The Final Blog Post (Maybe?)

I'm starting to settle in over at the new blog so this will probably be my last post here...at least for now.

I have returned to twitter, following a 10 month sabbatical, and although I enjoyed the time away (actually I didn't miss it at all!) I do now think that totally deleting my account, may have been a little rash.  Particularly since I now can't find anyone I used to follow and I have a grand total of 15 followers rather than 500...so yeah, I have learnt my lesson a bit there, and I realise that as much as I'm not planning to blog here for the foreseeable future, that doesn't mean I won't want to return one day.

If you enjoy my regular doses of ranting, sarcasm, and general thoughts and stuff then please do go here and sign up to follow by e-mail.

Hopefully see you there! :)

Indecision is your enemy

Well, it's mine anyway.

I can see both sides of everything, so making decisions can get pretty tricky.  I'm actually way better at the really BIG stuff than I am at the little stuff.

Quitting degrees, quitting jobs, ending relationships, getting a tattoo, chopping my hair off, moving house?  No problemo- I can make up my mind in five minutes or less.

Deciding what to say in a group conversation, what pair of socks to wear or what herbal tea to have before bed?  How long have we got?  Because this could take a while.

I've been blogging here now for over 2 years and I've amassed a dizzying array of 14 followers.  My view count increases steadily every day (and is about to hit 12,000 views) but most folk don't say much so I'm never sure why they came or if they're planning to come back.

What started as an attempt to document my boys' early months/years and maintain my sanity by using writing as an outlet, has developed into something else, and lately I've been wondering if it might be time to move on.

I feel a real loyalty to this place though, even if my url is ridiculously long, and the title no longer that relevant (our days of co-sleeping are behind us for the most part, barring illness or night terrors).  This is the blog that re-started my love of writing so to abandon it feels wrong.  But to just keep going doesn't feel right either.

So I made a new thing:

CLICK HERE!

It's very new, so please consider it a work-in-progress ;)  I'm contemplating exporting this blog over there (maybe...not 100% on that yet) but for now, in the absence of being able to make non life-or-death decisions, I'm telling myself it's just something I'm trying on, to see if it fits.

Let me know what you think!

The Weekend.

It's June already! Yeeeks!  So, I was pretty quiet in May, but much like that Michael Caine quote it was a case of "calm on the surface but paddling furiously underneath"

And no, I don't mean I've been doing a lot of swimming.  In fact, swimming, and housework, and well, pretty much everything has kind of fallen by the wayside these past couple of weeks.  There's been a lot going on, behind the scenes, that I haven't been able to really blog about (and still can't- sorry!  I know that's slightly mean of me, dropping hints with no intention of filling you in on the juicy details).

Rest assured that all will be revealed very soon though.

In the meantime I thought I'd pop my head up to say hello, and show you what we've been up to this weekend.

Swimming!

The kids, not me...I told you, I've been too busy!  Both boys picked up their (long overdue) badges and certificates on Saturday.  I now need to do the whole "proud Mama" thing (and I really am) and sew the badges on to their towels.  If you've seen me with a needle and thread, you'll know how much I'm looking forward to that particular experience.  And if you haven't seen me with a needle and thread...well there's a reason for that.

Having a Migraine!

(Just me.  No photo.  For obvious reasons)

Gardening!

True, I am even less skilled with a trowel than I am with a needle and thread, but I am more enthusiastic about the task in hand at least, and for the most part I just use my bare hands, eliminating the possibility of injury, except in the case of thorns (ouch!)  I did unearth (pun very much intended) some fetching pink gardening gloves in the shed, but not only had they seen better days (a few hundred of them judging by the holes) but they also appeared to have acted as a nest for a spider momma to hatch a few hundred eggs, which was possibly the nastiest surprise of my life, on sticking my hands into one.  So...yeah...my hands and arms are now covered in an itchy rash from the sticky willow and scratches from the rose bushes, but at least spiders aren't hatching under my fingernails (so far as I am aware...*shudder*)

Seriously though, I have no idea what I am doing when it comes to gardening.  I am literally clueless (and that is not a misuse of the word 'literally', because I hate that).  I don't know what is a weed and what isn't, I don't know what to prune and what to leave alone.  I don't know what to plant or where or when.  I struggle to even keep my houseplants alive, so god knows how I'd fare if I had to factor the elements or soil types in...BUT...and there is a but...I have always had a yearning to know more, and to do more.

There was a point, a few years ago, where I even got as far as e-mailing to put my name down for an allotment, but then I had a second baby and had no time to even pee, let alone re-enact the Good Life, so that idea went out the window.  

But I am my father's daughter, and by that I don't mean: I'm a raging alcoholic, destined never to see my 50th birthday or meet my grandchildren.  I mean- I grew up with a Dad who loved to be outdoors more than anything, who knew the name of every plant he came across, who could make anything grow.  Our garden when I was a kid was pretty magical, and the memories I have of my Dad where he doesn't have a can of lager in his hand, are of him in his greenhouse.  So, when I stare blankly at the greenery in our garden and struggle to identify what should go and what should stay, and when I squeal like...well...a girl, when moving a rock reveals a family of scuttling woodlouse, I can almost hear my Dad turning in his grave.  I say almost, because he was cremated, and because I'm being metaphorical.

There are a million reasons why it is shit to have an alcoholic father, and the fact that he couldn't pass his gardening wisdom on to me before he died is really only a very teensy tiny one.

