I think about this blog lots, honest, I just never have time to write anything on it. And it’s 22.52 now, so not the best time to start, particularly as I have poured myself a large-ish one. Hic. Slur. Typo.

So. Recap. My undercarriage – you know, my de-furred, depilated, denuded, acutely sensitised and pre-brutalised undercarriage – took pointed exception to the bright red antiseptic paint (I was told the actual make-up of it later, but I forget) that I was coated from chest to mid-thigh with, in theatre. Pointed exception. Am I using enough italics here, folks? 

When I realised what the problem was, I trotted off to my practice nurse – a dear, stalwart soul who has extensive experience of my oddities. She settled her glasses firmly onto her nose, leaned around my knee, peered narrowly at what I had to show her –  and took an intake of breath reminiscent of a car mechanic who has spotted a juicily lucrative head gasket. She patted my knee, shook her head and told me what I’d already worked out for myself: skin-wise, I was going to lose the lot. Every area I’d plucked, every square inch I’d de-forested, every follicle I had, in fact, annoyed the bloody hell out of before going in for surgery.

Overall, I lost about… ummm… about 10 square inches of top-layer skin from an extremely personal spot.


Yeah. Never doing that again. Next time: I stay forested and they can find their own goddamn way about down there.

And then my brace of abdominal stitches went manky. Practice nurse had confirmed my suspicions that they were not, in fact, dissolvable ones at all. I had vaguely planned to go and have them removed, but I was busy, and it became apparent one evening about a week after my Op that the belly button one needed out, and pronto. We appeared to have a dearth of suitable implements; I tried – very briefly, and with no serious expectation of success – with the kitchen scissors, before moving onto nail clippers, with which I succeeding solely in nipping previously undamaged skin with the side I wasn’t concentrating on. I then found a craft knife and started sawing industriously away at the stitch, but the bloody knife was blunt, and I couldn’t find tweezers so I was using an earing instead, so there was only a tiny mm or two of stitch I could actually get at, and John was alternately peering apprehensively at me and prognosticating Doooom, and turning away with a shudder, and… well. I became hot and Harassed. Belly buttons are not the easiest thing to access when you have as much padding as I have, and my neck was hurting like a sod from trying to peer over the significant impediment of spare tyres and boobs.

I eventually did the clever thing, and begged a surgical scalpel and long-nosed tweezers from our doctor neighbour. By then, of course, the cut was even more swollen and sore, but I eventually became Stitch-Free. The belly-button incision immediately and dramatically improved: the one on my belly has knitted very badly for no obvious reason, and I have a half-healed wound visible practically from space.

So, that was a week of misery, except that some kind dear friends sent me flowers and a dvd of Elf to ameliorate my sufferings, which was really very nice indeed of them.

And then, thenHarry Hairy Disease Vector caught a cold, and suffered mildly with it for 48 hours. John and I promptly imbibed it from him and have spent a week near-prostrate, sounding like a pair of particularly TB-ridden badgers. We wanted nothing more than inactivity and sleep, but events militated against us: Harry, the devious little bugger, can now open the babygate across his bedroom door – and, as he is now waking to use the potty in the early hours 3 nights out of 7, we have a midnight tourist arriving regularly – and heavily – in our bed. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was happy to snuggle down and go back to sleep, but the cheeky sod’s just taken to flicking our bedroom TV on before clambering smugly between us. Cue disruption, protest and Eventual Grumpiness From All.

I disapprove fairly stringently of young children having TVs in their bedrooms; nevertheless, there’s this tiny wee voice in my head talking an awfully persuasive talk. It murmurs to me of More Sleep and Happy Toddler.

Is this how it starts?


14 Responses

  1. That sounds…unpleasant. I hope you’re all feeling better. Also, what is the philosophy behind deforesting before doctor’s appointments? I can see if you have a hot date, but doctors never do anything pleasant and I feel it’s my duty to be as unfortunate looking as possible as a sort of payback (of course, I probably become cocktail party conversation instead, but that’s fine with me). Of course, I am utterly un-girly and completely disinterested in my appearance, so there’s that.

