Ikea. We've all been there and if you're like me, every time you venture there you vow that that will be the last time...until that damned catalogue entices you back again for some more punishment. If only life could be like an Ikea catalogue..I mean, what utter perfection would it be to have your garage looking like the "Gorm" page. Even their bookcases are perfect - with every book the same height and with the same coloured spine. All matching. All co-ordinated. All perfect.
I once got so intoxicated with the PAX wardrobes on show in the Ikea catalogue, with the belts in their special belt compartment and everything looking so tidy and perfect that I convinced my husband that renovating our wardrobe would be on par to achieving world peace. So, we measured everything, planned our purchase, wrote down all the required item numbers and made our way to the store.
How the Swedish guy who owns Ikea ever made any money is a mystery to me...From the get-go, the Ikea experience is one fraught with frustration. You can't get to one particular department without first being forced to see every other display on offer...it's like decorating via hostage-tactical warfare. Don't want to look through 5 different kitchen designs? Too bad...you have to follow their maze of displays to get to the end. This is why I give my daughter a biscuit to eat when we go there, so if it all gets too much I can follow the crumb trail back to the entrance.
Once you've navigated the rabbit warren of showrooms you get to the self serve warehouse. I love the way the sign says "we don't want you to hurt yourself. If something is heavy, please ask one of our staff who will be only too happy to help". Staff? What staff? Have you EVER seen a staff member at Ikea? I have seen the occasional blue shirted person strolling around, but they're always on a mission with that "do not disturb me, I'm on very important business" look on their face.
You can spend thousands of dollars on all the co-ordinated parts to build a big wall unit at Ikea, but if they're out of stock of the one little shelf that binds the whole thing together, you're out of luck. They don't have a back-order system for most of their stock and they can't tell you when or even IF an item is coming back into stock, so you can either put everything back on the shelf and go home or buy all the available items and hope and pray that that one shelf will be there next week. Their online stocktake system is supposed to avoid this problem, but judging by the customer going psycho on the weekend, I'm guessing this still can be an issue.
Despite these frustrations, I still end up spending far too much at Ikea. Do you ever go there with the aim of buying one item and up spending over $500? This happens to me every time. Wow, check out that vase...so cheap! Forget the fact I already have 18 unused other vases at home - must get this other one to add to the collection. There are some things, however, that even I won't buy, no matter how cheap they are... What's with Ikea's kids cuddly toys? No standard bears and dolls here - they have the walrus and moose. Swedish kids ideas of cute and cuddly must be different to mine. Most of their toys have that "what the fuck is that thing?" vibe. Last weekend I was looking at this thing in the kids department that sits there and lights up. I asked Stu, "what does that do?", to which he replied "it sits and lights up"..."oh..." Righteo then...I mean, who's buying this stuff? I think this stuff appeals to the Montessori type mother who has an inbuilt aversion to anything with a Fisher Price label on it. If you ask me, half the 'toys' look like they were designed by some crack smoking Swedish guy who submitted his design as a joke.
Another thing for the WTF file was the pot pourri they were selling. I mean, isn't Ikea supposed to be the purveyor of all things sleek and modern? I haven't seen artificially coloured pot pourri since 1985, and yet there's packets of it for sale at our local Ikea.
But all this weirdo stuff aside, I still manage to spend loads of cash there. It's the shelving/storage things that keep me coming back. Nobody does storage like Ikea. It's ironic, because from everything I've seen of the Swedish/Danish/Nordic lifestyle, people there have very few "things" and houses operate on a "less is more" basis, but not us. We have so much stuff and there's never enough storage to store it all. I harbour a secret crush on the guy (or girl), who designed the Expedit storage cubey thing. We have several of these in our house and they are awesome. Those little Branas baskets can hide untold piles of crap. There's even a special section on photobucket for people to show off their Expedit unit and how they choose to decorate it. One person has painted each individual box a different colour and set these up as individual little dolls house type worlds with little figures living in them...Forget the United Nations...it could be possible that this one shelving unit could be the answer to uniting the world - we can all share our Expedit decorating tips and unite together for world peace.
Getting the Expedit box into your car is a whole other adventure. Have you ever stood at the car loading bay at Ikea and listened to the conversations taking
place around you? Last weekend, as I minded the trolleys and Stu went to get the car, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on this couple nearby who were arguing about getting their stuff into their car. Here's this burley guy, trying to cram several large boxes into his small Holden Barina. His partner was grumbling at him "that's never going to fit...it's too long...it's too wide...watch out you'll break it...I told you it wouldn't fit". With each naggy comment you could see his brain thinking "I'm going to shove this Billy bookcase right up your..."
Whatever you go there for...the swedish meatballs, the 'alternative' toys, the chance to lay around in a showroom bed all day without anyone telling you to move along...Ikea is a rite of passage for us all. Now if you excuse me, I have a date with an allen key...
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
That bloody queue
We’ve all had to have one...a blood test that is, and it’s not as though they’re the most pleasant things on Earth to have to experience, but what makes it total agony is the wait. Our local pathology collection clinic opens on Saturday mornings from 9am until 12 noon. To be seen before 10am, you really have to have joined the queue outside the clinic door before 8.45am. I always get lulled into a false sense of security as I’m driving up the road towards the clinic, thinking “oh, I’ve got five minutes to spare, perfect” and then I see it...the “outside queue”, queuing up outside, waiting for the doors to open at 9am. This is usually filled with older people and my sympathy for them, having to do this regularly for health reasons is outweighed by my inner whinge that I’m already at least fifth in line.
The external door finally opens at 9am and we all enter the premises, trying to look as though we’re cool, calm and collected with our manners intact, when in reality we’re trying to walk as fast as physically possible without actually breaking into a run, to get the numbered ticket on the desk that will determine our place in the real queue. This can be the time when being the only person in the outside line who hasn’t had a hip replacement can be a bonus...but I always do the right thing and let those who were there before me go first (even though deep down I want to stab them all, as I do a quick head count and add up 5-10 minutes per person and realise I’m in for a long wait).
Our clinic has about 8 chairs to sit on and if you’re lucky enough to get a seat, don’t leave it for any reason. Dying to pee? Forget it...hold it in or you’ll lose your seat and have to stand. And just when you thought you were relatively safe with your number “6” card in your hand, thinking “6th in line isn’t that bad”...you sit and watch as person after person comes in for the 2 hour glucose tolerance test (for diabetes) and jumps the queue. Today I was in such a hurry and had already been waiting half an hour when the pathology lady called out “any more glucose tests?” and I swear if one more pregnant woman had have walked in the door at that point I was going to scream. All of a sudden, 6th place became 13th place as 7 people, yes 7 people went in before me to have the first of their 3 diabetes blood tests. I started lamenting the lack of exercise and poor food choices our society has made over the past few decades that has gotten us into this predicament...me having to be bumped out of 6th place at the pathology clinic!!!
