When Lily excuses herself to go to the bathroom at dinnertime and she can barely get the words out for all of the casserole she has crammed down the side of her mouth, I know exactly what she is going to do.

You do too.

She is going to spew that ‘hours over a hot stove’ meal right into the big white telephone.

“Helloooooo”.

I’m not an idiot.

I know the plan because

I used to do it too.

Now, Mum, I know you are reading this and I don’t want any comments from you,

M’kay?

I hear your distress at my failing to eat what you put in front of me.

I do.

Karma has bitten me on the bum seven fold, if you get what I mean.

For me, it was broad beans.

Ugh.

What is the deal with those things?

They taste like wood or something else that I can’t quite put my finger on because I don’t eat it on a regular basis…

Oh yeah, poo.

They taste like poo.

(Sorry to any BB lovers, or for that matter anyone, who might have a love for anything faecal).

They just don’t do anything for me.

So, the broad beans were flushed, often along with brussel sprouts.

This story is not about that though.

This is the tale of the ham steaks.

A story I told my kids in true mummy/child confidentiality, only to have it relayed straight back to the one person I never wanted to find out.

My mother.

It goes like this;

Tuesday night was bowling night and we were fed early. It was my mother’s one night to go out and get away from my father have some time out.

Every week we would have the same thing.

Ham steaks, pineapple, cheese and salad (or vegies in winter).

Tuesday night was Ham Steak Night.

Mum would serve us up and go for a shower, trusting us to eat our meals in doing so. You can imagine that after a while we got a bit sick of it (being kids and all and not stopping for one moment to think about anything other than ourselves).

During this period of our lives, we had acquired a red kelpie dog, who we had named Toffee. That dog was not meant for suburban life at all. In fact I’m not sure where she belonged because she was a tree climbing, fence jumping, runaway tear - arse of a dog, who was cunning in avoiding capture when she escaped the yard. She thought she was some kind of bird, I’m sure.

Always flying the coop.

She was, of course a working dog and would try to round us up, any chance she got, like sheep into a holding fence, ready for the dip. She could leap especially high and this was a great source of amusement to three children with a less than stellar childhood.

The dog was alwaysat our feet around dinner time and was a die hard carnivore, often stealing meat from preparatory areas before the cooking had begun.

So when we discovered that ham steaks made especially good frisbees, Toffee was there to play fetch.

Except she didn’t fetch…

and the ham steaks didn’t come back.

We would fling the round slabs of meat high into the air, often obtaining some mad spinning pizza action mid throw. Toffee would leap, her svelte, red body almost folding in two as she twisted and turned to snare the much desired lump of ham. She would seemingly inhale the steak just before the next was hurled.

Of course dinner was dutifully finished, not a trace of ham to be found and we were toted as angels for having eaten quickly and quietly…

and she never found out

until the traitors gave it away.

I’m thinking a little payback is in order… ham steaks, anyone?

Imogen’s time for braces has come.

Yesterday she went down to the Children’s Hospital and had spacers placed on her back  molars. Ironically her molars are overcrowded, where, in the front, she has small and missing teeth, leaving huge spaces in between each one. It hurt her, alot. They had to prise her molars apart to wedge the little round spacers in. Next week, there should be enough space for the metal rings for the braces to be placed.

I have never had to have braces, actually, I’ve never even had a filling, so I have no understanding of what my girl has had to go through thus far.

David has and does and has told me so many horror stories.

They filed his teeth down!

Filed. Them. Down!

Owwwwwie. No wonder he is petrifiied of the dentist.

The kids at school used to call her ‘crocodile teeth’ because, when you have Ectodermal Dysplasia, your teeth form in a conical shape. (David used to be called wolf boy for the same reason). When she was nine the dentist capped and reshaped some of her front teeth, so that they were square. As a result, she was a much happier girl.

I guess some things have changed since David was little.

Now we have come to the next phase. The braces will go on next Monday and stay on for about two years. Then they will build her teeth up and place titanium implants to encourage tooth regrowth.

The end result should be wonderful.

We fails it (it is staying out of hospital).

 Yes, Ivy has returned to hospital today. Just in time for the long weekend. So it’s a good thing we didn’t make any plans.  Besides, the weather is lousy.

A lingering infection, unresponsive to oral antibiotics. Also murmurs of a new immunosuppressant drug to try … if we dare.