So, I am trying, as of today, to figure it out for myself.  I doubt it will be easy (neither of the boys were particularly enthused about helping today- apart from when I let Toby loose with a pair of secateurs, and Chris is even less enthusiastic than both of them combined).  I'm sure I'll make plenty of mistakes (in fact I think I may have made some already today) but I'm going to try, and I think that ought to count for something.

So that was my weekend.  I am ending it with a bottle of passionfruit cider, and this blog post.

The Fault in Our Stars

So Saturday was a sliding doors experience, but not in the way I'd envisaged.

Instead I found myself taking the boys to their usual Saturday morning swimming lesson, and chatting to another Mum there about school, and moving into the next stage of our parenting journeys (her youngest is Toby's age, so she's a little ahead of me).  Something that I know wouldn't have happened if I'd had a newborn baby in a sling.

Then at lunch time I dropped Chris at work, and on my way back home had an even bigger sliding doors moment, when I stopped at a red light at a pedestrian crossing and saw one a guy I recognised from The Infusion Bay (where I have my IVIg).  I sat opposite him at my last treatment.  He crossed in front of my car- in his electric wheelchair, while I waited, behind the wheel of my car, with full use of my limbs.

I got home and the boys started to play this really involved game of make believe that mostly involved spreading their toys across the entire living room floor to make "the sea" (also making it pretty much impossible to cross the room without potentially breaking a bone) so I picked up one of my library books...

Don't worry, I'm not going to give away any spoilers.  But I'm not kidding when I say, that aside from breaking to feed/water/clean my children and tuck them into their beds, I could not tear my eyes away from the pages of this thing until I finished it that evening.  I laughed, and cried and would probably have turned back to the first page and read it right through immediately after finishing had I not vowed to return it to the library because someone else had reserved it.

A book about cancer, when you have just lost someone to cancer, and have other people you love battling cancer, may not sound like an ideal read, but this book is different.  It's not even a book about cancer.  It's a book about people, and they just so happen to have cancer.  And that is what makes it different.  It is also what gave me my biggest 'sliding doors' moment of the day.

I wasn't sure how I felt about the outcome of my molar pregnancy, or it's due date, right up until I felt it on Saturday and here it is...an emotion you'd probably never expect to hear in relation to miscarriage: relieved.

Molar pregnancy is a form of gestational trophoblastic tumour, you don't need to understand the first two words to appreciate the impact of the last one.

The letter I received in November, informing me of my histology results told me there was a 1 in 10 chance that remaining tissue in my uterus would become cancerous and potentially spread to other parts of my body, requiring chemotherapy.  1 in 10 is of course still 9 in 10 it wouldn't, and that's what I kept telling myself.  But that same day I took a photo of my hair, my ridiculously unruly, curly-but-not-in-a-good-way hair that I normally hate, just in case I was about to lose it.

But I didn't, did I?  There was no remaining tissue, my HCG levels fell steadily, I didn't need any follow up treatment, my hair remains long and a source of constant annoyance.

I've always known how lucky that makes me, but on Saturday, after reading The Fault in our Stars, I actually really felt it.

There are a lot of brilliant quotes I could take from that book, but "The world is not a wish-granting factory" has to be my absolute favourite.  I am thinking of getting it tattooed somewhere on myself as a reminder, so that when I  start to feel like "It's not fair" I can look at it and tell myself to STFU.

Life owes us nothing.  We owe it to ourselves to make the most of the life we get. (My words, not John Green's!)

The Due Date

Tomorrow is D-Day.  The due date of the baby we were having, but aren't anymore.

The early scan we had at 7 weeks put us back a little, giving us a due date of 17th May, but by dates our baby would have been due on the 10th May- tomorrow.

Of course, in reality s/he would have come whenever s/he wanted, but if previous pregnancies are anything to go by (and I'm aware they're not a guarantee!) then I tend to pop my babies out in the 38th week, so chances are we would have a brand new baby already.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be honest.  Nor am I sure how I'm supposed to feel about that, or what to do about it, even if I could figure out what my feelings are on it all.

Which makes this a somewhat pointless blog post.  But I just wanted to acknowledge the significance of tomorrow, and the fact that it actually happened in the first place.

In August I peed on a stick, and found out I was pregnant...the same day I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome.  And here's the proof, sat atop a copy of Juno magazine, which Chris had brought me to read in the hospital:

In September, there was an actual baby inside of me, with a heart beat of around 148bpm:

And then I was scanned again at what should have been 10 weeks and there wasn't.

Later of course we found out that the pregnancy had been 'doomed' from the start, as it was a Molar Pregnancy, meaning there was an extra set of chromosomes and our baby was incompatible with life.

Does that make the whole thing better, or worse?  Should it make me feel better?  Or worse?  I don't know.  I am still sending urine samples to Sheffield Centre for Trophoblastic Disease to monitor my HCG levels and ensure there isn't any molar tissue left in my uterus, so I have to say I'm inclined to say that the Molar aspect is scant comfort if any.

This isn't my first rodeo of course, having had two previous miscarriages, but I have never been in this position before, as with each of those, I was already (heavily) pregnant again by the time the "Would have been due dates" rolled around.

You never forget them though.  It's so weird.  My first pregnancy I worked out I would have been due on October 21st 2009...but it wasn't to be.  By the time October came though, I was waddling around with an almost full-term baby inside me, who turned out to be Toby.  So although I remember recognising the day quietly to myself, it wasn't with sadness as I was focused on the baby I was carrying, whose life wouldn't have been possible if I hadn't miscarried.

Likewise, my 3rd pregnancy had a due date of 20th July 2011, although as it was a twin pregnancy, it likely would have been moved forward anyway.  Again, it wasn't to be, although by the time the summer came, I was pregnant with Rudy and again, felt thankful for how things had worked out.

