Come With Me On A Crazy Journey: Operation IVF Sibling Part 1

For people who have no direct experience with IVF the whole test tube baby thing can be a bit of mysterious hoodoo. Most people know that the babies are created in the lab but the process by which they get to that point may as well be witchcraft. So, as we’re embarking on Operation IVF Sibling this month, I thought I’d shed some light on the topic and fill you in on what really happens from first jab to lab. I have to warn you that between the drugs and the unavoidable mind games it can become a bit of a decent into madness so prepare for a bit of a crazy journey.

It’s no secret that I’m a woman who does not suffer fools. My patience and tolerance are only fair to middling at the best of times, I’ve been known to put 2 and 2 together and get 46, so getting me hopped up on a hormone cocktail is really inviting danger. The effect it has on your body and mind is like a case of PMS on really kick arse crack and it can result in behaviour I’m not necessarily proud of. For the purposes of this study this will be rated on a Hormonal Hazard (HH) scale from 1 to 10:

1. No cause for alarm. Negligible urge to stab, punch or otherwise maim unless provoked with extreme stupidity, a reaction to which has nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with an inability to tolerate fuckwits.

5. Danger level moderate. Emotional and/or aggressive outbursts can usually be tamed with chocolate, compliments and carefully selected humour although it should be noted that one man’s witty jibe is another woman’s invitation to rip his head off. 

10. Approach with extreme caution. May be prone to bouts of violence, rage, tears or a combination of any these without warning. Sudden moves are inadvisable as is turning your back. Know that you are wrong. Whatever it is, you are wrong. Accept this and shut up, this is not the time to be a smart arse, it’s not cute.

Day 1: Husband arrives home clutching a cooler bag full of needles and drugs and weirdly enough the mood is almost Christmassy, it’s like he’s brought me something pretty rather than pointy. My prevalent emotion is excitement, nervous excitement but excitement all the same. Until it’s time for me to shove a hormone filled syringe into my belly, then it’s more just the nervousness. It’s not like I haven’t done it before but plunging a needle into my own skin really goes against all of my natural, rational instincts to, oooh I don’t know, not plunge a needle into my skin…? After pacing the kitchen for a few minutes trying to overcome my instinctual aversion to pain in all it’s guises I’m still no closer doing anything productive with it. Husband offers useful doctorly advice like ‘just do it, it won’t hurt much’ and I’m tempted to ram it into him instead. You’d think that being married to a doctor I’d delegate this job to him but I still have rather fresh memories of his dart player-esque technique last time around that made me relieve him of those duties. I’ve no doubt he’s an excellent orthopaedic surgeon, which is a good thing because he’d make a shitty nurse (sorry honey).

 HH level 1: Aside from that momentary threat with the needle (which he as was asking for) there is no present danger.

Pick a needle, any needle

Day 3: Everything is going smoothly and I’m back to being an old pro with the injections. They need to be administered at the same time every evening so like the clever multi-tasking woman I am I deliver the drugs into my belly between dishing up dinner – ‘what’s for dinner honey?’, ‘tonight we’re having steak and shooting up darling’.

HH Level 2. Still no major emotional spikes, well none that are IVF related anyway. There was an incident involving a Telstra’s customer service rep but that’s a separate matter.

Day 5: Today is the first ovary inspection when I take my little egg sacks off to see how they’re progressing and hopefully see a flock of follicles growing in response to the medication (NB: I’m not sure that ‘flock’ is the actual medical term for a group of follicles but it sounds quite appropriate). There’s only one way to do this and it involves a pair of stirrups, an ultrasound probe and some KY jelly. Fortunately I’ve been through this process more times than I can count so I have no modesty issues with dropping my knickers any more. However, today was the first time I have seen a doctor use the finger of a latex glove instead of a condom to cover the probe and I can assure you it took all of my self-control to resist snickering and juvenile comments.

Childishness aside it looks as though I have about 5 or 6 follicles growing in each ovary. This is good news but, as I’d half-expected from our last IVF experience the eggs are still quite small thanks to my ovaries being lazy bastards. Doc decides to ramp up my medication to scare them into activity.

HH Level 3. More on the emotional than irrational side. Even though the whole slow growth thing isn’t a major and I half-expected it, I still can’t help sneaky little ‘what-ifs’ creeping in.

Day 6: The IVF protocol we’re using is called the antagonist approach that combines an initial drug to bully my ovaries into over-producing eggs and later, a second drug to stop them releasing those eggs prematurely. This is important because a). that would be a waste of drugs and eggs and stabbing myself and, b). if we got all carried away and did the wild thing unleashing millions of sperm with 12 eggs floating around things could get very messy. To ensure this doesn’t happen I start a second nightly injection from today but I’m not whinging about it because as much as I want another child, I definitely do not want 12 of them.

 HH Level 3. No further cause for alarm today.

Day 7: I’m answering the daily 7pm drug alarm and as I have a needle halfway into myself Zara (who husband is supposed to be keeping at a distance) starts climbing my leg. This is far from fucking ideal as I explain to husband in very succinct terms and more needle waving threats. We are understood.

 HH Level 5.8. Moderate with unpredictable spikes

Day 8: Second scan. It seems the wake up call from the extra dose of drugs is having the desired effect. My wee follicles are growing well and all things being equal we’re looking at an egg collection in about 6 days time. Husband has a conference in Sydney to attend early next week so the timing works out well for him to go and be back with his testicles in time for when he’ll be required to make his contribution to the cause.

The whole IVF process is very time critical, once you set the wheels in motion it really does have to take precedence over everything else. There’s no arranging things to suit busy schedules, when those eggs are ready to be harvested there’s no fucking about. Husband has his work on a watch and act alert for next week as he’ll be required to take a day off and play his part at relatively short notice.

