My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birth

I rarely talk about the birth of my third child. I did, however, include it in the book that was never published. And after Lana raised the issue of birth this week, I decided to haul it out and share it with the world. Be warned. It's traumatic.

 

My caesarean section was bizarre. There was no labour, no pushing, no transition, no process. One moment I was pregnant, and then, within a few minutes, I wasn’t. And there was my daughter, beautiful and healthy, emerging from the other side of the screen.

The baby was cleaned up, and shortly afterwards we both returned to my room. After twenty minutes or so my mum brought my big kids in to the hospital to meet their baby sister. Photos were taken and phone calls were made. I was light headed, but calm, and glad to have my daughter safe in my arms.

Then they left, and it was just my (then) husband, me and the baby. And suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so great. My stomach hurt, and it was grossly distended. And when the nurse came in to check my pad she noticed that my legs and my gown were soaked with blood.

 

“We’ll need to keep an eye on this,” she said, and I felt a tinge of alarm.

“Is everything okay?” 

“I’m just going to give your stomach a massage to help move some of these clots,” she told me.

“So I’ll be okay after that?”

The nurse just smiled. She massaged my stomach, but it was agonisingly painful.

“Stop!” I cried. “It hurts!”

“I’ll get you another shot of morphine,” she said, and left the room. My husband looked worried, and he never looked worried.

I counted the minutes until the nurse returned. By the time she gave me my shot, my pad was drenched again.

“I think we need to call the doctor,” my husband said.

“I’ll call the registrar,” the nurse told him.

“Call Kerri’s specialist,” my husband shouted after her, but she had already left the room.

Around twenty minutes later, an unfamiliar doctor pushed his way through the curtains. He looked about fifteen. I felt woozy, and my stomach was still sore.

“I’m Dr Amira, the registrar,” he announced briskly. “I’m just going to check your stomach.”

He felt around my stomach and I winced. Then he checked my pad. More bright blood.

The doctor chewed his lip, furrowed his brow and made some notes in my file.

“I want you to call Dr H,” my husband said.

Dr Amira paused. “We don’t disturb the specialists unless there is an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. My wife is bleeding.”

The young registrar looked profoundly uneasy. “Let’s give it another hour and see how she is, shall we?”

“Call him right now or I will go downstairs and page him myself,” my husband hissed at him.

Just then, my mobile phone rang. It was my son, calling me from my mother’s house.

“Hi Mum. How’s the baby?” asked my beautiful son.

“She’s good darling,” I said. “How are you?”

He answered, but I kept losing track of his words. I tried very hard to focus, but I felt like I was floating away. It’s the morphine, I thought. The drugs are making me fuzzy.

My son was saying something about homework and bedtime, but I couldn’t understand him. And I felt strange. Very strange. I was staring down a narrow tunnel, and I was being sucked into its vortex.

I was fading. I felt it. I was fading.

“I have to go now darling,” I said, and I let the phone slide from my hand.

Suddenly there was a commotion. People gathering around. Loud voices, needles being stuck into my arm, thermometers in my ear. I floated in and out of the scene, trying to stay awake. And yet, even though I was losing consciousness – even though my eyes kept drifting closed – I was panicked in every fibre of my being.

I was haemorrhaging both internally and externally and I could do nothing to save my own life. I was completely in the hands of the medical team, and they had not inspired me with confidence. I could feel myself dying. It was my worst nightmare coming true. I was dying. I was going to die.

I didn’t think of the new baby, who wasn’t even real to me at that stage. And I didn’t think of my husband, although he was standing there next to me. I thought of my parents, who had just lost their only other child. And I thought of my older two children, and how lost they would be without me.

“You don’t understand!” I screamed to the registrar. “You can’t let me die! YOU CAN’T LET ME DIE!”

The registrar spoke firmly, but I could hear the unease in his voice. “Please try to stay calm, Kerri. We’ve called Dr H. He should be here any moment. Just hang on.”

Hang on? HANG ON? What was I supposed to hang on to???

And then I saw the most wonderful vision appear before me. My white haired obstetrician materialised in my room. He was already in his scrubs.

“We’re taking you straight back to theatre,” he said briskly, and laid a reassuring hand on my arm as the staff began wheeling my bed out the door.

“Am I going to die?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t let you.”
 

 Here is the discussion with Lana that triggered this post. More to come.

  

What IS It With Men & Hair?

The other day I got my hair cut. It's not a big deal. I didn't get a buzz cut, or a mohawk, or - god forbid - a mullet. I got a fairly standard, chin length, concave bob; you know, shorter in the back, slightly longer in the front. My hair is curly so it bounces up. But it's not that short, and it wasn't that drastic a cut, and at the end of the day it's just hair.

So why did my husband freak out so much?

Okay, he didn't exactly 'freak out'. He didn't cry or throw things or rent his clothes or tear his hair or run of the house screaming 'WHY, KERRI? WHYYYYYYYYY?'

If my husband had his way.....

But he did look horrified.

"I hate it," he said to me. "I hate it!"

I shrugged. "I really like it," I told him. "And there's nothing I can do now, anyway."

"Grow it!" he pleaded, despairingly. "I want you to grow it back! Now!"

My husband is 46 years old and has a masters degree. I hadn't anticipated his faulty grasp of the laws of biology and physics, but it's always interesting to learn new things about your partner.

"You do know hair doesn't grow six inches overnight?" I asked him.

"I can't look at you," he cried. "I'm not going to look at you till it grows back!"

"Okay!" I said. I poked him in the chest. He looked at me. I giggled.

Since getting my hair cut I've discovered that many men seem overly invested in their partner's tresses. They become distressed or unsettled if she cuts her hair significantly, with the level of upset proportionate to the number of inches trimmed. It's like a Rapunzel complex, only without the eternal youth, and I have to wonder what it's all about.

Perhaps men subconsciously link their own masculinity to the length of their partner's locks. Or perhaps some primal instant links long hair with fertility and the ability to skin and cook a woolly mammoth. Or perhaps they just like to see hair on the pillow that's not theirs. I DON'T KNOW.

