Stealing moments and lalas...

That's what it is right now.  Blogging would not exactly be up there at the top of "most important things to get done today" for sure.  But then neither is anything else that would be considered "for Bir".  It's a tough juggle, and I'm the ultimate martyr.  Beware, this might be a bit of a whingey post.  Or it might be a bit of a woe is me post.  I'm not sure.  But it will be straight facts.

I have a counselling appointment today.  New counseller in a new town.  Sounds like I'm running from something doesn't it?  Funny thing is that my MCHN referred me to her probably 8 months ago as she was concerned that I had too much going on and was a candidate for PND.  Meh, whatever, was pretty much my response.  But the therapist took several months to call me, and lost a bundle of respect from me.  I can't really explain why, other than when I'm expecting to hear from someone, and the MCHN kept asking if she'd called yet, and she hadn't, it pissed me off because I simply don't need someone else to inadvertantly "confirm" my unimportant-to-the-world status (in my bad times, in my head!).  When she did eventually call, I just said thanks but no thanks.  She insisted I take her number, which I did.
A short time later Shane came home and announced that he'd been sacked.  Ker-plunk. 
I reckon one of my first thoughts was to find that number.  But, I didn't have time to fall in a heap, so I pushed on and pushed Shane on, and pulled him out of a hole occasionally (although I think he thinks I was just a nasty bitch for not letting him stay in bed and sleep his doldrums away), and tried to keep the firecracker under his backside lit, as well as the home fires burning, so to speak.  I do a pretty crap job.
So, last week I finally fished out her number.  Because ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk.

And right about that same time I sat back and realised that perhaps the reason that I'm all up in arms, a bunch of panicked knots on the inside, is that I do have way too much going on for any normal person (let alone a damaged one perhaps) to cope with sanely.  And also about expectations.  The fact that I have high expectations of myself, and I tend to take on the expectations that others have, or seem to have, for me as well.  If I was talking about it to someone then I would say that I didn't, or "bugger what anyone thinks", but really?  Deep down, or maybe not so deep, it eats me that I feel like I'm doing a shit of a job in all departments. 

I can't even begin to cover off what I mean by "all departments".  Too much, too hard.  Work it out for yourself if you wish.  Just every.thing..!!

And the point where I'm at is that every little thing is a big, fat, major thing to me right now.  It makes it very hard for others to understand I think, because all they see is the little thing and me having a big lala over nothing.  And I just feel like a fool.

I'm doing a lot of counting breaths, and taking deep ones.  I hate the fact that all of this seems to interpret to "not coping with Toby" kind of talk.  The truth is that when it's just Tobes and I, our routine just flows, we play and have fun.  Add in boxes to unpack, cleaning to be done (the daily duty type as well as the "inch of dust in a 100 year old house" so I can put something away type).  Add in husband convos of "can you just... " which ends in things like look something up on the net (the only time I usually get time on the net is after Toby's bed time, and our dinner time, and somewhere about then is when Shane has finished playing on the net and going to bed), or wash something, feed something, get something.  Because bless his cotton socks, he's working hard now and gone from the house ten to twelve hours a day.  Paid work must be so much harder to do too, because when he comes home he can barely move off the couch, and he's always tired despite sleeping a third more hours than I do at least.  Yes, insert sarcasm.  At least part of that whinge I am pretty sure many relate to and it's just simply a man thing.  As a friend put it recently... oh to have testicles and licence to think only of yourself.

:::

I suspect that "my" time will be up soon.  Toby is napping.  Finally we are getting that routine down pat again (ssssh don't tell the baby!) as that has also been a nightmare.

:::

I'm not sure as the house is looking any more organised.  More boxes have been opened, but not necessarily all put away.  I am still trying to finish cleaning the pantry, so that I can finish putting contact on the shelves to try to eliminate some of the dust problem, so that I can finish unpacking grocery type boxes, and storage type boxes.  It's ongoing, as I only tend to get one little job finished before getting called away, and then can't get back to it again for days.