 HH Level 3. The growth in follicles is reassuring and I’m feeling like things are going well and a mood of calm descends. For now…

Day 9: I’m feeling full and fat. My belly is getting rounded, there’s a sensation of heaviness and a constant dull ache in my lower abdomen where I’m assuming all the eggs are starting to jostle for space. Given that there’s about 12 times as many eggs as there would be in a normal month this makes sense I guess but I almost feel as if I should rattle when I walk. There’s also a rather artful dot to dot pattern of bruises spattering my stomach, most likely from my poor needle technique, apparently I’d make a pretty shitty nurse too. Just as well, I can’t stand blood and gore.

Whilst perusing food porn sites this evening I’ve discovered there is an amazing new breed of locally made coconut milk ice cream on the market. I think I may have seen it on sale at the posh grocers up the road and although it’s 8:30pm, and the likelihood of the shop being still open is slim, I need husband to go and check just in case. I explain the urgency of this task to him; he thinks I’m joking. I’m not laughing. He goes.

 HH Level 7.5. Spikes are becoming more frequent and severe and can alternate between eerie tranquillity and very stormy waters. Don’t get comfortable.

Day 10: Wine. I miss wine. It’s Saturday and I want wine. Just a really nice glass of red in the evening would go down a treat. While there’s no hard and fast rule stipulating that teetolling is essential I just feel like I need to abstain to give this thing the best possible chance of working. I’m fucked if I want to put any more needles into myself than strictly necessary. I’ve also put the kaibosh on Husband imbibing any more than the bare recommended minimum. I do not want drunk half arsed sperm cocking this up either. That being the case I’ve installed childproof locks on the wine cupboard and they’re not for the small person’s benefit. I’m not one of these generous, big hearted blah blah people who will selflessly say to others, no please go right ahead. Nope. If I’m not drinking wine, no bastard in this house is.

 HH Level 8.3.  Stroppiness is not helped by reluctant sobriety

Day 11: Husband leaves town for the night to attend a conference. Again I issue strict instructions about caffeine and alcohol intake and the punishment he will suffer if he provides inferior sperm, i.e. my wrath. I think he understands it’s not worth taking the risk.

 HH Level 8.9. I’m starting to feel a bit terse so it’s probably for the best that husband vacate the building for a bit to avoid any chance of me injuring his testicles so close to them being needed.

 Day 12: Scan the third. All systems are go and tonight we pull the trigger – literally. I have to take yet another injection tonight which is actually called the trigger shot – I kinda like this one because it sounds so badass. This is effectively the starting gun for ovulation when all those eggs I’ve been so busy growing will be released. The timing for this is very specific and is must be taken precisely 36 hours prior to egg collection so that the follicles will be unloading just as a gloved doctor will gazing into nether regions ready to relieve me of my precious cargo.

With the time critical nature of this injection I’m feeling the pressure. I spend a good half hour perched on a stool in the kitchen with my eyes glued to the clock waiting for the exact moment to take it. Husbands attempts a conversation are quickly shut down with a shush and ‘that’ look

 HH Level approaching 10, high alert for DEFCON 1, an explosion is imminent.

At around 2am it happened. The she-devil reared her head. Poor little Z is unwell and the nights have been a bit rough. Although it breaks my heart to see her sick and unhappy, at 2am when I still hadn’t been to sleep it was also breaking my spirit and I lost the plot a little bit. OK, quite a bit and husband copped it. While I’d like to claim the artificial hormone cocktail swimming round my body was entirely to blame I think there was an element of good old-fashioned parental exhaustion at work as well. Kudos to husband though, he took the child and not the bait and I finally got some sleep.

Day 13: So the good news is that no injections today, the less good news is that this is kind of the beginning of the hanging around waiting, hoping, wondering, waiting, hoping, wondering phase. After lasts night’s tanty I make a sheepish morning apology to husband and mutter promises about sexual favours to make it up to him.

HH Level 5. Middle of the night venting has minimised my urge (and right) to be stroppy.

Day 14: Egg collection. It sounds so innocuous, like some nice egg man will knock on the door and I’ll hand him a little crate full of my DNA. It does not imply that I’ll be knocked out cold while a big fuck off needle is inserted into my ovaries to suck those little guys out, which is what actually happens.

As I enter the operating theatre I resist the urge to seize my doctor by the collar and tell him to be very VERY careful with the precious cargo he’s about to extract from my body. Any parent will tell you that the protective urge you feel for your child is incredibly primal, god help anyone who would do them any harm. While I know that these are eggs and not actually children I still have a lot emotionally invested in their potential. It’s quite bizarre to be entrusting them into the care of a group of medical professionals for the next few days who’ll arrange a blind date with a whole lot of eligible sperm and hopefully turn them into embryos. It’s like a very unconventional (not to mention bloody expensive) babysitting arrangement.

My Doc (the baby one, not the husband one) gives me the post-op update that they retrieved 16 eggs. It’s definitely a good start. But it is just the start of part two. The eggs are sent on their way to meet with husband’s swimmers and now, as with most of the IVF process, it’s out of our hands from here. Over the next 2 to 5 days we’ll find out how many eggs first fertilise and then survive each stage of development. I’ll update you on that next post but ‘til then think fertile thoughts for those little guys in the lab.

Preparation and Panic

After what feels like a lot of going in unproductive (excuse the pun) circles, the wheels are finally in motion for our next round of IVF. There have been a few new hoops of fire to jump through this time including having to prove we are neither criminals nor child molestors and that we don’t have designs on becoming either of these things. I shit you not. Apparently here, in the suspicious state of Victoria, infertility is some sort of red flag that you a surely a couple of questionable morals and character. OK, this may be a bit of exaggeration on my part but the inability to conceive your own child does create an emotionally exaggerated environment to begin with so it does feel a bit like adding insult to injury.