All I know is that I love my new hair. And my husband seems to be getting used to it. Or at least, he's stopped talking about how little hair I have. Which is good. Very good. Because once we're on that topic, let me just say....

You Want Schnitzels? Go Pound Yourself.

My husband is a very easy man to please – gastronomically, anyway. He loves every meat, as long as it’s schnitzel, and every vegetable on earth, if it’s potato, and fried. And even though I hate cooking at the best of time, and schnitzels are the messiest, splatteriest, most annoying things to make, my greatest joy is pleasing my husband*. 

So every now and then, I will buy a mountain of chicken, and a huge pile of veal, and fry up enough schnitzels to last the year. Or at least feed my husband for a week or two.

Last night was one of those nights. I prepped the kitchen, pouring a mound of flour on one plate, a mound of breadcrumbs on another, and a bowl of whisked eggs in the middle. Then I added my secret ingredient , love (using ‘love’ in the sense of ‘combination of herbs, spices and salt’), and began pounding the meat.

Totally (not) my schnitzel

Now, let me tell you: I don’t like pounding the meat. Bits of chicken spray gets into my hair, and tiny shreds of veal get up my nose, and the whole thing is sickly carnivorous and gross. And then my five year old needed a bath, and my husband took ages to come and get her, and it was totally unfair because I was cooking him bloody schnitzels and the very least he could do was take one third of our joint offspring off my hands.

So I kept on pounding the meat, hard. Like, really hard. I wasn’t just pounding that meat. I was pounding my husband, and the bits of chicken spray in my hair, and the veal in my nose, and the whole unfairness of my life, of having to spend hours messing up my kitchen only to spend hours cleaning it up again when everyone around me just hung about taking it easy. I pounded and pounded until the kids became alarmed and my husband appeared before me.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily, looking as anxious as if I was wielding a mallet in my hands, which, of course, I was.

“I’m making you schnitzels,” I yelled.  “And you’ve forgotten about the bath!”

“I just ran it,” he said carefully. “Um... I think the chicken is ready.”

I looked down. The piece of chicken was in tatters. There would be no schnitzel for this particular bit of bird. There wasn’t even enough left for a nugget.

Chastened, I continued to prepare the rest of the meat. I dunked and I dipped and I rolled and I fried, and then I presented my family with a nutritious meal (using ‘nutritious’ in the sense of ‘containing trace amounts of protein amongst lots and lots of oil’). And then I sat down at the table with my own nutritious meal of Gin and Tonic and a slice of cheese (because I never wanted to look at schnitzel again), before rising seven minutes later to start cleaning.

It took one and a half hours. And another glass of gin.

My husband can be a very easy man to please. But next time he wants pleasure in the kitchen, he’s going to have to bite the bullet, and damn well please himself.

*Okay, so it’s maybe not my greatest joy, but it’s certainly up there in my top fifty.

When Is It Too Late?

When I was born, I was born with flat ears. My mum had sticky-out ears (still does) and was thrilled to note that her first-born daughter did not suffer from the same affliction.

But somehow, fairly soon into my life as a human person, my ears sprung out from their position neatly against my head, and assumed the shape they have held ever since - my right ear at around 45 degrees from my scalp, and my freakish left ear more like 85.

Can't really miss it

My sticky-out ear has bothered me for as long as I can remember. When my hair is down, it is well disguised, but when my hair is up, or pushed away from my face, it is out there boldly on display. When I look at photos, I inevitably catch a glimpse of my ear poking through my curls, or jutting out jauntily to wave at the world. 

I have frequently told my mother off for not getting my ears pinned back when I was a child.

"Well, do it now!" she tells me cheerily (which is a deflection from her own culpability if ever I heard one).

And I think about doing it now. I scrape my hair back from my head and hold my ears back with my fingers and marvel at how different - how much more sophisticated - I look. Or I stick them back with blu-tac and parade around for my husband.

"You really do look different," he told me the other day. "Maybe you should go and get them pinned back."

"Really?" I asked incredulously. My husband has always claimed that my ears don't bother him. 

"Sure," he said. "And you can get your boobs done while you're at it!" He laughed and I rolled my eyes. Perhaps he wasn't the best one to ask.

But truly, I'm in a dilemma. Not, as you might think, because I'm in two minds about the actual procedure. Ear correction surgery, or otoplasty, is very, very low risk, and can even be performed without general anaesthetic. It's not dangerous, it's not particularly expensive, and there is virtually no recovery period. There is nothing stopping me from having it tomorrow.

What bothers me is a different dilemma. And it's my age. 

I am forty-four years old and have got to this stage in my life with one remarkably sticky-out ear. And whilst a part of me longs to experience life with a nice flat ear, a huge part of me feels that I'm too old. I've only got forty or fifty years left on this earth - why bother altering my appearance at this advanced age? How will it change my life? And even if it will change my life for the better, is there any point when said life is already half way over?

But then that makes me sad. Sad because I'm not opening myself up to the possibility of change just because of my age (even if that change is just to the shape of my ear). Sad because I feel like I've given up the right to shake up my life because it's half way over. And - more significantly - if I feel that way about my ear, then surely that translates to other areas of my life as well: my relationships, my career, the way I think and operate as a person.

So this post is not really about plastic surgery. It is about age, and new beginnings, and when it is time to accept our lot in life, and when it is still okay to change and to grow. Is it ever too late to turn things around? Is it ever too late to pursue a dream?

I'm still no closer to sorting out the ear dilemma. I don't know whether I'll go through life like this, or whether I'll turn around one day and get the surgery. But it's certainly got me thinking about life in general, and about aging in particular. 

You?

The Accidental Drunk

So last night I accidentally got drunk. And when I say that, I don't mean that I accidentally drank too much and ended up inebriated (though of course that's exactly what happened, because there's really no other way one can get drunk, but it was far more complicated than that, and it really wasn't my fault, and... and...  perhaps I should just stop the preamble and get into the story).

