I thought that I was safe from this feeling for at least another nine or ten years. But no, it seems that I was wrong, and that heartache is mine already.
Last Sunday I went to the Sunday evening service at church. Now in the mornings Sweetpea goes to Sunday School and I go to the worship service, so the idea of having her sitting with me at the night service was one that I was actually looking forward to. All the way to church Sweetpea was chattering away in the back seat about how her Sunday school teacher is her best friend, and would she be there tonight? Obviously I had no idea and couldn’t answer her, so there was great rejoicing when she saw Rosita in the main hall before church started. There was numerous cuddles and telling Rosita what we had done during the day and then the question that felled me.
“Can I sit with you?”
Such an innocent question. I laughed, because I didn't really expect Sweetpea to want to sit with Rosita if I went to another area of the church to sit. I honestly thought that she would follow me (after a moment’s hesitation of course) and sit with me. I hate sitting in the crowded part of the church, I like to sit apart. Not because I don’t like people, but because I suffer dreadful claustrophobia and cannot stand the idea of being trapped. Heaven knows I've tried to sit with other people to try and make friends, but the panic rises in me in every growing waves and I cant breath, the world swims before my eyes and I end up biting my bottom lip until it bleeds in an effort to cope with my discomfort, and I hear absolutely nothing of the service. I thought that Sweetpea would follow me to the safety of my back row where I can escape if I need to and be happy. I was wrong. Sweetpea happily tripped after Rosita without giving me so much as a backward glance.
I spent the first ten minutes of the service feeling the hot salty sting in my eyes as I came to the realisation that my three and a half year old child would rather sit with her Sunday school teacher than me. That she is already exerting her independence. I felt ridiculous to be fighting back the tears... but there I was, none the less, begging God to stop me from crying, because I didn't want to make a scene or have anyone notice that I was crying. My biggest fear if someone had seen me cry was what would I say to their questioning? “My daughter *sniff* loves her Sunday school teacher *snuffle* more than me... boo-hoo-hooooooooooo!”? But I can’t tell you how it ripped my heart out to watch her talking with Rosita, swaying with the music and then cuddling into her during the sermon.
At one point Rosita sent Sweetpea to me and my heart soared to the heavens. Thoughts raced through my head as she ran along the back walkway to my open arms - she did love me, she missed me and wanted to sit with me after all. No. She needed to go to the toilet. And after taking her, she did not want to sit with me again. She sobbed when I tried to take her to my seat. Her little face scrunched up in a ball of grief and her eyes spilt tears of frustration. So with a heavy heart, I sent her off to go and sit with Rosita once again.
I have always known that one day she would spread her wings and fly. I've always known that if I do my job well, she will grow up confident in her abilities and want to fly the nest and it will be a sign of a job well done if she leaves me to go and forge relationships on her own terms. I just didn't expect it so soon.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
First Embroidery Lesson
In recent months Sweetpea has seen me stitching away with more passion than I have had for a few years. Actually I just cant imagine being able to stitch before a new child hits about the age of two and a half... it just seems too daunting to try and get all the needles and threads set up and then have to shove it out of the way to get up and attend to a crying child.
I digress. I've been getting back into my embroidery and Sweetpea often sits next to me and watches her TV shows and we chat and relax. I never really thought she was taking it in, but a few weeks ago I casually suggested when Sweetpea was older (thinking when she was five or six years of age) that I would teach her to embroider with me if she wanted. Her attitude was one of eager happiness.
So on Saturday, having had a quiet day (by my life standards) I thought I would ask if she wanted to have a go (what on earth was I thinking?) and boy oh boy did she respond positively. I cut out a piece of calico and threaded the largest needle I had with six strands of embroidery cotton, we sat down and blow me down if the child didn't sit there for 40 minutes concentrating, getting each stitch just right. I wish I could upload the video of her sitting there, legs crossed on the bed, staring intently at her work, and then asking if she had stitched a spider. Sure, why not I said,to which I was rewarded with a rendition of incy wincy spider. Pure joy I tell you, pure joy.