The man sitting next to me this morning had the number 9 ticket. He turned it upside down at one point and I was thinking “oh no you don’t, old man....you and I both know that that’s a 9 and not a 6 so don’t even think about trying to fake your way in before me”...oh the paranoia in my mind. Then we had the people strolling in late (9.05am) who wanted to sweet talk their way ahead in the queue to the lady at the desk ...”um...I have to be out of here by 9.30am as I have to be someplace important...” Don’t you just want to bash these people? We’re ALL important. We’ve ALL got important stuff to do. Take a number, stand over there and next time come at 8.30am.
I don’t know what comes over me sometimes at these places. I am either Jekyl or Hyde. Either really relaxed, happy to read the 15 year old Women’s Weekly magazine featuring Nicole Kidman on the cover with long bright red curly hair and reading all about how she’s been dating Tom Cruise; happy to chat to the person next to me, “Oh, that green stuff is awful to drink, isn’t it?...Is this your first baby?....Yes, it has been really cold lately” OR I’m a psychotic mental case, intolerant of anything and everything. Today my mood was the latter and at one point the pathology lady was trying to fax the paperwork through to whoever they fax it through to and she had clearly typed in the wrong number as someone was answering the call and then hanging up. It took every ounce of my strength to not jump over that desk and fax it through myself. I’m surprised I didn’t offer to jab myself with the needle and collect the blood for her to save time. But despite my inner turmoil, I smiled at everyone, offered my seat to all the pregnant ladies and made polite chit chat with the staff as they went about their business.
When I stop and think about it, I’m so lucky to only have to go through this every now and then. I pity the person whose life is a constant stream of medical appointments and the inevitable queues that befall them. I figure if I hear a news story where they say, “a woman went crazy today, murdering everyone around them at a local pathology clinic” I’ll at some level understand where they were coming from.
The external door finally opens at 9am and we all enter the premises, trying to look as though we’re cool, calm and collected with our manners intact, when in reality we’re trying to walk as fast as physically possible without actually breaking into a run, to get the numbered ticket on the desk that will determine our place in the real queue. This can be the time when being the only person in the outside line who hasn’t had a hip replacement can be a bonus...but I always do the right thing and let those who were there before me go first (even though deep down I want to stab them all, as I do a quick head count and add up 5-10 minutes per person and realise I’m in for a long wait).
Our clinic has about 8 chairs to sit on and if you’re lucky enough to get a seat, don’t leave it for any reason. Dying to pee? Forget it...hold it in or you’ll lose your seat and have to stand. And just when you thought you were relatively safe with your number “6” card in your hand, thinking “6th in line isn’t that bad”...you sit and watch as person after person comes in for the 2 hour glucose tolerance test (for diabetes) and jumps the queue. Today I was in such a hurry and had already been waiting half an hour when the pathology lady called out “any more glucose tests?” and I swear if one more pregnant woman had have walked in the door at that point I was going to scream. All of a sudden, 6th place became 13th place as 7 people, yes 7 people went in before me to have the first of their 3 diabetes blood tests. I started lamenting the lack of exercise and poor food choices our society has made over the past few decades that has gotten us into this predicament...me having to be bumped out of 6th place at the pathology clinic!!!
The man sitting next to me this morning had the number 9 ticket. He turned it upside down at one point and I was thinking “oh no you don’t, old man....you and I both know that that’s a 9 and not a 6 so don’t even think about trying to fake your way in before me”...oh the paranoia in my mind. Then we had the people strolling in late (9.05am) who wanted to sweet talk their way ahead in the queue to the lady at the desk ...”um...I have to be out of here by 9.30am as I have to be someplace important...” Don’t you just want to bash these people? We’re ALL important. We’ve ALL got important stuff to do. Take a number, stand over there and next time come at 8.30am.
I don’t know what comes over me sometimes at these places. I am either Jekyl or Hyde. Either really relaxed, happy to read the 15 year old Women’s Weekly magazine featuring Nicole Kidman on the cover with long bright red curly hair and reading all about how she’s been dating Tom Cruise; happy to chat to the person next to me, “Oh, that green stuff is awful to drink, isn’t it?...Is this your first baby?....Yes, it has been really cold lately” OR I’m a psychotic mental case, intolerant of anything and everything. Today my mood was the latter and at one point the pathology lady was trying to fax the paperwork through to whoever they fax it through to and she had clearly typed in the wrong number as someone was answering the call and then hanging up. It took every ounce of my strength to not jump over that desk and fax it through myself. I’m surprised I didn’t offer to jab myself with the needle and collect the blood for her to save time. But despite my inner turmoil, I smiled at everyone, offered my seat to all the pregnant ladies and made polite chit chat with the staff as they went about their business.
When I stop and think about it, I’m so lucky to only have to go through this every now and then. I pity the person whose life is a constant stream of medical appointments and the inevitable queues that befall them. I figure if I hear a news story where they say, “a woman went crazy today, murdering everyone around them at a local pathology clinic” I’ll at some level understand where they were coming from.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Constant Comparisons - the Curse of Motherhood
From the moment our children are conceived, the comparisons begin. From your own self analysis: 'Hmmm, I wasn't this nauseous with my first pregnancy",' to the observations from others, "Gee, you're carrying much higher this time" (I'm not sure I want to know how people really know this?!) to the downright specific - 'Wow, our second baby measured so many millimetres from head to rump at the 20 week ultrasound and this one's 3mm bigger'. Wow. Amazing.
We then compare our children's births with our previous births, our mother's birth experiences, and those of our mothers in law, our neighbours, friends, colleagues, even the local fish and chip shop lady. No-one is immune from the discussion, the dissecting of information and the inevitable comparisons. Believe it or not, in a former life I used to be quite slim. This led to everyone I knew being gobsmacked at how big my babies have been. If there was an award for large birth weight babies, (out of the people I personally know), I'd have to be in medal contention. But that's until you compare me (James was my heaviest at 9 pound 10 ounces) with my Grandmother. Compared to her, I've had it easy. Her heaviest baby was 10 pound 4 ounces. And what is this bizarre fascination with other people's babies birth weights anyway? I know if Stu came home from work saying, "Oh, by the way, Steve's wife had the baby" and didn't come forth with weight details, I'd nag him until he found out. Why I have to know the weight of some stranger's baby is beyond explanation, but damn it - it's just not complete news without the weight. Without the weight, we can't compare that baby with every other baby born before it!
Everything can look really good or really bad in life, depending on who you're comparing yourself to.
The baby comparisons definitely don't stop with their birth. We sit at Mum's Group and compare our babies with the others. Which ones are cute, ugly, screamers, good sleepers, good feeders and so on. As the children grow, the comparisons continue. Who's crawling, walking, talking, toilet trained? Who's behaving like a spoiled brat and who's an angel? And so on and so forth...
