November 23, 2008

Guess what?

My IVF poems just won a thousand dollars in a major poetry competition!

My writing doesn’t suck after all!


September 1, 2008

I won’t apologise. Because I am well aware that people hate it when bloggers apologise for being slack-arses. And – much as I adore all my bloggy friends – I haven’t, this time, been sitting here thinking “I must post” and feeling guilty about it. So something is either broken or fixed in my world. I’m not sure which.

Tonight I should be working on my book. That’s been taking up most of my spare time lately. I call it a book, but it only has a few thousand words. But it will be one. It might be crap, but fuck, it will be finished. I won’t ramble on too much about it – just to say that it started one place and then went somewhere else and then I stopped for a month or two and planned (like I tell my students to. You know.) and now it has momentum. I am trying to think of it as an experiment in Process. I am not allowing myself to read the draft back. I am forcing myself to write quantities that do not give me time to overthink anything. I aim to be finished the first draft by the end of January.

Meanwhile, everything else falls apart. Ha.

No, things are not too bad. With work / study / toddler / bed-abandoned husband (consistently co-sleeping, who me??) things are really hectic. It’s kind of nice. As always, I find I get more achieved when I have way too much to achieve. Like I need a stupid amount of responsibilities in order to actually do anything at all.

BB is growing so fast. He is 18 months old now, or 16 months corrected. He is lovely. Mostly. Other times, he isn’t. Other times he kicks and wriggles and runs away from me and slaps me on the face, and yells “Nononononononononon!”Mostly when we are in public places, when I imagine all the other people in the supermarket queue thinking “Why can’t she control her son?”

He is speaking a lot now. I remember MSNing Pru one night, and her telling me how her daughter P. was obsessed with animals. Buddha Boy is all about the animals right now: What does a dog say? What does a monkey say? What does a duck say? etc. etc. etc. That and body parts. It’s lovely to watch, really a delight. He still calls me Dada though, which is disturbing (Like Chicka, Skygirl, and “turtle”!)

He is big into kissing at the moment, too. I think it must be a developmental thing, because the other kids in our playgroup are doing it too, and they’re all within a month of each other. It’s just a non-stop pash-fest at playgroup. BB is an insistent little bugger too. He will just grab my face and hold it to his lips sometimes: Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss…

Anyway, yo, I should go. I have ultra-important DVD piracy to achieve. My love to all of you.

Facebook me.


September 1, 2008

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

I’m back with more dotpoints..

July 11, 2008

…But wait, I post so infrequently that no one knew I went away. But you must have missed my comments? Oh that’s right, I hardly ever comment either…

(*SIGH* Do you believe me when I tell you I do read? That bit is true…)

So. Just got back from the lovely tropics, where we visited my step-kids for a few days. It was nice. BB was charming and cute. Step-kids no longer really kids as such – being 16 and 12. (Crazy. They were 8 and 4 when I met them. When did this growing up  business happen?)

The flight there was a disaster area. BB was the official Toddler Who Cries The Whole Time, and squirmed and squawked on my lap and I had to take hime for walks down the aisle.

But then again, he is walking finally! Rah!

He certainly took his sweet time about it. But as I have been saying for weeks, I knew he would save his first steps for when his brother and sister could see them – that was what he did with his crawling too. And he did. We arrived about midnight Monday night, and he walked on Tuesday.

So there you go.

(I seem to blog with only half my conscious mind these days. It’s like I half-focus on it. So sorry for disjointedness. ..This is why I only got a shameful “Pass” for my uni subject this semester. Brain no care.)

I go back to the Work-of-Psycho-Bosses on Monday. So sucky. The feeling of dread is incredibly depressing. In fact, the feeling of dread at the end of school holidays is the reason I stopped teaching full-time and moved into the school library in the first place. Yet here I am, reliving it anyway via my megalomanic control freak micromanager boss. How ironic and sad. Let’s chant again: One day it will be your library… One day it will be your library….