And after the hard work of embroidering was finished, Sweetpea followed me around the house, thanking me repeatedly;
"Thank you Mummah, thank you! Thank you for embroiderme."
I cannot believe that my three year old daughter is sewing, with real needles and thread. I always have suspected she was gifted, but now I know for sure!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
So, So Much More....
Whoever coined the phrase that “speech is silver but silence is golden” has probably never had the pleasure of being told by a child that they were loved. Listening to children learn to speak is a wonder, listening to my child learn to speak has been a privilege that has filled my head with memories that I want to cling to forever.
At first there are simple sounds that come out of a child with no rhyme or reason; just exploratory events and discovering the mastery control over the vocal box. Then comes the stage in which the child starts to imitate words that they hear around them. Often this stage is a parent only stage... as in, parents only will ever understand wheat the child is attempting to say, and they often have to act as translators to outsiders. Then comes the stage in which words become much clearer and the real art of communication can begin.
It goes without saying that I often whisper words of affection to Sweetpea, and over time, she has picked up the meaning of these words, and loves to voice them back to me now. I can’t begin to share with you the thrill, the sheer heartache of overwhelming gladness I feel when she wraps her small arms around my neck and says in that voice of hers that is thankfully devoid of saccharine, little girly sweetness,
“Mummah, I love you so, so much.”
And of course, it has been even more special to be able to return her vocal outpouring of love to reply with a river of adoration,
“And I love you so, so much more.”
The other night, as she was falling asleep, she repeated the statement several times. And because I was tired after a long day of being attentive to everyone around me, without thinking too much I simply replied that I loved her too, but still she persevered, until I realised that she was expecting the ‘correct’ answer.
“And I love you so, so much more Sweetpea.”
With the ever so slight hint of a giggle and a contented sigh she curled up in my arms and fell asleep. I'm not sure why God has chosen to bless me with this child, but I am grateful each and every day for her. Sometimes I fear that she will never fully know how much more I love her, but the love I feel for her is more encompassing than I ever imagined possible before I was a parent. I love her so, so much more than I ever thought possible.
At first there are simple sounds that come out of a child with no rhyme or reason; just exploratory events and discovering the mastery control over the vocal box. Then comes the stage in which the child starts to imitate words that they hear around them. Often this stage is a parent only stage... as in, parents only will ever understand wheat the child is attempting to say, and they often have to act as translators to outsiders. Then comes the stage in which words become much clearer and the real art of communication can begin.
It goes without saying that I often whisper words of affection to Sweetpea, and over time, she has picked up the meaning of these words, and loves to voice them back to me now. I can’t begin to share with you the thrill, the sheer heartache of overwhelming gladness I feel when she wraps her small arms around my neck and says in that voice of hers that is thankfully devoid of saccharine, little girly sweetness,
“Mummah, I love you so, so much.”
And of course, it has been even more special to be able to return her vocal outpouring of love to reply with a river of adoration,
“And I love you so, so much more.”
The other night, as she was falling asleep, she repeated the statement several times. And because I was tired after a long day of being attentive to everyone around me, without thinking too much I simply replied that I loved her too, but still she persevered, until I realised that she was expecting the ‘correct’ answer.
“And I love you so, so much more Sweetpea.”
With the ever so slight hint of a giggle and a contented sigh she curled up in my arms and fell asleep. I'm not sure why God has chosen to bless me with this child, but I am grateful each and every day for her. Sometimes I fear that she will never fully know how much more I love her, but the love I feel for her is more encompassing than I ever imagined possible before I was a parent. I love her so, so much more than I ever thought possible.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Model in the Making
I think I may have unleashed a monster today.