And just when we think we've had our fill of comparing our children with others, we then move on to larger fry and compare ourselves with our contemporaries, which is fraught with disaster. How come she manages to keep her house looking like it’s from the cover of Home Beautiful, despite having three children to care for and a part time job? How come I am dropping into Coles two minutes before Playgroup starts to buy lamingtons to share, when she manages getting up at 5am to bake home made profiteroles from scratch? How come she looks like a fashion super model and I'm still trying to wipe my daughter's breakfast off my t-shirt? Why is she prettier, thinner, taller, fitter, wealthier and more organised?
Mothers. We are our own worst enemies. Comparing can only lead to heartache can’t it? - Or can it just once in a while leave us feeling good about ourselves, and it's these small little boosts to our egos that keep us analysing.
My oldest is in high school and at parent teacher night recently I overheard the people whose appointment was before us being told that basically their child was a little shithead. Then it was our turn, and the teacher said, "If I had a whole class full of Josh's I'd be a happy woman". I was hoping she was speaking loud enough so that the next people after us could hear. Did you hear that people? I'm doing a great job! Ner Ner, I win. Yeah right, if I had have waited until their appointment I'd probably hear how their child was going to be accelerated to the school's special genius unit and then, by comparison, I’d feel hopeless all over again.
:)
We then compare our children's births with our previous births, our mother's birth experiences, and those of our mothers in law, our neighbours, friends, colleagues, even the local fish and chip shop lady. No-one is immune from the discussion, the dissecting of information and the inevitable comparisons. Believe it or not, in a former life I used to be quite slim. This led to everyone I knew being gobsmacked at how big my babies have been. If there was an award for large birth weight babies, (out of the people I personally know), I'd have to be in medal contention. But that's until you compare me (James was my heaviest at 9 pound 10 ounces) with my Grandmother. Compared to her, I've had it easy. Her heaviest baby was 10 pound 4 ounces. And what is this bizarre fascination with other people's babies birth weights anyway? I know if Stu came home from work saying, "Oh, by the way, Steve's wife had the baby" and didn't come forth with weight details, I'd nag him until he found out. Why I have to know the weight of some stranger's baby is beyond explanation, but damn it - it's just not complete news without the weight. Without the weight, we can't compare that baby with every other baby born before it!
Everything can look really good or really bad in life, depending on who you're comparing yourself to.
The baby comparisons definitely don't stop with their birth. We sit at Mum's Group and compare our babies with the others. Which ones are cute, ugly, screamers, good sleepers, good feeders and so on. As the children grow, the comparisons continue. Who's crawling, walking, talking, toilet trained? Who's behaving like a spoiled brat and who's an angel? And so on and so forth...
And just when we think we've had our fill of comparing our children with others, we then move on to larger fry and compare ourselves with our contemporaries, which is fraught with disaster. How come she manages to keep her house looking like it’s from the cover of Home Beautiful, despite having three children to care for and a part time job? How come I am dropping into Coles two minutes before Playgroup starts to buy lamingtons to share, when she manages getting up at 5am to bake home made profiteroles from scratch? How come she looks like a fashion super model and I'm still trying to wipe my daughter's breakfast off my t-shirt? Why is she prettier, thinner, taller, fitter, wealthier and more organised?
Mothers. We are our own worst enemies. Comparing can only lead to heartache can’t it? - Or can it just once in a while leave us feeling good about ourselves, and it's these small little boosts to our egos that keep us analysing.
My oldest is in high school and at parent teacher night recently I overheard the people whose appointment was before us being told that basically their child was a little shithead. Then it was our turn, and the teacher said, "If I had a whole class full of Josh's I'd be a happy woman". I was hoping she was speaking loud enough so that the next people after us could hear. Did you hear that people? I'm doing a great job! Ner Ner, I win. Yeah right, if I had have waited until their appointment I'd probably hear how their child was going to be accelerated to the school's special genius unit and then, by comparison, I’d feel hopeless all over again.
:)
YouTube knows me too well
Have you logged onto YouTube lately? YouTube has been busy. Busy behind my back digging up dirt and sifting through my viewing history to create a little snapshot of who I am in a nutshell.
I logged on tonight to find that YouTube had made some pre-emptive suggestions of clips I might like to peruse...let's see, there was a Tripod clip, of them singing a Santa song - yes, it IS the festive season and yes, I do LOVE Tripod; then there was the Hamish and Andy comedy sketch suggestion - yes, I do enjoy the occasional Ham and Ando fix and just when I think Youtube is being a little cocky and a little flukey with its suggestions (OK, who DOESN'T like Hamish and Andy), I came across their third and final suggestion for my viewing pleasure...a baby panda cub riding on its Mummy's back. Yes, OK, I admit it. YouTube DOES know me, all too well apparently. It was scary. Like YouTube could see right inside my brain and heart.
I feel sorry for any guy who's trying to woo a girl and goes to show her "that funny clip on YouTube" he was shown at the office earlier that day only to come to the sinking realisation that his Mum must have borrowed his computer the day before when Youtube suggests he might like to watch that clip from Beaches when Bette sings "Wind beneath my wings", followed by Cher's "If I could turn back time" and Kylie's latest 'Live in concert' video. Good luck to him trying to get any.
What about the time you are showing your inlaws that video you took of your baby's first steps and Youtube suggests you might like to see the latest XXX porn video - you'll remember not to lend your laptop to Billy, the guy from next door with all the facial piercings.
So next time you're innocently surfing through YouTube, just mental note the fact that your choice will be noted, remembered and thrown back in your face, so choose wisely. :)`
I logged on tonight to find that YouTube had made some pre-emptive suggestions of clips I might like to peruse...let's see, there was a Tripod clip, of them singing a Santa song - yes, it IS the festive season and yes, I do LOVE Tripod; then there was the Hamish and Andy comedy sketch suggestion - yes, I do enjoy the occasional Ham and Ando fix and just when I think Youtube is being a little cocky and a little flukey with its suggestions (OK, who DOESN'T like Hamish and Andy), I came across their third and final suggestion for my viewing pleasure...a baby panda cub riding on its Mummy's back. Yes, OK, I admit it. YouTube DOES know me, all too well apparently. It was scary. Like YouTube could see right inside my brain and heart.
I feel sorry for any guy who's trying to woo a girl and goes to show her "that funny clip on YouTube" he was shown at the office earlier that day only to come to the sinking realisation that his Mum must have borrowed his computer the day before when Youtube suggests he might like to watch that clip from Beaches when Bette sings "Wind beneath my wings", followed by Cher's "If I could turn back time" and Kylie's latest 'Live in concert' video. Good luck to him trying to get any.
What about the time you are showing your inlaws that video you took of your baby's first steps and Youtube suggests you might like to see the latest XXX porn video - you'll remember not to lend your laptop to Billy, the guy from next door with all the facial piercings.
So next time you're innocently surfing through YouTube, just mental note the fact that your choice will be noted, remembered and thrown back in your face, so choose wisely. :)`
James' Birth Story
Warning....the following note is all about me. I am going to wallow in self pity and talk about events from my perspective only. Yes, for once, I’m going to be selfish.
