There’s a Moose, Loose, about this Hoose. More specifically, it is attempting to chew its inexplicably noisy way from behind the plasterboard adjacent to our bed, choosing to do so exclusively between the hours of midnight and 2am – which is usually when my endurance cracks and I leap out of bed, yammering imprecations at the wretched rodent, and start banging on the wall. John will likely sleep through the last trump, but can’t quite blot out an enraged woman hurling herself bodily against the wall some 3 ft from his head, and therefore turns grumpy at roughly 2.01am. As a result, he is currently in the loft, laying mouse traps.
I am 7 dpo following IUI last Monday. It was fairly disastrous, in that the wrong ovary (I wanted the right. It is almost invariably the right. It was the left.) popped a lead follicle, and consequently John’s gametey creme de la creme – stained a disconcerting pink, I observed – had to be aimed in my shy, retiring left cervix, as opposed to war-weary old baby-battered Cyclops on the right. I was told to come in starved, just in case worst came to worst and they had to send me to theatre to prod it in surgically, but like a total pillock, I absent-mindedly ate three bites of Harry’s rejected breakfast cereal. I came clean, not actually wanting to Die Of Cornflakes on the table, and the (snotty cow, aktually) anaesthetist naturally refused to touch me with a laryngoscopic bargepole.
Consultant – nice chap, but not the heroic soldier of the previous titanic struggle for Project Cervical Location – struggled manfully with catheter and speculum for half an hour, before announcing that, had he not observed it at the outset on ultrasound, he would not have believed there was a second cervix present at all. My non-sedatable status apparently dictated that he was not able to use his toothier grip-cervix-and-wrench-to-one-side gynae instruments, although I did urge him to just bloody get on with it and ignore any squeaks. (Abdominal pain – what with one grim experience and another – holds absolutely bugger-all fear-factor for me these days; although, oddly, the slightest twinge of tooth-or-earache reduces me to a 5ft 5″ quivering chicken). It wasn’t an option he felt he could take, so we had to settle for depositing the cocktail-pink swimmers in the holiday destination of North Vagina, and I lay, head down, feet up, for half an hour.
If this half-arsed cycle doesn’t work, I am a bit puzzled as to whether my unbroken run of positive pregnancy tests following IUI & IVF cycles would still stand or not. It’s an odd point to call off IUI: on the theatre table with the catheter approaching the bullseye, so to speak. On the other hand… cervix, shmervix; you’d think all the little chaps ought to head in the correct approximate direction, given that the Woody Allen timid-types had been assiduously booted out from the great egg race.
And if it all does manage to work, however temporarily, then I expect a little heavy lifting and long days on my feet will be juuuust the ticket for me. Wary of permanent commitment, but in distinct fiscal deficit, I have obtained a seasonal post at the big high street booksellers whose name begins with a W. The interview was comical: they asked me to recommend a book. And had to practically beg me to stop talking. The wages are pitiful, particularly when you consider that nearly everyone behind the counter earning their not-lavish-minimum-wage actually has a degree – in a proper subject, too – but there’s an outside chance I might actually enjoy being there, a little bit, which would make the wages more palatable. I hope. If not, I’ll have to return to something sales-y with bigger £££ and generalised misery attached, which me no want.
Harry’s first full day of school happened today. He is having a simply delightful time, and I am very relieved, although concerned by his manifest exhaustion, exhibited in tremendously increased, prolonged meltdowns. ‘You are being VERY RUDE to me, Mummy! Those are VERY RUDE WORDS! HARRUMPH!’ *folds arms with an audible thump, and stomps goosesteppily off* (Upon being imposed upon to the extent of, say, being asked to tidy his toys.) I saw his Paediatrician last week, and although I managed not to lay my head on her desk and sob, it was a near thing. She made the usual ‘he’s still very young’ noises, but I managed to convey that the wet-pants situation was driving me to the absolute end of my tether. The continual smell of piss is really starting to get me down, although I’ve drawn uncertain comfort from a couple of friends in the last few days who, it transpires, have suffered worse, for longer.
Harry’s not rare – but also seems likely to be one of those children who just isn’t going to suddenly ‘get it’, either. The paed seems fairly sure that there’s no physical issues, as Harry’s not worn a nappy at night for months – he’s plonked on the potty, 9/10ths asleep, between 11 and midnight, and is dry until morning, but she’s organising a bladder scan to rule anything out. We’ve also been referred to a specialist team, which I welcome enormously, as I can’t help but be convinced that we’re part of Harry’s problem.
Harry is bringing contrariness, a will of iron and a… ahem… spirited temperament to the table, for sure, (along with the usual developmental disadvantages inherent in being a premature, low birth-weight male); John and I are bringing… broadly the same, I suppose, albeit layered in good intentions, unavailing encouragement, and loud praise for any successful episodes. But definitely exasperation now, too, not always concealed as well as it could be. Not after all this time. We have a non-conformist, stubborn child sprung of two non-conformist, stubborn parents… and I urgently need some help dismantling the situation, heaven knows, because I know it bothers Harry, too.
Anyhoo, I DO have some happy for you: my hastily thrown-together and fractionally overdone 3-egg Victoria Sandwich garnered a novice First (tempered by a mild judge’s remonstrance in re: Stodge, which was fair comment under the wedding-cake-due-day-afterwards rushed circumstances) at my local agricultural show: ladies produce section, and was the final participatory nail in my coffin; I was instantly propelled onto the Committee.
(Some 4 hours later, I was absorbed into the School PTA, too. Some people can just see me coming. I now need to find out everything humane you may possibly know about woodlouse racing, having foolishly, oh so foolishly, suggested it for upcoming Coffee & Conkers fundraising morning. Berate me: I deserve it.) Harry’s leaf collage, which was contributed to heavily by John, I admit, also won First, and tears before bedtime were neatly averted.
The farm animal made out of sweets that I made for him (What…?! He helped! Or, leastways, was in the room during construction, having strayed upon discovering the non-instant nature of edible glue.) came no-where, and I think we were bloody robbed. The standing sheep made from liquorice – not that that will narrow it down, looking around – and a giant white button in the lower right quadrant is ours.
Damn you, local Brownie pack, and your mass paper-plate entries. Damn you and your highlighting of the blatant parental ringer.
And lastly, because it is nearly time for me to do battle with the wee sleekit, couring, timorous beastie, I made a wedding cake for my friends’ special day Friday just gone, and really quite liked it, although managed to take nary a decent photo of it
and I wore a hatty thing to said wedding, that I loved so passionately, I wanted to take it to bed and be filthy to it forever.
Which made for a slightly awkward ménage à trois, as John didn’t fancy it much at all.
Filed under: Parenting |