As many of you will know, I do tend to have a little drinkie most nights on occasion. Come 5pm 7pm, I am tired from my long, hard day as a Busy Working Mum, and am ready to unwind with a glass of something mood altering. A gin and tonic, a vodka and tonic or a glass of cab sav is enough just to take the edge off my brittle corners and relax me for the evening. I don't get drunk. I don't lose control. I just feel..... ahhhhhhhh.

Of course, there are occasions when I decide to drink a little bit more, but these are few and far between*, and never, never in front of my kids. Trust me - I am unstable enough without alcohol; I don't like to impose my intoxicated self on my offspring.

Sangria. Who knew?

But last night was an accident. You see, last night as usual The Architect and I had no plans, so we decided to take the kids to dinner at a local restaurant. The kids ordered burgers, The Architect ordered something soupy with seafood, and I ordered a healthy chicken salad and a half litre of sangria.

Now, normally I can drink sangria till it's coming out of my ears. A half a litre will barely give me a buzz; it's like pink lemonade, only vaguely ethnic. So I poured myself a huge glass and drank it down on an empty stomach, pronounced it delicious, and then poured another.

And then suddenly the room started to spin. Oh god, I thought. Salt. I needed salt.

"CHIPPIES!" I cried, and fell on my daughter's plate, cramming them into my mouth handfuls at a time.

"Oh dear," said The Architect wearily. He could see the signs.

I leaned in to him earnestly and took his face in my hands. "I don't think I can drive," I told him conspiratorially. "THEY'VE. SPIKED. MY. DRINK."

"It's called 'alcohol'," he said. "Come on kids. Finish your dinner. Mummy's drunk."

"What's the matter?" I asked him, poking him repeatedly in the ribs. "Don't you love me anymore? That makes me so sad. You have to love me! TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!"

"Yes, yes," said the poor man. "Try to calm down."

"I AM CALM!" I cried. "I'M JUST A BIT DRUNK!"

"What's wrong?" asked my son.

"DRUNKETYY DRUNKETYY DRUNK!" I told him, and giggled. My son shrugged.

"Can I have a milkshake Mum?" asked my daughter.

"After a burger and chips?" I exclaimed. "SURE!!!"

The kids beamed. It made me happy. And when I'm happy I want ice cream.

"I WANT ICE CREAM!" I cried. "WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?"

"We want ice cream!" yelled the kids.

"HOORAY!" I cheered.

We finished our meal and The Architect bundled us out of the restaurant. I left my bag inside but quickly remembered when the waitress reminded me. And then The Architect drove us home and I giggled again as I walked inside.

"That was FUN!" I declared. "Now I just need a QUICK LIE DOWN and then I'll PUT THE KIDS TO BED!"

I collapsed on our bed and fell immediately asleep. It was 8.15pm. I woke up this morning at 8.30am, feeling  vibrantly refreshed and craving Vegemite toast.

The Architect, however, looked exhausted. Funny. I thought it was a really relaxing night.

*truly, Al and Val - I hadn't had to ask anyone to take my pants off for me in years

Home. Vodka. Home.

Yesterday was our first full day at home since returning from hell Surfers Paradise. I was looking forward to a relaxing day after the trauma of the recent week.

I was sadly disappointed.

Here is a breakdown of my schedule yesterday. There is a thousand dollar gift voucher for anyone who can pick the moments of 'relaxing' that I actually achieved in the day.

7am - Wake to the sounds of Spongebob Squarepants. Feed & water children, put on 17 billion loads of laundry, unpack suitcases, regard pile of clean laundry to be folded and put away, sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

10am - Book tickets on the internet for son and husband to see The Hobbit at 12.20am. Sweep up rabbit poo and clean the fish tank. Weep for another couple of minutes when I realise a piece of poo has fallen down my tracksuit pants.

11am - Go with husband and 5 year old to visit a friend who is on weekend leave from hospital. Scream in horror at 12am when I realise that the movie starts in twenty minutes and husband and son are not there.

12am - Drive extremely fast safely back home with husband and 5 year old (and, inexplicably, friend's 8 year old daughter) to pick up son. Drive son and husband to movies. Get there only two minutes late. Drive home in cold sweat. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes. Supervise 3 little girls in the pool whilst the pile of laundry grows like the magic fucking pudding.

3pm - Go to pick up husband and son. Stop to pick up house keys from kind friends who were bunny sitting in our absence. Drive back home with husband and son (and, inexplicably, friend's 5 year old daughter). Arrive home. Husband announces he is going to work for a few hours, leaving me alone with five children and a now dangerously teetering mountain of laundry. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

4pm - Realise I am out of some vital supplies such as alcohol, milk, bread, medication, alcohol, fruit, bunny food, and alcohol. Further realise with growing horror that I am trapped in the house with five children. Further realise with tears of fear in my eyes that I will need to take at least two of the children with me to the shops.

5.30pm - Arrive home from Westfield with several bags of shopping, two five year olds high on sugar, and the loss of at least eight years off my life after chasing said five year olds around the supermarket for an hour. Throw some sushi at the kids (who, like the laundry, seem to be multiplying like the magic fucking pudding) and crack open the vodka.

6.30pm - Husband arrives home and enquires politely about dinner. I respond, less politely, and have another vodka.

7pm - I can't remember because VODKA.

8pm - Um... Vodka?

Trampoline of Hell

We've come close in the past but this was the real test. The Architect and I had set aside the day to assemble the new trampoline - one of those Anxious Parent ones with safety nets, and mats over the springs, and zips to make sure the kids don't fall out of the ten centimetre doorway.

The trampoline was a present from my parents for their grandchildren for Chanukah. Chanukah is the Jewish festival of lights, traditionally celebrated with gifts of coins and doughnuts - or, in my offsprings' case, gigantic, expensive trampolines.

