The BOO BOO that became a BIG BOO!



Whoops!  I've made a boo boo!

 
This story isn’t quite like my other posts.  I mean it isn’t actually about parenting as such.  It’s about the potential to parent; the potential to parent not just two, but three children.  Yes.  That’s right.  THREE!  As this, for a very long week-or-so (for some unexplained reason), was what I thought I was going to have to do.  Yes.  Although I am in my thirties (and not some careless teenager...no offence to teenagers), I honestly thought (for that very long week-or-so) I (with the help of my lovely other half, of course) had made one very large and terrifying boo boo.

Towards the end of this very long week-or-so, when the panic really started to set it, I don’t know what was worse.  Knowing that I’d have to explain to my shocked (and possibly somewhat horrified) family and friends, that the shop (the same shop that I’d said after little man was born nineteen months ago...the shop that is also known as my own “baby making shop”) was well and truly closed for business.  This is also the same shop that I swore black and blue would NEVER again reopen.  And, on top of this, knowing that I’d have to explain to these same family and friends, that although this could be described as an accident, my own view on the situation put it in an entirely different category.  The category of stupidity. 

Now I won’t go into details, in case there are youngsters reading, but my other half and I have been using the same method of contraception for years (many, many, many years before the arrival of little madam and little man, anyway).  And on top of that, this method of contraception had to be well and truly put on hold (no pun intended), in order for us to be able to finally announce the imminent arrival of both little madam and little man.  So call me naive, but it was only after I Googled our particular choice of contraception that I discovered (with a large and impossible to swallow lump in my throat) that 6% of women still fall pregnant using the very method of contraception that’s been keeping me “safe” for years!  Surely not!  Well.  As they say, “You learn something new every day!”  I mean, is the only real way to avoid falling pregnant to avoid doing the deed altogether?  Goodness me!  What has the world come to? 

But perhaps, worse than this – worse than having to reveal to my family and friends my stupidity - was coming to terms with the very real realisation that my house – the one currently occupied by myself, my other half, little madam and little man – was already far too small for its four occupants.  And that the two solutions to this very small (well three-bedroom, anyway) problem – being either 1.  Buy a bigger house, or 2.  Put on an extension - were going to be well and truly unattainable thanks to our current financial situation; which is thanks, by the way, largely due to the fact that the shop (you know, the baby making one) has been opened for the last few years.



Now this is a bit of a worry!

Now I admit after sobbing on the couch at five-am, in front of my early-rising husband while he hurriedly dressed for work, and muttering something along the lines of, “This isn’t what I had planned for my life” – as though adding another little someone-or-other into our current mix was going to be the worst thing in the world – and then having to deal with my own thoughts after he bolted, with a rather worried look on his face, out the door (he did call me later, by the way, to say “Whatever happens, don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine”), I did come to terms slightly with the idea.  And believe it or not, by the time my rather late signal (the monthly signal that confirms a pregnancy is definitely NOT on the cards) I had even begun to think that having a third might be actually something great.  I mean, my mum did it.  And I love the fact that I have not one, but two terrific siblings.  And I know a couple of people that have three – and a couple that even have more than this -and they’re not so badly off.  They actually are (or seem, at least) really happy.   AIso.  Believe it or not I really love kids (especially my two little treasures who I adore to death) and babies are the bees knees.  So, I guess I think I might even have been a tad disappointed when I finally received confirmation that the above scenario wasn’t actually to be.  Despite my initial dread-filled reaction.

Oh.  But don’t worry.  To those reading this and thinking, “She can’t be seriously considering another”, rest assured, I’m not!  I’m actually planning an overdue trip to the doc’s in the next couple of weeks to make damn sure I don’t have to go through any drastic steps (such as avoiding the deed altogether) to ensure my shop (yep, the baby making one) remains closed; for now anyway.               

Thanks...um...to Google I guess.  For teaching me something new today!  

Phew!  What a relief!

Cling on...cry...it’s time for crèche

A few weeks ago, I suffered a rather unexpected, and heightened, level of anxiety when, for the first time since my eldest child (little madam) was born, three-and-a-half years ago, I decided it was time to utilise the available services of the crèche at my gym. Yep. That’s right. A whole three-and-a-half years and I’ve never needed to utilise the services of my local childcare centre, occasional care centre, or even a dial-a-babysitter. And, although I have absolutely nothing against the idea of childcare, I guess I should consider myself one of the fortunate few that has a terrific support network around me (actually, a support network that consists only of my poor, exhausted - and possibly over-utilised parents and, on two occasions rather recently, my good friend, Terri, and her husband, Simon) which has enabled me to avoid childcare and all the little things – including the constant runny-noses, conjunctivitis and all-too-frequent bouts of vomit-inducing gastro – that come hand-in-hand with placing your child in an environment where they interact closely with other littlies and their under-developed immune systems. Not-to-mention the costs associated with having to use such a service.

