On the upside, I am a marginally better this week. A bit less nauseous, a bit more energy. I have been able to clean a bit so we are not knee-deep in our own filth. It feels good to be able to muster up the mental energy to plan an activity (such as cleaning the kitchen and putting on a load of washing) and then still have the energy to actually get off my arse and do it. I’ve actually been able to manage pretty much all of the housework, not just one day but every day. I am still sleeping a bit too much – today Beefcake woke me at *ahem* 1pm (how embarrassing) but a couple of weeks ago I would still not have had the energy to get out of bed and do anything after that mammoth sleeping effort. Today I even went to the shops! Small victories people. It is a great comfort to begin to feel that I am coming back to myself, I was beginning to doubt that I was in this shell at all.

Unsurprisingly, my idea of going back to work and reclaiming my career has been put on the back burner. I can’t imagine that I will be able to manage that in the very near future. I have mixed feelings about that. The lazy, insecure part of me is relieved. I will not have to challenge myself. I will not have to test myself against the expectations of my profession and be found lacking. I will not have to try (and fail). Another part of me feels frustrated, caged, angry that I can not go out there and do what I want. There are other multitudes of thoughts and emotions. I am glad to be staying at home with my babies a while longer and I feel lucky to be able to do that. I feel a failure for having not tried harder to go back to work – has the self-sabotaging part of my embraced this being unwell too readily?

Oh my god. What on earth would possess me to think all that shite let alone write it down here for other people to read? I need to learn to just go with the flow. That’s what Beefcake would say.Unfortunately, the flow this evening consists of dog and husband smells swirling around me in a miasma of disgusting. I’m not joking, Beefcake just got so fed up with the smell of his own feet he took his socks outside and I can hear him washing his feet.

Anyway, I’ve decided I am going to try to rejoin the human race again. I have neglected all of my friends. There are people who I have been ignoring completely. I am going to have to suck up to several of my friends for forgiveness. I’m having people over tomorrow, providing I can get the house aired out enough. Nobody should have to suffer through what I’m currently being punished with. There is not enough incense in the world.

So, I can’t write anything nice, I can’t write what’s on my mind, therefore I can’t write anything at all.

This is my blog, though, isn’t it?

Consider yourselves warned.

It is exhausting having to put on the cheerful, functional act for people in the real world. I can’t say to most people – Yes, I am in pain. Yes, still. No, I’m not any better. No, those 43 helpful suggestions of things I might like to try to make-myself-better-and-why-aren’t-I-doing-them-already are not any more helpful or useful than the last time you made them to me. There is no simple thing that just hadn’t occurred to me before that will suddenly make it all better.

It’s just so very much easier to say, “I am fine, pelvis is fine thanks”.

So, in case you were wondering, pelvis is not fine. I am not fine. But what do you do? You can’t get a replacement body.

I had pelvis x-rays the other day. I am convinced that they will show a normal, happy pelvis. Pelvis knows how to turn it on for the doctors. The rheum will tell me that my pain is in my head and I will be back in the land of no-one gives a shit.

Gee, I’m an upbeat little thing, aren’t I?

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

He gets out on Monday. His detention is coming to an end, our piece of mind with it. He appealed his detention, subjecting us all to more stress but thank goodness it was upheld. He has been on his best behaviour though (we think, no way of knowing for sure) because he has been transferred back to local, not so secure public hospital ward.

The police screwed up the restraining order. A typo means it started and ended on the exact same date. It went back through the magistrates court to correct that today but the paperwork Mum received still shows the typo. The police can’t serve him with the typo in place. Did I mention he gets out on Monday?

We are hoping that the court mistakenly faxed her the old, unaltered one and he will be served tomorrow. I am not that hopeful.

If it doesn’t happen before he gets out then we will have to convince her to hide somewhere.

***********

As my more astute readers will have surmised, Beefcake is, um, beefy. He’s been that way since shortly after we met. I like to joke that once he’d snagged me he just let it all go. It’s kind of true. So. I was whining to him about it tonight. I’m not annoyed about his huskyness so much as the vast sums of money we’ve sunk into his weight loss in recent times only to have him turn around, sit down and gain it all back again.