This time, the due-date is almost upon me, and not only am I not pregnant for a change, but I'm not even planning to be.  Which makes this a very different situation to the other two, and probably explains my whirlwind of thoughts and emotions on the issue.

I haven't really reached out to talk to anyone about my experiences, if I'm honest (well, apart from the handful of you reading this I guess!) but if anyone out there stumbles across this and does want some support then The Miscarriage Association is a good place to try.  And for those affected by Molar Pregnancy, you can click here to visit the Molar Pregnancy UK site.

As for me, I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a bit of a Sliding Doors experience (you know, that 90's film with Gwyneth Paltrow?) as I go about my normal day-to-day life with Chris and the boys, acutely aware of what might have been instead.

The Library Adventure

You'd be forgiven for thinking that I've forgotten all about my Book Jar pledge. After all it's been about 6 weeks and I've yet to pluck a scrap of paper out of it.

I haven't though, honestly. It's just that I went to the library...*oops*

In my defence I was just taking the kids so they could swap their books but it spiralled somewhat. After all, when you have 70 unread books in your house, the obvious thing to do is surely to acquire MORE...right?!?!

I was almost thwarted in my attempts: I had an unpaid fine on my account for returning my last lot of books late (tsk) and these days it isn't as simple as handing over some loose change to the librarian behind the desk.

Ours is a 'community' library now. Which means there is no librarian...or desk...and you can't pay your fines there...or get any assistance at all whatsoever. There is a guy (sometimes two) hovering around where the desk used to be but as he said himself "I'm just here to make sure no one steals any of the books or computers".

So security guards have replaced librarians, an ATM style machine has replaced the borrowing/returns desk, and it is now only open for 2.5 days a week. The "baby bounce 'n' rhyme" group which I took Toby to every single week of my maternity leave is long gone, as are the stickers and certificates the boys used to get from The Book Club after borrowing a certain number of books/grinning cheekily at a librarian.

Apparently the fact that the building still stands and houses books signifies a small victory for our community, and yes I feel fortunate that we only have to walk 1 mile up the road to borrow books but that doesn't mean I don't feel sad at the compromise.

What it meant for us this time, was that I was unable to borrow anything as my account was suspended until I paid the fine (that I wasn't allowed to pay to the guy who was there to stop me from stealing stuff/setting fire to the place!) If it were just me I'd have shrugged (perhaps haughtily) and not been TOO bothered, but the thing was that Toby had chosen a Spiderman comic book as one of his 'books' and they can't be borrowed on a child's account. Usually I borrow them for him on mine but...duh...I couldn't could I? So he was devastated (and I mean distraught, in the way only a 4 year old can be when life is so cruel as to deny them the basic pleasure of taking home a book they have set their heart on borrowing).

Our options were: 1. Forget about it OR 2. Make a mad dash home, jump in the car and drive up to the nearest library that still actually functions as a LIBRARY with really real librarians who can accept cash for fines.

The former seemed the easiest but Toby's heartbreak was palpable..so off we went on a mad cap "Library Adventure" (Toby's words).

Of course it was almost library closing time and it just had to start raining, and the traffic was heavy and Toby started yelling at the other cars to "move" and it was so farcical that it actually became hilarious. We made it back to our local library just in time to grab our abandoned books from where we'd left them and borrow them on my newly credited and unlocked account.

So, as I'm sure you'll understand, having gone through all that I feel I should probably read this lot before commencing Operation Book Jar. Along with the Spiderman comic, which was the real reason for the adventure, although I'm not very good at reading comics (Shhh! I just find it so tricky to know who is saying what and when!) so I usually leave that to Chris ;)

I've already read one of that pile, so I promise it won't be too long before I am consulting The Jar!

10 People You Meet At The Swimming Baths

As mentioned previously, I recently started swimming again, partly in an attempt to lose some of the 2 stone I've gained since being ill, but mostly just because it's a thing I used to do that I enjoy, and I missed it.

It's all going really well- I've built up from being able to do 17 lengths to 30 (and last week I managed 40 as a one off! Not that I'm showing off, you understand.) I've been going at least once a week, often more, and it's all good...there's just one teensy tiny (extremely irritating) problem...the other pool users.

I was going to say "fellow swimmers" but that wouldn't be an accurate description...at all.  

So here's a list of the ten different kinds of people you are likely to come across at my local baths.

1. Splashy Mc Splashersome

Usually wearing speedos, goggles and a swim hat, Splashy McSplashersome takes his/her swimming very seriously indeed. To watch them furiously attacking the water with their dramatic take on front crawl, you'd be forgiven for thinking that you'd accidentally found yourself in the middle of the Olympic Finals, rather than, say your 100-year old local pool on an average Wednesday evening.

Splashy McSplashersome has no spatial awareness. So in an otherwise empty pool will always choose to swim right beside you. If you feel something brush against your leg try not to freak the fuck out. It is, after all, unlikely to be a sea creature...it's probably just one of Splashy McSplasherome's limbs as they propel past you, oblivious to the fact that PERSONAL BUBBLES STILL APPLY UNDERWATER FUCKWIT! In fact, even more so since you're pretty much naked. *shudder*

2. Stinky Person

If it's not an over-abundance of aftershave making you feel like you're swimming in a vat of old spice, then it's cigarettes. How many fags does a person have to be smoking a day in order to actually cause chlorinated water to take on the smell of cigarettes the second they get in? I don't know. I'm going to guess *a lot*

3. Other People's Kids

Let's face it: all children can at times be irritating self-centred assholes. Putting them in a body of water without parental supervision, unsurprisingly does not help.

