Thursday, November 23, 2006

his current phrases: I want a cuddle. I've got a good idea! Mabye we can (insert activity here). Let's get lunar! (from Lunar Jim) and (looking in my bag) Have you got any muesli bars/dummies?

my Dad cared for him yesterday while I went to the GP. it makes even me a bit soft when I see how much Dad loves seeing him.

we survived the music class concert, after my getting up at 6 am the morning after a wedding to drive 120 ks home. can't say I felt great, but I was very proud of him; not so much for getting up and waving his little birdies, clouds and stars, but for getting back up after he'd freaked and run off the stage for a cuddle.

and I have a new handbag-sized digicam, the better to catch those moments where you say "wish I had a camera".

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

quick blog b/c MIL imminent.

I have been using the disabled cubicle at the pool for two years now, and today it finally happened: someone challenged me. I was coming out on my way to the pool and I heard her say something from across the room. it was along the lines of "you're not parked in a disabled spot outside." And all my rehearsed putdowns and comebacks went out the window. I lost it. I slammed my bags (carried, of course, by my good left arm) down on the ground, marched over and demanded she tell me what she'd said. She repeated it and I pretty much just saw a fog of red. I wanted to know who made her the disabled police. I pulled my bathers down and showed her my surgical wound (and the dressings over it). and said I didn't want everyone seeing that. did she apologise? no. she said "that doesn't stop you using the showers", meaning the "normal" showers which have no seats, no hooks for bags of clothes, no mirrors to check whether infection-causing water had got in under the dressings. I told her I was on medication which made me feel dizzy when showering, which is partly true. She then, bizarrely, began to talk about how people told her off when they saw her park in disabled parking bays – she looked fine to me, but then I look fine to other people. I asked what that had to do with it. I asked why, after having my breast removed and being on medications, which I listed angrily, I should have to explain myself to strangers like her. She then said “for all you know I might have too” (had breast cancer). You see where this is going. No logic to the argument whatsoever. The parking bay issue was raised again. I said I never told people off for parking in those bays, (because I never make assumptions); she more or less implied I was lying. There was no one else in the room; this may have contributed to my willingness, as she departed, to shout “fuck off. Bitch.” at the closing door. I spent the first four or five hundred metres of my swim weeping under my goggles, which is quite hard to do when you’re trying to breathe regularly and swim with just one arm.

now, I understand that she probably has issues of her own, not least because other %$#s abuse her for parking in disabled bays. and I know she is disabled in some way, what I don't know and don't care. and that I should just not take it so personally. but you know what? I've put up with a lot. I'm not the same person I was two years ago; in some ways, particularly physically, I feel diminished, circumscribed. In other ways I know I've grown. but what she did was, in the classic parlance, to add insult to injury, and it just wasn't an insult I was going to take. Mixed in there, too, is the knowledge that I’m not just imagining the dirty looks people give me when I enter and leave the disabled change room, but that if they don’t say anything to my face, I can’t respond. And probably just general anger at the world, unjustified because as we all know, Shit Happens. Oh, and a small dose of early menopausal hormonal flux.

There is no moral to this story other than the one I’ve learned in the past two years myself: don’t make assumptions about people. Be kind. They may be hurting in some way you can’t see; they may have just lost a loved one, been given a diagnosis they don’t want, they may have scars and wounds hidden under their clothing both actual and metaphorical. And mind your own f*ing business.

I have a new technique for getting a moment to do the dishes, or to stop him sooking when I leave him at childcare or with dh: go in hard. Cuddle him, kiss him, play with his toys, try to help him paint. Soon enough he says "go away Mum" and I do, guilt-free for once.

yesterday, as well as being A's third birthday, was my second diagnosis-versary-thing. not two years in remission, just two years since this shit started. and I'm still not dying (not fast, anyway)

Monday, November 13, 2006

Somewhere out there is a postman who I would like to strangle. The only reason I didn’t do so ten minutes ago is that I was focussed on getting A. back into bed. How, I wonder, is it possible to miss a 3x5 inch BRIGHT ORANGE card with “NO DOORKNOCKERS PEOPLE ASLEEP (posties please leave card)” written on it in big black letters. It was bad enough that the wind woke me up from my nap (after a full weekend of preparation, A’s birthday party and packing up and cleaning I deserved it; then to have A woken, thus destroying my precious half hour of coffee-drinking, Web surfing, blogging and writing, is intolerable. The doorbell rang, the dog barrelled down the hallway, the child came out crying, I informed said postman that he’d ruined my afternoon, grabbed my parcels and somehow got the kid back to sleep. The poor dog is still locked in the front bedroom, and staying there until A wakes up again, because he thumps down the hall and I can’t risk disturbing A again.

The party, anyway, was a success, with lots of happy kids and half-drunk parents, plus a swag of books/tshirts/games for A. We gave him a Lego Bob the Builder kit and he was very careful about putting the trucks together, referring to the instruction sheet to see what they should look like. Amazing that three years ago he was only able to cry and breathe– couldn’t even drink properly yet.

With all these new toys in the house and all the cleaning up to do, we’re spending a rare day entirely at home, sans tv. It’s harder work than I thought; I really am in the habit of Getting Out, and I’m not making much progress on the cleaning, what with all the playing, building, and running around after A that has to be done.

So not enough time to blog: I also have to write something, anything, in the next hour, and keep on with my search for the perfect NY sublet for next year…

Monday, November 06, 2006

me to my son, not yet three years old, ten minutes ago: "You're not hungry. Shut up."

Does that make me a bad mother? Don't answer that...

(well, it is 8pm and he has scoffed a mountain of food. he isn't hungry. he couldn't be. besides, dh is overseas for work and I am flying solo with a heap of work to do, and that means absolutely no margin to indulge "hungry" children. )

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