It has taken me 5 years and nearly 10 months to be able to do this. Prior to now, every time I even thought about this topic I would burst into tears, literally. I am writing this down in the hope that expressing myself so openly will help heal some of the emotional wounds I have no doubt sustained.
Here is my birth story of my beautiful son James. James is such a placid, gentle child, but his entrance into the world was anything but. It was filled with panic, terror and sheer agony.
My story begins when I was 34 weeks pregnant. I was at my obstetrician’s rooms with Stu. We were there to have a sizing scan. This is where an ultrasound is performed and based on the baby’s size at that point in time, a birth weight is estimated. My obstetrician was a private doctor – she had her own rooms with her own sonographer working there. We went into the sonographer’s room and I lay down on the examination table. The ultrasound began and it didn’t take long before he started commenting on the baby’s size. “Woh, I’m glad I’M not having to push THAT head out!” was one comment I recall, said in a joking voice, but the message was clear – this was not a small baby. The tone became more serious as the session went on and he anticipated that the baby’s current weight was around 5 pound 6 ounces, the same some baby’s weigh at full term. And I still had 6 weeks to go....or 7 as it turned out.
After the ultrasound, we went into our doctor’s room and met with her. We expressed our concerns about what the sonographer had said about the baby’s head size and weight. She asked me how big Josh (my first baby) had been. I told her he was 3.965kgs (8 pound 12 ounces) and she said “Well you had a big baby last time and everything went OK, so you won’t have any problems this time”. As the saying goes, famous last words.
Over the next fortnight I started experiencing pains in my groin area I’d never had before, sharp pangs of pain. You know how you lift up one leg at a time to put on undies? I couldn’t do this without a pinching pain in my groin. It started to pinch also when I rolled over in bed at night. It really hurt. I asked my doctor about it and she dismissed it as the usual aches and pains of pregnancy.
My due date came and went. I reminded my doctor about the sizing scan that had been done and expressed my worry at going over my due date. Once again my fears were dismissed.
Fast forward to the night of the 30th May 2003. It was a Friday. Stu came home from work and I decided to have a rare bubble bath. In hindsight I don’t know what the hell I was thinking because I have never been able to have a bath without one of my kids interrupting and annoying me. My dream in life is to be able to experience a nice, long, hot bubble bath without any interruptions. Mmmmmm. Sorry, got carried away there...Anyway, so here I was soaking in the tub, enjoying the serenity when wham ! I felt the most intensely painful contraction I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t like a “normal” contraction – it was like someone had stabbed me with a 6 inch steak knife. I called out to Stu, knowing that something was not right and he came in and somehow got my whale like body out of the bath tub. I got dressed and the regular, painful contractions began. They were intensely painful and coming every 2-3 minutes right from the outset. I knew this labour wasn’t going to take long.
We rang our families, got our stuff together and drove to the hospital. I remember whingeing throughout every single speed hump between our house and the hospital (there were maybe 10?) We settled into our room and did the usual labour stuff. After I had been in labour three hours (not long I know, but the contractions were every minute by now), I asked the nurse about pain relief. She went off to call the doctor to ask if I could be given some pethidine. By the time she came back into the room I told her I needed to push. Those of you who have given birth before will know what this feeling is like. So when the nurse asks, “Are you sure?” you know that same feeling of wanting to smash their face in. Of course I was sure. I’d done this before and I think I know when a baby is about to come out of my vagina. Seriously though, the urge to push just came over me and became overwhelming so I knew that this was it. We were going to meet our precious son soon. It was too late to give me any pain relief and I got up on my knees (as this was the position I gave birth to Josh in).
I pushed for an hour and a half. But there was something wrong. The baby just wasn’t coming. Somehow my doctor had materialised. I was offered the gas, but it didn’t seem like it was even on as I didn’t notice a difference. If anything my intense inhaling on the thing was making me feel breathless and nauseous so I didn’t continue with it. I was in so much pain that I felt like I was losing control and going crazy. I can’t even describe the intensity of the pain. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes, even all these years later. I didn’t know what to panic about more...the feeling of a million knives stabbing me at once, or the looks on the medical staff’s faces and recognising from their hurried sharp tones of voice, that something was very wrong.
The doctor made me lie on my back. They angled the bed so that I was almost sitting up. The doctor reached inside me and broke my baby’s collarbone. How this was done exactly, I don’t know, but the hot burning stinging pain of having hands reaching inside me was excrutiating. I was losing control mentally. I wasn’t coping. All of this with zero drug/pain relief. I turned to Stuart, who was holding my hand with tears pouring down his face. These weren’t happy “I’m about to be a father” tears, but tears of surrender, watching his wife in sheer agony. I am not using highly emotive words for the sake of it, nor am I exaggerating. When I say agony, I mean agony. The midwives (who had grown in number over the past several minutes) began the Macrobertson’s Manouvre – I had two midwives on each side of my body, ramming my bent knees behind my ears as hard as they physically could. It was at this point my symphsis pubis (major pelvic ligament) tore in two. I called out to the doctor, “was that it? Is the baby out?” because the pain was just so intense when it happened, I thought that that was surely IT. The worried look on her face told me it most certainly wasn’t .
Eventually James was born. He weighed 4.35kgs (9 pound 10 ounces) with a 37cm head circumference. Certainly not the world’s biggest baby by any stretch, but obviously too big for me. I will never ever forget the sound of my screams that night. They weren’t the usual deep moaning sounds of a woman in labour, they were the screams of a madwoman being murdered. Immediately post birth there were no Kodak moments, he wasn’t wrapped and given to me to hold, he wasn’t being placed on my chest for our first “moment” together. He was whisked away – I found out later that he’d pooed inside me ALOT, as a result of being distressed and they were worried that he’d inhaled the meconium, which can cause infection and even death. They took him away to be suctioned and to this day I don’t even remember “meeting” him. At all. Was it in the actual birth suite? I don’t remember. This saddens me. I vaguely recall holding him whilst the phonecalls to family were made, but the pain of the birth seems to have obliterated all the other memories of that night.
Whilst Stu was out having all the fun – seeing the baby, weighing him and so on (can you sense my resentment?), I was trying to get to the toilet. It was only a few metres from the bed, but to get there took forever. When Stu came back in, he asked if I was OK and it was at this point that I realised I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get up from the toilet. My body just couldn’t move.
Over the next few hours it became apparent that I had sustained major damage to my pelvis. One of the midwives explained that this was a very rare condition and it took months to recover from. [Much later I found out the name of my injury is Diastasis of the Symphsis Pubis]. I had an xray the following day which confirmed “total rupture” of the ligament, and James’ broken collarbone was also confirmed via xray. I tried to breastfeed but it took two nurses 20 minutes to get me from a lying down position to a sitting position to try and feed and by then James was screaming with hunger. I quit breastfeeding after 3 days. I then developed infected mastitis from going cold turkey on breastfeeding after allowing my milk to come in. It was awful. It was like having full on influenza, with cracked and bleeding nipples to boot, vomiting, a strong aching pain, fever, the works. All of this on top of my 3rd grade tear stitches pain and the pelvic pain.
