Head blogging...

Does that count?  Because if I could just USB my head then you would have regular reading material, for sure!  I write so many blogs in my head, while I'm houseworking, driving, waiting for sleep to come.  I promise myself I will write them, but when I sit here they are gone.  They are of course pretty much all baby lost blogs.  Yet when I sit the words aren't there any more, and it feels awkward and plain.

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So this is just kind a ramble of thoughts.  Some babylost.  Some just catch up.

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I've just watched last night's episode of "One born every minute" and this time, although the outcomes were good, it was more emotional than normal.  For me that is.  The first mum having twins, with one of the little girls born with her stomach basically outside of her body.  The second mum having her fourth, but only her second to go home as her second baby was born with a rare condition that took her at (?) six weeks, and her third being born still. 

Of course, with the second mum, much of what she talked about struck home, particularly that being pregnant is now just a process for her.  That's exactly how I felt with Toby.  I never forgot to enjoy his pregnancy for fear that that would be all I had left of him too, but I still felt like I was simply on the pregnancy conveyer belt.  A means to an end.

But something else that she said got me thinking.  It was simple words. 

Simply the words "a very rare condition".

Ciaran also had a "very rare condition".

So many of my BLM friends have said goodbye because of very rare conditions.  Are we a dime a dozen bunch, or what?  You don't hear us saying "oh grandpa died of a very rare condition" very often do you?  Yet, so many babies do.  It almost sounds like something the medical profession tell us to placate us, doesn't it?  It's not though, because for all the babylost parent's I've met through my support groups and blogging, whose baby has died of "a very rare condition", so far not very many of them find "mates" to compare with.  Not that we do, of course.  Compare of course.  But I know that I would "love" to find someone else whose baby died of Laryngeal Atresia or Webbing.  That doesn't mean I want someone else to live it, but if it has to happen why can't we be loss buddies?

OK, but then if so many of us lost babes to "very rare conditions", does that make the still birthers "common"?  Let's face it... there are far too many babies lost to stillbirth.  And any baby that dies, is assumed to have been born "still" by those who haven't lived a loss.  I know that many of our circle (extended not close) seem to have made that assumption.  Only because occasionally it comes up, or something might be said and they are surprised (shocked?) that I held my baby boy, alive, in my arms.  Yet, for such a "common" occurance, it is only so because for many no cause is ever found. 

Taking it one step further then, is that because the causes are so individual and yet to be "identified"?  Then that would make many of those born still also victims of "a very rare condition".

I think it hurts to be grouped into a generalisation.  Our babies are all individuals.  Precious and rare.  And what took them all from us were very rare conditions.

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Yesterday I went to the post office and they were "back in five minutes" (actually, after fifteen I rang them and they had accidently left the sign up and the door locked!), and while I was sitting outside another lady with a young boy and a baby in a pram walked up.  We got chatting a little.  Her baby girl is five months (Toby is now 6 1/2).  I put my foot in it and said how they both looked like her - I was actually thinking that the little boy looked like her, but was being nice.  I was nicely corrected that the boy wasn't hers (oops).  And then he said something about "daddy's" so mum explained to me that they had the same daddy. 

Ah ok.

I asked if the little girl was her first.  She said yes.  Then she said no.  She seemed unsure for a moment, but then blurted out that her partner and first little boy were killed in a car accident four years ago.  I don't know how old the little boy was, but she then said something like it being pretty much the first baby (now with the little girl).

So I blurted out that I was in a boat like that with Ciaran gone too.

Our conversation didn't go any further, as she was just about to head off when all of this come up.  But there it is again.

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Speaking of "there is is again", I took Toby to the farmyard nursery at a show last weekend, and got chatting with an older lady there about her poddy lambs.  Somewhere in the conversation I was talking about my own sheep, particularly Little Maaa, in relation to my loss of Ciaran and she told me that she too had lost two babies.  Both to IC at 24 weeks.

Sucks doesn't it?

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Toby is now coming up to seven months old.  It's possibly finally sinking in that he is mine.  Ours.  Forever.  But that forever doesn't necessarily mean a long time. 

One of the things that I have been most unprepared for, and can't really seem to rectify is my lack of confidence when it comes to... I don't know... mother's intuition, or my decision making, or confidence in general.  Mostly when new things arise.

I've been thinking about it, and the reasons behind it.  Perhaps I have a predisposition to being like that anyway.  I'm not the most self confident person at the best of times.

But the two times I've struggled most have been around the breastfeeding side of things in the beginning, and now around the introduction of solids.  Oh, and probably add in there Toby's reflux.

I hate trying to wade through the different advice that everyone gives to you.  It's not the conflicting advice that gets to me so much as the fact that so many of those advice givers are so sure that theirs is the only "right" advice, and their need to convey their disapproval at what I am doing or intend to do.  The disapproval doesn't have to be in words.  It can be a look, or a sound, or even a lack of sound!