 Yet her spirit remains indomitable. As I arrived at her bedside from work this arvo, she looked up from her entertainment facilities; a big grin as she sees me, then holds up her cannulated, splinted and bandaged forearm for me to see and exclaims “It’s all better!”

 Tiff has taken the first bedside shift, leaving me free to heard the rest of the tribe home and into bed, before embarking on the evenings hectic blog maintenance schedule.

 And the latest telephone report from Tiff: As at 10pm, the weekend warrior doctors have arrived and are already cancelling and re-charting Ivy’s meds.

It goes like this:

Child sent to hospital at the end of the week. Majority of doctors (including ours) shoot through sometime late Thursday/early Friday to go skiing, hobby farming or whatever it is successful doctors do on weekends. Junior Registrar comes on duty. Reviews childs’ notes and test results. Proposes a reasonable sounding treatment plan for the next 12 hours. Runs it by their supervisor over the phone. Supervisor rejects plan and orders something completely different. Reg is embarased and unconvinced but has no option but to follow orders. If on-call senior attending even bothers to turn up to review the situation (never before 9am the next day), justifies their decision with a haughty lecture of my-gut-instinct-beats-scientific-process-any-day and other such FIGJAM puffery.

 Remarkable.

 Now, where’s my shotgun?

Sorry, I forget myself.

Sheesh, it’s not like we’re living in Bundy, is it?

-DBT.

I love my kids!

They rock and they totally made  my day, made everything okay, if just for a small moment in time. The belly laugh was SO needed.

Malachy is globally developmentally delayed. He has autistic tendencies.

He handled his hospital party with the style and grace of a child with such issues. He totally ignored the party and played with a helicopter instead!

When he arrived on our doorstep he had two words. ‘Mum’ and ‘No’. He was three. He spent alot of time on the ground, trying to ignore the world. He had an obsession with wheels. The girls were often upset that their doll prams had been tipped on their sides, with wheels furiously spinning.

He was aggressive and angry with everyone. Frustrated that he could not communicate his needs to us.

Such was life with Mal.

Now he is ten.

Mal has been on a huge journey of learning and for us, it has been a journey of the heart.

One of acceptance and love.

He can talk in sentences and follow direction, he has learned to run, jump, ride a scooter. He can sing with the best of them (and holds a mean tune). He interacts with the other children and takes part in everyday life.

Things we were not sure he would ever be able to do, when he first came to live with us, he has achieved with determination.

In our eyes he is an amazing human being.

(I have been given permission by management to set foot on the blog again for the sole purpose of the provision of information. In no way is any entertainment to be imparted.) 

As of Friday last, Ivy has returned to hospital, following a timely Paed consult.

Symptoms: Cyanosis (lips, fingers), Shortness of breath, Rapid pulse.

 Diagnosis: Acquired Methemoglobinemia.

No, I cannot pronounce it for you.

 Look it up, if you will.

 Ivy’s methemoglobin concentration peaked at just below 20%.

After 36 hours of 02 therapy and regular arterial blood gas monitoring (Don’t she love that), She appears to be improving.

If all goes well, she might be home Monday or Tuesday.

Immy: “No, don’t do that Noah, that hurts Immy.”

Noah: ” No”

Immy: “I won’t play with you if you are going to do that”.

Noah: (increasingly angrier) “NO”!

Immy: “Oh well, I will just have to…”

Noah (interjecting and pointing to Immy) : “NO!! You in time out”!!!

Why do neighbours who are way past their prime, insist on having loud night sex with their harem of  locals, just outside our bedroom window? At 11:30 pm, no less. Hasn’t anyone heard of the ‘not after 11pm sex policy’ in the boonies? And do they care?

Why do children and husbands pick long trips down in the car to discuss sewerage trucks? Why are sewerage trucks called honey wagons and why is the connector tubing on the truck clear?

Did you know that when you do a spellcheck on email, it doesn’t recognise the word blog? It keeps telling me to change it to bog. David thinks my spellcheck is trying to tell me something! Hmmph!!!

Noah (sctatching vigorously): “I have fleas. I need a bath!”

  gotfleas.mp3   for those of you who want to hear the evidence. Oh and give it a minute, he needs time to warm up!

The honest truth is, I didn’t feel much.

Anger springs to mind.

