Ivy is sick again.

blah blah blah.

Same old same old.

We called the doctor two days ago and, what a surprise, he never called back.

Blah blah blah.

Boogety “I’m too important” doctor’s receptionists who don’t listen and who won’t do anything you ask of them just because you are low life clientelle who want too much of the doctors time in their humble opinions.

Doctors who don’t give a rats.

Blah blah blah

Immunologists who say to call them on a specific day only to be told (by pitbull receptionists) they are not available to talk to clientelle and if you were wanting a word with the doctor that holds your daughter’s future in her hands, that you will need to make another appointment.

In three months time.

Blah blah bl**dy blah!

Snot and vomit and ear goop, oh my!

Tears, fever, worry and mess.

Hospital; will I won’t I?

Should I?

Blah blah blah.

Evening phone calls from doctors who call too late to be effective and don’t apologise for not ringing a script through on time.

Immunologists who just don’t bother ringing back, at all, despite messages left and clientelle doing what was asked of them.

I need a holiday.

Sure, like that’s going to happen.

Blah blah blah!

*sigh*

I know.

As boring for me as it is for you, dear readers.

Yesterday was spent in a turmoil driven cleaning frenzy of snot, slobber and vomit.

The cherubs have what I think is a tonsil related illness, with the added bonus of a cold and all the big kids have some lurgy, that involves coughing.

Lots of coughing.

When toddlers cough, they vomit.

Alot.

The boy was the worst for wear yesterday but came good in the early evening and chatted on into the night and into the early hours about Big Red Cars and boats.

He slept it off, his immune system kicked in and this morning, my boy is tired but back to his normal self.

Today, the girl has performed her high temp party trick and thrown off a febrile convulsion in  spectacular Ivy style.

While she is sleeping off the post ictal phase, I  have dressed the boy and put him in the high chair for breakfast.

I ask him; “toast or Weet bix?”

His reply?

“Eggs. Cook me some eggs” (woman and while you’re at it, get my slippers and my pipe).

Ah yes, definitely feeling better.

***********************************************************

In my desperation last night I begged David for a holiday.

I explained if we could not afford for all of us to escape, that was fine.

He could stay with the coughing hoards (he being one of the mass) and I would go to some tropical island on my own.

The family fell about laughing.

They thought I was joking.

In the Winter sunshine the voices of the children’s choir lifted into the blue sky.

So blue and clear that I felt I could whisper my thoughts upwards and they would evaporate into organza swirls of white, consumed by the vastness of the day.

I am tired today and I can’t seem to pick myself up off the ground.

Fragile.

Is it possible to have the three day blues, even though there is no baby?

I think something similar happens when I retreat to my own world after the sterility of the hospital. The first few days are busy recreating normality but the third day, I always crash and burn.

Of course, scientifically, biologically, it is a known fact, that ‘fight or flight’ response. That sudden elevation in cortisol and adrenalin that pumps through the body in times of stress.

It helps us to cope.

It helps us to get through the trauma, helps us to stay upright.

If there is that high then, realistically, there must be a low.

Right?

A time when the hormones shift back to normal levels, leaving you flat, almost down.

That’s me.

The girl is not 100%  and I am watching her along.

I know the pneumonia can take up to two weeks to resolve and so I keep vigil.

Our day though has been the stuff of dreams.

Relaxed, easy hours together.

The kids playing in the green fields, happy, carefree.

You can’t ask for more than that.

Okay. I suck. I know it.

I hear you.

My posts are big fat downers that everyone is sick of hearing (thank you new troll for pointing that out).

Going off the crazy pills was obviously a bad idea.

I have no life.

The pead told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am neurotic. He is p*ssed off with me because I refused to let the ENT doctor operate on Ivy when she is immune suppressed. That’s okay, paed, I’ll take that on board.

Noted.

Thanks.

My ‘friend’ told me I was an unmotivated fat slob and that I needed to do something about that. Yes, way to help with my already overinflated ego. Thank you. I am so beautiful, I needed to be knocked down a peg or two.

Clearly I am a terrible, depressed, ugly, lowlife.

So, as of Monday I am going to change.

You all want happy floaty posts?

Done. (Scroll down after this post there is a cute picture of the boy and an equally cute story).

Expect less though because my brain just doesn’t work that way for, oh, 70% of the time.

The paed wants me to shut my yap about my worry and stress for Ivy?

Done, although I still will not agree to the operation.

Sorry ’bout that.

Oh and I won’t go back on the crazy pills.

 I will bite the bullet and take Ivy and Noah to playgroup, no matter the germs.

I will put them in the creche and go to the gym and I will watch what I put in my mouth. God forbid I be a slob (and a fat one at that).

Oh and my neuroses?