If you're sat there shaking your head in disbelief thinking "Not my children" then chances are, yes your children. The only reason you can't see it is because EVOLUTION. It'd be no good if we all went round drowning our young, would it? Other people's young though...well now, I can make no promises...

4. Some 90 Year Old Man or Woman Who Can Swim A Lot Better Than You

There's always one.  And they're always overtaking you.

5. Show-Off Guy

Diving in, swimming ridiculously fast drowning everyone in his wake, doing pull-ups on the side of the pool...I'm never sure who show-off guy is trying to impress...the lifeguards? (What, are you five?!) Other swimmers? Me? Because the only way you could impress me if we're sharing a pool is to stay the fuck out of my way.

6. Grunting Guy

Sometimes interchangeable with show-off guy. Here's a man who needs everyone to know just how hard he's working. It's not enough that he's swum ten laps in ten minutes, he has to spend at least twice that hanging out in the deep end, splashing his face with water and making grunting noises to demonstrate his exertion. Most off-putting.

7. The Non-Swimmer

Leaning on the side, wearing full make-up, including freshly applied lipstick and eyeliner, discussing the sordid details of their love life with a friend who just happened to be passing through on their way into the gym, these folk never actually get round to doing any swimming.  Some people just like to chill out in the water I guess?  Although, if that's the case why the fuck they don't just stay home and take a bath, I have no idea.

8. The In and Outers

They're swimming. They're getting out. They're in the shower. They disappear into the sauna for a bit. They're diving back in. They're swimming. They're climbing out again...rinse and repeat (literally) x about five. What the hell?! I don't get it at all.

9. The Unaware-Of-Public-Shower-Etiquette-Guy

Pulling their shorts away from their body to give their privates a good rinse? Check.

Lathering up their inner thighs? Check.

Catching water in their mouth and spitting it out? Check.

I don't know why some of them don't just bring their loofahs, toothbrushes and razors and be done with it.

10. Some Grumpy Bitch Scowling at Everyone who Gets in Her Way Whilst Doing Breaststroke for An Hour

Oh...that's me...

(*Sigh* What I wouldn't give...)

A New Chapter

Those of you who have been around for a while may remember this post from last year in which I freaked out about the prospect of choosing a school place for our oldest son.

Given all that has happened since then, I have to be honest and say that much of that anxiety and terror is long gone.  By the time we actually applied in autumn, life had changed so much in so many ways, that my perspective on the entire issue had shifted down several gears.  We'd viewed four out of the ten local schools, and liked three of them.  So we put down those three, in vague order of preference (although we were happy for him to go to any one) and then waited.  And waited.  And waited...

Meanwhile life continued to throw all kinds of shit out way.  So here I sit, in an entirely different house, feeling like an entirely different person to the one who wrote that less than a year ago, with his school offer letter finally in front of me, having just called up the school to accept the place.

And I'm smiling.

Not because I no longer care about how he will settle in, or if he'll make friends, not because I'm confident in my abilities to wrangle him and his wriggly little brother into clothes and feed and water them both in order to get to the school gates before 8.55 (I most certainly am not).  Not because I'm no longer worried, I'm his mother, I'm pretty sure it's in my job description to be worried about him for the rest of my life-long days.

No, I am smiling because I'm happy.

We got our second choice out of three good schools that we liked.  The majority of our 'school run' will be through the local park.  He is happy because he likes the uniform colours and the name of the school.  His brother is happy because I've promised that he too can go there, maybe as soon as next year (if he gets a place in the school nursery).  For the first time, in the process I feel completely calm.  Maybe this is the eye of the storm.  Maybe come August we'll all be having sleepless nights, and September could possibly bring tears (both mine and his).

There's no doubt that his starting school will open a new chapter in all of our lives, not just his, but for now I feel very content and like it is going to be fine.

On writing

Ever since I was little I have wanted to be a writer.  I have wanted to be other stuff too (actress, ice skating champion, midwife, criminal psychologist, zoo keeper...it's a long list) but the writing thing has been a constant.

The trouble is, that telling your high school careers adviser that you want to be a writer is like saying you want to be Cinderella.  Yeah, nice one, now what do you really want to do...you know, in the real world?  I remember her looking at my grades and suggesting journalism, or maybe something with foreign languages, like being a translator in business.  (Both suggestions I ignored). I continued writing my stories (most rip-offs of stuff I was reading at the time, or tales of pre-teen angst and woe, culminating in copious amounts of snogging, or very melodramatic maudlin pieces, one of which "strawberries and cream" actually made my English teacher cry.  Although this is the same English teacher who confessed to loving Mr Darcy more than her actual husband so...)  I even sent one (handwritten and illustrated!) unsolicited manuscript to a publisher when I was about ten years old, and received possibly the nicest rejection letter ever sent in the history of rejection letters.

Then in spring last year, having not written anything for years, I came up with an idea for a story at work one night, and when I came home I talked it through with Chris, to see if he thought it was half-way decent, or if my poor sleep-deprived brain was churning out drivel.  Pretty soon I had an actual plan, and some characters, and in August I finally put pen to paper (or, you know, finger tips to keyboard) and started to write.

Of course we all know what happened next.  I actually thought I had Carpal Tunnel at first, as typing was so painful and the pins and needles in my hands and fingers so bad, but of course it was all just part of the big "Rebecca's body attacking itself" nonsense (see here if you live under a rock and somehow missed the drama).