The gift was a surprise for my girls, but my 13 year old son was in on it - firstly because he guessed when the truck arrived with a giant box bearing the logo 'Trampoline' (I know, the kid is smart), and secondly because my husband and I were scared to be alone together during the assembly, and needed our son as a referee. So the girls were told that the giant box bearing the logo 'Trampoline' was a 'table', and were shipped off to friends down the road. This wasn't an issue for the 5 year old, who cannot read, but was worrying when accepted by the 11 year old, who clearly either needs remedial English tuition, or is quite frighteningly gullible.

Our trampoline doesn't fly. But it did lean.

The first part of the assembly went very well. We removed all parts of the trampoline from the box and counted the parts carefully. Unfortunately the next part of the assembly - actually assembling the fucking thing - was slightly more complex. It took about 45 minutes to get all the springs into place, and then another 25 minutes to remove all the springs once we realised we were supposed to put the safety net on BEFORE the springs went in. We assembled the poles with the elastics facing in the wrong direction, which means nothing to you but meant something to us when we were unable to hook the net to the poles. And we couldn't screw in the screws properly, because I broke the special screwdriver trying to unhook the prematurely-installed springs.

However, the greatest fail was that of The Architect, who dug a ditch in our uneven garden to level the trampoline's surface. As we don't actually have a shovel, he was forced to do this with a pink plastic spade and a drinking glass. So focused was he on his task that the ditch turned out to be several centimetres too deep, causing the trampoline to lean dangerously to the left.

So the pink plastic spade was re-engaged to fill in the hole, and eventually the trampoline was leveled. And neither my son or I said one word to The Architect about his monumental stuff-up, although we *may* have done an interpretive dance of scorn around our perfectly constructed trampoline.

In the end, though, the girls were thrilled and the assembly was a huge success. My back is broken, The Architect's spirit is crushed, and my son has sworn never to work with us again, but they are but minor hiccups along the path to family bliss.

So Happy Chanukah to all, and may your Christmas presents come pre-assembled. And if they don't, may I suggest that you invest in a spade?

The Reprieve

It was a dark day for us all. The Architect had been sneezing for weeks, and had decided that Hot Cross Bun Bun had to go. One of two rabbits who had replaced dear departed Spunky, Bun Bun is a lop-eared rabbit, who, apparently, is more allergenic than her normal-eared friend Pretzel.

Bun Bun was going back to the store.

My elder daughter wept. My son railed. My youngest daughter danced (she always dances, good or bad news). I seriously considered the prospect of getting rid of The Architect and keeping the bunny. But the bunny has limited earning potential, and so, with heavy heart, I said goodbye.

Bun Bun nervously awaits her fate

I took the girls out as it was too distressing for them to bid farewell to their beloved pet. The Architect and my son took out a box, lined it with straw, and left it out for Bun Bun to jump into.

In a touching moment of selflessness, Pretzel jumped in instead.

He was removed. Bun Bun was placed in the box and hauled off to the pet store.

According to my son, about halfway through the car journey my husband frowned. Apparently, he noticed that he was not sneezing, which was odd, as he was in a confined space with the highly allergenic Bun Bun. In the middle of a main road, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed deeply*.

He did not sneeze.

Clearly, my husband realised, it was the other bunny - the normal-eared bunny - who was the problem.

He turned the car around.

They returned home, swapped Bun Bun for Pretzel, and began driving again to the store.

Again, The Architect did not sneeze. Odd. Very odd.

Again, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed him in the middle of a road. He pulled out bits of fluff and sniffed them. Then, in desperation, he grabbed chunks of bunny straw and sniffed that.

Nothing.

So they drove home again. At this point, my son gave up in disgust and went inside to play computer. Occasionally, he would look out the window to see his father, with a puzzled expression, picking up each bunny in turn and sniffing deeply.

Eventually, The Architect conceded that he is not allergic to either bunny** and that he just has hay fever. So Bun Bun was saved, and Pretzel has her friend back.

And I did a happy dance of I Told You So. Yes, it was a good day indeed.

*Please note that there is currently no law prohibiting a driver of a motor vehicle holding a bunny

**As I have been suggesting for weeks

Why My Husband Has To Go

I love my husband. I do. Okay, so The Architect and I have a tumultuous relationship, and I *may* have once thrown an orange in his general direction, but we have been together for a hundred years and I never expected that we would part.

But something has changed. Another woman has come between us. A girl, really. A pretty white girl, with blue eyes and ears that are - believe it or not - even bigger than mine. She is here with us, every single day. We can't go on forever like this. So a choice will have to be made.

Now, obviously, my husband wants the girl to go. He has been here longer, and feels like he shouldn't have to leave his own family. But I'm in two minds. For one thing, she is sooooo cute. For another thing, the kids are really attached to her, and while they totally love their dad too, it seems just cruel to break their hearts.

Artist's impression of The Architect leaving home (except The Architect wears black)

And it's not Bun Bun's fault that she makes The Architect sneeze. After all, Spunky (RIP) didn't do so. And Pretzel, Bun Bun's cage-mate, is not allergenic at all. How were we to know that the flat-eared bunnies are a different breed altogether, and have the capacity to make a grown man expel his very soul from his nostrils night after night after night?

My husband thinks it is best to send Bun Bun away now, before the kids learn to love her even more. But Bun Bun is part of the family now. She is another child. And you can't send your child away. What's more, Bun Bun doesn't have the capacity to reason, and won't understand why she is being rejected from her home. She could be permanently scarred. Or at least miss that bloody great hole she's dug under the cupboard.

The Architect, on the other hand, can reason and understand. He will know that it's nothing personal, that it is just a clash of allergans, and that someone has to go. He will regroup, and move on with his life. And we will visit him, of course, after we've all changed our clothes and had showers to remove any last bits of fluff from our bodies.

Still, he is fighting to stay, and it's going to get ugly. The only solution may be for the kids and rabbits and I to leave, and let The Architect stay in the house. He designed it, after all.

It will need a very good cleaning, though. That rabbit fur is EVERYWHERE.

Sex. On A Plane. Interrupted. By My Husband.