Perhaps he will appreciate them a bit more the next time I have to present to A&E. Until then, I will keep them to myself.

Truly.

Firmly put in my place.

Honesty really is the best policy.

Over and out.

I’m a big girl, I can admit that without collapsing with jelly legs.

Or falling in lust.

Or swooning.

Or gushing.

Not just your average good looking. He is really good looking and he is nice to the staff at the hospital and his hands are strong.

Does anyone else like strong hands?

No? Just another of my strange little quirks, perhaps.

His personality is weighted in salesman like shmooze. (Nothing against salesmen, you know, just likening to the stereotype and all).

What I mean is, he could talk his way out of any trouble.

Any at all.

And did I mention the power dressing?

One of my friend’s reckons that is my sole purpose for keeping him as our paed. I have been dazzled by his power shirts! (Purple being one of his favourite power colours).

I can make these observations because I spend so much damn time with the man.

When he comes to visit in the hospital the nurses surround him, like bees to honey.

* and there is much swooning to be had*

There is just something about him. 

Charasmatic springs to mind. (All of the above does not lessen my frustration with him).

While we were in the hospital last, nearly every single nurse, who came near us, told us how (use sing song, lovey dovey voice here) lucky we were to have him for our paed, how delicious he was and how, it was unfortunate that he was married and had a mess of kids because he could park his size 11 boots under their beds any time he wanted!

Oh. Yes. They Did.

Ewwwww.

Not how you want to be thinking about your child’s doctor.

It did get me to thinking though, about personality types and how some people just fit into a group. I think about this alot because it is one of David’s little hobbies and I kind of like people watching and trying to figure out their type too.

Here are the four basic personality types and their traits for you to look at and a couple of links to more involved descriptions.

It’s fun and a little bit wierd working out which type you fall into.

 Taken from Wikipedia;

The assessments classify four aspects of behavior by testing a person’s preferences in word associations (compare with Myers-Briggs Type Indicator). DISC is an acronym for:

• Dominance - relating to control, power and assertiveness
• Influence - relating to social situations and communication
• Steadiness (submission in Marston’s time)- relating to patience, persistence, and thoughtfulness
• Conscientiousness (or caution, compliance in Marston’s time) - relating to structure and organization

These four dimensions can be grouped in a grid with D and I sharing the top row and representing extroverted aspects of the personality, and C and S below representing introverted aspects. D and S then share the left column and represent task-focused aspects, and I and C share the right column and represent social aspects. In this matrix, the vertical dimension represents a factor of “Assertive” or “Passive”, while the horizontal represents “Open” vs. “Guarded”. ^[3]

• Dominance: People who score high in the intensity of the ‘D’ styles factor are very active in dealing with problems and challenges, while low D scores are people who want to do more research before committing to a decision. High “D” people are described as demanding, forceful, egocentric, strong willed, driving, determined, ambitious, aggressive, and pioneering. Low D scores describe those who are conservative, low keyed, cooperative, calculating, undemanding, cautious, mild, agreeable, modest and peaceful.
• Influence: People with High I scores influence others through talking and activity and tend to be emotional. They are described as convincing, magnetic, political, enthusiastic, persuasive, warm, demonstrative, trusting, and optimistic. Those with Low I scores influence more by data and facts, and not with feelings. They are described as reflective, factual, calculating, skeptical, logical, suspicious, matter of fact, pessimistic, and critical.
• Steadiness:(Submission in Marston’s time): People with High S styles scores want a steady pace, security, and don’t like sudden change. Low S intensity scores are those who like change and variety. High S persons are calm, relaxed, patient, possessive, predictable, deliberate, stable, consistent, and tend to be unemotional and poker faced. People with Low S scores are described as restless, demonstrative, impatient, eager, or even impulsive.
• Conscientious: (Compliance in Marston’s time): Persons with High C styles adhere to rules, regulations, and structure. They like to do quality work and do it right the first time. High C people are careful, cautious, exacting, neat, systematic, diplomatic, accurate, tactful. Those with Low C scores challenge the rules and want independence and are described as self-willed, stubborn, opinionated, unsystematic, arbitrary, and careless with details

http://en.wikipedia.org:80/wiki/Four_Temperaments Describes where personality traits originated from.

http://www.personalitypage.com/high-level.html   This is a fantastic site. The labels below come from this site and give the best overall description of type.

The paed is a high ‘I’ with bits of ‘C’ and ‘D’ ‘The Inspirer’

David is  is a mix of  ‘C’ and ‘S’  mostly, ‘C’ and maybe some ‘D’ as well. Known as ‘The Mechanic’

Me?

Dave thinks I am firstly an ‘S’ with some ‘C’ and ‘I’ thrown in there. ‘The Nurturer’

Obviously not many people would fall into the exact categories and there are some variants but that is where the fun really begins.