So the story got forgotten about for a few months whilst I concentrated on getting better.  Then in the new year I went back to it with a fresh perspective and at first it was going really well...pretty soon I had 16,000 words, and then, one night I came to the horrifying conclusion that I had written the whole thing from the wrong perspective and in the wrong tense.  I immediately switched tense (present to past) and perspective (1st to 3rd) and soldiered on, but at 20,000 words I got stuck, big time.  I couldn't make my characters do what I wanted them to, my main character was so annoying she was even starting to piss me off, and I just got the sense that the whole book was full of people walking into rooms and not saying or doing anything and then walking back out again.  Oh, and sighing...a lot.

It was a bit like that Eddie Izzard sketch comparing British and American films.  If you haven't seen it, go forth and do so immediately, it's hilarious.  It wasn't quite so funny realising he was accurately describing my literary masterpiece though.

Anyway, no matter how much I stared at the screen, or tapped a pen against a notepad, nothing was working.  But a funny thing started to happen:  The more I tried to think about it, and contemplate my characters and where it had all gone wrong, the more I started to think about this other story idea that I'd actually started writing eleven years ago (eleven years!  I'm sorry but, WTF?! How did that happen?  How can 2003 be 11 years ago?!)

So yeah, the characters from that book started popping up in my head instead.  And at first I was like "Get out of here! I'm trying to write this book here, that I have already got 20,000 words into, I'll come back and maybe deal with you later" but my brain wouldn't pipe down.

So I asked Chris, what did he think I should do.  He said (wisely, I think) that the 20,000 words weren't going anywhere, so why not go back to the other one, and see how that went instead?  Initially I was adamant: NO!  This is the book I am writing!  I am going to finish it before my birthday!

Eventually though, even I had to admit it just wasn't happening.  So I found myself hunting down ancient word documents and trying to figure out the password to open them (please don't ask me why I password protected them when I lived alone back in 2003 so no one else used the computer besides me?!)

A friendly word of advice for anyone reading this:  never read anything you wrote over ten years ago.  It's hilarious, but also mortifying.  I still thought the basic idea was good though, despite the terrible (and I mean really awful, writing).  So I went back to the drawing board and spent some time just working out timelines and characters and settings and stuff, putting off the actual writing for as long as I could (despite the fact the voices in my head were getting louder and louder.)

See, I think the reason I hit a wall with my other idea was because I knew my characters and the story well enough, but  I hadn't properly figured out what was actually going to happen.  And 20,000 words of nothing happening, is about 19,500 words too many.  Also, although the story was fictional, and the main character was not in fact based on myself, she and I did have some things in common, and I knew that in order to write her believably I'd need to tap into those parts of me...and it's just not something that I can do right now if I want to remain sane.

Eventually, last Saturday night, I just started writing.  Blah blah blah.  Within a few minutes I had a couple of sides in my A5 notebook.  I have discovered that I find it much easier to write with an actual pen and paper, because it seems less final.  I write all sorts of crap, because I tell myself "It's only a rough draft" in a way that I can't seem to when I see the words popping up in front of me on a screen (and where spellcheck is questioning my use of punctuation and pointing out all my typos!)

Well, my notebook is now full.  And I've started a new one, and having transcribed the majority of it into an actual document, I am able to tell you that I am already at the same point (in terms of word count) as I was with the first book.  (Although, in a way this is the first book, since a. I thought of the idea and started writing it over a decade ago, and b. the other one never got past 20,000 words so isn't a book at all- not even a novella!)

In case you were wondering 20,000 is a lot of words to write in one week (and possibly inadvisable if anyone is considering it) but I have found it almost impossible to stop.  My characters are waking me up in the night with things to say (in a non hallucinatory way, in case anyone was concerned) and I find myself thinking about them, and the story not just when I have a pen in my hand, but even when I'm in the middle of other unrelated stuff, like stirring pasta, or swimming lengths or doing the plough position at yoga.

I am undecided if this is a good thing yet but it is certainly moving things along nicely.  In fact, I am beginning to wonder if I may need more than one book to actually tell the full story the way I want to (eek!)

An unfortunate side effect of such intense writing is that I am having to remind myself daily that I am not in fact a seventeen year old boy.  I am spending so much time thinking like my main character, that it is almost a shock when I wake up in the morning and discover I am instead a 29 year old mother of two.

I have worked out that as a rough estimation, that even if I only write 242 words a day from now on, I will have a something loosely resembling a novel to my name by my 30th birthday.

Is most of what I am writing crap that no one else would pay to read?  Umm...yeah, probably.  Does that mean I am going to stop writing it?  Hell no!

On being a grown up (or not)

Our hoover blew up today.  A Dyson no less.  To be fair, it is 6 years old and was making an unhappy noise (and a bad smell) last time it was used, so expecting it to suck up a few (hundred) dust bunnies today was apparently the last straw.

My first thought, as a 29 year old woman of a limited income, should probably have been "Oh dear, I wonder how much this will cost to repair?" when in actual fact, it was "Oh my god, what is that smell?! Ah, shit, it blew up" closely followed by "Well, I guess now I don't have to do the hoovering today after all".

I have decided this probably means that I am not yet an actual grown up.

Other reasons why I am not a grown up are listed below:

*The laundry basket is currently completely empty:

Ta da!

Well now, that's quite grown up, you might think?

Not so.

Not only is this such an achievement of epic proportions that I felt the need to photograph it, but in my eagerness to get all the washing done, I neglected to realise that I actually have to put it away afterwards...