My mother is one.  Don't get me wrong.  Love her to bits and all of that.  And I respect and want her opinion.  She did manage to raise four of us quite well if I do say so myself.  But she is a worry wart (like me?) and questions everything.  She scoffs at books and online friends.  She tells me to ask the nurse, but if the nurse gives a different opinion then she no longer holds the same opinion of "the nurse".  It's tough.  But she also adds on the end of it about how everyone will give advice but I'm the mother and I will make the right choice (use disapproving tone). 

And so then there's the nurse.  The MCHN.  The first one I had in the other town was a bit fluffy and dilly dally, and I didn't find her very helpful at all.  Then we moved and I chased up this one, and at first I liked her because she's more informative.  An appointment with her can easily go for a couple of hours.  But her opinions on the introduction of solids are seeming to be very anti breastfeeding.  Or that at 6 months we rush through the intro so that we can wean them and get on with life.  Or something. 

I started Toby on solids three weeks ago, and by last week she was pushing me to increase his meal size and introduce breakfast.  She has the disapproving tone, look, everything!  I was pushed to breaking point by the pressure from all directions with conflicting advise, and in the end I rang the Breastfeeding Association and decided to back off on the solids a bit to where I'm comfortable, and continue with the breastfeeding on demand (by the way... it got to the point where Toby was refusing all daily breastfeeds except his first one, and a dream feed that I reintroduced because I felt he wasn't drinking enough).

Where was I going with all of this?  What I was going to say is that on thinking about it, the confidence in my mothering is just one more thing I blame on loss.  Although I don't think this in words as such, the cold hard fact is that I didn't do much of a job in mothering my first, so how can I believe in my decisions in mothering my second? 

Of course so far all of my instincts have been right. 

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Otherwise, life continues.  I'm still babylost every day.  I still see Ciaran in everything that Toby does.  Or rather, I wonder about Ciaran in everything he does.  I know that will never change.

I struggle with some people in real life, and I know that will never change either.  They don't understand.  One of my online groups, who has really been the most supportive in the past six months and are the best mother's group I could come across, even brings me occasional difficult situations to deal with, and I usually choose to say nothing.  These girls are as understanding of me and our situation as they can be, without living it themselves which I would never wish on anyone.

One of the more recent "situations" was one of the girls venting about how much she was "over it"... her seven month old crying all day and her four year old talking incessantly and asking questions and demanding her time.  Her complaint?  That she wasn't getting any time for herself.  To get her housework done, to play on the computer, her time.  She has a house that looks like something out of a magazine, by the way :).  I had to let it lie.  She has been a great friend, and for me to point out to her how much I would give for the three year old who should be driving me nuts... well, it would really only make her feel like crap as opposed to teaching her to appreciate.  Us babylost have an appreciation that really can't just be taught, I don't think.

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Ciaran's third birthday came and went this year, without us really doing anything to "celebrate" at all.  I was going to do balloons, but the weather for that whole week was horrid and blowing a gale.  Not really balloon weather.  We acknowledged it at home, among us.  And we got some beautiful cards from people who thought of us.

I was going to cook a cake and have candles and such, as my parents were visiting, but in actual fact I'm still not at a stage where I can do that.  Perhaps next year, when Toby can blow out the candles and know of his big brother.

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The job isn't really working out.  That's a big stress at the moment.  We've been here for four months now.  It's just not what was "sold" to us. 

As far as the job, Shane was employed as "Assistant Manager" but it's quite apparent that he's at the bottom of the stockpile.  The overseer earns more than he does.  But we are still on a better income here than at our old place, and I'm trying to remember that.  Shane comes home unhappy and frustrated most days - he isn't even able to move a mob of sheep into a paddock of better feed without running it past the boss who usually disagrees.  If he uses his initiative with something there is usually a corrective phone call that evening.  And more often than not it's something that hasn't been communicated correctly or communicated at all.  There is nothing worse than always feeling like you're on the back foot, so I feel for Shane with that!

And then as far as the house is concerned, you might remember that I had reservations about coming here in the first place because it just isn't suitable.  I said it was too small.  I wasn't quite right there - it's not that it's too small, it's that it's awkward space.  It's long and narrow - four meters wide from wall to wall.  So, in the loungeroom area for example by the time I have put the three seater couch on one wall, and the lowline tv cabinet on the other there is only a little more than two meters floor space which of course Toby occupies.  But it means that when we bring wood in for the fire, it gets carried over the play mat (dropping bits!) and I've had to remind Shane not to walk over Toby, or carry wood over him, or even to please pick up the mat rather than walk over it and the toys.  Next winter we will need to cage the wood fire, which will take a lot of space out also, and add in the playpen... well!