It’s also quite an odd thing to rationalise. The way I understand it any old bogan can go and buy a box of cody and cola (apologies to anyone who actually drinks this but it really is canned filth), throw in a side of winnie blues for a fully rounded evening out, shag someone whose name they may or may not know that night or remember in the morning, get knocked up or be the knocker upper and produce a child without any prior legal checks or ethical approval. In contrast, a couple who are desperate enough to become parents that they’re willing to not only go through the heartache of IVF but also actually pony up a significant amount of cash for a 20-40% shot at a successful pregnancy are guilty until proven innocent? Oh sure, that makes perfect sense, totally reasonable, fingerprint me now.

Sorry, that’s a bit of a rant but I really did find it the height of hilarity, in an ironic and not really funny at all kind of way. However, I’ve (somewhat uncharacteristically) swallowed my indignation, we’ve obliged and are now the proud holders of police clearance certificates endorsing our non-criminal status, a report verifying we have no outstanding child protection orders against us and we’ve attended our shrink session to confirm we’re sufficiently mentally stable to be parents. I didn’t like to point out that given we already own one child it’s a bit fucking late if they decide we’re not fit for the job!

And now that the somewhat perverse preparation side is taken care of I’ve suddenly found myself in the throes of pre-IVF panic as I’m reminded of all the things I’m about to give up – albeit temporarily. The food, the wine, the skinny jeans, the sleep (ooooh, the sleep)….

It’s no secret that I really like wine. And margaritas. Sometimes more than they like me. Since becoming a mum my big nights out are few and far between, but I’m fairly certain a wee splishy splashy at witching hour has more than once saved my child from being left out for the gypsies and a glass shared with hubby over a glamorous night in is one of the simple pleasures I love and am not looking forward to relinquishing. That being the case I’m feeling a bit of urgency to make the most of my the opportunities I still have available to enjoy the quality plonk. Suddenly the ‘keeping wine’ from the back of the cupboard is fair game for a Wednesday night as an accompaniment to my ugg boots and trash TV. None of this $20 weeknight quaffing crap, I want the good stuff and we all know the more expensive it is, the gooder it is.

Then of course there’s that whole body ownership issue; having to relinquish it to becoming an incubator again then all the hard work to reclaim the bugger back afterwards. Of course I know this is shamelessly shallow but I’m currently loving the fact that I’m wearing clothes I haven’t been able to get my arse into for three years. I’m back at a size, shape and fitness level where I feel happy and confident and there is an element of selfishness that makes me resent giving that up again. I don’t know if I can, or should say this but if I’m honest I didn’t love being pregnant. I mean, I loved that I was able to carry and give birth to my child after some doubts about whether it would actually be possible, but between being squiffy, puffy, sleepless, and a general state of hormonally induced crazy-ladyness I’m can’t say I spent nine months feeling like a blossoming goddess.

I know in the grand scheme of things this is all trivial stuff but all the trivial stuffs together do add up to momentary flashes of doubt. Do I really want to do it all again? Surrender my body to another being again? Get fat again? Try to figure out a newborn again? Feel like I’ve been run over by a bus and not slept in a month again? Of course the answer is yes because I know all the triviality and superficiality and selfishness is far outweighed by the absolute immeasurable joy and privilege of having a child. I’m also sure that going through that process of doubt and answering those questions is a healthy one. We’re making a huge commitment not just to the IVF process but also hopefully to adding another child to our family and I want to know that we’re entering into it wholeheartedly because it’s too bloody hard to go through not to want it 100%. And I do. Damn, still gonna miss those skinny jeans though – especially the new ones I acquired in a bout of panic shopping last week, please don’t tell my husband.

 

 

Heed The Universe Or Suffer The Horror

Look closely at this picture and you’ll see something’s not quite right. That’s not just an interesting pattern on my dress. It’s vomit. My hair isn’t half wet because I didn’t get around to finishing my blow dry; I did, styled it and everything and left the house looking quite well coiffed. No, that’s also vomit. In my bra, my shoes, all over my child, the stroller, the floor at the restaurant we’d just left and, as I discovered a few days later thanks to the lingering smell, also in the crevices of my watch and my lovely new statement ring. Vomit everywhere, on all of it.

Pre-child I was one of those people who swore black and blue that having a baby wouldn’t stop us doing things; we’d still dine out each week or pop to the pub for a cheeky Sunday afternoon drink. Kids are portable I said confidently, the baby can sleep in the stroller while we dine, we’ll all be happy. Of course when I think back to that now I laugh and I laugh. Sure, kids are portable, they’re also unpredictable with the potential to turn into feral monsters without any notice – the more public the venue, the greater the chance for embarrassment and the more inconvenient it is, the more likely they are to ramp up a full blown, maximum volume meltdown. I know all of this from bitter, uneaten dinner, quick restaurant exit experience. And after a few of these incidents I was forced to admit I was wrong. Having a child would change our social habits. Sure, we still drink wine but we do it at home on a Saturday evening in our pyjama pants falling asleep in front of a movie. Our dinners out are few and far between and when we do go it’s with the added expense of a babysitter (holy hell, when did that become such a highly paid occupation?!) to avoid arguments about whose turn it is to pace around outside with an unruly child or eat with one hand while wrestling the little grabby person with the other.