He takes my annoyance (mostly) good naturedly as he knows it’s just the general background drone of whining I like to produce to accompany our lives. Tonight though, he came up with a phrase that I felt was so genius, I had to share.

Apparently all of this losing and gaining has been of benifit to him after all as he is working towards “adjusting his fat paradigm”. His father subjected him to many a self-help tape as a child and it has obviously had an effect. Imagine trying to have a serious whinge to someone who is adjusting their fat paradigm. Ain’t gonna happen.

At least he makes me laugh.

Update: The magistrate’s court did indeed put it through complete with typo AGAIN! Seriously.

No children all day.

Two meals out.

All that time alone.

And best of all….A long uninterrupted nap in the middle of the day.

Happy anniversary baby.

Six amazing years ago we walked down that aisle.

It only gets better each year.

I love you.

Admittedly there is a weeping pox sore just above my mouth but I have told him that I actually tolerate worse on a daily basis and I stand by that because boys are gross.

I do look like a rabid, oozing swamp creature. Really, I nearly made my Father-in-law leap away in fright. Not pretty.

Nobody else has been struck down as yet. We are just hanging in there to see if any of the kids break out all poxy. Pudding’s temp has come down today and he appears to be getting better so I am sure that is a sign that they are all going to be covered in pustules in the morning. It’s just the way these things work.

On the upside I seem to have stopped getting new spots and I actually think it’s kind of a mild case of pox. I have seen some photos of people literally covered from head to toe in pox so I think I’ve gotten away lightly. My only issue is that some of mine are so large or have kind of blended together with others and I just can’t imagine that they’ll heal very nicely. I’m going to look pretty interesting for the next couple of weeks. No amount of make-up is going to cover these babies.

Also, who knew that weepy, crusty, itchy, painful spots on your skin would be so uncomfortable? I mean, I guess I never really thought about it before but they really feel awful, actually. Along with my mild temp and slight breathing difficulties I think it’s safe to say I am NOT enjoying the chicken pox.

The outlaws delivered us some dinner tonight, which was nice. Kind of annoying though because if I am unwell then they just assume they should help out because naturally the poor widdle baby Beefcake could not handle cooking for the family while I’m sick, oh no. If he’s stricken with man-flu then they just leave me to it. Bastards. Still, hand delivered take-away dinner that we didn’t have to pay for – I am a moron for complaining.

P.S. When I told Beefcake that I told the whole internet that he wouldn’t kiss me he asked if I would change it if he came and kissed me now – I said I would add this post-script. How funny is that though – he is worried you will all judge him harshly. I’m sure that can be turned to my advantage…

*This is strange because all of my children but particularly Grub were carried in a sling all the time until near their first birthday.
Grub only used that pram about two dozen times really. Still. *sniff*

Some minor things like my vitamin D levels are quite low (spend much time inside immobilised by pain do you?) and my cholesterol levels are marginally high but not actually high apparently.

So nothing.

Nothing at all.

Doctor is convinced there is something the matter with me. As she put it “There’s just too many joints and things that are problematic”. I agree. There must be something.

I have a referral to a rheumatologist. The doctor assures me that there are many more in-depth tests that the rheumatologist will do.

I am not surprised really. I had a feeling that nothing would turn up. I also feel that there is a good chance that the specialist will not find anything and I will be back to square one, in pain and told to “just deal with it”.

I know these are useless, rubbish thoughts. I must pick myself up and go forth to be prodded and drained of my vital fluids with great enthusiasm and an optimistic twinkle in my eye.

Truthfully I am hoping that in the months that it will take to get a specialist appointment I will improve greatly. Beefcake has now decided that I should wean Grub. He is convinced her continued feeding is taking an unreasonable toll on my body. I won’t even consider it until she gets to eighteen, no twenty, months. I would prefer weaning to occur more naturally but if we get to twenty months I will consider it if I am no better. Of course I expect I will all better by then.