I don’t know how many times people have left me messages that they want to see photos of Sweetpea, and I know that its been an awful long time since I've put anything up – but believe me, its not for lack of trying. I cant count the number of times I've snuck the camera out of my bag, turned it on behind my back, lined up the shot – only to have Sweetpea scream hysterically at the last minute when she spies the camera out of the corner of her eye and realise that I'm about to – Oh.My.Gawd. – take her picture.I swear that Sweetpea is channelling the Indigenous peoples of this homeland, as she seems to think that having a photo taken is akin to stealing her spirit and she loses the plot each and every time I attempt to take her photo.
And I swear she has supersonic hearing ability. It’s the only explanation I can feasibly come up with to her ability to suss out when a camera is being trained on her. I can turn it on in the kitchen, with the Kenwood mix master going at maximum speed, with the T.V. blaring in the family room, and be attempting a conversation with Driving Miss Daisy, who, having not taken the time to get new batteries for her hearing aides, is pretty well deaf as a door post resulting in me repeating the same sentence five times in a row in steadily rising volume to an effort to get the sentence “weathers good today isn’t it?” or some other piece of importance and still, Sweetpea will know that the camera is whizzing through the air and being aimed in her general direction.
I have a 2 GIG card filled with photos of Sweetpea in various states of avoidance. Hands up in front of her face. Turning her head. Running out of the frame of the photo. Spinning her body around so that I have only her back. And let’s not forget the ever precious “Mummah is torturing me to death” wobble of the bottom lip and welling of tears in the eyes photos. Oh Lord, I could fill a photo album with such photographic misfits. And yet I find myself unable to hit the DELETE button, and for the record, its a very good reason. I want to prove to Sweetpea one day down the track when she is a sullen wretched teenager, who quite rightly believes that the world really is against her, challenges me as to why there is a gap in her photographic history from the age of 2 years 9 months to 3 years 2 months (so far). I will, with great flourish pull out the photos from this time frame and show her that it was HER behaviour and not my sudden lack of parental interest in recording her life that resulted in a complete and utter lack in pictures.
Today the kinder rang to remind me that it was photo day and did I want to bring Sweetpea down? With a pitiful laugh I shared the misery that is my photographic life at the moment, and that I didn’t think that it was worth the effort to dress her up for her to produce professional grade photos of her hands in front of her face, her head swinging away, her body swirling away from the lens or the ever popular crying in front of the camera. I got off the phone to Sweetpea sidling up to me and asking what the conversation was about.
“That was the kinder asking if I wanted your photo taken, but I said no.”
“Yes Mummah, photos. Yeah.”
“Really.....?,” I asked hesitantly, “You wont cry or be silly, you will let someone take your photos?”
“Yeah!” came the innocently pleasurable voice that only a three year old who is about to push her mother over the edge can produce.
The next 20 minutes were spent dressing, combing out hair (and ‘discussing’ which hair clips she should wear – her choice of the big, bold stars with three pink diamantes won over my choice of ribbon spirals) and racing down to the kinder.
“Now, are you sure, you really will let someone take your photo Sweetpea?” I asked for what must have been the umpteenth time.
“Yes Mummah!”
So the photographer comes in – and it was a man, which is not a good start, as Sweetpea isn’t all that fond of men, being that there is a rather large shortage of them in our household and life in general. He perseveres and takes a few shots, but Sweetpea refuses to smile, no matter what tricks the photographer and his assistant pull. They get really worried because there isn’t one usable photo in their minds so far. The very fact that Sweetpea is sitting still and they are capturing a photo image of her at all impresses the bejebbies out of me, so I'm not worried. She has the whole “Princess Di” deal of looking at the photographer through her eyelashes down pat; scarily. But in the end, sensing the growing despondency of the photographer, I take pity on him and resort to complete mothering trickery and as the guy snaps shots of Sweetpea sitting at a table, I lie down and tickle her legs and tummy, resulting in bright happy smiles on both the three year old and the photographer. I dare not contemplate what it must have looked like to the five teachers and the twenty other three year olds in the room to see my body rolling around on the floor. Some things are better left alone, I think you will agree.