Hurt, betrayal, yes but anger was definitely the predominant feeling for the day.

He treated me badly in life and in death, it is no different.

This could be the post where I tell you about my Evil Step Mother (ESM) and poo poo her name, the solicitors who represented her (for want of being sued myself) and my father for being such an idiot as to trust such a manipulative, greedy woman but it’s not going to be.

Instead this is a post of restored faith in humanity…

Some of you may have found Lou’s blog. If you haven’t go and look. He is well worth it.  This post is for him.

So, the tale of the Tootsie Rolls goes like this;

I was looking around Julie’s blog and I read that she was addicted to Tootsie Rolls. I asked her what a Tootsie Roll was and before I could close the comments window, a message flew into my mailbox.

It was from Lou.

You don’t know what a Tootsie roll is? Let me send you some and you will die and go to heaven. (Paraphrasing, ok?)

His only ask?

Photos of the kids enjoying their first ever Tootsie Roll.

They arrived yesterday.

Before I give you all a glimpse into our new heaven, I just want to say to Lou;

Thank You.

At a time when I was feeling very spare about the good of the human race, you have not only introduced and addicted my children (ok and David and I too) to the chocolatey goodness that is the TR but you brought, to me, a reminder that there are so many good people on this earth.

You sir, are one of them.

A simple gesture to some but for me, last week it meant so much.

On with the show…

We opened the parcel and this is what we saw.

Maddy waited patiently while everyone else finished dinner.  That first bite!

Heaven…

is a Tootsie Roll after a shower…

She has her mouth full and I can still see a wisp of a smile.

Even the boy agreed to have his photo taken, he was enjoying it that much.

The building pile. 

Ivy had to make good with gluten free dairy free chocolate. If you could call anything of that description chocolate. Anyway, she enjoyed the TR party,  just without the TR.

. 

Noah was  mortified when I packed them away! Thank you Lou!

‘These balls are sticky’. (snigger, snigger, snigger).

‘My, those are big balls. It says your balls should be no bigger than golf ball size’.

‘Those are my balls! Don’t touch my balls!’ (Big twins enter into a Beavis and Butthead type chuckle)…

Heh

Heh Heh

Heh he heh

You said balls!

BALLS!

Hehe heh heh!

‘Wow! These balls have nuts in them.’ (Father falls to the floor in gaffaw, disbelieving that his ‘innocen’t almost 12 year olds could be so… worldly).

‘Mum, are you going to deep fry everyone’s balls?’ *giggle, snigger, snort*

‘Is that enough balls’?

‘You can never have enough balls’!

‘What is the difference between Italian balls and normal balls’?

‘Italian balls are spicy’.

I was talking about FOOD people, get your minds out of the gutter.

Food, I tell you.

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

Ivy’s bottom blistered up over the weekend and on the Sunday we phoned the paed. He started to discuss logistics until we started asking questions.

Why did we need to do this again?

Would it definitely give us a diagnosis and would we be able to move forward after this?

When he couldn’t answer, David said that we did not want to go ahead with the biopsy and that we wanted another opinion with an immunologist.

We said we didn’t want to put her through more pain.

It was wrong.

Just to do it, so they could experiment on her body.

He reluctantly agreed.

Once upon a time there were two parents of many children, who finally grew a pair!

To be continued…

Hurting over the insinuations of Ivy’s colonoscopy reults.

Even though I have been cleared.

Last night it was all I could think about.

Here’s the thing,

I was abused.

Take that for what you will.

The foster boys, who are in my care, were abused.

I have spent my whole adult life running from parts of my childhood. Trying to be the best at being a mother, trying to be as unlike my father as I could.

 My own mum did the very best she could for us and she was, and still is, my world.

Being a great Mum is my everything.

When you come from a childhood that was dysfunctional, you do all you can to get as far away from that as possible, or, you can become a repeat offender. The stats are there. Sadly, many who are treated badly turn around and do the same thing to the next generation.

I do not want to be included in that group of statistics.

Ever.

So to have someone make that suggestion…

it’s like something inside me has died.

I will be second guessing my actions and scrutinising everything I do for the rest of my life and it feels as though everyone else will be watching now too, waiting for me to slip up.

That can’t be good can it?

That can’t be normal.

It has taken such a long time to trust myself and others.

Where do I stand now?