So, what type are you? Go and work it out and then tell me!

Then I will give you all an Ivy update as we just spent the morning with ‘The Inspirer’ and I know you are all just dying to know where we are headed next!

We are supposed to be going to a wedding this weekend but I haven’t seen my friend for so long now, I feel that I shouldn’t go. Besides that, when I think about getting out amongst people my heart jumps into my throat. The thought of mingling with other people makes me nervous.

Sick nervous.

It hasn’t always been this way. I used to be a social creature, who needed to get out and be with others but as I become increasingly overwhelmed with Ivy’s illness I feel ’safer’, for want of a better word, staying at home.

Don’t get me wrong, I still get out. I have to. The kids have after school activities and of course there are all the doctor’s appointments but when it comes to being social, I suck.

Alot.

I used to be good at holding a conversation, making my thoughts and ideas known but now I find it is easier to be quiet.

It seems the phobia for staying inside has made all my other little quirks twice as bad.

I worry about what I say, I think what comes out of my mouth sounds weird or unimportant or just plain dumb.

I worry what I look like to others. That I am not good enough in some way.

I just worry.

Weird, I know.

The sad thing is, it’s starting to be more than just around strangers.

My family, my friends, in particular, my own husband, who I have known for years and knows me inside and out, I suddenly feel inadequate around.  Like nothing I say holds any interest. I feel like I’ve said it all and I’ve exhausted all new avenues of conversation without sounding like a total train wreck.

It’s better to just be quiet.

I’m really struggling. (insert nervous laugh and wonder if I am divulging too much of my inner thoughts to even the most forgiving of universes).

Psychotic?

No…maybe…I don’t know anymore.

In losing myself, through having to give up work and being confined, often, to the four walls of a hospital room, I have just lost my confidence in who I am, I think.

Maybe I just need a holiday, time to reassess.

Also, a period of wellness for Ivy might be good.

Might help.

I am typing at the kitchen table waiting for another friend to arrive with lunch and I feel as though I am going to throw up. Try as I might to deter her from ‘doing lunch’ she is insistant that we catch up. I cancelled my going to her house (she is a chef) and so she is bringing lunch here.

Part of me is very grateful to have such a wonderful friend, who will go the extra mile for me but another part is worried that I am not good enough for her…for anyone, really.

My maternal grandmother had very bad agoraphobia in the last years of her life. It makes me think that maybe there is a little mental health issue going on here and that a trip to the prescriber of the crazy pills might not be such a bad idea.

Ugh, I don’t know.

Do you have funny quirks and phobias?

Please tell and make an old shut - in feel better.

For as long as I can remember I have carried the extra kilos, have never been the skinny girl, never will.

School was a tragic affair of teasing and bullying. There were things that happened in the playground that I will carry with me forever.

Like that teacher in the forth grade who made ‘Boom Boom’ sounds (to the jeers and applause of the sporty kids) as I thundered down the run to the long jump pit in a bid to participate in the compulsory sports day.

Or the fifth grade dance item I was not allowed to participate in because my being large detracted from the overall effect of the dance of the Maypole.

Or the time the sixth graders tripped me and pulled down my underwear so that everyone could see how large my backside actually was.

Ah good times, my friends, good times.

Things were not much better in highschool, although going to an all girls school taught me that cruelty was possible in stealth mode and that you could be mean in a really passive aggressive way.

I could go into how my father’s stock standard line for me, that I looked like the side of a house, or even more bluntly that I was fat and ugly and that he was embarrassed to walk down the street with me, made things thousands of times worse but that would just be laying the blame on someone who can’t defend their actions (read dead) and besides that I’m all about taking responsibility for my own choices.

And I chose to put the food in my mouth. I made the wrong food choices, for whatever reasons.

As an adult it has taken me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin.

My first diet was when I was eight and I have yo - yo - ed ever since.

I ballooned out to a massive 134kg then took control and lost 58kg and then put it all back on again post death of baby and then lost 40kgs of that so that I could fall pregnant again. I have only lost a minimal amount since birthing for the last time but I am ok with that for now.

I am a big girl and that sits okay with me for the first time ever.

When I say okay, I mean I sometimes look in the mirror and don’t like what I see and tell myself I need to do something about it but mostly, I just accept that this is me and go with it.

Motherhood has changed my body in ways I never thought possible. My wobbly bits got wobblier and I have lumps and bumps that would make any plastic surgeon shudder (either that or have them rubbing their hands in anticipated millions with all the work that needed to be done to achieve anything resembling a ‘normal’ body).

I think becoming a mother has also changed my perspective on body image and that is why I am okay with being larger than the average Australian gal.