By this stage the guy has proven he is nothing to be scared off and Sweetpea has warmed up to this game of photo taking. Then we go outside and take photos of Sweetpea riding a trike, complete with her throwing her head back with glee, laughing and, I swear to you, posing like a model with arms out in the air, fingers outstretched, legs off the ground that inspires people to think of movement, golden hair glistening in the sun. She plays in the sandpit, directing him to take photos of her from this side and that. He says ‘smile’ and she beams out a 240 watt smile that light up the whole playground.
And suddenly, it’s all over. Photographer man has at least three shots out of the 40 he must have taken that I'm going to want to buy and its time for him to move onto the other classroom. I take Sweetpea out to the car and as she gets into her car seat, she comes out with;
“More photos Mummah.”
Stunned I pull out my fabulous camera from my handbag and turn it on. She spies it and the little face turns from radiance to overcast in a fleeting moment.
“No Mummah, not you - him” she says, voice bleating, pointing in the general direction of the playground.
Even as I write this down, Sweetpea brings up the memory of the photos and I hopefully ask if I can take her photo.
“No!”
“Go away!” is my very mature, I'm the adult and I don’t take things of this nature too personally reply.
Say it with me peoples - I'm ready for my close up Mr. Deville.
I don’t know how many times people have left me messages that they want to see photos of Sweetpea, and I know that its been an awful long time since I've put anything up – but believe me, its not for lack of trying. I cant count the number of times I've snuck the camera out of my bag, turned it on behind my back, lined up the shot – only to have Sweetpea scream hysterically at the last minute when she spies the camera out of the corner of her eye and realise that I'm about to – Oh.My.Gawd. – take her picture.I swear that Sweetpea is channelling the Indigenous peoples of this homeland, as she seems to think that having a photo taken is akin to stealing her spirit and she loses the plot each and every time I attempt to take her photo.
And I swear she has supersonic hearing ability. It’s the only explanation I can feasibly come up with to her ability to suss out when a camera is being trained on her. I can turn it on in the kitchen, with the Kenwood mix master going at maximum speed, with the T.V. blaring in the family room, and be attempting a conversation with Driving Miss Daisy, who, having not taken the time to get new batteries for her hearing aides, is pretty well deaf as a door post resulting in me repeating the same sentence five times in a row in steadily rising volume to an effort to get the sentence “weathers good today isn’t it?” or some other piece of importance and still, Sweetpea will know that the camera is whizzing through the air and being aimed in her general direction.
I have a 2 GIG card filled with photos of Sweetpea in various states of avoidance. Hands up in front of her face. Turning her head. Running out of the frame of the photo. Spinning her body around so that I have only her back. And let’s not forget the ever precious “Mummah is torturing me to death” wobble of the bottom lip and welling of tears in the eyes photos. Oh Lord, I could fill a photo album with such photographic misfits. And yet I find myself unable to hit the DELETE button, and for the record, its a very good reason. I want to prove to Sweetpea one day down the track when she is a sullen wretched teenager, who quite rightly believes that the world really is against her, challenges me as to why there is a gap in her photographic history from the age of 2 years 9 months to 3 years 2 months (so far). I will, with great flourish pull out the photos from this time frame and show her that it was HER behaviour and not my sudden lack of parental interest in recording her life that resulted in a complete and utter lack in pictures.
Today the kinder rang to remind me that it was photo day and did I want to bring Sweetpea down? With a pitiful laugh I shared the misery that is my photographic life at the moment, and that I didn’t think that it was worth the effort to dress her up for her to produce professional grade photos of her hands in front of her face, her head swinging away, her body swirling away from the lens or the ever popular crying in front of the camera. I got off the phone to Sweetpea sidling up to me and asking what the conversation was about.
“That was the kinder asking if I wanted your photo taken, but I said no.”
“Yes Mummah, photos. Yeah.”
“Really.....?,” I asked hesitantly, “You wont cry or be silly, you will let someone take your photos?”
“Yeah!” came the innocently pleasurable voice that only a three year old who is about to push her mother over the edge can produce.