I have written in the past about my imaginary friend Cherie and her totally inappropriate sex dreams. Well, I don't know what Cherie was up to this morning, but I was sure having a doozy. Because when my husband woke me up at 5.20am by turning on the TV*, he disturbed one of the most fantastic dreams I've had in a long time.

And it was about a man I find extremely unattractive.

Except, clearly, in my subconscious.

Actually, the dream was about two men. Three, if you count my husband (which, if you were conducting a census, you would). One of the men is someone I do find quite attractive, so it wasn't that odd that he popped up in my dream (um... metaphorically speaking).

My husband, Handsome Man and I were all on an aeroplane, and my husband and HM were arguing about which direction we were heading. (Freudians, you can just shut up right now.) Then a third, unattractive man boarded the plane via the emergency exit, which was peculiar as we were mid flight.

UM walked straight up to me, took my hand, and began kissing me.

"This is strange," I thought to myself as I passionately returned his embrace. "This man quite repulses me. And yet this is rather erotic." (Note that I didn't find it 'strange' that he had boarded a plane mid flight. So goes the shaky logic of dreams.)

Artist's impression of WHAT MY HUSBAND RUINED

I lay down with UM on the floor of the plane (we must have been in First Class because there's certainly no such leg room in Economy) as my husband and HM argued away, oblivious. And then we started to engage in some quite heated sexy-type business, and it was going really promisingly, until... oh god, oh god, oh GOD Melissa Doyle on Sunrise!

And then I woke up.

There is no moral to this story. There is nothing you can take away from it and use to enrich your own life.

Unless, of course, you are the Unattractive Man. In which case, you should feel mighty good right about now. And hope that next time, bloody Melissa Doyle doesn't interrupt our rendezvous.

*which is a whole other post in itself - I mean, not very considerate, huh?**

**and before he starts bombarding this post with comments***, yes, he had the earplugs in, but the light from the screen was still dazzling

***assuming he will read this post, which he probably won't****

****which is a good thing, considering it's about inappropriate sex dreams

A Very Short Post About Sex

Tomorrow is Boo's birthday and we bought her a rocking horse. For two weeks now I've been asking The Architect to assemble it, as I want Boo to open a horse, and not bits of tail, legs and a head. So far, The Architect has ignored me, as he is wont to do.

This morning, as he left the house, I looked at him meaningfully. Boo was clinging to his leg, so I couldn't say it directly, but I needed to make myself understood.

"Tonight you have to... you know..." I said, and I mimed the action for riding a horse.

The Architect looked delighted. "Have sex?" he asked.

"NO!" I said. "You have to make the thing! You know! The thing that goes giddyup?" and again I mimed riding a horse.

He grinned. "Sex! You want to have sex tonight! Okay!"

I sighed. "NO!!! You have to put together the thing!" and I mimed riding a horse, together with slapping my own butt and yelling "Neigh!"

In his dreams

He reached over and slapped my butt too. "Sex it is!" he said.

Looks like I'll be putting the damn horse together myself.

Hilarious

I've had a rough couple of days (don't ask) and so I thought that instead of feeling sad I'd think about happy things. Even more specifically, things that make me laugh. A lot. So I have compiled a list. Please add your own!

Things That Make Me Go Ha!

• Playing charades with nearly-four-year-old Boo. It goes something like this:Boo: Stands up in front of us, and makes some inexplicable sign with her left hand. Us: "Movie? Book? TV show?"Boo: "No!" Holds up three fingers.Us: "Three words?"Boo: "Yes!"Us: "Dora The Explorer?"Boo: "No!" Holds up one finger.Us: "Spongebob?"Boo: "No!" Holds up five fingers.Us: "The Simpsons?"Boo: Thinks for a minute. "Yes!"Us: "Hooray!"

• The cable TV show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", about women who had no idea they were pregnant till they started giving birth. I particularly loved the 20 year old who assumed she'd gained 25 pounds because she was eating so much junk food (you know, after the condom broke), and the 46-year-old mother-of-two who assumed that she was going through menopause and that her stomach was growing because of a 'tumour'. Oh, and I adore the re-enactments of the births with actors who are mysteriously far, far better looking than the real women themselves, and the 'newborn' babies who look like they've been at pre-school for a year.

Boo. Don't mess with her.

• The iPhone app that puts tattoos all over my kids.

• The outfit my husband dressed Boo in when I had to rush out of the house early before (think frilled pink summer dress over long sleeve navy jumper, worn fetchingly with purple sandals and Dora The Explora socks).

• The cost of replacing my car door handle after it fell off in my hand (though admittedly I was laughing through my tears).

• My husband's face when I explained that his daily morning 'coffee' was probably responsible for his bizarre, recent weight gain, given that it is a 'White Choc Rasberry Grande Frappucino'.

• Penises. Have you ever looked up close? They're hilarious. I don't know how men walk around with those things.

How Can A Man With Such Taste Get It SOOO Wrong?

My husband The Architect is a man of style. He chooses his clothes carefully, and has about 17 billion shirts in patterns ranging from subtle to bold. For the most part, I really like his clothes, with just a couple of notable exceptions.

The Architect focuses heavily on tops, and pays rather less attention to his legwear. In winter he chooses from black pants or black pants, exchanged for blue jeans or blue jeans on weekends.

In summer he wears black pants or black pants, exchanged for blue shorts on the weekend. But when I say 'blue shorts' I mean 'blue shorts, singular', because the man has a single pair of shorts. He has 20 zillion t-shirts in a trillion different styles, from plain white to The Dharma Initiative logo, but so busy is he purchasing tees for his massive collection that he has no time to cover his arse.

His one pair of shorts is an utter disgrace, bringing shame on our entire family. It is threadbare in the crotch and has a back pocket hanging off by the seams, and both legs are fraying at the knees. What's more, the front pockets have holes, so he is unable to carry money, which is fine as he'd just spend it on t-shirts.

It makes me crazy that The Architect only has one pair of shorts, and that other people can see his undies. It makes me especially crazy because his undies are also threadbare, but that, my friends, is another story. Still, the shorts were once nice, so the shame is solely in the upkeep, as opposed to bad taste, for which there is no excuse.