In better news. I have now lost about 10 lbs. Go Weight Watchers. Not yet at first generation of jeans, but am feeling less frumpy. At least I will feel comfortable wearing something other than enormous Thai fisherman’s pants this summer. Heh. Maybe even a skirt. Heavens.

So anyway, much love to all in my slice of blogland. Thanks for bearing with my boringness in extremis for all this time. DD, happy birthday and good luck with your tummy next week. Everyone else… I have way too many feeds on my Bloglines right now, but trust I will be caught up with your news in the next couple of days…

(Pics to come soon, btw, and maybe video. Email me for password.)

Ex Oh Ex Oh.

the end

June 25, 2008

As I peck this post out one-fingered, I am pumping for what will probably be one of the last – if not the last – time.

You all know how much this means to me. Didn’t I subject you all to the endless obsessive details?

I think we had a pretty good run, in the end. Considering. BB weaned himself at ten months, but I have continued exclusively pumping for another six. That’s sixteen months altogether. Sixteen months of breastmilk for my son.

Lately, though, it’s been becoming more of a hassle. I’ve been frustrated by the extra time needed every morning and the sacrifice of my own time in the evening. I have found myself worrying about the possible effects of ingesting high dosages of domperidone for more than a year. I have been plonking BB in front of bad television in order to buy myself time to pump his bottles.

Enough is enough. He is old enough for cows milk now, or soy milk. He doesn’t care what squirts out of that rubber teat. It is time to cut myself some slack. I know it’s time.

But that doesn’t make me less sad.


June 19, 2008

Hi friends. Hi.

So, seems like my blog is now one of those rarely upated, unlikely-to-say-anything-of-note personal blogs. Do you know I don’t even have Statcounter on it? Ah, how things change… Perhaps I will change the title to My Ramblings.


I have been doing ok. You know. Whatever.

At the very least, I am pleased to report I have been doing a fantastic job of channelling my best OCD-ness this last three weeks, having commenced the dreaded Weight Watchers points system. I discovered this website  a few weeks ago, and have found it gratifyingly like Fertility Friend for fat people. So far, I have managed to get my bum to fit back in my old jeans (the ones I got after the ones I got when I started to get fat, anyway. I have several generations of old jeans to fit back in now. They are in storage as an act of hope.) so that is good.

So that has been occupying my time. And so has my writing project, which now has a whole seven pages to it. Those seven pages took me a month to write. I love me a bit of self-criticism, see. Just can’t get enough of it. I could self-criticise all day: M, your writing is a piece of shit… M, you can’t characterise for the life of you… M, this is all indulgent , sentimental twaddle… M, you don’t have the skills to pull off a first person narrative… 

Et cetera.

Oh, I also had a lovely big blow-up with my boss, which I care not to write about except to say it resulted in a confrontational, intervention-style meeting where she faced all the rest of us at the staffroom lunch table and we told her how much she sucked. And then nothing changed becasue she is a nutcase.

Hmm. What else?

BB is still dragging his arse with the walking. I had no idea he was so cautious! We have to trick him into it to get him to walk. But he is clever – any tricks only work once – then he realises what we are doing and plonks himself whining back on the ground. He has taken also to walking on his knees, which seems to satisfy the urge-to-be-upright to the exclusion of getting on his feet.

Funny little critter.

He remains the delight of my life. I feel bad about cutting off his mullet.


May 19, 2008

How have I been, Thalia asks.

I answer: Good.

Except when I haven’t been.

The last couple of months have been intense. I am out the other side of the worst of it, and battling through with good(ish) time management, but yes, it hasn’t always been fun.

Highlights of the last two (TWO!) months include:

1. Trying to complete long and incredibly boring assignments in the two hour gap between putting BB to bed and collapsing into bed myself.

2. Dealing with a boss who sometimes seems to be virtually a workplace psychopath, and with whom I have a soul-crushing love/hate relationship with.

3. Facing my 13-years high school reunion (I know, a rather arbitrary anniversary, isn’t it?)

4. Going a little bit crazy and actually having to google “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder” and face the fact that in a crisis, on a bad day, it is more than eccentricity. Mental health assessment with GP ensued. Referral to clinical psychologist occured. Awaiting appointment. Feeling better.