So, all of that said, I have no idea what possessed us to forget all of this hard learned wisdom when we decided to take miss Z to dinner with us last week. It was clearly some sort of delusional mental episode on my part that even made me suggest it to begin with, and I hold husband responsible for not talking me down from that ledge. The message from the universe was clear; THIS IS A MISTAKE, CALL A BABYSITTER was broadcast at every turn. When Zara shat through not one but two brand new outfits before we even left the house I should have known it was a sign but I blithely carried on down that path to certain catastrophe. No sooner had we sat down than little hands had seized cutlery, pushed over a glass of water and spread chunks of ham and cheese over the table stirring recollections as to why we only dine sans-offspring. By the time my steak had arrived and I’d had to ask husband to cut it into bite sized chunks for me I was fairly certain the whole thing had been a massive error of judgment. And as I gazed wistfully at my glass of wine from across the room while I tried to negotiate the little terrorist into a nap, I knew for certain I’d been an optimistic fool. When she finally she fell asleep I mainlined my wine for fear it might soon be over. Then, as she dozed peacefully in my arms an hour later I softened, maybe I’d been wrong, maybe dining out with bebe wasn’t so bad after all, and as we stood to leave I even entertained romantic semi-intoxicated notions that maybe we’d do it again.

And then it happened.

Like something out of a horror film Zara opened her eyes wide and her mouth wider and projected an endless stream of half masticated, undigested muck and milk all over me. As I stood agape grappling with the horror of the situation, she did it again. Covering me, literally, Head. To. Toe. In approximately six litres of stinking chunky baby vomit. Across the room I saw a table of diners witnessing the spectacle as their hands shot to their faces in slow motion, mouthing ‘no, oh no, oh no’. By rights I think I could have cried but it was such a surreal and horrific and strangely impressive display that instead I entered a bizarre state of shock and instead threw my head back and laughed like a hysterical maniac. As we made our exit I stopped to curtsey to my mortified audience, the smell of my child’s bile burning one simple, enduring message into my brain. Babysitter.

Parental Pickups

Now that little Z is 8 months old, we’ve reached the stage where she has her own little calendar of social and extracurricular activities. On a weekly basis I find myself romping round a church hall singing repetitive songs, overacting excitement at story time, clamouring over miniature gymnastics equipment like some sort of uncoordinated giant, splashing about chasing rubber toys in a pool and generally doing things that without a child in tow would make me look like a complete tit. I mean, I still look like a twat but I’m in good company surrounded by other parents who are also behaving in an equally ridiculous manner because apparently, this is what good parents do, so we’re not judging each other on that basis. It’s easy to play the fool when you have your child as an excuse, the hard part of these engagements is how to act around the grown ups. As a relatively new mum in a new city I’ve been slowly accumulating similarly placed friends, but it’s been quite a gradual process played out like a very awkward kind of dating scene that goes a bit like this:

Identify a fellow parent who looks like someone you could strike up a conversation with, attempt to make eye contact, offer a hesitant half smile, appraise reception of your offering and, if it seems warm, sidle up shyly and pitch a nervous parental pickup line. This often takes the form of some sort of compliment on how adorable/ energetic/ advanced/ genius like the fellow parent’s offspring is and with the goal being to flatter and open the lines for ongoing dialogue, it doesn’t necessarily have to be true. I know this from personal experience having been on the receiving end of such well-intentioned fibbery (yes, fibbery is a word, I’m going with it). It happened to be on the day that Zara was battling a heavy cold leaving her with gunky eyes, thick green snot streaming from her nose and a face only a mother could find beautiful, so when someone said what a gorgeous little girl she was I knew they were lying. But I was happy to disregard the rather generous untruth because it wasn’t actually about whether my child was beautiful or not, it was an opening to a friendship offering from another Mum.

As a gym instructor people often assume I’m all confidence and self-assurance, but that person isn’t me, she’s an exaggerated character I can use hide my insecurities. In reality, I’m as much of a self-doubting, fumbling, bumbling mess as the next person, although I pretend like I don’t give a shit, I really, really do. That’s what makes this mummy dating thing tough; when I’m cheerfully striking up a conversation, I’m battling the same butterflies as in the early stages of a silly crush. While I’m trying to appear calm and chatty my mind is scrabbling madly, searching for conversation topics and witticisms, all the while silently pleading ‘like me, like me, please like me’. I want to be an appealing, fun mum who they might want to play date, and all going well, wine date.

And just like real dating, once we’ve moved past the initial ice-breaking, there’s a getting to know you phase. This is the part where I act like a more polite and refined version of myself, curbing my trucker-esque language and moderating the subject matter until I can gauge where they sit on the spectrum of general filth and profanity that is my usual modus operandi. It’s much the same approach I adopted when first dating husband, who was of course then known as interesting and rather attractive new man in town. Apparently I was a little too convincing though; by date number six when I’d played all my seduction cards including the mini skirt and tight top still no advances had been made, so I quite reasonably decided he was gay and looking for a girlfriend of a different variety to what I had in mind. Meanwhile he’d come to the (massive) misunderstanding that I was devoutly religious; hence the lack of any attempted action. Anyone who has met me will appreciate that this assumption couldn’t be much further from reality, so when we finally cleared up the confusion over dinner one evening a palpable sense of relief descended upon the table. He filled both our wine glasses to the brim and settled in for the night – by the morning he was farting in my bed and the rest is our history. Oh the romance.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that making friends as a grown up is hard, but having used my child as a pawn in the game to some extent, I’ve managed to accumulate a little network of smart, funny, likeminded women who may not use the word Fuck quite as liberally as me, but also won’t flinch or judge me when I do – and they’re the type of friends I love! Of course as Murphy’s Law would have it, this all happens just as our year in Adelaide nears its end. In a few weeks we head to Melbourne but this time I come prepared, I know how this parental dating gig works and I’m ready to turn on my clumsy charm offensive. That’s right Melburnian Mums, prepare to be swept off your feet, or at least sweet-talked into drinking wine with me!