As a mum, (and a larger mum, with multiple food issues) I have worked really hard to teach the girls about right choices, exercise and everything in moderation. I’ve tried to teach them that everyone is different and that is okay. I’ve taught them about genetics and how their parentage plays a big role in their DNA and that they need to take that into consideration when choosing the food they put into their bodies. Immy and Maddy have been taught about fat cell lay down early in life and how these will be filled as they become adolescents, in anticipation for their child bearing years.

An interesting side to this was how society has changed but the human body has not evolved along with it.

I’ve tried to teach the kids about teasing and how even a tiny little thing can stay with a person forever, wounding them deeply. (Imogen understands, she has endured alot of teasing about her teeth in the past).

I am proud that my girls are in the right weight range for their height. I have worked hard to get them there. Okay, they are bigger than some of the girls in their year. The girls who are allowed to diet (mine aren’t), the girls who are small by genetics (my aren’t), the girls who are still riding on that fast childhood metabolism (I never let that be a chance to be less vigilant).

I am proud that the kids accept that people come in all different shapes and sizes. To me that is the most important thing.

I have to say though that I am saddened and disappointed, after all that hard work, that a teacher would make a remark, one single remark, that one of my girls was ‘big’.

With that, it has brought about requests to limit calories and has made my girls doubt themselves, it has rocked the named ‘big’ girl’s confidence to the very core.

I am angry.

I have pondered why I am so angry for a while.

Is it because of my own struggles with rude comments made by adults who were supposed to help to build my confidence and a happy, healthy me?

Is it because I don’t want my kids to ever feel the way I did? Maybe because I know what it feels like.

Is it because I feel that my own choices now reflect on my children?

Maybe it’s because I think it’s wrong that someone as influential as a teacher makes those judgement calls, those life altering words that will sting forever.

What right did this person have to do that? She must think herself pretty perfect to be able to say that to an almost 12 year old.

Maybe it’s for all the above reasons and that it hurt my girl and that it hurt me.

The question now is; what am I going to do about it?

Aside from damage control from my side, should I kick up a fuss at the school?

So.

Doormats.

Suggested as a varying topic by the ever inspiring Mr Lady.

Because talking about my kids is so boring and because I supposedly need to vary my context, so as not to lose readers and because I don’t think I could write a whole post about her other suggestion (I still don’t really understand the term asshat) and, well, because doormats are really rivetting.

Really.

Doormats are wiry and most often brown.

Sometimes you can get fancy shmancy doormats with cows and flowers on them or words like ‘welcome’ or ‘go away’ printed on them amongst the flowers and cows.

They are good at wiping cr*p off your feet before you come inside.

We go through doormats like there is no tomorrow.

Sometimes because there are alot of feet wiping their crud onto said doormat.

Sometimes because a dog (or dogs) think it will make good chewing material.

Sometimes because the lady of the house grabs it, because it is the first thing that comes to hand, when she wants to protect herself from the world’s biggest Huntsman spider!

Sometimes.

Ahem…

Doormats make good lap - laps when kids want to dress up like their indigenous brothers of years gone by. You can even cut doormats into shapes with your mother’s good sewing scissors (that are now good for nothing, not even paper cutting because of above mentioned doormat shaping).

You can take a doormat anywhere.

Even camping and when you forget the doormat (and the lady of the house refuses to be treated as one), doormats are inexpensive and go a long way to placating husbands with OCD problems.

Just trust me on that one, ok?

You can talk to a doormat and they won’t answer you back  or tease you because you hate spiders and they certainly won’t bring the, now captured, Huntsman back inside and wave it in front of your face. Doormats don’t get off on seeing their primary care provider scream and wet their pants.  They accept all phobias with grace and style.

Doormats don’t get up at the crack of dawn and demand shakeys or sandwiches. In fact, doormats are a very cheap eat and they respect the need for sleep.

Doormats don’t travel in packs like trolleys do.

Doormats are an entity unto themselves.

They may be brown, shaggy and ugly but you have to respect the doormat.

Doormats cannot take blood from toddlers though and it seems that phlebotomists don’t want to do it either unless there are two of them there to ogle said toddler. It’s not like they have to do any of the holding down and/or soothing of the child. The mother (who often feels like a doormat) does all that.

It seems that policy states that toddler blood cannot be drawn without two technicians there. So, when one tech calls in sick and is not replaced by the area health system, toddler blood will not be taken. Period.

Doormats don’t get sick and they don’t fall back on policy and procedure when it all gets too hard. They just do their job.

Doormats don’t tell the mother to go to another pathology unit over an hour away on the off chance that there will be two techs there.

Doormats would be more steadfast and helpful when blood work needs to be done on a certain day. If they knew how to draw blood.

Actually, some sharp doormats can draw blood. Just ask my kids.