Whilst in the hospital I was introduced to Ingrid, my physiotherapist. She gave me a support belt to wear and a list of exercises to do. With pelvic injury the aim is to strengthen your stomach core muscles so that they take the brunt of movement instead of your pelvis. I started off in a wheelchair. It was so bad that I had to have someone physically lift my feet one at a time onto the wheelchair foot rests. I literally could not lift my feet off the floor, not even a millimetre. After a few days I managed to shuffle my legs along with the use of a zimmer frame. You know those walking frames that old ladies have down at the shops? One of those. I think my doctor felt guilty over what happened because she loaned me her masseuse, who came to the hospital to massage me. Once I got home I couldn’t drive (couldn’t lift my feet from the brake to the accelerator and so on), couldn’t dress myself, couldn’t even lie down in bed without help and agonising pain. I couldn’t stand up, so couldn’t bath James, change him, prepare his formula. Nothing. I was good for nothing.
I did not allow myself to cry over what happened. Mostly because I had a 10 year old, and I knew if I started and really allowed myself to wallow in self pity, I would not stop. I think this was a bad decision of mine to hold everything in and pretend I was fine, because it has been nearly 6 years and I still have unresolved emotional pain over what happened.
I hate that James’ whole birth and first few weeks and months were clouded with dealing with the injury, I hate that he was born with a broken bone. I hate that he was born with Erb’s palsy and had a paralysed right arm, elbow, wrist, hand and fingers. I hate that I had to quit breastfeeding. I hate that I didn’t get to give him his first bath. I hate that I had to watch his first bath from a wheelchair, and could hardly even see what was happening because at one stage the nurse stood in front of me, blocking my view and I didn’t have the backbone to even ask her to move. At that moment, I felt like nothing. Nobody stood up for me. I hate that I didn’t get to bath him for several weeks as I couldn’t stand without the frame. I hate that I couldn’t change his nappy for the same reason. I hate that I held resentment against my husband because he got to hold and cuddle his baby without having to deal with all the pain and emotional shit. I hate that I hated him one night for not helping me roll over in bed – truth is, he probably didn’t hear me asking for help as he was so tired but I remember feeling utter hatred and resentment well up within me – probably all hormones, but still....I hate that I couldn’t at the time give my husband his due credit and thanks and praise for all the hard work he put in – he did soooooo much. I hate that in the following months and even years, I had trouble doing normal Mum stuff, like getting up and down and up and down at Playgroup to dance to “Up jumped the scarecrow” and similar songs. I hate that I trusted my doctor and not my own instincts. But most of all, I hate that I felt like a failure, a complete and utter failure.
I still get pain. Even now. It’s nothing like it used to be – unless I try to move a rug with my foot – then it does make me wince every now and then. The female body produces a hormone every month called relaxin which causes ones ligaments to loosen. So every month I get sore – but it’s bearable and I cope, but it’s a constant reminder of my night of hell that I’ve never gotten over.
I’d like to say I feel better for getting that off my chest, but I don’t. Maybe one day...
It has taken me 5 years and nearly 10 months to be able to do this. Prior to now, every time I even thought about this topic I would burst into tears, literally. I am writing this down in the hope that expressing myself so openly will help heal some of the emotional wounds I have no doubt sustained.
Here is my birth story of my beautiful son James. James is such a placid, gentle child, but his entrance into the world was anything but. It was filled with panic, terror and sheer agony.
My story begins when I was 34 weeks pregnant. I was at my obstetrician’s rooms with Stu. We were there to have a sizing scan. This is where an ultrasound is performed and based on the baby’s size at that point in time, a birth weight is estimated. My obstetrician was a private doctor – she had her own rooms with her own sonographer working there. We went into the sonographer’s room and I lay down on the examination table. The ultrasound began and it didn’t take long before he started commenting on the baby’s size. “Woh, I’m glad I’M not having to push THAT head out!” was one comment I recall, said in a joking voice, but the message was clear – this was not a small baby. The tone became more serious as the session went on and he anticipated that the baby’s current weight was around 5 pound 6 ounces, the same some baby’s weigh at full term. And I still had 6 weeks to go....or 7 as it turned out.
After the ultrasound, we went into our doctor’s room and met with her. We expressed our concerns about what the sonographer had said about the baby’s head size and weight. She asked me how big Josh (my first baby) had been. I told her he was 3.965kgs (8 pound 12 ounces) and she said “Well you had a big baby last time and everything went OK, so you won’t have any problems this time”. As the saying goes, famous last words.
Over the next fortnight I started experiencing pains in my groin area I’d never had before, sharp pangs of pain. You know how you lift up one leg at a time to put on undies? I couldn’t do this without a pinching pain in my groin. It started to pinch also when I rolled over in bed at night. It really hurt. I asked my doctor about it and she dismissed it as the usual aches and pains of pregnancy.
My due date came and went. I reminded my doctor about the sizing scan that had been done and expressed my worry at going over my due date. Once again my fears were dismissed.
Fast forward to the night of the 30th May 2003. It was a Friday. Stu came home from work and I decided to have a rare bubble bath. In hindsight I don’t know what the hell I was thinking because I have never been able to have a bath without one of my kids interrupting and annoying me. My dream in life is to be able to experience a nice, long, hot bubble bath without any interruptions. Mmmmmm. Sorry, got carried away there...Anyway, so here I was soaking in the tub, enjoying the serenity when wham ! I felt the most intensely painful contraction I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t like a “normal” contraction – it was like someone had stabbed me with a 6 inch steak knife. I called out to Stu, knowing that something was not right and he came in and somehow got my whale like body out of the bath tub. I got dressed and the regular, painful contractions began. They were intensely painful and coming every 2-3 minutes right from the outset. I knew this labour wasn’t going to take long.
We rang our families, got our stuff together and drove to the hospital. I remember whingeing throughout every single speed hump between our house and the hospital (there were maybe 10?) We settled into our room and did the usual labour stuff. After I had been in labour three hours (not long I know, but the contractions were every minute by now), I asked the nurse about pain relief. She went off to call the doctor to ask if I could be given some pethidine. By the time she came back into the room I told her I needed to push. Those of you who have given birth before will know what this feeling is like. So when the nurse asks, “Are you sure?” you know that same feeling of wanting to smash their face in. Of course I was sure. I’d done this before and I think I know when a baby is about to come out of my vagina. Seriously though, the urge to push just came over me and became overwhelming so I knew that this was it. We were going to meet our precious son soon. It was too late to give me any pain relief and I got up on my knees (as this was the position I gave birth to Josh in).