Mystery Grab Bag

463. That is the number of people who have inspected my vajajay – and that doesn’t include ex-boyfriends. OK, maybe 463 is a slight exaggeration but when you’ve got faulty baby making machinery like mine it certainly starts to feel that way. You know that game where you put your hand into a darkened box or bag and have a grope around to guess what the mystery object inside is? That’s me, I’m the box, or at least I have the box, and for the last few years I’ve had more medical professionals than I care to remember having a fondle about, slinging around their best guesses as to why my body refuses to do what it should.

I was quietly optimistic that I might be one of those success stories where having one child miraculously fixes fertility problems, I’d hoped maybe my reproductive system would just get its shit together and child number two would just take care of itself. I also hope to win lotto or receive a sizeable inheritance from a wealthy long lost relative but unfortunately none of those things have happened, and after a few months of frustration it’s become clear that the baby thing isn’t going to either. Despite my best hopes, my ovaries are still lazy belligerent fuckers and are going to take some more aggressive action to bully into productivity. So, after consulting with yet another specialist, we now have yet another opinion, another approach and another batch of people in the queue to look up my clacker.

I have to laugh at the irony of how impersonal and unromantic this whole baby making business is but after several years of intervention at varying extremes we’ve become pretty accustomed to the fact that conception is more than likely going to be a team effort for us. When you’re focused on getting knocked up what was once a fun bit of slap and tickle can quickly become the topic of intense over analysis and military planning. There is nothing sexy whatsoever about shagging to a schedule; you can kiss spontaneity goodbye as conception joins the list of household chores that must be done. I swear there were days poor husband would have rather gone out to mow the lawns or do the vacuuming than perform on demand but then I guess opening the seduction with the line ‘come on, I’m ovulating we have to do the sex now’ is not the biggest turn on either. By the same token asking if I can keep reading my book while he does his thing doesn’t really convey the appropriate level of enthusiasm to the task at hand.

The plan this time is a combination of OI, FSH and IUI. Yes, I went a bit cross-eyed with all the acronyms at first too but now that I’m a seasoned fertility treatment test case I can tell you that this means Ovulation Induction through Follicle Stimulating Hormone treatment and Intrauterine Insemination – oh yeah, talk dirty to me. All up, this is a slightly less invasive approach than IVF although ‘less invasive’ is a bit of relative term. It still means daily hormone injections, regular inspections of my underachieving ovaries to check on their progress and then, the pièce de résistance, having husbands swimmers deposited in my uterus by means of a glorified turkey baster.

Simple, no? Well, no apparently. Of course, I do like to complicate conception related matters wherever possible, so while it all looks very sound and reasonable on paper, in practise there are a few pesky problems causing delays. When I gave birth I delivered not only a beautiful little girl, but also what my obstetrician described as ‘the ugliest placenta’ she’d seen in a long time; of course I have no idea what an attractive placenta might look like but that’s a separate matter. It turns out it was both ugly and tenacious and did some decent damage upon its forceful removal. One D&C to retrieve the dregs later and my uterus is still in sulk about the whole ordeal, so until that’s resolved the new plan, and my eagerness to become a jolly hormone jabbing junkie are all on hold. And so we wait, which is brilliant, me being the embodiment of patience and all… (cue: sardonic laughter). Meanwhile I’m happy enjoying being Mum and entertainer to my delightful little bundle of destruction; I’m aware of the fact that it’s a privilege many long for and miss out on so whatever happens, I know we’ve already won.

There’s no ‘I’ in team, but I’ve found the ‘me’

The other day a woman told me how lucky I was to have regained my figure so soon after having a baby. I know she meant it as a compliment but I wanted to punch that bitch in the face (see Jenny, you taught me well). There’s a reason I’m back in my skinny jeans and that reason is a shitload of vegetables, deprivation and hard fucking work. Luck does not enter into it. As anyone who’s been on a shape up mission will confirm, getting those bastard jeans on after six months of hard slogging definitely doesn’t feel ‘so soon’, more like ‘at freakin last’.

Six months ago I found myself adopting the title of ‘mother’ literally overnight, but figuring out what that actually meant for me was a longer process. Although it was something I’d looked forward to (and paid a fair whack for!) it still took quite a mental shift to adjust to my new identity and once I’d done that I needed to meld it with some of my old pre-baby self. Sure, I’m a mother but there’s a lot more to me than that, having a child doesn’t erase the previous 30 something years that shaped me before this and I still need things that define me beyond it.

For me, that meant carving time out for myself to reconnect with my passion for health and fitness and finding a bit of solace in sweat. Over the past few months I’ve been sneakily converting our garage into a workout room (‘I don’t know what you mean darling, we’ve always had an elliptical trainer/ spin bike/ weight set out there’) and I’m back to teaching classes at the gym. After some initial debating with myself about whether I still had the passion and if I could be bothered with the work involved it took one class to confirm the answer was a resounding YES I love this shit! Also getting paid to shout at people is pretty good as far as part time jobs go.

As a first time parent there’s a hell of a lot of experimentation that goes on figuring out what type of parent you’re going to be and what’s going to work for you and your child – for example Zara and I do not embody the serenity of the Madonna and child,  a surprise to you all I’m sure.  At first, in an effort to determine how to mess up my child the least, I read a lot of parenting manual type material extolling the virtues of various child-rearing methods. I experimented with the natural approach and tried baby wearing and from that experience I can say I confidently say that admire the mums who can happily go about their business with their little ones attached but it’s not for me. After several sweaty, hair pulling, spew in my tits/ down my back struggles, it turns out I’m far too selfish for that shit. When I finally win the battle to render my child unconscious for her nap the last thing I want is for her to be strapped to me like a limpet. That moment when I ease her into her cot and sneak out of the room holding my breath is my little escape when I can reclaim an hour, or hopefully two, for my own selfish sweaty pursuits.