And speaking of 'no excuse', I come to the real problem, which is The Architect's Horrid Top. Yes, The Architect has many magnificent clothes, and he rarely gets it wrong. But no-one is infallible, not even my husband, and in recent times he has erred in the extreme.

My husband has a Horrid Top, and it is a long sleeved fawn knit tee. Yes people, you heard it right, it is a fawn knit tee, and I choke on the words as I write them.

There is nothing worse than long sleeve fawn, you think to yourself, but I assure you, you think very wrong. The long sleeve fawn knit has elbow pads to boot in a nasty, fake black leather. It is the most horrid thing you have ever seen, and The Architect will not give it up.

I hate the Horrid Top, and I have tried to convince The Architect to bin it, but The Architect has a mind of his own. And though I have tried to stamp it out of him, after 14 long years of marriage, he still clings to his self-determination. So I have resorted to the only thing I know how to do, and I have done it without a moment of doubt.

I have hidden the Horrid Top in a cupboard in the laundry, until such time as The Architect forgets about it. And if he doesn't forget it, if he asks after it some time, then I have absolutely no idea where it is.

Although... I do recall seeing something like it in the pocket of his shorts one day.... Perhaps the fawn knit fell out when he was out? Those bloody shorts, I'm so sorry about that. Do you think it's time to buy another pair?

When I Married The Architect

Today is a very special day. Fourteen years ago today, I married my husband in a quaint beachside ceremony. Okay, so we didn't get married in a quaint beachside ceremony - we got married at the zoo surrounded by a giraffe and seven noisy chimps. Which isn't quite accurate - we got married in Vegas by a Justin Bieber impersonator after knowing each other for twenty minutes. Which is also not true, as Justin Bieber wasn't even born when we met, which shows how incredibly young he really is.

We actually got married on a pontoon moored in Rose Bay, Sydney, and that is the absolute truth.  The Aquashell is a magnificent, architecturally designed floating stage that hosts rock concerts and the like, and is usually moored at places like Darling Harbour. We were the first wedding party to hire the Aquashell, mostly because my husband has incredible vision and style, but also because we were a little nuts.

The Aquashell (minus us)

The Architect and I told only my parents about the pontoon, as we wanted to keep it a surprise for everyone. Naturally the day was overcast and threatening rain, which caused consternation amongst the other guests. They all believed the wedding was being held at Rose Bay Wharf, so were worried that they were going to get wet. All morning I was fielding calls from worried friends: Do you have a contingency plan? What about rain? Smugly, I told them to relax, and that it was all taken care of, knowing the magnificent surprise that awaited.

The Architect was getting ready at his brother's house, and my brother-in-law was concerned about the rain situation.

"What if it rains?" he asked The Architect.

"It's not going to rain," The Architect assured him.

The clouds were darkening. My brother-in-law looked doubtful. My sister-in-law walked into the room.

"What if it rains?" she asked The Architect.

"It's not going to rain," The Architect assured her.

The clouds were getting fuller. My sister-in-law looked doubtful. She left the room in search of an umbrella.

A half an hour later, my brother-in-law was getting anxious.

"But what if it rains?" he asked The Architect.

My husband sighed. "Come on," he said.

He took my brother-in-law to Rose Bay, and showed him. My brother-in-law looked at The Aquashell, and nodded. They got back into the car, and drove home in silence.

"What if it rains?" my sister-in-law asked her husband.

"It's not going to rain," my brother-in-law said.

Later that afternoon, I walked on my father's arm to the Aquashell. The rain held off, and I got on the stage without incident. As the ceremony was being performed, I realized how nervous I was. I was so jittery I was swaying, the ground felt like it was moving under my feet.

And then I realized, I was standing on a pontoon. The ground really was moving under my feet. 

It began to rain lightly as the ceremony ended. I stayed nice and dry under the cover of the Aquashell. The guests around the open sides weren't quite so lucky, and several of them got quite wet. It seems that I forgot in my excitement that rain doesn't always fall vertically.

Later that night, one of the interstate guests got set on fire. But that, my friends, is another story.

Happy Anniversary, Architect. x

Death By Chapter 19

Many of you will know that I am currently writing my second book, the title of which is not 'When My Husband Does The Dishes...' because I have used that one already. Also, the book is not about my husband, or dishes (though the former may get the occasional mention).

My manuscript is due on the first of November, which is not far away at all, though obviously further away than, say, tomorrow.

I have been powering through the book so far. It is on a topic I know a great deal about (so definitely not fame or money) and one that is very close to my heart (so definitely not country and western music). So far I have written up to two chapters a week, pouring my words into the keyboard much like Boo poured water into my keyboard just a few days ago (with, hopefully, less disasterous results).

Still, all good things must come to an end, and this week, my writing has done just that. Because I am stuck. At Chapter 19.

I can't tell you what Chapter 19 is about because it would spoil Chapters 1 through 18 for you. And besides, you'll see for yourself when you buy the book next May. Except that Chapter 19 may not be Chapter 19 by then. After editing it may be Chapter 18 or 20, or even Chapter 1, though that would be unfortunate, as it would disrupt the flow of the entire book. But still...

I can't write Chapter 19. I don't know why, but I can't. In fact, if I knew why, then possibly I would be able to write it, so perhaps not knowing why I can't write it is the key. All I know is that I've been trying to write it for a week now, and have come up with nothing more than a few shopping lists, a letter to my daughter's school about why she needed to be excused early on Wednesday, and a video blog on beauty tips (which - as I know as much about beauty tips as I do about country and western music - really shows I was scraping the bottom of the barrel).

I have asked my husband repeatedly for advice and he has been as close to useless as one can get. He told me to skip Chapter 19 and move straight on to Chapter 20, which is completely untenable as far as I'm concerned. For one thing, Chapter 19 comes before Chapter 20 (the fact that '19' comes before '20' is a dead giveaway) and so I can't write the latter before writing the former. For another thing, I am completely obsessive, and can think of nothing else until I squeeze Chapter 19 out.