I pushed for an hour and a half. But there was something wrong. The baby just wasn’t coming. Somehow my doctor had materialised. I was offered the gas, but it didn’t seem like it was even on as I didn’t notice a difference. If anything my intense inhaling on the thing was making me feel breathless and nauseous so I didn’t continue with it. I was in so much pain that I felt like I was losing control and going crazy. I can’t even describe the intensity of the pain. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes, even all these years later. I didn’t know what to panic about more...the feeling of a million knives stabbing me at once, or the looks on the medical staff’s faces and recognising from their hurried sharp tones of voice, that something was very wrong.
The doctor made me lie on my back. They angled the bed so that I was almost sitting up. The doctor reached inside me and broke my baby’s collarbone. How this was done exactly, I don’t know, but the hot burning stinging pain of having hands reaching inside me was excrutiating. I was losing control mentally. I wasn’t coping. All of this with zero drug/pain relief. I turned to Stuart, who was holding my hand with tears pouring down his face. These weren’t happy “I’m about to be a father” tears, but tears of surrender, watching his wife in sheer agony. I am not using highly emotive words for the sake of it, nor am I exaggerating. When I say agony, I mean agony. The midwives (who had grown in number over the past several minutes) began the Macrobertson’s Manouvre – I had two midwives on each side of my body, ramming my bent knees behind my ears as hard as they physically could. It was at this point my symphsis pubis (major pelvic ligament) tore in two. I called out to the doctor, “was that it? Is the baby out?” because the pain was just so intense when it happened, I thought that that was surely IT. The worried look on her face told me it most certainly wasn’t .
Eventually James was born. He weighed 4.35kgs (9 pound 10 ounces) with a 37cm head circumference. Certainly not the world’s biggest baby by any stretch, but obviously too big for me. I will never ever forget the sound of my screams that night. They weren’t the usual deep moaning sounds of a woman in labour, they were the screams of a madwoman being murdered. Immediately post birth there were no Kodak moments, he wasn’t wrapped and given to me to hold, he wasn’t being placed on my chest for our first “moment” together. He was whisked away – I found out later that he’d pooed inside me ALOT, as a result of being distressed and they were worried that he’d inhaled the meconium, which can cause infection and even death. They took him away to be suctioned and to this day I don’t even remember “meeting” him. At all. Was it in the actual birth suite? I don’t remember. This saddens me. I vaguely recall holding him whilst the phonecalls to family were made, but the pain of the birth seems to have obliterated all the other memories of that night.
Whilst Stu was out having all the fun – seeing the baby, weighing him and so on (can you sense my resentment?), I was trying to get to the toilet. It was only a few metres from the bed, but to get there took forever. When Stu came back in, he asked if I was OK and it was at this point that I realised I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get up from the toilet. My body just couldn’t move.
Over the next few hours it became apparent that I had sustained major damage to my pelvis. One of the midwives explained that this was a very rare condition and it took months to recover from. [Much later I found out the name of my injury is Diastasis of the Symphsis Pubis]. I had an xray the following day which confirmed “total rupture” of the ligament, and James’ broken collarbone was also confirmed via xray. I tried to breastfeed but it took two nurses 20 minutes to get me from a lying down position to a sitting position to try and feed and by then James was screaming with hunger. I quit breastfeeding after 3 days. I then developed infected mastitis from going cold turkey on breastfeeding after allowing my milk to come in. It was awful. It was like having full on influenza, with cracked and bleeding nipples to boot, vomiting, a strong aching pain, fever, the works. All of this on top of my 3rd grade tear stitches pain and the pelvic pain.
Whilst in the hospital I was introduced to Ingrid, my physiotherapist. She gave me a support belt to wear and a list of exercises to do. With pelvic injury the aim is to strengthen your stomach core muscles so that they take the brunt of movement instead of your pelvis. I started off in a wheelchair. It was so bad that I had to have someone physically lift my feet one at a time onto the wheelchair foot rests. I literally could not lift my feet off the floor, not even a millimetre. After a few days I managed to shuffle my legs along with the use of a zimmer frame. You know those walking frames that old ladies have down at the shops? One of those. I think my doctor felt guilty over what happened because she loaned me her masseuse, who came to the hospital to massage me. Once I got home I couldn’t drive (couldn’t lift my feet from the brake to the accelerator and so on), couldn’t dress myself, couldn’t even lie down in bed without help and agonising pain. I couldn’t stand up, so couldn’t bath James, change him, prepare his formula. Nothing. I was good for nothing.
I did not allow myself to cry over what happened. Mostly because I had a 10 year old, and I knew if I started and really allowed myself to wallow in self pity, I would not stop. I think this was a bad decision of mine to hold everything in and pretend I was fine, because it has been nearly 6 years and I still have unresolved emotional pain over what happened.
I hate that James’ whole birth and first few weeks and months were clouded with dealing with the injury, I hate that he was born with a broken bone. I hate that he was born with Erb’s palsy and had a paralysed right arm, elbow, wrist, hand and fingers. I hate that I had to quit breastfeeding. I hate that I didn’t get to give him his first bath. I hate that I had to watch his first bath from a wheelchair, and could hardly even see what was happening because at one stage the nurse stood in front of me, blocking my view and I didn’t have the backbone to even ask her to move. At that moment, I felt like nothing. Nobody stood up for me. I hate that I didn’t get to bath him for several weeks as I couldn’t stand without the frame. I hate that I couldn’t change his nappy for the same reason. I hate that I held resentment against my husband because he got to hold and cuddle his baby without having to deal with all the pain and emotional shit. I hate that I hated him one night for not helping me roll over in bed – truth is, he probably didn’t hear me asking for help as he was so tired but I remember feeling utter hatred and resentment well up within me – probably all hormones, but still....I hate that I couldn’t at the time give my husband his due credit and thanks and praise for all the hard work he put in – he did soooooo much. I hate that in the following months and even years, I had trouble doing normal Mum stuff, like getting up and down and up and down at Playgroup to dance to “Up jumped the scarecrow” and similar songs. I hate that I trusted my doctor and not my own instincts. But most of all, I hate that I felt like a failure, a complete and utter failure.
I still get pain. Even now. It’s nothing like it used to be – unless I try to move a rug with my foot – then it does make me wince every now and then. The female body produces a hormone every month called relaxin which causes ones ligaments to loosen. So every month I get sore – but it’s bearable and I cope, but it’s a constant reminder of my night of hell that I’ve never gotten over.
I’d like to say I feel better for getting that off my chest, but I don’t. Maybe one day...
Lotto Dreaming
For those of you living under a rock, or overseas, Australia had it's largest Tattslotto prize draw last week. $106 million for first division.
Rewind to the previous week when the first prize was a piddly $50 million. I had never bought a ticket before and admit I got caught up in lotto fever. You'd think with Michael Jackson's death there wouldn't be any airspace for lotto stories on ACA or Today Tonight, but they managed to suck me into thinking "Well, SOMEONE'S going to win it, it might as well be me". So off I went to buy my $20 quick pick and came home, with ticket in hand, like Charlie Bucket, and outlined to Mum my long list of things I was going to spend my money on. Mum then handed me $10 and said, "here, let's go halves". Bloody Hell! In one fell swoop, my winnings had been chopped from $50m to $25 million. What the hell can you buy with that?!