Although it sounds a bit masochistic, that couple of hours when the kid is asleep and I get to slog it out is bliss. And in the weekends when husband takes charge of the child it’s even better (aside to Dads: never, never refer to this as ‘babysitting’; when it’s your kid you’re caring for it’s called ‘parenting’ and I’m sure as shit not paying you $20 an hour to do it). In that time it’s all me, there’s no baby monitor threatening to interrupt, I’m not bound to anyone else’s needs and I don’t have to think about anything or anyone but my perspiring panting self. The message to husband and child is clear – I love you both more than anything in this world but, unless it’s a medical emergency, and by that I mean one of you better be dying, I do not want to see, hear or speak to either of you until I come back in that door a stinking mess.

And the thing is, when I do come back from teaching class or from my shed sweatbox sessions I feel so much happier and healthier, I’m excited to see my busy little munchkin (and usually entertained to see the outfit her father’s sartorial styling has produced) and I’m full of gratitude to husband for his support in my time out. Of course the vanity aspect of getting back to a shape and size where I feel comfortable is great, but the real benefit is in the more intangible improvement it makes to my mental state. The way I see it, my selfishness makes me a far better wife and mother so perhaps it’s not so selfish after all?

The other fortunate side effect is that I’m far more willing to let husband grab my arse when there’s less of it, because of course now that I’ve worked so hard to drop the kilos I’m hell-bent on gaining them again with operation sibling ramping up. Maybe I’ll just hang onto those fat pants a bit longer…

Six Month Performance Review

Zara turned six months old this week and as she reached her milestone I was summoned for my half annual review to evaluate my performance to date as a Mother. Management (Zara) provided some very useful feedback, much of it positive, along with some insightful and constructive criticism that I’ll take on board as we move forward. Following is a summary of the salient points of our meeting: 

Catering

Firstly we should acknowledge that there were some teething, or perhaps more appropriately gumming, issues at the outset with a less than optimal breast milk supply. I’d like to commend your dedication to the cause and appreciate all efforts made to produce more booby juice. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be but rest assured this won’t be a black mark on your record, you’ve continued to provide milk on a daily basis and frankly I really don’t care where that white gold comes from, just keep it coming.

Your fruit and vegetable purees are excellent and the range of menu options is satisfactory however I have noticed that the dinner you dish up for you and Dad looks significantly more exciting, particularly with the inclusion of the much talked about ‘meat’. As is the general rule with babies, I’m not sure what it is exactly but I know I want what you’re having. You’ve been promising it for a while and I expect you to make good on this soon, if I’m going to be forced to sit at the table and make polite dinner conversation I will not be silenced with rusks. 

Entertainment and Extra Curricular Activities

Well done on the variety of entertainment options you’ve selected thus far. A notable highlight has been swimming lessons which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed. You should be aware that the shrill screeching, kicking and splashing in the pool is merely an expression of my delight and therefore you too should delight in my high pitched pleasure. Sometimes love is a shattered eardrum, enjoy it.

Kindermusic has been an education in more ways than one. Through mixing with people with actual musical talent it has become evident that your singing is perhaps not at the same level, but you still receive recognition for your off-pitch efforts. Fortunately this doesn’t seem to have affected my musicality, I think you’ll agree my voice is a tuneful and melodious joy to the ears, see the note about swimming above.

The selection of toys you’ve provided is good, however it seems your understanding of what qualifies as a toy is somewhat limited; as a guide, if it fits in my mouth it is in fact a toy, refer to this rule if in doubt. This applies to your phone, shoes, keys, old tissues, dust bunnies and any items left unattended on the floor. I think we’d both benefit from less liberal use of the word ‘no’ and a more sharing attitude towards some items that you seem to view as yours alone – remember, what’s yours is ours – your phone in particular. Again, I don’t know what it is, but I know I want it. Give me the phone. I want the phone.

We should discuss here the various ‘coffee meetings’ that you claim to be for my benefit. Let’s be clear that you’re not fooling anyone here. If you won’t let me push over your cup, chew on the sugar sachets, ram a teaspoon down my throat or roll in debris on the floor while you participate in your gossip circle then it’s clearly not me we’re there for.

Pre-emptive Anticipation of Needs, General Mindreading and Psychic Powers

While I recognise that you’ve made efforts in this area it’s clear that this is the part of your job description that requires the most focus for improvement. A good mother should know what her precious offspring needs before they do. I appreciate that dealing with a capricious child who changes her mind like the wind can make this a more challenging endeavour but life would be boring if everything was simple, we all love surprise and spontaneity and you can thank me for keeping your life full of it.

I don’t know if I’m going to be in the mood for apples or pears for breakfast, or carrots or pumpkin for dinner. Yes, I know I was just squealing for the dog toy but now I want the giraffe instead, or as well. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants and I can’t be held responsible for the fact that my young heart is indecisive. Preparation is the key to success here, if there are options it’s a pretty safe bet I’m going to want all of them, although when, and in what order is anyone’s guess, and guessing games are such fun aren’t they?

After Hours Services

Unfortunately, I’ve been disappointed to note a distinctly unenthusiastic attitude when it comes to our nocturnal meetings. I know you have the misguided idea that our conversations are best saved for waking hours but it’s become clear that our views on appropriate waking hours differ. I can’t predict when my moments of intellectual enlightenment are going to strike, sometimes I have my best ideas at 2, 3 or 4am and when I have these moments of brilliance I need to discuss them with you. So rather than continuing to act like this is an inconvenience I need you to understand that it’s in fact a privilege that I choose to share my insights with you. You can bet Einsteen’s mother didn’t demand he hush up and go back to sleep when he woke her to discuss the theory of relativity (yes, this is a little known historical fact) so please, put on a happy face and be excited about our extra time together, you may well be witnessing genius in action.