I need to buy a cupboard for the kitchen, and one for the laundry as well, but the finances are short.  Having spent well over $5K on moves in the past twelve months, then a recent few weeks with no income, a rental property for sale that has fallen through thrice (but will hopefully go through next month) which has been untenanted since November... need I go on.  The thing that I find people don't understand is that each move costs so much money because each house "needs" things to make it work.  The kitchen cupboards as I said - here we have very limited cupboard space.  There is a big walk in pantry, but it's not part of the kitchen (it's a separate room off what I have made the dining room) and besides being an old dusty room, it's just not a convenient place to put your crockery.  Not in my books.  And the laundry has no cupboard at all.  At the moment I find that a set of wrought iron and timber shelves have been put there in my absence... husband or ILs directed the fellas unpacking the truck.  Yes, they would serve the purpose, and I don't really need these shelves anywhere else in the house, however at $500 I don't think I really want them scratched and de-stained by laundry products either.  Apparently, that is a hard concept to understand.  Add another notch to my stress belt.  But I have some birthday money tucked away from last year, and MIL usually gives me some with my upcoming day again, so I think I will just "invest" it in some plain old boring household shelves.  Sigh.  Glad I saved it for something special, hey?  Yes, insert sarcasm again.  But my point being is that the spending isnt' over yet. 

I am fussy and I like my house to look nice.  I don't think it really has for years now.  Well, I don't mean this the way it will sound, but since Shane and I met.  We've lived in four houses in four years now.  He doesn't have the same appreciation of "nice" that I do.  Partially that man thing again probably, but I also still blame MIL who picks up after him, or buys him a new whatever thing that got broken for not being looked after properly.  It's not so fun.  I get cross at him (stress.  notch.  belt.) but then I get cross at poor absent MIL for doing this to her son.  Not that she sees it this way, of course.  It's tiring.  The other day we fought because he arrived home at the end of his long, tiring day, and walked through the newly vacuumed dining room in his work boots so he could say hello to Toby in the bathroom.  I see the floors I have just cleaned, and the lack of care and respect for the time and effort I put in and my reasons for doing it in the first place, whereas he gets cranky because his boots are "clean" (i.e. no mud, and you can't see germs so no problem, right?) and my expectations of him to take them off at the door when he has to go back outside shortly are too high and unfair.  We are at an impasse.  My choices are to fight a battle I cannot win, or just drop it and admit defeat and give up caring about the floors.  Perhaps cleaning in general.  On the inside... stress.notch.belt.  It is never going to change.  He is a product of his upbringing, and whether he knows it or not, his expectation is that the woman of the house will happily run around behind him with a bucket and mop among other things.  And if I cry, as I did on this occasion, just quietly, in despair, I am simply going on about nothing.  And there you have it... I am, and what I do, is unimportant.

I am trying not to turn this in to a husband whinge.  It's an everything post.  But part of the reason for my appointment today is that I came to the conclusion the other day that that is one area that I cannot change as such... because he IS a product of his upbringing... but until I can just accept it it will push me to the brink, so I'm seeking help.

:::

It's only the brink because all of everything at the moment is the icing on the cake.  I accidently knocked over a box when I opened the bathroom door the other night.  We had already had a money argument, because I was asking what I thought was a simple question but he was tired and giving me stupid, cranky non-answers.  So the box, and the smashed contents made me cry.  Apparently that was me going on with "shit" again.  Whatever.  It probably was.  He apologised later and said that he knows it's "just everything on top of everything" at the moment for me.  Funnily enough, he doesnt' realise that the most "upsetting" of that incident was that the one thing that smashed was the after shave I bought him for Christmas.  And the fact that he didn't even realise that kind of hurts too.

:::

So, I've really been trying to remember my journey.  Really trying to breathe, and remember that other people, everyone, tends to look at you for what is going on now.  They don't sit back and look at the journey.  They don't realise that they project expectations unintentionally.

Three and a half years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.  I birthed expectations for him, and for me, and for us.  I birthed hopes and dreams.  I gave birth to a whole new life.  And then it died.  He died, and along with it, an entire new life died. 

And along with that an entire old one as well.  Suddenly, I had no life whatsoever.  Limbo.  Oh so sad, isn't it?  Gee, woe is me.  Will she ever get over it? 