Anyway....I spent the rest of the day asking everyone and sundry, "Got your ticket yet?" only to be met with blank stares or mocking remarks explaining that I had more hope of bonking Brad Pitt on the space shuttle than of winning. Ha! I'd prove those naysayers wrong.
Fastforward to the actual draw and there I was, circling the numbers, getting excited as I had 3 already and I was only up to the 4th number.
I asked Dad, "Does 3 mean anything?"
"No".
"How about 4?"
"I think that's a $5 prize".
"How about 5?"
"Bullshit! You didn't get 5 did you?"
"Yep"
"Not supplementaries?"
"No - 5 straight numbers"
Dad got all excited, saying he thought I'd won a major prize. I was cursing my lack of fitness, envisaging the heart attack I was about to have.
I decided to go straight to the source of all wisdom and knowledge - my baby website discussion forum. I created a post about the lotto and sure enough within minutes I had my dreams shattered. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, 5 numbers is 3rd division but on Tuesdays, where it's out of 7 numbers (instead of 6), it's only 5th division. I'd won $41.
And I had to share half of that with Mum.
I can really see why people go nuts with gambling. I had had my fun and told myself that that was the first and last time. What a crock. What a waste of time. What a waste of money. Just think, ther are morons out there who get sucked into this crap every week. Bah - what idiots!
Two hours later a news update confirmed that there was no winner and the prize was jackpotting. JACKPOTTING?! Count me in.
All the disinterested folk from last week were all of a sudden getting into the excitement too. Apparently $50 million just isn't enough money to warrant any interest these days. But offer $106 million and everybody and their dog is rushing down to buy a ticket.
So there I was, another Tuesday night glued to the TV, waiting for the numbers to be drawn, ticket in hand (didn't have to go halves this time as Mum bought her own). Oh yeah, $106 million ALL. FOR. ME. Yay.
Seeing as I'm not writing this note from my own Pacific island, I guess you can figure out I didn't win. Nope - didn't win a thing.
Mum got 6th division. I'm sure there's some moral to this story...
Rewind to the previous week when the first prize was a piddly $50 million. I had never bought a ticket before and admit I got caught up in lotto fever. You'd think with Michael Jackson's death there wouldn't be any airspace for lotto stories on ACA or Today Tonight, but they managed to suck me into thinking "Well, SOMEONE'S going to win it, it might as well be me". So off I went to buy my $20 quick pick and came home, with ticket in hand, like Charlie Bucket, and outlined to Mum my long list of things I was going to spend my money on. Mum then handed me $10 and said, "here, let's go halves". Bloody Hell! In one fell swoop, my winnings had been chopped from $50m to $25 million. What the hell can you buy with that?!
Anyway....I spent the rest of the day asking everyone and sundry, "Got your ticket yet?" only to be met with blank stares or mocking remarks explaining that I had more hope of bonking Brad Pitt on the space shuttle than of winning. Ha! I'd prove those naysayers wrong.
Fastforward to the actual draw and there I was, circling the numbers, getting excited as I had 3 already and I was only up to the 4th number.
I asked Dad, "Does 3 mean anything?"
"No".
"How about 4?"
"I think that's a $5 prize".
"How about 5?"
"Bullshit! You didn't get 5 did you?"
"Yep"
"Not supplementaries?"
"No - 5 straight numbers"
Dad got all excited, saying he thought I'd won a major prize. I was cursing my lack of fitness, envisaging the heart attack I was about to have.
I decided to go straight to the source of all wisdom and knowledge - my baby website discussion forum. I created a post about the lotto and sure enough within minutes I had my dreams shattered. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, 5 numbers is 3rd division but on Tuesdays, where it's out of 7 numbers (instead of 6), it's only 5th division. I'd won $41.
And I had to share half of that with Mum.
I can really see why people go nuts with gambling. I had had my fun and told myself that that was the first and last time. What a crock. What a waste of time. What a waste of money. Just think, ther are morons out there who get sucked into this crap every week. Bah - what idiots!
Two hours later a news update confirmed that there was no winner and the prize was jackpotting. JACKPOTTING?! Count me in.
All the disinterested folk from last week were all of a sudden getting into the excitement too. Apparently $50 million just isn't enough money to warrant any interest these days. But offer $106 million and everybody and their dog is rushing down to buy a ticket.
So there I was, another Tuesday night glued to the TV, waiting for the numbers to be drawn, ticket in hand (didn't have to go halves this time as Mum bought her own). Oh yeah, $106 million ALL. FOR. ME. Yay.
Seeing as I'm not writing this note from my own Pacific island, I guess you can figure out I didn't win. Nope - didn't win a thing.
Mum got 6th division. I'm sure there's some moral to this story...
Age Old Questions
What is the best age?
Babies seemingly have it easy. They get to sleep as long as they want, eat when they want, they get carried around and cuddled alot and told they're beautiful, even when they're not. They have new, exciting experiences each and every day. But there are drawbacks - they can't enjoy chocolate and they have to wait for someone to change their nappy.
Toddlers lives seem fun. They never seem to tire, they are perfectly satiated from a single savoy cracker (think of the grocery bill savings) and they spend half their day giggling. However, they do spend the other half of their day whingeing and crying and screaming that they want to watch their shows on the TV.
Primary school was enjoyable, wasn't it? Learning activities were disguised by fun, engaging puzzles and other activities; Sport, Music and Art were major subjects of the curriculum and all your teachers were "the best in the world". In the early years kids are pretty nice to you, homework is fun to do and Mummy personally drops you off and picks you up from school. You do start to realise though that school holidays are transient and you slowly start to appreciate weekends and public holidays.
Your Secondary School years are something you either look back on as the best days of your life or the worst. Teenagers can be cruel and these are the years when you're at your most vulnerable - these are the days of pimples, periods and peer pressure. Forget the three "R's" - these three "P's" are more relevant. Your whole life can be ruined by one false choice of clothing on out of school uniform day. Still, life is pretty carefree and you don't realise how great these days are until you're well entrenched into the 9-5 grind of working life and then it's too late to go back.
University. Now, that was fun. Uni isn't a prize for those that studied hard so they can be rewarded with a high paying career - Uni is a reward so you can sit around the cafe bludging for 4 years (interspersed by brief periods of burning the midnight oil to get something handed in on time). But for the most part, Uni is a period of working part time to support your nightclub habit, whilst you hang around with friends during the day. You are finally treated as an adult - yet you still carry on like an immature twit half the time (hey, I was 17 and at Uni so I can be forgiven).