Summary

Overall you’re doing a great job and you’ve come a long way in six months. While I’ve raised a few points for improvement I don’t want you to be disheartened, parenting is a tough gig and the feedback from my peer review panel indicates that there is an awful lot of fumbling in the dark going on among the adults. But we babies understand that shaping and moulding our parents is a lifelong task and I’m committed to my role in your education. You will eventually learn to know what I want and then you can be assured I’ll change the rules – all in the name of your continued parental development of course!

Navel Gazing

I should preface this by warning you this is an uncharacteristically earnest post, the result of a scare last night that sent me into a little bout of introspection. Don’t worry, serious and me are strange bedfellows so this won’t last long, irreverence will be restored next post…

Last night the apnea alarm on Zara’s baby monitor went off.  Fortunately it was a false alarm but the sick fear and shock that I felt in those few seconds of panic was almost unparalleled by any other moment in my life.  It’s amazing how quickly the brain can make the leap from calm to catastrophe and suddenly my mind was awash with what ifs and worst possibles. In just five short months this child has made herself a part of my life that I cannot contemplate being without, she is the embodiment of joy and my heart exists in her – although I think she cemented that in the first five minutes of knowing her.

Becoming a mother has changed my priorities and perspective on life.  It’s also given me a whole lot more to worry about in the world but I’ve come to the harsh realisation that there are only so many of these things I can protect my daughter from. When I think about the some of the most dubious situations I’ve found myself in, it’s pretty clear that so much of it has been my own doing, the result of ill-advised decisions, acts of willful defiance and a general belief in my being ten foot tall and bulletproof. Obviously I’ve survived (with a few battle scars) and I want to make sure Zara is able to do the same.

I can’t shelter her from having her own adventures and the fuck ups that will be inherent in those and nor do I want to; it’s those experiences that shape our personalities and make us a bit windswept and interesting. What I can do is equip her to (hopefully) make the best choices in those situations that will allow her to have her own journey – and live to tell the tale.

I figure the best way I can do this is to parent by example and be the type of person I want her to grow into. I’ve no doubt that even at her young age she is taking in far more than we realise (this also makes me pretty certain her first word will be ‘fuck’ – note to self, initiate swear jar).  I want her to be loving, kind, generous, patient, thoughtful and forgiving, I want her to feel gratitude for her life and I want those qualities to influence the decisions she makes.

If you’re thinking this sounds suspiciously like a self-improvement list you’re right because I’m well aware that though my intentions are good I’m quite patently not all of these things all the time! But I’ve no desire to berate or otherwise beat myself up over my shortcomings; I’ve done enough of that in the past to know that self-flagellation is an exercise in futility and I also want my daughter to learn self forgiveness that is so vital to happiness.

Of course all this betterment is highly aspirational but it’s good to have goals right? So when I squeeze my delicious little girl and tell her how much I love her, I’ll also borrow one of my favourite movie lines and tell her ‘you make me wanna be a better [wo]man’. Of course it doesn’t have the same cool factor when it’s not being delivered awkwardly deadpan by Jack Nicholson (http://youtu.be/THtv5VM5LSY) but the sentiment is there!

You can’t always get what you want. But sometimes you can.

I knew it would come back to bite me in the arse. Smugness never pays. It started at Christmas, when, at twelve weeks of age my darling girl gave me the best present I could have hoped for – she started sleeping through the night. And not this bullshit ‘five hours is considered through the night’ in baby-technical terms, but actual whole nights, 11 hour stints of peaceful,  blissful undisturbed slumber. Finally, I rejoiced foolishly (and yes, a little smugly), we’re over that hurdle, through the worst of it, praise be to the end of living in a slightly dazed state of deprivation because my child sleeps! And then she didn’t.  And she still doesn’t.

We’ve been experiencing the joy of what’s commonly known as ‘four month sleep regression’, or in our household ‘are you fucking shitting me child? Please, please, go to sleep and stay a-fucking-sleep’.  If I sound like I’m losing my humour about it, it’s because I am. Either the term itself is a misnomer or our kid didn’t get the memo because at five months that shit is still going on and no one is laughing about it. The problem is that when babies learn new skills their busy little brains are working non-stop to try and process that information, which for us means one small person who is practicing her newfound rolling and crawling skills. All. Night. Long. On one hand I have to admire her dedication, but kid, do it in your own time please!

It’s important to know one’s shortcomings and I will freely admit that the hours between 12 and 4 am are not when I am at my best.  I don’t have the same capacity to be an empathetic and tolerant mother, or human being in general, at that time. So when my little one wakes in the night do I go in there with a beatific expression of concern for my poor restless child? Do I fuck! I traipse in half asleep with a face like thunder uttering obscenities under my breath – and sometimes over it.

The thing that makes the mornings after these nights a little more manageable is coffee.

I gave up caffeine a few years back, but since a coffee machine came to live at our house a couple of months ago I’ve been wholeheartedly embracing that little morning bolt of perk-me-up. Until the morning last week when the bloody miserable machine let me down. No lights, no sound, no power and certainly no coffee. This shocking revelation, combined with a particularly wakeful night prior, culminated in the perfect storm for a fairly terse early morning phone call to Nespresso. It’s here that I’d like to offer a public apology to the unfortunate customer service person I spoke to; it’s not your fault you have a shit job dealing with shitty people whose shitty machine won’t work when they really need to it, I shouldn’t have told you to try harder, that may have been unfair. Sorry.