So I guess, for me, when the decision was made just before Christmas last year to give the crèche at the gym a go – as without it, I was finding it rather difficult to make it more than one or two times a week, and because I rely far too much already on good-old Oma and Opa (my parents) and felt it was time I started to take a little of the reliance of them for a change. Besides, wouldn’t it be great for the kids to have a change of scenery and an alternative form of stimulation? – it was a pretty big deal for. Oh yes. And also for my two lovely children, who up until this point in time, had never before been left – not even for a minute – in the care of strangers.
As I was aware little madam and little man, might find it difficult to accept this new way of life, I started the process by actually spending a short while with them in the small crèche room at the gym – which is a lovely little space filled with toys and activities of all sorts – in order to prepare them slightly. Unfortunately, despite the preparation my two lovely children were offered – preparation most littlies don’t get – I (and them, too, of course) found the experience (that very first time left in the care of strangers) extremely difficult. It was also an experience that to set my heart racing before I even set foot on the treadmill to begin my workout.
I guess the first reason for this, was that little madam – yes, the little madam who’s never been left in unfamiliar territory - reacted rather badly; surprisingly badly, in fact. I honestly expected that she would accept the new experience much better than she did. And, given that she’s now three-and-a-half, her flying leap through the air, and attempt to claw her way along the carpet while the crèche supervisor (a lovely lady named Andrea) tried to peel her off the floor, was a little difficult to take. But little madam’s superman-like manoeuvre – along with her pleas and the tears she shed – wasn’t the only difficulty I faced.
You see, little man – who is a tad younger than little madam and, unfortunately, currently in the thick of his, “stranger danger”, phase – also reacted badly to my first attempt at leaving him in the care of a few complete strangers. And, although at first he was completely unaware of what was about to take place, he cottoned-on to the fact that I was about to leave him as soon as I attempted to hand him to one of the well-intentioned crèche ladies. So, not only did I have to contend with little madam’s incredible aero-acrobatic display, I also had to listen to little man’s terrified-sounding shriek, and watch his face distort in horror – which is the image that haunted me the entire time I tried to get my exercise that day – as I left the room. I assume it’s now obvious why my anxiety level was so high.

Now as you can imagine, I was a little...well, maybe a lot...put off by this experience, and I was reluctant to give it another go. But after receiving numerous assurances from friends, who’ve all been there (experienced childcare/crèche) before, I decided to try it out a second time. I guess I was thankful little madam avoided any incredible acrobatics, tears and pleas, and she managed her second time much better than her first. Unfortunately, though, little man didn’t. I believe he was even a little worse the second time around. And I think this is because he knew, the minute we set foot in the crèche room, what was in store for him. And prying his little hands – which had attached firmly around my neck – was not an enjoyable (or easy) task.
The third time, for little man, was similar to the second. Although, I was deluded enough to think he’d progressed slightly, as we made it into the room, and I managed to distract him with a toy for long enough for me to make it to the door. I was nearly outside before I heard his shriek; the shriek he gave once he, no doubt, realised he’d been tricked. Still, I was optimistic given I’d only heard his protest for a brief moment before I stepped out of the room, and because he’d allowed the distraction, so I went back a fourth time just the other day.
Unfortunately, things have gone south once again, because the minute he spotted the exterior of the gym building, as we pulled up in the car outside, he began his distressed-sounding shrieking. And, to be honest, he really didn’t stop carrying on (in my company, anyway) until we were on our way back out of the building an hour later. Although, I was assured by the lovely crèche ladies that he had settled for a short period after I’d left.

I guess I’m wondering, at this point, whether things will get any easier. But then I have to remind myself that, like most things in life, things have to get worse before they get better. And I’m as pleased as pineapple punch to report that, since her first experience, little madam has been going great-guns. She even started three-year-old kinder last week without a single tear, or any superman-like displays. So, despite the fact little man seems intent on making me feel like a horrible abandoning parent, for the one-hour-or-so a week I decide to leave him while I get my heart-rate moving on the treadmill at the gym, I will continue in the hope that little man will follow his big sister’s lead and accept his new fate, eventually.

Sorry, little man, for forcing you to experience the little “c” (aka. Crèche). I really am hoping you’ll get used to it sooner or later. If not, too bad because I really need the bloody exercise. Love you!