The workforce. We make choices in high school to pave the way, we study hard at Uni (well, sometimes we did) to get good grades to get us noticed and once we get there we wonder what all the fuss was about. Getting up at 6.30am every day, sitting on Punt Road in traffic for 1.5 hours each way every day and dealing with office politics, or a difficult colleague and trying to juggle the tightrope that is Mother vs Worker is not that much fun. Monotony. I can think of a million jobs I would not EVER want to do, even for one day, let alone every day forever. I am 39 and yet I still don't know what I really want to do when I "grow up". I think you either have a passion for something at a young age and want to pursue that dream, OR life has a way of handing you a career you never would have considered otherwise, OR you just sign up for something because it pays the bills. So the only positives I can think of for this phase of life are: money, satisfaction/pride in a job well done, friendships made at work, intellectual stimulation and engagement/creativity/stimulation. Are these things worth all that toil?
Parenthood. OK, so now you're either married, or you've got a life partner, or you've created human life via some other means. This is where the fun OR nightmare, whichever way you perceive things, really begins. Having someone totally reliant on you is scary, yet exhilarating. You've never known such love existed until now. Your bond with your partner deepens. You feel a REAL sense of purpose and direction. But on the downside, to quote from one of my favourite films, your "whole life is have to".
Empty Nest. The kids all move out. You finally get to turn their bedrooms into your scrapbooking studio or music room or whatever takes your fancy. You don't have to listen to their doof doof music or have to lie half awake when they come home at three in the morning. Your grocery bill more than halves and you can get all your ironing done during one episode of Bold and the Beautiful. But the house is awfully quiet and you are having to count the days when you last spoke to your child, let alone saw them. They are so caught up with their own lives now.
Grandparenting. Your children have their own children. They are the joy of your life. They come to visit and you shower them with kisses and chocolate. You spoil them rotten - they can jump on the couch, eat nothing but crap all day long and watch TV for 8 hours a day, and you can sit by and watch this, all guilt free. When they throw a sugar induced tantrum - you send them home with Mummy and get to eat your dinner in peace and watch whatever you want on TV with nobody making noise to annoy you. Money is tight though, and you worry about your health.
I won't go on. I don't want to even think about life beyond the Grandparenting (60's) kind of age group. I know life doesn't end at 69 by any means - which will relieve my Dad who IS 69, but I know anyone aged 70 or over MUST at least some of the time think that they are "old". I feel old and I'm not even 40. So what is the best age? They all have their own pros and cons. It seems that whatever age you are, there's some magnificent and shitty times ahead of you - I guess the golden rule is to make the most of the good times and not to let the bad times bring you down.
I, for one, hope that my 40's are awesome.
Babies seemingly have it easy. They get to sleep as long as they want, eat when they want, they get carried around and cuddled alot and told they're beautiful, even when they're not. They have new, exciting experiences each and every day. But there are drawbacks - they can't enjoy chocolate and they have to wait for someone to change their nappy.
Toddlers lives seem fun. They never seem to tire, they are perfectly satiated from a single savoy cracker (think of the grocery bill savings) and they spend half their day giggling. However, they do spend the other half of their day whingeing and crying and screaming that they want to watch their shows on the TV.
Primary school was enjoyable, wasn't it? Learning activities were disguised by fun, engaging puzzles and other activities; Sport, Music and Art were major subjects of the curriculum and all your teachers were "the best in the world". In the early years kids are pretty nice to you, homework is fun to do and Mummy personally drops you off and picks you up from school. You do start to realise though that school holidays are transient and you slowly start to appreciate weekends and public holidays.
Your Secondary School years are something you either look back on as the best days of your life or the worst. Teenagers can be cruel and these are the years when you're at your most vulnerable - these are the days of pimples, periods and peer pressure. Forget the three "R's" - these three "P's" are more relevant. Your whole life can be ruined by one false choice of clothing on out of school uniform day. Still, life is pretty carefree and you don't realise how great these days are until you're well entrenched into the 9-5 grind of working life and then it's too late to go back.
University. Now, that was fun. Uni isn't a prize for those that studied hard so they can be rewarded with a high paying career - Uni is a reward so you can sit around the cafe bludging for 4 years (interspersed by brief periods of burning the midnight oil to get something handed in on time). But for the most part, Uni is a period of working part time to support your nightclub habit, whilst you hang around with friends during the day. You are finally treated as an adult - yet you still carry on like an immature twit half the time (hey, I was 17 and at Uni so I can be forgiven).
The workforce. We make choices in high school to pave the way, we study hard at Uni (well, sometimes we did) to get good grades to get us noticed and once we get there we wonder what all the fuss was about. Getting up at 6.30am every day, sitting on Punt Road in traffic for 1.5 hours each way every day and dealing with office politics, or a difficult colleague and trying to juggle the tightrope that is Mother vs Worker is not that much fun. Monotony. I can think of a million jobs I would not EVER want to do, even for one day, let alone every day forever. I am 39 and yet I still don't know what I really want to do when I "grow up". I think you either have a passion for something at a young age and want to pursue that dream, OR life has a way of handing you a career you never would have considered otherwise, OR you just sign up for something because it pays the bills. So the only positives I can think of for this phase of life are: money, satisfaction/pride in a job well done, friendships made at work, intellectual stimulation and engagement/creativity/stim
Parenthood. OK, so now you're either married, or you've got a life partner, or you've created human life via some other means. This is where the fun OR nightmare, whichever way you perceive things, really begins. Having someone totally reliant on you is scary, yet exhilarating. You've never known such love existed until now. Your bond with your partner deepens. You feel a REAL sense of purpose and direction. But on the downside, to quote from one of my favourite films, your "whole life is have to".
Empty Nest. The kids all move out. You finally get to turn their bedrooms into your scrapbooking studio or music room or whatever takes your fancy. You don't have to listen to their doof doof music or have to lie half awake when they come home at three in the morning. Your grocery bill more than halves and you can get all your ironing done during one episode of Bold and the Beautiful. But the house is awfully quiet and you are having to count the days when you last spoke to your child, let alone saw them. They are so caught up with their own lives now.
Grandparenting. Your children have their own children. They are the joy of your life. They come to visit and you shower them with kisses and chocolate. You spoil them rotten - they can jump on the couch, eat nothing but crap all day long and watch TV for 8 hours a day, and you can sit by and watch this, all guilt free. When they throw a sugar induced tantrum - you send them home with Mummy and get to eat your dinner in peace and watch whatever you want on TV with nobody making noise to annoy you. Money is tight though, and you worry about your health.
I won't go on. I don't want to even think about life beyond the Grandparenting (60's) kind of age group. I know life doesn't end at 69 by any means - which will relieve my Dad who IS 69, but I know anyone aged 70 or over MUST at least some of the time think that they are "old". I feel old and I'm not even 40. So what is the best age? They all have their own pros and cons. It seems that whatever age you are, there's some magnificent and shitty times ahead of you - I guess the golden rule is to make the most of the good times and not to let the bad times bring you down.
I, for one, hope that my 40's are awesome.
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