But I’m not sorry about what I did next, which was simply what any savvy unsatisfied consumer would do with the tools and technology on hand – I engaged the awesome power of social media with this post on their Facebook page:

Dear Nespresso, I am a coffee lover and mother to a 5 month old baby, as such I don’t get enough sleep and caffeine makes me a better mother and much nicer person. My husband very wisely bought me a Nespresso for my birthday 6 weeks ago and since then I have been better and nicer on a daily basis – until today when the machine ceased operation. No coffee this morning makes me much less nice and the fact that it will take two weeks to be repaired makes me much less happy – two weeks in the life of a sleep deprived mother is like dog years. I’m not sure that even a personal visit from George Clooney and Matt Damon to console me together would fix things right this moment. Of course if you could arrange that it would be worth a try, otherwise I’d really appreciate it if you could work your magic and restore my crucial daily caffeine fix pronto so I can go back to being a better person. Thanks, Katie.

And what do you know, that very same day I had this response:

 Hi Katie. Thanks for your post. Whilst we can’t arrange for a visit from George and Matt, we can help restore your daily fix of caffeine. In addition to our warranty we do offer the use of a Loan Coffee Machine for the duration of the repairs. If this is something you would like us to arrange please send us a Private Message with your contact Phone Number. We are sure this will make you a little happier. Thanks

Then, hey presto, by end of the day I had a loan coffee machine making its merry way to save me.

So the lessons here are:

1. If you want me to be nice to you, your chances are best during civilised people’s hours.
2. If you want me to be even nicer, bring me coffee.
3. And one that I learned from my wakeful little girl’s conduct of late – if you grizzle long enough and loud enough some poor bastard will pull finger and give you what you want just to get a bit of peace. Mature? No. Effective? Yes!

The new terror threat to airline travel

There’s a new breed of terrorist threatening airline travel and judging by the faces of my fellow passengers she’s far more worrying than the Taliban. Boarding a plane with a baby is either very brave, or very stupid. Other travellers register the threat and watch in anxious anticipation as you walk down the aisle, nervously they glance at the empty seat beside them and the silent pleading in their eyes screams ‘not here, please not here’. The tension is thick and the relief almost audible, with every row that you pass each person utters a silent thanks for a baby bullet dodged.

Under normal circumstances babies are attention magnets.  Lots of people love them, they want to engage in cutesy baby conversation and get them to smile and giggle and tell you how adorable your chubby little drooler is – until it’s on a plane. See the problem is that babies don’t really understand or care about proper public conduct. They’re not really bothered about the etiquette of sharing a small, enclosed space such as a row of airline seats where rules of politeness dictate that you shouldn’t kick the person next to you or wail in their ear or throw up in their lap. Babies be making their own rules bitches, and that’s what makes those unpredictable little feckers such frightening travelling companions.

That brave, stupid tourist was me. Baby strapped to my front, her fat little arms and legs waving, squealing excitedly (Zara, not me) about to embark on Z’s first trip to Nu Zilland.  Suddenly the usual routine of turn up at airport, get tipsy in lounge then fly became a whole lot more complicated.

I’m not a girl who travels light and neither is my little one. Even the smallest outing requires military planning to leave the house with all the crap that she requires – most of it to deal with actual crap that may occur. So packing for both of us for a whole week saw me arrive at the airport with two overfilled suitcases, a nappy bag almost as big and an overactive child to negotiate. I’m sure it was a comic spectacle watching me try to wrangle a wayward trolley full of luggage (why do they make those shitting trolleys so hard to steer?) while trying to avoid little flailing limbs threatening to take out an eye. However that wasn’t a problem for long because once there, I had staff. You see, I’d agreed to make the trip on my own with one small (but expensive) condition that I get my own Koru membership. Previously I’ve just blagged off the hubby’s making sure I get his money’s worth from the lounge hospitality and extra baggage allowance and I was pretty satisfied with just that. But flying with the small person is when that nice black card really comes into its own because if you pay extra money, they have to be extra nice to you. It also means you get to skip queues and treat the airline staff as porters to help with all your shit. Money well spent I’d say.

Security check was not so easy. I quickly learned it’s not acceptable to stroll through the metal detector with a child strapped to your person in much the same way it’s not OK to have a bomb strapped to you.  I found myself swallowing my sarcasm when I was told:

‘Maam, you’re going to need to remove the baby’,

‘Oh right, sure, do you just want me to pop her on the conveyor belt to be scanned and collect her on the other side?’

We reached a compromise. I unstrapped the baby as requested and handed her to the reluctant security guard who held her out like a cheerful wriggling bomb while I was checked for other explosives. With the apparent lack of humour I judged it best to skip any white powder jokes about the formula in my bag.

After a tantrum free take-off I started to relax a little bit (of course this may have been assisted by the one or three champagne slammers I knocked back in the lounge to steel my nerves), little Z was happy and all was going well. Then it became apparent why she was looking so pleased with herself.  Trust me when I tell you that dealing with a full nappy in an airline toilet is no mean feat. The logistics of using those shoeboxes are tight at the best of times; adding a wriggling baby into the mix and it’s like wrestling an octopus in a dark sack. We emerged sweating and bedraggled, me sporting newly bruised elbows, Zara triumphantly half dressed.

I’ve gotta give the kid some Kudos here though, a few wobbly moments aside, she was remarkably well behaved on all four flights putting on her most charming smiling and gurgling show. There’s no denying she’s a shameless show off – and I have no idea where she gets it from.  Her good behaviour didn’t go unnoticed; as we landed we were awash with praise, there were compliments on her conduct (i.e. did not scream like a banshee as she is well able to do) and praise for my parenting (despite the fact that all I did was get tipsy and pray).  I had won the terrorist negotiations – this time at least.