The Whinging Wobbly Wanderer

Hooray! My little man - my darling Mr Squeeze (this was the nickname given to little man, by the way, when he was only a few weeks old due to the fact I found him rather lovely and, well, just a little bit squeezable) – has finally taken his first steps. And, even though the few steps he took were a little bit wobbly (and more than a little bit heart-stopping, on my part, due to the fact that I felt almost certain they were going to end in a face-plant on the hardwood floor) they were steps he took all by himself. And, although I'm certain it's just the beginning of a very long road - the long road that will eventually see little man become an independently walking (or perhaps running in every direction BUT the right one) toddler - I'm feeling rather relieved. Why am I relieved, you ask? Well, it's not because I ever thought he wouldn't get there. But, one reason, perhaps, is due to the fact that I (his rather impatient mother) have had rather high (and probably, as usual, unreasonable) expectations in relation to this particular event. I guess this is because he has an older sibling (little madam) to be compared to. And, as she started walking smack-bang-on fourteen-months of age, and little man’s first movements (ie crawling) began quite a bit earlier than little madam’s, I was expecting that by fourteen-months-of-age (just over two weeks ago), he would have well and truly found his feet. Needless to say, I’ve once again been reminded that little man is NOT little madam, and he’s proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's going to do things his own way.

Another reason for my relief is that little man's current obsession with wanting to walk - despite the fact that he's not quite up to doing it on his own, yet - is becoming a rather tiresome, not-to-mention tedious, exercise. Not only for little man, mind you, but also for me, his doting daddy and probably (although I’m not always there to witness it) his Oma and Opa, too. Particularly at times like the other day, when we (little man, little madam, my husband and I) decided to go out shopping for a new outdoor setting. The idea behind this, of course, was so that we’d have somewhere to sit and enjoy our meals outdoors. And, at the same time, minimise some of my own mealtime despair, which revolves around having to clean-up (the floor, in particular) after little man, who can be rather messy while he’s eating (especially when rice or small bits of pasta are part of the main course). This was all thanks to a very clever suggestion that came from a good friend of mine (thanks, Hayley) after I'd ranted and raved and carried on about how much of a pita (that's pain in the a*** for those who don't know) it is to clean up after dinner.
Anyway, as we were hoping to bring home a large piece of furniture in the back of our car, we (my husband and I) decided to, foresee the potential shortage of boot space and, leave little man’s pusher at home. Therefore, when we arrived at a certain strip of outdoor furniture stores, we were forced to take turns carrying little man while we tried to browse the range of lovely - yet surprising exorbitantly priced...I mean it’s outdoor furniture for goodness sakes! Outdoor furniture that’s going to get rained, hailed, and god knows what on!!! – outdoor settings, and the like.
Unfortunately, as a result of little man’s current determination (the determination that involves him wanting nothing more than to wobble around on his own two feet holding your hand) this particular shopping expedition -where we, along with all the surrounding shoppers, were forced to endure a few rather loud tantrums from little man thanks to his desire to, not only be allowed to wobble around on his own two feet but, make his way towards every single staircase in sight; all without giving a single second of consideration to the point of our shopping expedition – was a completely fruitless exercise. And, in the end, after a flabbergasted and flustered - not to mention rather embarrassed by the attention being drawn our way thanks to little man's rather frequent and noisy shrieks of protest at having to be dragged away from all the staircases - daddy declared, “I’ve had enough!” we left the shops no closer to achieving the so-desired mess-free mealtime.

As well as the wasted shopping trips, there’s also the moments at home where little man’s desperation to walk (providing he’s got a good grip on my hand, of course) gets in the way of my near-constant battle to keep on top of the housework; including the ever-growing pile of washing that’s threatening to punch a rather large hole in the laundry ceiling if I don’t do something about it soon. And when my fear of the impending hole in the laundry ceiling eventually gets too much, and I’m forced to scurry past little man and try and ignore the outstretched hand and the adorable pleading look, I have to endure the dreaded, and exceptionally loud, whining shriek that he lets out once he’s realised his desire to hold my hand and walk has been overshadowed by some stupid housework.

I guess I can’t help but feel awful, and a little bit guilty, for complaining so bitterly about having to help little man along on his regular treks. And, for letting a pile of washing and some dirty dishes turn me into a grumbling, mumbling, eye-rolling mummy whenever little man decides to raise his hand in my direction. Because I know from experience, that I will eventually miss all those moments; all the times little man actually wants to hold my hand while he’s walking around. But in summary, all I can say at this point in time, in relation to little man and his walking ability - despite the guilt and regret I’ll inevitably feel when he’s an out-of-control toddler who’s fully capable and independent on his own two feet - is, “BRING IT ON!”

Thanks, little man, for taking me (and daddy, too, of course) on a lap of the house again, and again, and again, and again etc. Sorry, too, I often buzz past without bothering to stop and say “G’day”, but the washing is (honestly) threatening to seep under the laundry door. Love you!