually close to having the complete set.

Time to cave. Yes, we ARE a Woolworths Collect-a-card family. Yes, we need a few to complete the set. But... I wanted Miss Piggy to play a role in completing the set - I didn't want to be the one sorting and ordering for the tenth time after the Small Boy had knocked the pile over again inspected the cards in non-chronological order.

So this afternoon, I made her a deal. If she completed the table below, I would help her to ring her aunties and friends and see if they could complete the set. It was great for her because she got to:

1. Dial numbers on the telephone
2. Practise having an actual, meaningful conversation via phone (as opposed to rabbiting on about ballet and Taylor Swift as she normally does)
3. Practise writing her numbers (she is year 1 and still sometimes reverses the digits)
4. Realise that projects take time and effort to finish.

Good news - we made it! We tracked down all the missing numbers and (once the postman delivers a few envelopes) will have the complete set.

If anyone wants a copy of the sheet we used, here it is.

It was a great reference for Miss Piggy to use when brokering her trades. She's going to take it to school tomorrow to see if she can help her friends to complete their sets too.

Linking up with Maxabella's Weekend Rewind

 

Facing your fears

I've always fancied being part of the chorus for a show. I love to dance and while I wouldn't say I sing well, I sing well enough to have been part of a high school choir many moons ago. It's not so much that I want to be on the stage with people staring at me, because that is, quite frankly, the stuff of my nightmares. It's more that I've wanted to feel that camaraderie that I imagine happens between the members of cast. I know - sad loser stuff... and probably too much Smash (the TV show).

 

A couple of months ago, we lost our dear old Ellie. Ellie (Elspeth) was an almost 17 year old Louchen. She was loyal, friendly, gentle, grey woolly mess and we loved her like a child. She slept on my feet every night, she sat beside me through illness and sadness - I can hardly remember being without her. Her name was among our kids' first words, she slept beside their bassinettes and followed their first steps with gentle motherly concern.

So when she left us, I was a complete and utter mess. (Ten weeks later, I'm still a bit of a mess - still looking for her in the morning, forgetting she's gone. Had to change my curtains in the front hall because it made me too sad to see them still instead of rustling with her delight at my arrival home)

Anyway, that particular week I was a real can't-go-to-work, can't-stop-crying, can't-sleep kind of mess. Such a mess, in fact, that I was convinced to audition for a local show. My sister-in-law talked me into it, "just to get you out of the house - c'mon, it'll be fun!" I went along with her imagining (as did she) that we'd just be asked to learn a dance and perform it as part of a small group. Again, probably too much Smash.

When we got there, we realised we were a little bit out of our depth. Not only did we have to do a dance, but we had to do it alone, on a stage, under a spotlight while singing. The other people had been to rehearsals. I had not. And... I felt stupid when I stopped to think about it - I was auditioning for the CHORUS, of course they wanted to hear me sing. Aloud. Alone. In public. Something other than the national anthem.

I considered walking straight out. I joked that we could go to McCafe for cappuccinos and just tell our families that we auditioned... I think I had SIL almost in agreement... but then I thought about what I would tell my daughter if she was in the same situation and feeling doubt.

Who cares if they hear you sing? Who cares that you're gonna stuff it up? Who cares that it's you, all alone in the spotlight, singing and dancing for strangers? When will you ever get this opportunity again? Just do your best, pat yourself on the back for your bravery and walk away with your head held high.

So I did. It was terrifying. It was terrible. It was just what I needed to feel a little bit alive.

Last Friday night I went to see the show - it was absolutely amazing. I enjoyed it and I enjoyed the feeling of having dodged a bullet. What if I had got in?! I would have looked ridiculous in the chorus, and my voice would certainly not have complemented the rest of the cast. I was so glad not to have been the liability on that stage on Friday night! But I was proud of myself for taking the plunge.

So that's something I can cross off my list: Audition for a stage show. Hmm... what shall I do next?