Shane is dark on that because he was positive they would "add" a room or two - they told him in his interview that they would work with us to help make the house possible, and used the example of one of the other workers and how they added rooms to his house.  I'm not quite as believing as Shane that it would happen.  But I would prefer to have been proven wrong.  Shane also managed to twist it in his own mind that the boss was saying that that's what he was going to do for us. 

However, one thing that I know was definitely said was that the bathroom was used as an example.  That it wasn't suitable for Toby so they would do something about it and blah blah blah clawfoot bath was mentioned.  To me.  So I know it was said. 

There was also a conversation between Shane and the boss that I overheard on speakerphone where the boss was talking about work needing to be done, and Shane saying just to hold off as we wanted to move in and see what we really needed to have done, rather than them spending money on things we didn't need.  So much for us being nice.  Pffft.

So, now we are in a house where we are "living" in half of it, as the other half is... well, a long room (two rooms with the wall removed) that hasn't been painted, and at the moment is used as storage for all of the boxes that I find difficult to unpack because we have no cupboards.  They told Shane that we could paint it if we wanted and they would pay for the paint.  Besides the fact that neither of us are particularly into doing stuff like that, or particularly handy at it, I don't know where they expect us to find the time.  Weekends are full for Shane, with me demanding time for Toby and him.  When we do groceries it takes up at least half of our day, by the time we travel to the bigger town, feed Toby, shop and travel home again!  And as for me... Toby sleeps in 45 minute blocks, every second hour and it's not a clean cut hour up, hour down anyway.  It would take me forever to get it done, in between trying to do anything else around here!

Oh, and the other problem with awkward space is that there is no cupboards.  None.  No wardrobes or linen press.  Sorry, I do lie a little - there are kitchen cupboards, and one room has a cupboard, which I'm using as a linen press, but it doesn't fit very much in there.

I was getting frustrated with Shane not approaching the boss, as he's not the most forward person in the world.  So I did it myself, and got shut down several times.  I was told that we needed to speak with the owner.  That the boss doesn't get involved in what goes on with the houses.  I was shocked to be honest.  He was the one who made the "promises" in the beginning.  He was the one who mentioned the bathroom to me!

So Shane did actually take it to the owner.  I'll just point out that the owner is an 80 year old man.  What does an 80 year old man know about the needs of a young baby?  He probably grew up with eight other children in a little farm house, and thinks people these days are overindulged.  So, what was his reply?  That nothing will be spent on the house, especially in the next twelve months.

Believe it or not that is all the short story.  Shane is keen to find another job and more suitable house where Toby can have his own room, where we have some sort of outside sheds more than on open single garage needing to store two cars, a ride on mower and all the tools that go with us!  Where we can unpack our clothes into wardrobes, and not have to push our dining table against the wall cabinet, so that we can use the "walkway" it creates. 

I like this house (now) and in "mummy" style am coming up with ideas to make it work.  But Shane has been demotivated now, and I can't do it by myself.  I also don't want to have to move again.  It makes me feel sick at the thought.  The physical move.  The thought that the ILs might come and help again.  The cost of it all, and where the money might come from.  And the fact that the grass is always greener on the other side.  I want to settle down a bit.  I don't like instability.  Especially now. 

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Speaking of the ILs... it's been four months since I've seen her, and my anxiety had started to abate.  I was actually starting to push Shane to go and visit.  But she pushed the BP up again recently by once more being too helpful. 

She rang us to say that she has taken the cot down from the garage rafters, cleaned it all and set it up.  I made Shane tell her that we won't be using it.  We will bring our own portacot.  But she sounded all hurt and was insistant that we don't need to "lug" it up there now.  She told him that she's buying a new mattress for it (because the old one "probably" wouldn't be any good since it's been stored in the garage). 

I hate the pressure that it all puts on me.  Or I put on me.  I would prefer to use my own stuff where I can.  I don't know whether this cot meets Australian Standards.  I don't think it's the cot that was used for her boys (it would be over 40 years old then!), but is definitely the one she used while she was doing childcare.  So it has been slept in by a bunch of kids I don't even know, over the years.  I know she had cleaned it, and for her to point it out to me, she obviously was trying to let me know that it's ok.  But more fool her for going out and buying a mattress for a cot that will be lucky to be used twice a year, especially when we have our own portacot.  When they struggle financially anyway.  And when share prices are so low and worth nothing.  Secondly, she told Shane she has already set it up in our room.  Well, he says anyway.  But I have no idea how she would fit a cot in there as it's a small room.  Even to fit the portacot in I was planning to push the bed against the wall, so it fitted down my side, and we would get in and out via the foot of the bed.  And if it is in our room then what about when other people stay?  And she is going to be offended when I strip it, with the sheets that she will so helpfully make it up with, probably have had to buy as well, so that I can put the monitor under the mattress.  Ughhhhh she just makes it all so bloody hard!

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On that note I will leave you with one recent photo of the munchkin himself...