I told my husband he had been very unhelpful and he just shrugged. "What would you have liked me to do?" he asked.

I didn't respond, as I was too cranky, and besides, I was still trying to compose the first sentence for Chapter nine-fucking-teen. But now, for his elucidation and future reference, I shall outline ways he could actually have helped me. For his convenience, they are ordered from least to most useful:

1. Give me some writing exercises to get me inspired to write Chapter 19;
2. Give me the first line of Chapter 19;
3. Come up with an alternative to Chapter 19, for example 'Chapter 18.5';
4. Write a letter to my publisher excusing me from having to write Chapter 19, for example 'The bunny ate Chapter 19;
5. Write a letter to my readers excusing me from having to write Chapter 19, for example 'The book works far better without Chapter 19;
6. Write Chapter 19 for me;
7. Get Mark Dapin to write Chapter 19 for me;
8. Burn the whole bloody manuscript and get me a job in a cake shop. I like cake.

Life Without Husband

On Sunday, my husband left for a two week business trip to China. This bothered me tremendously, as he had to leave the house at 5am, and the alarm woke me on a lazy Sunday morning at 4.30*.

Since then, I have been living life as a single mother of three, and contemplating the pros and cons thereof. And though it has only been just over 24 hours, I believe I have a pretty good handle on things.

No Husband: The Pros

1. I do not have to cook dinner for my husband, and so I am (hypothetically) free to feed the kids sausages, and myself vast quantities of chocolate covered rasberry licorice followed by, ahem, cheese.
2. There will be a lot less laundry.
3. There will be a lot less arguments.
4. I can sleep soundly without being woken by my husband's regular 2am nose-blowing session.
5. There will be no piles of horrid tissues next to my husband's side of the bed in the morning as there will be no 2am nose-blowing sessions.
6. I can get into bed with a pore cleansing strip on my nose without my husband recoiling in horror and yelling 'My eyes! My eyes!'
7. I can lounge on my bed in my undies without any expectation of sex.
8. I can lounge on my bed in my undies and a pore cleansing strip without my husband saying 'Oh for gods sake, make up your mind.'
9. I do not have to wait for the shower so I won't be late getting the kids to school.
10. I can watch whatever I want on TV without my husband grabbing the remote and switching channels every single commercial break.
11. I can leave mess everywhere without my husband coming home and asking what I 'did all day'.

Tomorrow night's dinner

No Husband: The Cons

1. I do not have to cook dinner for my husband and so I can (er... 'hypothetically') feed myself vast quantities of chocolate covered rasberry licorice followed by cheese. This is probably not an ideal way to eat in the long run.
2. I have to take all three kids to school.
3. I have to take Boo to swimming lessons in the wee-wee infested waters.
4. I have to take the rubbish out. Or would have, if I'd remembered to do so last night. Woops.
5. I get nervous without a big, strong man in bed with me in case of emergency. Except that my husband isn't big or strong, and he'd probably sleep through it anyway, so that doesn't really count.
6. I don't have to wait for the shower so when I get the kids to school late I can't blame it on their father.
7. There is no-one on whom to warm my feet before sleep.
8. There will be a lot less laughing.
9. I kind of miss him.

*of course I did go back to sleep, but I really do prefer not to be disturbed

The Shame Will Come

Yesterday I tricked my husband. I'm not proud of it* but we have to do what we have to do.

I was having one of those weekends - you know, the kind when you have to take all three kids to the supermarket and clean up a weeks' worth of mess and do five loads of laundry and entertain other people's children and go to swimming lessons and pack for a school camp and attend a four-year-old's birthday party. And I couldn't face doing all of them alone.

I had to offload some of the work to my husband. Meaning, give him one chore and do the rest myself. As per normal.

Now, to be fair, The Architect does work on a Saturday, so he only gets one day of rest. But seeing as I get none days of rest, I do not feel guilty asking him to do something to help ease my burden.

So I gave him a choice. He could take three year old Boo to her swimming lesson at 8.30am, or he could take her to a Spiderman-themed birthday party at 10am.

Our conversation went a little like this:

Architect: Which activity will allow me the most time to engage with our daughter? Which do you feel will be the more bonding experience for us? Which would you consider, as a parent, to be the most personally fulfilling? Which would Boo prefer me to attend?

Ha! Are you kidding? The conversation went nothing like that. In fact, it went exactly like this:

Architect: How long is swimming? How long is the party?

Me: Swimming is only half an hour, the party is two hours.

Architect: Can I drop Boo at swimming or do I have to stay?

Me: You have to stay.

Architect: Can I drop Boo at the party or do I have to stay?

Me: You have to stay.

Architect: Do I have to talk to people at the party?

Me: No, you can sit in a corner on your own. YES YOU HAVE TO TALK TO PEOPLE. What, you want the other parents to think that Boo has a mute, psychopathic father?

Architect: I don't like talking to people.

Me: Yeah, I've noticed that.

Architect: Do I have to talk to people at swimming?

Me: No, you just have to make sure Boo doesn't drown.

Architect: Okay, I'll take swimming.

I got Boo dressed in her tiny little swimsuit and waited for my husband to come down the stairs. At 8.20am, the time he needed to leave, he walked out of the bedroom, said "Come on Boo! Let's go swimming!", grabbed our daughter's hand, and headed out the door.

"Um... you may want to take towels?" I suggested.

He turned around and the slightest hint of abashment crossed his face. He took a towel from the linen closet and headed back out again. "Okay Boo! We're going!"

"Just wanted to check you have your swimsuit on?" I called out.

"What do you mean my swimsuit on?" he asked. "I'm not getting in the water!"

I may have looked a little triumphant. "Oh yes you are," I told him. "It's a parent-child swimming group. And if you don't get your swimsuit on you're going to be swimming in your undies. Not that there's anything wrong with that..."

My husband shot me a wounded look. "You tricked me!" he said. "You didn't say I had to get in the water!"

"Really?" I asked. "Sorry, must have forgot." And he ran upstairs and got changed.