*I have a tax code.  Pretty grown up huh?  Well, aside from the fact that I have no idea what it is, what it means, or if it's right, yeah.  The same bewilderment applies to anything financial in fact, ISA?  Tracker mortgage?  Endowments?  My first thought after typing that last word was a rude one, so I think it's clear to us all that I have no idea what is going on when it comes to the grown-up world of money.

*Even after four and a half years of this parenting gig, I still often forget to leave the house with nappies, or wipes, or juice, or snacks.  Earlier this year (aka- in the middle of winter) I sent my children out for the day and on an overnight sleepover, without their outdoor coats.  I think you'll agree, that doesn't seem like something a responsible mother of two children should do.

*I recycle.  However, can I remember to put the bins out every week, ready for collection?  NO.  Or at least, I can but only about 40% of the time. Which given as we've had the same bin collection day for the last 5 years is pretty poor.  Additionally, the weeks where our bin does make it down the alley in time to be emptied, I then neglect to bring it back in again afterwards...usually for several days.

*If calories (and cholesterol, and diabetes etc) weren't a factor, left to my own devices I would choose to eat pizza, cheeseburgers, and ice cream, washed down with beer.  That's how developed my taste buds are.

*Similarly, when it comes to wine tasting, I am clueless. In my (extensive) experience of wine quaffing, it all tends to fall into one of two categories-

1. Cheap and Nasty (which I have found tends to be everything under the £3 price bracket, along with anything that comes in a box, rather than a bottle) and

2. Drinkable which includes pretty much everything else.

Very occasionally I drink something and think "This is bloody good!" at which point my reaction is to drink more of it, and (when no longer under the influence of alcohol) to go out and buy more...just so long as it's on an offer.  I have never ever swilled wine around my mouth and then spat it out. Except maybe if someone really made me laugh.

*I do not like rocket lettuce.  I have no idea why anyone likes rocket lettuce.  Are you all pretending to like it because you think you're supposed to?  Am I the only person willing to point out that it tastes like shit?!

*I have the same taste in clothing and music as my teenage sister, and I'll give you a clue: she isn't wearing cardigans and listening to jazz.  In fact, we're going to see Funeral for a Friend together in September (and it was my idea, and it won't be the first time I've been to one of their gigs, and I'm going all the way to Bridgend for it)

(FFAF.  I love them!  Not that they look like this anymore, since they're all about my age, or older)

*I have read a lot of books in recent years, that are aimed at people younger than me, like...*cough cough*...Harry Potter and *extreme throat clearing*...Twilight?!?

*I vote, despite having absolutely no interest in, or understanding of politics, beyond liberal: good bigotry: bad.  When people talk about working towards world peace, I think "Well, if we all stopped killing each other, that might be a start?"  I am a realist in my head: "That will never happen." but an idealist in my heart: "Make love not war!"

*I should be ironing right now...but I'm writing this blog post instead.

But before anyone becomes concerned that I am, in fact, a fifteen year old masquerading as a responsible adult, here are some reasons why I may be a grown-up after all:

*I brush my teeth twice a day (without prompting!) and even have a dentist and make my own appointments and everything (along with everyone else's too)

(shiny white teeth after a trip to the dentist)

*I clean out my rabbits (without prompting!)

(Happy bunnies in a clean cage)

*I pay my bills (without prompting!)

*I have two children, one of whom will be starting school this September!!!!!!

*I consider 8am to be a lie-in

*I also read books definitely not aimed at a younger audience

*I actually like gin (this is possibly my biggest claim to adulthood and the most recent development in my growth as a human being)

(mmm, gin!)

*I have wrinkles (shhh!) and the occasional grey hair (shhhhhhh!) and a chronic health condition.  All of which means that most days I feel more like a geriatric, than a spritely youth.

*Other people's poop is no longer "gross", or rather it is, but has also become something that I now applaud (literally!) when it lands in the correct receptacle (i.e. toilet or potty, vs floor or pants)

*I need caffeine to function

*Oh, and I like to make lists ;)

So, there you have it.  On balance, I may be more grown up than I thought...

...but hey, at least I don't need to hoover today.

Mornings

This morning I was woken at 5.30am by Chris getting up for work.  I eventually managed to drift back off to sleep only to be woken at 6.45 by a screeching child, waving a pair of Gruffalo socks in my face (The child was mine, by the way, otherwise that would be even more weird).

After ascertaining how early it was, I asked the boys to please play quietly in their bedroom, and curled back up under the duvet, playing a little game I like to call "Let's pretend I don't have any responsibilities and can stay in bed all day", which really just involves lying very still with my eyes closed listening to the children fight with each other and destroy their room.

Only this morning the cat decided to get in on the action, by pretending my feet were his arch enemies that it was his lifelong mission to seek and destroy, or at least I can only assume that's why he pounced from the foot of the bed and scratched one of my ankles to ribbons.

After several more visits from the children (Rudy crying because Toby yelled at and scared him, Toby wailing because Daddy is at work, each taking it in turns to march through and 'tell tales' on the other) I was ready to give up and face the fact that today was happening and that I'd have to get up and deal with it.

What I didn't count on also having to deal with, was the disemboweled mouse strewn across the dining room floor.

We have mice. We have a cat. This equation usually works out pretty well, just so long as Chris is around to take care of the finalities.

Yep, I'm a bit of a girl, when it comes to rodents I'm afraid. No, really, I'm afraid. I never used to be. But then I moved to Manchester, and lived alone for a few years, in a flat with  a serious pest control problem.  I never thought I was scared of mice, until they were scurrying inside my walls and darting out from under my bed.  If you've ever had a rodent infestation then you'll understand what I mean.  Every tickle across your foot in the night, every rustle from behind the furniture, has you shuddering involuntarly, tucking your knees to your chest and screaming like a fangirl (or is that just me?!)