So few really get that we don't, right?  Those of us here in blogland...  it's really been one of the few "constants" since that time.  Sure, I've gotten better at appearing to have moved on.  I have a rainbow too now and I count my blessings for having him.  And I won't deny that I was given the chance of another new life with his birth, and I'm better for it.  Not better "fixed", just "better".

:::

So, there's no need for me to go on about the journey of the next two years.  The ttc-ing in desperation.  The fails month after month.  The joy of pregnancy and the devastation of miscarriage.  The IVF.  Needles, drugs, weight gain, hormones.  Another subsequent pregnancy.  Tests.  Fetal MRIs.  Living just waiting.  The arrival of news that it's genetic.  All of that. 

But a birth with a live, living baby. 

Skip ahead.  Moving house with a two month old.  Other people packing and moving your belongings.  Living in a shoebox.  Mice infested.  Throwing away belongings ruined by them.  So many little things.  Constant.  Shane losing his job.  Limbo.  Feeling like we were about to be homeless, literally, but other people not seeing it that way as we "could always just move in with family".  It's just not that simple.  Ever.  Money.  Or lack there of, and the looming threat of my SAHM status being taken from me because I will have to return to full time work.  Another sacrifice of something important to me.  Another house move.  Clingy ten month old.  Any wonder... perhaps it's text book, but in the eyes of a baby?  Poor bub.

And here I am.  Getting little done.  And feeling misunderstood by many.  I am sure my mother is saying to others that I'm mad if I have another.  I'm sure that my husband is thinking that having a baby is what turned me into a grumpy, sooky old cow.  I'm sure that everyone thinks I don't cope with being a mum.

Yet I think I cope with that bit just fine.  I think if the world was a different place, and we were nicely settled in a suitable house where we had everything that we needed (to be comfortable) and could establish a routine that didn't have to include unpack boxes and arrange furniture every day... but maybe that's me being in a dream world.  Again.

:::

And then I worry that that is simply falling into the trap of wishing for something that isn't going to be rather than making the most of the situation, and I realise... it's just that I'm tired of forever trying to make the most of the situation.  Of finding the good.  Of dealing with the shit and just marching forward.  I want to stop.  Again.  Familiar story.  Stop time, enjoy the moment.  Or wallow in it.  Whatever it is that needs to happen.

:::

I also don't have much of a support network left, having moved so many times, and further away from any semblance I had to start with.  My mum and my sister are two constants but they have so much of their own to deal with right now. 

I'm trying to build myself a new one.  Enrol in a music group for Toby, find a playgroup, that kind of thing.  But it's hard, because I'm so much more in a "hermit" frame of mind.  Not to mention that logistically we are 40 minutes drive from town so it's not something I can justify doing more than once or maybe twice a week.  It's also a big thing to go to town in that I have to pack at least one meal and snacks for Toby, and plan a stop somewhere for lunch, or whatever.... I said that to someone recently who lives in a town and they said "oh yes, I always have to take snacks for so-so too".  Totally misunderstood.  Even if I feed Tobes in the carseat before we leave, or sit on a park bench and feed him in his pram, it's a "long" day.  I'm gone at least three hours, even if I just want milk.  And it's tiring. 

:::

And then there is also the other things that I think most people don't think play on my mind.  At 4am this morning I was "listening" to Ciaran calling me from the other room. 

"Mummmaaaaa"

"Mummmmmmaaaaaaaa"

I heard him padding down the hallway. 

I felt him climb up into bed with us.

And snuggle.

And beside me Toby stirred and rolled over in his cot. 

Ahhh.  The world is perfect.

Or it's not.

:::

Some of the other little things I've put up with this past week, that have sent me to the brink?

Driving 40 minutes to town to buy a bracelet that was 30 percent off on Tues, that Shane wanted to buy for my birthday, only to find that despite them telling me it would still be there on Friday, had been sent back to the supplier.  Oh well, too bad, too sad.  Apparently.

Going to do washing on Saturday to find that the washing machine is only using hot water, and that the hot was scalding... too hot for general washing and I couldn't change the taps or do anything about it until Shane was home and had time to fix it.