I have the flu. I have had a fever for three days. I feel leaden and snot-filled, My throat feels as though I have swallowed a cheese grater. It is making me feel decidedly up-beat. Can you tell?

Beefcake has a job interview tomorrow. Wish him luck.

It’s a weird thing. Ordinarily we get along well. We have occasional brawls in the street disagreements in an ordniary week but we are usually pretty okay. We like each others company and we don’t feel too much need for time apart. When he is working he is relatively easy to get along with. When he is not, he’s a nightmare.

I swear, he is having hormonal problems or something. He must be about to get his period any day now. It’s unbelievable. He rants and carries on like a pork chop. This morning he claimed that I was “persecuting him” because I asked him not to open a packet of bacon. Those were his exact words. I couldn’t help it. I got on the phone to my sister and the two of us had tears of laughter streaming down our faces as we giggled about it.

He’s like a tantrumy child. It’s as though his brain can’t cope if he has nothing to do. I need to find more DIY for him to do before he suffers a complete meltdown.

This afternoon though, he gave me such a little gem of blog fodder to share, I have been chuckling to myself ever since. He has an aversion to fish, you see. Fish of all kinds, even the smell of a fish makes him freak out and feel ill. He’s very dramatic about it. I was having a grumble to him this afternoon about the fact that we don’t have a lot of fish in our diets because of his dislike for it and the fact that the kids need their Omega 3’s and all that jazz. This is what my grumpy old man of a husband had to say about that:

“It’s all a conspiracy from the fish producers, anyway” …… “You never needed fish in my day”

And there you have it. No word of a lie. He really is that much of a ranty old fart. I have often joked that as he gets older I will need to buy him a “ranting chair” which he can sit in and lecture everyone as they go by. He’s shown signs of heading that way for a while but I think by the end of this fortnight, he’ll actually be ready for it.

P.S. I am gonna be in so much trouble when he reads this. I’m evil, me. I know it’ll piss him off but I just can’t seem to help myself.

Edited to add: I have been corrected. I actually said something about eating fish three times a week  as well and Beefcake actually said something about fish industry propaganda NOT a fish industry conspiracy. Important details people. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable. You shouldn’t believe a word I write.

To take out tiny little minds off of the worries we face, the Easter Bunny decided to run a special treasure hunt this morning instead of the usual “race about the garden frantically trying to gather the most eggs” type of hunt. Each child had their own set of clues to follow, which eventually led them to their basket of easter sugar (except for Grub who received a small toy and did not have to follow clues because she’s a baby and, despite being somewhat of a prodigy in the gross motor skills department, she cannot read). It was a raging success and I think we will employ this tactic again. All of the children were in delightful moods after the fun start to their day and we had a great day spending time together.

I decided to indulge in the chocolate today as well because there were mocha hot cross buns and dark chocolate bunnies for fuck’s sake. This, it turns out, constitutes a significant error of judgement on my part. The resulting sugar rush saw me engaged in several very energetic wii games, which involved dancing and other complicated moves of a physical and exercisey type nature. I was so hyped up I even challenged Rhubarb to a “cool moves” competition on the trampoline. I don’t really do cool moves on the trampoline as a rule (read – I don’t jump on the trampoline) so I should have known it was the sugar talking. I blame Beefcake, he stood by and judged the whole thing, he must have known how I would feel later (I won by the way but Rhubarb feels that the judging was not all above board).

To cap it off, we all went for a long walk and I borrowed Rhubarb’s bike and RODE for quite some distance. I did some chin-ups on some of the play equipment at the park and helped Rhubarb carry his bike home (he burst the inner tube doing something silly and was worried about damaging his rims on a completely flat tyre). Now, I don’t do chin-ups and this was only the second time I have ridden a bike in the last eight years or so.

I’ll bet you can imagine how I feel now.

I will be even worse tomorrow, which is not convenient as we are having a large family lunch. I will be cooking and cleaning all morning tomorrow feeling like an arthritic old lady.

It’s evil stuff that sugar. I don’t usually touch it that much. I don’t even like bloody milk chocolate and I have consumed enough of it today to put a whale into a diabetic coma.