The mice in the flat were actually the main reason I got a cat. Chris and I hadn't been together long but he'd already unofficially moved in, and after resorting to killing a particularly peskersome mouse by dropping a Next Directory on it (following which, let it be known, that even he needed a beer) we discussed the idea of getting a pet of the feline variety.  Thus, Stitch:

Problem solved, you'd think.  Except here I am, 9 years later, having to scrape mouse intestines off the floor at 8 o clock in the morning.  Apparently, the thrill really is in the chase (and kill) whilst the disposal is still very much a human problem.

After much shuddering and retching and a quite a lot of "ick ick ick ick, oh my god, this is disgusting...arrrrrgggghhhhh" on my part, the mouse, and it's innards, and the dustpan and brush itself were all the bin, at which point the boys (who had been banished to the living room during my fifteen minutes of dithering working up courage) burst through demanding juice and weetabix and slippers and an illustrated itinerary for the day.

Is it just me, or does anyone else miss mornings that involved nothing more than sex, and coffee, and maybe a long hot shower whilst deciding what to do with the day?

The Yoga Ogre

A few months ago my boys' brought home this book from a birthday party:

Not only is that such a brilliant idea (books instead of party bags, I mean), but the book itself is hilarious.

Basically Ogden (the protagonist) is an ogre on a mission to get fit, and as I read it I couldn't help but notice a few similarities between him and me.  Particularly his inability to understand how his pyjamas suddenly didn't fit, despite his over indulgence in pie.

The similarities became even more striking this week when, on Monday I went to my first ever yoga class.

Thankfully, (*spoiler alert!*) I managed not to cause any damage to the structural integrity of the building, unfortunately however, I do appear to have caused some significant damage to myself.

I didn't even feel like I was particularly pushing or straining myself, and was quite accepting of the fact that there were limitations (many & varied) to my flexibility and what I was capable of. The class was 90 minutes, and afterwards I came home feeling tired but relaxed.

The following morning however I felt like shit.

Or more specifically, like someone had run over me with an eighteen-wheeler, and inserted barbed wire into my skull.

I continued to feel like this particular brand of shit all day on Tuesday, and after doing nothing other than take the kids food shopping, I ended up having to go back to bed at 3pm, something I haven't had to do in a really looooong time.  This was only accomplishable because I bribed the children with The Little Mermaid on DVD and snacks, to get them to sit still and quiet in my bed.

Yesterday I didn't feel quite as bad initially, but then as soon as I tried to walk almost instantly felt like it was a Very Bad Idea and that I might pass out in the street (fortunately I didn't).

Today my head feels clear but my back and neck are still killing me. Leading me to wonder if Tuesday and Wednesday were the result of a burgeoning migraine nipped in the bud, rather than the yoga, (which I assume is what these lingering aches and pains are a hangover from).

Alternatively this could all be some random CIDP related horseshit but that seems unlikely only 10 days in to my IVIG cycle.

Either way I am going to have to decide whether to try again next Monday.

At this point I'm thinking it could be kill or cure...

Living in the Now

Further to my post about needing to undertake a bit of a cyber spring clean, I have changed a few things around on the blog.  I have done away with the Duplo blocks and done my best to jazz it up a bit, but hopefully without making it unreadable?! (I was going to say let me know if anyone is struggling but if you can't read it then how would you know I'd said that?!)

I am flirting with the idea of a change of name and url too but don't want to make any hasty decisions, especially since Chris insists that I'll get the occasional dodgy traffic regardless.

You may be delighted (or dismayed) to know that for now I am still going to keep blathering away about whatever thoughts happen to cross my mind on any given day, so I'll still be writing about parenting, health (or not), writing, and life in general.  Eventually I'd like to develop sections so that people coming here to read about my CIDP journey aren't forced to wade through my (multiple) posts on poo in it's various incarnations (cloth nappies, potty training, family bouts of D&V and the such).

For now you'll all (yes, every single one of the fourteen of you) just have to endure the full package though...consider it holistic blogging if you will ;)

And speaking of holistic, alongside my cyber tinkerings, I am undertaking a bit of a life spring clean at the minute too.  You know how they always say that in order to succesfully make changes in your life you have to take it one step at a time, making a little change here and a little change there? Well, I'm calling bullshit on that theory and going in for the overhaul.

This past year or so, with it's mole scares, and hospital stays, miscarriages, the loss of my lovely mother-in-law, my friend Nic's ongoing battle against cancer, my own Mum's ongoing battle against cancer, has really hammered home, with a giant fucking proverbial mallet, just how important it is to live in the now.  A phrase often used to justify impulsive decision making and a lack of long term plans, but which actually means being present each day because it's the only one of which we can be certain we have.

And once you really take that on board, and I don't mean nod and say "yes, how true", and then carry on procrastinating about that allotment you've always wanted but never got round to putting your name down for, but really appreciate what that actually means, then the idea of putting off anything at all becomes deplorable.

So in the spirit of seizing the day I will be immediately quitting my job, joining the circus, overhauling my wardrobe and starting surfing lessons...

HA!

Or not.

If this were a film that's what I'd do because I'd only have 90 minutes of visual stimulus to demonstrate to you how I am living in the now, and by throwing caution (and all my clothes and financial obligations) to the wind, you could be sure that yes, she really has lost her mind, grasped how precious life really is.

This is not a film, so I'll not be turning my joggers into dusters or climbing up on that surf board just yet, but it is true that I am making lots of radical changes every single day, they're just not the kind that can be seen by others unless they're paying close attention.