Going to have a shower on Sunday morning and finding that there was no hot water ... the service had pooed itself.  Add in the arrival, smack on time of course, of AF.  Oh, and a stinky hot muggy summers day.  Cold shower out of desperation (a cold shower is still a cold shower even if it's summer).

Blackout just as dinner went in the oven on Sunday night.  Power out until after midnight.  Cranky household.

Tripping over a toy in said blackout, and twisting my ankle, then falling to land on a block under my thigh.  No lasting damage, but it made me cry at the time.  And today?  I think I must have hurt my back a little as it's very stiff and awkward.

Having to contact the owners/shanes boss AGAIN to request an electrician and that smoke alarms be installed in the house.  Makes my blood boil having to ask again and again.  Not a good start.

.... but happy to say that it's now Monday.  The hws is fixed.  The electrician is coming on Friday, and will do the smoke alarms then.  And I'm off for (I'm hoping) a warmish shower before heading to town for my THERAPIST! 

Done and dusted. Now to blog or to sleep?

The million dollar question.

Just a quick update for those who might be around.  Might be wondering.

We moved.  We're here, in the new house.  There are boxes everywhere.  Bits of furniture peeking out from underneath.  Boxes marked office in the kitchen, and boxes marked kitchen in the guest room. 

Beggars can't be choosers.  The ILs came to help us do it.  It's my husband's way of helping.. bring in his parents.  Rather than get off the couch and help me himself.  Oops did I say that out loud?  In his defence he did have a heck of a lot to deal with outside, with moving all the chook cages and dog cages and such, but he isn't the most motivated or organised fella, and the nice thing (for him) was that with his mother here he was able to continue to "knock off" come dark time, eat a meal and go to bed.

His wife (aka me) on the other hand hasn't really been to sleep before 1am for probably three weeks now.  "Up" time is any time after 6am, and there is one wake up at least to deal with in between.  I am exhausted to say the least, but when you hit that level the answer isn't just to "have an early night". 

We have a holiday to the west lined up for April.  Bring it on.

:::

Oh, but that means my nightmare ILs will be back to house sit for us.  Don't get me wrong.. I do actually really like my ILs.  But a little goes a long way in times of stress, in a small house where we are on top of one another, and when she just.doesn't.listen.

But we got packed up in the end.  My one am mornings finished off with a two thirty am one, so that I could seal her boxes, move them into an organised and stacked position, and see what hadn't been done so I could do that too!  Tensions were high, and Shane tells me I'm not currently the favourite DIL.

I found though, that this time round I just don't have the patience for pussy footing.  I don't know if it's "dead baby" or if it's "subsequent live baby", but whatever it is I have a much shorter fuse and am a lot more direct.  I'm still polite as it's not in me to be rude. 

All is "good" at the house.  It's divine to have a proper house again.  Nice big rooms.  Room to move.  Toby is having a ball crawling around.  On the down side he has hit the clingy stage, and with me needing to move between rooms doing things, and not being able to let him follow me because the other places aren't baby proofed... well, there is a very sad child at times.  Poor baby.

:::

But in among all of the changes I've had some very low, low, low down times. 

I found a box of baby toys that were packed up from the first house, never unpacked due to room constrictions in the next house, and now Toby is too big for them really.  Sad enough in anyone's little one's world.  As my MIL said... he won't miss them.  Except that these were toys I had bought for Ciaran.  Another child, another place, another time.  Heart ache.

I'm struggling with setting up Toby's room here.  I only realised today that I think the problem is around the fact that I had a nursery that I enjoyed setting up.  It was for baby Ciaran.  And it was never taken down, but was "enhanced" for another baby that didn't come, and then for Toby.  Except we moved house before Toby "enjoyed" it either.  And now I have a room that is for Toby.  I get to set it up all.for.Toby.  Except I don't know where to start.  It's not a baby's room any more.  He's turning very quickly into a little boy.

:::

And now?  I need to sleep.  Not much of a blog update.  I'll have to get to it another time when I can think.  Perhaps in about twenty one years.