I’m not too bright.  I am not a grown up. I shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions on my own.

Seriously.

Oh and Happy Easter!!

While Beefcake unpacked the shopping we were chatting about how playgroup was and who was there when this conversation happened:

Beefcake: “I made a friend at playgroup”

Me: “Oh yeah”

B: “Yeah, mother of a 3yo… blah, blah, (description of what he and the woman chatted about)”

Me: “Cool, sounds nice”

B: Yeah, so she gave me her phone number and said we should get together for a playdate with the kids”

Me: “Ummmmm”

Now, here’s the thing. This is fine, really, it’s fine. Beefcake is very loyal and I have no worries on that count. He wouldn’t even go on a playdate, like this, without me. I suppose it is possible that I would’ve chatted to this woman and exchanged phone numbers and all the rest if I had been there. The thing is, if I had been out and brought home a man’s phone number in the same situation, then he would be weirded out too. I pointed this out to him when we were talking about it and he agreed. He would hate it if I brought home some random Dad’s phone number for organising playdates and yet he knows that he has nothing to worry about.

We had a good laugh about how silly it is but  I still feel a  bit uncomfortable about it. What’s up with that? It’s weird, no? I actually don’t know that I would give my phone number out to a married man I met at playgroup, which is stupid, I mean, who cares if it’s a Dad or a Mum who you’re talking to. The thing is, I must care about it on some level.

Oooh, oooh, and get this, she even said to him that she was really judgemental and that she tended to get all judgy when she met people and he said  (Oh. My. Fuck) “Oh well you and my wife will either hate each other or love each other then because she’s really judgmental too”. Nice one darling. Thanks. And, and, does she intend to have playdates with my husband and will she be annoyed when I turn up as well?

Anyway, what do you think, dear internets, would you be weirded out exchanging numbers with a Dad at playgroup? I’ll probably make friends with her and then have to delete this post at some point but right now….Is it just me? Am I being an insecure bitcharella or is she a bit too loose and free with her phone number?

In my tired and grumpy state, this morning, I decided that it would be ideal to give the house a thorough cleaning. I have to admit to being a bit overwhelmed lately with the task of maintaining any semblance of cleanliness in a house with four kids and a Beefcake. The consequence of not quite keeping up over a period of weeks it the build-up of crap on every available surface in our house. There are little drifts of child detritus heaped against the skirting boards, small stacks of books, papers and bottle tops. There is a stick and a rock on my sideboard, towels and clothing are heaped on the hall table. Mess like this brings out the crazy in me. I insisted that we had to do a swift clean-up in order to prevent some sort of  dirt-induced psychosis on my part. Beefcake took my need to clean as a personal affront to his manhood, which resulted in him throwing a whiny baby man-tanty. As a consequence we didn’t achieve too much and I will have to try again tomorrow but it did ease the pressure in my brain a  bit, so that was a boon.

After my little frenzy we had to ready ourselves quickly and head to Pudding’s first playgroup. It was really, surprisingly fun. Pudding was beautifully calm and cooperative. He tried almost all of the activities and cleaned up after he had finished with each one. He was particularly taken with an hourglass-type arrangement filled with coloured water. He spent a good ten minutes tunring it upside down and watching the water shift. He mad a paper doll. His doll was dressed in a green bodysuit and had odd sized googly eyes. He even drew a stylish blue moptop hairstyle on his creation. He was very proud. This lasted approximately ten minutes, at which point he removed the smaller of the eyes and declared it an alien. The poor cardboard man lost his outfit on the way to the supermarket after playgroup and was delivered to the waiting jaws of Grub for entertainment as we trawled the aisles. We arrived home with nothing more to show of our time at playgroup than a soggy ball of cardboard and yet I declare it a success! I think we’ll try and get there every week from now on and there is a good chance that we may send him to school there.

At this point I need to confess that I have just had to rewrite this entire post as my laptop swallowed it first time around. I am shitty now, all of the joy has been sapped out of it and I will not be checking for errors of spelling or grammar.