You see the biggest change of all, that any of us can make, is a change of mindset.  Swapping our "One day..."'s for "Today"'s and instead of thinking "If only" ask "Why not?" and replacing "I wish I could" with "I can and I bloody well will".

If you can do that (and it 'aint easy, but then what about life is?!) then naturally other changes will follow.

That's my theory anyway.

I'll let you know how my new life as a penniless, ballgown wearing, vegetable growing, surfer-chick circus perfomer* works out...

(*In case anyone was curious why I am suddenly obsessed with the circus, it's because we went to one last week and it was fab and my new ambition in life is to be able to hula hoop with twenty hoops at the same time, which will first mean I need to learn how to hula hoop with a single hoop and I figure I'll build up from there, well, either that or put my back out, or possibly end up needing hip surgery...but you know, whatever...)

Because I Can

Last year I ran the Great Manchester Run for the first time. I did it to raise funds for Findlay and Iona, and because I was looking for a new challenge (and as someone who is not a natural born runner, it definitely was!) and just because I could.

I managed to jog the whole course, and finished in just under 1 hour 22 minutes and vowed I'd never do it ever again.

Then 3 months later I was in hospital being told I had Guillain-Barre Syndrome, and then a month after that I was so ill that I wasn't even able to wash, dress or go to the toilet by myself.

My days of running 10k seemed far far behind me, and although it seemed somewhat ironic and ridiculous, to need help getting off the toilet when not that long ago I'd been a fit and healthy 28 year old, I almost didn't mind the idea of never being able to run again.  In fact, there was a lot of stuff I was willing to forgo, if only I could just have my dignity back.

"If I can never run again, I don't mind, just please, let me be able to walk" I would think to myself.  Or on really bad days: "If I can never walk again, I don't mind, just please, let me be able to at least pee and shower without assistance".

Then, quite quickly, the day came when I could pee alone, could shower alone, and not long after that I could in fact walk unaided.

And now, several months down the line, with my new diagnosis of CIDP, I'm not quite where I was at before all this started, but I'm closer to that version of me, than the version who couldn't lift her arm to brush her own hair, and it's almost time for this years' Great Manchester Run...and I think you can probably guess what I am about to say next...

Ok, so it may be bordering on insanity, and I can't say for sure that I'll be able to pull it off, but yes, I have in fact signed up to race again this year.

I say "race", but I will actually be walking rather than running.  Although I have been off crutches completely now since January, I am not yet at the stage where 10k doesn't seem that far. I remember the course well, and it really really does seem far!  But I have recently started walking Toby to nursery (and then walking back home) and doing the same to collect him from nursery too, which equates to about 6k in one day, and that's at least once, sometimes twice a week.  I know it's not quite the same, because I am able to rest in between, but I figure I have time between now and race day to slowly improve on my fitness and stamina...well...just under 7 weeks anyway!

The run is on Sunday 18th May this year, so my taking part seems especially poignant as had I not miscarried back in October my due date would have been in May (10th May by LMP but 17th May by our early scan). So since I won't, in fact, be giving birth, I feel I should be doing something else slightly insane and incredible instead. And walking 10k for charity, in celebration of being able to use my legs and of being ALIVE seems like it fits that bill quite well.

So, if you'd like to show your support, you can visit my Just Giving Page, where all money raised is going to GAIN (Guillain-Barre and Associated Inflammatory Neuropathies Charity), who offer support to those with a diagnosis of GBS and CIDP.

Messages of support and words of encouragement are also very welcome- even if you're just stopping by to yell "YOU'RE INSANE!" that's fine too! ;)

(looks like I'll need to be dusting my running shoes off)

Free Day

As I live blogged from the hospital yesterday, this month, for the first time, one of the Neuro Specialist Nurses decided I could attempt to have the full 80g of Privigen I would usually have over 2 days, over just one day instead.

I was excited but terrified at the prospect, as having experienced some of the negative side effects of treatment after my IVIG in November, I was not relishing the idea of spending 48 hours lying in the dark cuddling a vomit bowl.  Thankfully, I tolerated the increased infusion rate really well. (And when I say increased infusion rate, I really mean it! Starting at 100mls/hr instead of 21mls/hr and finishing up at 300mls/hr rather than 150mls/hr!)

So rather than spending all day yesterday, and all day today at Salford Royal, hooked up to an IV, I was done by 3pm yesterday and didn't need to go back at all today.

It was so strange coming home without my cannula, and not needing to get up and go anywhere first thing this morning.  Strange but brilliant.

I had a bit of a lie-in, not getting out of bed until 10am! Then we had a cooked breakfast, which is a rare treat, playtime with the rabbits,  and then this afternoon I got to break in my new shoes when we had a leisurely (leisurely being the operative word there) stroll to the park.

The boys took their bikes, with mixed success.  Toby is getting pretty fast and daring on his, whereas Rudy is still a bit unsure, and after taking a tumble on the bike path he was all the more anxious for the rest of the trip, periodically screaming, and yelling "IT WOBBLING!"

By the time we made it to the playground the sun had really come out, and some lads playing football on the courts had some reggae playing and as I sat, with my ginormous hips wedged into a swing, which creaked rather ominously under my weight, and watched Chris and the boys running, spinning, climbing and swinging I felt so thankful for this unexpected free day.

The really great news is that in theory I will now be able to have my IVIG over just one day every time, so there will be many more 'Free Days' in the future, although since I know about them already I don't think it will be quite the same as the feeling I had today...of relishing a day with my family that I didn't know I would have.