    My daughter would take up permanent residence in our bed if we let her stay. Instead, she gets promptly dragged back to her own bed. My husband also suggested putting a TV in her room, but I vetoed that idea. Of course, we don’t have a TV in our room either…

  2. Don’t do it…. A TV would be the start of a slippery slope!

  3. Oh dear Gawd. Yeow, yeow, yeow.

    I have not deforested before, for doctors, anyway. This is all news to . Hrmm. I AM a bit retrospectively embarrassed.

    Ah well.

  4. Ouchie Ouchie Ouch! That sounds HIDEOUSLY painful! Next time, stay hairy, that’s what I say.
    Couldn’t possibly give any advice on the whole TV/toddler situation, as a) we don’t have a toddler, and b) we don’t have a TV in our bedroom. Except maybe switch it off and unplug it to flummox him completely?

  5. Crossing my legs in sympathetic agony as I read this. Goodness, DO let the forest bloom unscythed next time around. I’m sure doctors have seen pelts like grizzly bears’ and roundly don’t give a damn.

    Uh, is it possible to put a potty in Harry’s room, instruct him it’s for nighttime use, and then put a lock on the outside of the door? Or is that technically kiddie abuse?

  6. Ouch! That sounds distinctl unpleasant.

  7. In the past we totally kept the kiddo “locked” in his bedroom at night–that is, it was closed and he was unable to open the door. We still use a baby monitor so we were able to hear anything suspicious. On the other hand, I totally wouldn’t have, and still don’t, trust him to go to the bathroom on his own at night–that’s awesome and amazing! And makes me rethink how we’re doing things. But I am a little concerned about what happens when he starts running amok at night because my bed IS sacrosanct, dammit.

    I’ve been having my bits under display regularly for the past couple months (physical therapy… ah, childbirth) and I have totally given up on any thought of depilation. I figure they must have always seen worse… right? Right?

    Regardless, I am SO sorry about your angry skin and feeling very twitchy just thinking about it.

    But no, don’t do the TV. It will completely be a slippery slope. Maybe close your door instead?

  8. Oooh chafey. Nasty.

    Maybe you should set an example, and not have a TV in your bedroom! (Might encourage him to bypass the marital bed and just take himself downstairs to watch telly).

  9. My children are now 16 and 12 and still without TVs in their bedrooms. The only way we have managed this without being vulnerable to accusations of hypocrisy is not to have one ourselves.
    Sorry about the skin.

  10. NO ONE told me about the strange pink antiseptic. It’s bad enough having it provide you with interesting first degree burns – imagine how it tastes. I learnt it the hard way, post wrist surgery. My son was nicking my prawn sandwiches. I helped him and licked off the dripping prawn mayo from my very pink hands.

    Neeeeeeeeeeeeever again.

  11. OUCH! Sod the docs – stay hairy.

    I would love tv in our room but then there would be no chance of getting our midnight tourists out of our bed ever. Even the biggest bed in the world is being challenged at present by our constant companions. Now come 6 am I just send them downstairs to turn on the tv down there. I am very anti tvs in rooms – he’ll I never even had a radio.

  12. OH

    Everything I can think of saying revolves around knickers, so I won’t say it.

    Owie owie owie though. Tears in eyes.

  13. I think the pink stuff is iodine or something suchlike. I also had to hve a shower in pink stuff. I had blue stiches and remeber having to wiggle them daily to stop the skins sticking to them. Hope you are all feeling better

  14. My facial expressions while reading this have been a sight to see. Good thing everyone else has buggered off to bed.

    Can only send bucket loads of sympathy in your general direction (North and Westward as my directional accuracy meter is drowning under the constant rain). xx

    And good job on the stitches – one of my dissolvables reappeared magically two years after my C-section.

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