5. Realising I was tired of cataloguing books and feeling like a piece of shit about not writing. Fear of never writing a book at all starting to be worse than fear of not being able to finish one. Have commenced work on first novel, and am chipping away slow sentence by slow sentence. Trying not to be overly critical of my work, but not succeeding one little bit.

6. Finding myself needing to be reminded of the reasons that I only wanted one child as well as why it is risky and impractical and traumatic to try for another considering huge risk of another placental abruption even if IVF did randomly work again and knowledge that outcome of abruption is likely not to be so positive a second time. Husband completely resistant to idea, also, and will never bend on that. But still feeling twinges of pain on being asked (frequently) when I am going to have another and jealousy on hearing two second-pregnancy announcements in my mother’s group.

7. Quitting smoking again. Yay for me.

8. Delighting in BB, who is now very close to walking and talking. Words we have currently: woof, ta,  and hello.

So that is me.

March 15, 2008

The last two nights, I have been attempting to get BB back into his cot.

Effectively, this means the dreaded CIO.

The first night wasn’t too bad. He cried and all, but T. took over after half an hour, and once the worst of it was over, at around 7:30, BB slept throught till after 4am – a miracle.

Last night, not so easy.

He was hysterical. Really hysterical, to the point where he actually vomited.

I couldn’t do it.

So there we were, snuggling on the mattress on the floor again.

Except after all that being worked up, he was still unsettled.

I have no idea how any of this will be resolved. Most likely when he eventually grows out of it of his own volition.

When he is five.


March 13, 2008

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


March 3, 2008

I wanted to write a post, for myself really, about the reasons why I want to quit smoking again. Yes, shamefully, I am still at it. Shamefully.

I have started the second A.lan C.arr book (word of mouth must have spread it to you at some point, yes?) and hopefully his bad writing and cheesy metaphors will work their mysterious magic, the way they did when I quit before.

I give you: Reasons Why I Hate Smoking.

1. I hate the feeling of slavery that you get when you’re a smoker. I hate, for example, that I “have” to race outside at lunchtime, and duck around the corner as if I am one of the students. I hate that I look around me with paranoia, and come back inside praying that I don’t encounter anyone I know before  can get to the bathroom to freshen up. The fact that I lower myself to this is sheer embarrassment.

2. I hate the way it makes me feel, physically. Since starting again, I have really noticed the difference in my energy level. I had no idea back in the days of pre-quit, that it made such a difference – I honestly thought I was just one of those people who isn’t very vital, like the frail sister with consumption in Little Women or something. I actually thought that lethargy was my temperament.

3. I hate the fact that if I don’t stop, BB will most likely have to watch his mother die a slow, painful, and worst of all – self-inflicted death.

4. I don’t want to die a slow, painful and self-inflicted death.

5. It makes me stink, something I am uber-conscious of when I lean down to help a student with their work. Small, but I’m constantly aware of it.

That’s the top five. There is, of course, many other powerful reasons to stop. Then why haven’t I? That’s the question, really, isn’t it?

I think that in some part of my brain, I associate smoking with youth. With the immortality of youth – with Summer days and house parties and late night coffees with friends. I associate it with driving my first car along the freeway, into the city, or cold mornings at the bus stop. Drinking tap beer, performing my poetry, wearing Doc Marten boots with retro print, babydoll-style dresses.

I remember being fifteen and sitting in a small town cemetary with my best friend, eating fish and chips and singing Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound as we smoked our gold-tipped, skinny cigarettes.

It’s hard to let go of that in some ways. Back then, you always intend to quit later, before it becomes a problem.

Problem is: It is later.

In reality, cigarettes were never any of those things. Or maybe they were, but it was only for a moment. In reality, they were only ever what they were – chopped up bits of leaf wrapped in paper. The memories would have existed with or without the smoking; it wasn’t cigarettes that made those moments special. The reality is that smoking was just as it is now —

 A big fat five minutes of nothing in particular.