The Architect and Boo had a wonderful time at swimming, getting into gross, overheated water with a bunch of very young children with teeny weeny bladders. Lucky them.

And then I took Boo to a lovely party at which she was entertained by a delightful Spiderman (in a skin-tight suit, for those interested...), and I got to sit in the sun drinking coffee and eating hotdogs and cake, chatting to other mums and dads and generally not being in chlorinated, urinated water.

And if I used a little trickery to get there, well, I'll think about that over the laundry this evening. I'm sure the shame will come eventually.

*actually I'm extremely proud of it

Why I Need A TV In My Bedroom

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will know that the television in my bedroom died the other day (and yes, I thank you in advance for your kind wishes at this very difficult time in my life).

I do not watch an enormous amount of TV, but the television in my room is irreplaceable (though I hope not literally so, as that would be bad news indeed). And having gone forty eight hours without it, I can specify why:

Top Reasons I Need A TV In My Bedroom

1. My husband and I have been married for nearly fifteen years, and our kids and work aren't interesting enough to sustain us through a long evening. Without television, we would run out of things to talk about within about ten minutes.
2. The door to our ensuite bathroom is not very sound proof. Without the television volume turned on high, I might hear souns emanating from that room that I just won't be able to ever unhear again.
3. When my husband and I both read in bed, he tries to read me passages from his book, I try to read him passages from my book, we both get annoyed at each other for not showing interest in each others' books, and the whole thing descends into chaos.
4. Without television in the bedroom, until we are ready to sleep there will be nothing to do in bed but talk (see point 1. above), read (see point 3. above), or have sex. As mentioned, we have been married for nearly fifteen years. There's only so many times a week we can have sex before it gets old.
5. Without a television in the bedroom, I can't warm up for sex by watching The Mentalist.
6. Without a television in the bedroom, my husband can't warm up for sex by watching one of those BBC 'Documentaries' he is so fond of (though quite frankly, Top Gear seems to do it for him just as effectively).
7. Without a television in the bedroom, there is nothing to watch while I actually am having sex.
8. Without a television in the bedroom, we can't turn on the morning shows as we get ready for the day, which means that all we can hear from 6.30am till 8am is the crazy-making sounds of Spongebob Squarepants.
9. If I can't turn on the the morning shows as I get ready, I don't know what the news of the day is, or, more importantly, what the temperature is going to be.
10. If I can't turn on the morning shows as I get ready, I can't pretend that I don't hear my kids above the noise of my television, and I might have to actually respond to their demands for food, bag-packing assistance, conflict mediation and retrieval of lost shoes, and quite frankly, I'm far too tired.

Do you have a TV in your bedroom?

Friends & Embarrassment

On Saturday night my husband and I went to dinner with the writer Mark Dapin and his partner, Claire. We arrived at the restaurant perfectly on time, partly because I am very punctual, and partly because I like to be on time with Mark to remind him of the fact that he was half an hour late to my book launch. Which would have been fine, except that he was launching it.

I scanned the room, but Mark was nowhere to be seen.

"Shall I zeet you at yer tubble?" asked the waiter*.

"Sure," I said.

"You are tu?"

"No, we are four."

"You are fur?" he asked, and indicated a woman standing by the bar. "You are weez zis lady here?"

I looked at the lady. She was tall with long brown hair and long pale arms. I had never met Claire, so didn't know if it was her. However, I figured that as long term partners frequently ended up looking like each other, she would probably be short, balding and covered head to toe with tattoos.

"I don't think so," I said.

"But mebbe she iz weez you?" the waiter insisted.

So I had to ask.

I tapped the woman on the shoulder. "Are you Claire?" She shook her head haughtily, which I took as a 'no'. The waiter gave an unconvinced hurrumph, as if I was deliberately making things difficult.

"Come zees way," he said. We followed him to a table where a pretty, blonde woman sat alone.

"So. You are weez zis lady here?"

I hoped fervently that there weren't 25 single women in the restaurant because this could get old very quickly.

"Are you Claire?" I asked the woman.

"Yes," she told me, just as a short, balding, tattooed man appeared behind her. Thank god. The waiter looked triumphant. We were all seated.

The four of us chatted for a while, and then it was time to order drinks.

"I'll have a beer," said Mark.

"I'll have a champagne cocktail," said Claire.

"I'll have a glass of pinot noir," said I. And then I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable.

"I'll have a chocolate orange martini!" said my husband, and I felt a slight wave of relief. A choc orange martini wasn't that bad. Okay, so it wasn't exactly beer, but it also wasn't a 'Sunset Kiss', a 'Cosmopolitan' or a 'One For The Girls, all of which are cocktails my husband has ordered in the past**.

(Now, let me clarify: I am not implying that my husband should be a real man and order a beer. But... would it kill him just once in a while to be a real man and order a beer?)

The conversation drifted to New York, which we had all recently visited. Mark pointed out his shirt, which he had bought there for $150, after it was reduced from $850. I tell you this because he repeated it several times, and that snippet of information is now seared into my brain like the alphabet, or the names of all the Young Talent Time members.

He then mentioned to my husband the amount of his advance for his latest book, which was large, and also seared into my brain, because I had heard him tell me before, and you don't forget a figure like that.

Keenly aware of my own, comparitively small, advance, I struggled to say something impressive. "I read somewhere that it is the job of a good agent to ensure that your advance is so big that you will never get a royalty cheque," I said knowledgeably, confident that I would generate an interesting line of conversation.

"Er... yeah.... I told you that," said Mark. And that was that.

We chatted some more and ate an enormous amount of French food, which was lucky as I am wasting away after our recent holiday to the states***. And nothing else of note happened, which seemed to disappoint Mark, as he was hoping to get some material for his next column.

I, on the other hand, can make a blog post out of pretty much nothing, which is why you are reading this now.

*who was French, as I am attempting to demonstrate in my prose, but I am really shit at accents.
**except for the latter, which I made up.
***using 'wasting away' in the sense of  'gained three kilos'.