The next 20 minutes were spent dressing, combing out hair (and ‘discussing’ which hair clips she should wear – her choice of the big, bold stars with three pink diamantes won over my choice of ribbon spirals) and racing down to the kinder.
“Now, are you sure, you really will let someone take your photo Sweetpea?” I asked for what must have been the umpteenth time.
“Yes Mummah!”
So the photographer comes in – and it was a man, which is not a good start, as Sweetpea isn’t all that fond of men, being that there is a rather large shortage of them in our household and life in general. He perseveres and takes a few shots, but Sweetpea refuses to smile, no matter what tricks the photographer and his assistant pull. They get really worried because there isn’t one usable photo in their minds so far. The very fact that Sweetpea is sitting still and they are capturing a photo image of her at all impresses the bejebbies out of me, so I'm not worried. She has the whole “Princess Di” deal of looking at the photographer through her eyelashes down pat; scarily. But in the end, sensing the growing despondency of the photographer, I take pity on him and resort to complete mothering trickery and as the guy snaps shots of Sweetpea sitting at a table, I lie down and tickle her legs and tummy, resulting in bright happy smiles on both the three year old and the photographer. I dare not contemplate what it must have looked like to the five teachers and the twenty other three year olds in the room to see my body rolling around on the floor. Some things are better left alone, I think you will agree.
By this stage the guy has proven he is nothing to be scared off and Sweetpea has warmed up to this game of photo taking. Then we go outside and take photos of Sweetpea riding a trike, complete with her throwing her head back with glee, laughing and, I swear to you, posing like a model with arms out in the air, fingers outstretched, legs off the ground that inspires people to think of movement, golden hair glistening in the sun. She plays in the sandpit, directing him to take photos of her from this side and that. He says ‘smile’ and she beams out a 240 watt smile that light up the whole playground.
And suddenly, it’s all over. Photographer man has at least three shots out of the 40 he must have taken that I'm going to want to buy and its time for him to move onto the other classroom. I take Sweetpea out to the car and as she gets into her car seat, she comes out with;
“More photos Mummah.”
Stunned I pull out my fabulous camera from my handbag and turn it on. She spies it and the little face turns from radiance to overcast in a fleeting moment.
“No Mummah, not you - him” she says, voice bleating, pointing in the general direction of the playground.
Even as I write this down, Sweetpea brings up the memory of the photos and I hopefully ask if I can take her photo.
“No!”
“Go away!” is my very mature, I'm the adult and I don’t take things of this nature too personally reply.
Say it with me peoples - I'm ready for my close up Mr. Deville.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Some Numbers
Zero- the enthusiasm I feel towards my university work this semester
One – the number of red tomatoes that have ripened on my plants that I have grown from seedlings this season (thank goodness there is a spate of warm weather this week or I will be forced to look up a recipe for fried green tomatoes)
Two- times I've baked chocolate cup cakes with milk chocolate ganache icing (once for the kids at kinder to celebrate Sweetpea's birthday and once for my disabled aunts 53 birthday a few days later)
Two- the number of books I've bought in the last two weeks on French cookery: two called “The Food of France”, but as Driving Miss Daisy says, they’re French; they don’t have to worry about originality!
Three – is how many years I have had the incredible joy, privilege and responsibility of my daughter life on this planet, which I celebrated on Wednesday 27th February
Five – the average number of hours of sleep I'm getting to enjoy on a regular basis, which isn’t enough by far, but is better than four
Seven – is (somewhat surprisingly) the number of years since I started my diary at Open Diary
Ten – days until I have to complete an assignment which I have barely started, don’t fully understand the question let alone the content and I have to work out how to upload via a Powerpoint presentation
Thirty-Five – the number of cupcakes I wish I had the room in my tummy to eat in one day
Thirty-Three – the number of minutes I got to talk to a friend whose husband has just gone on record in a very prominent newspaper and revealed private medical records about her leaving her feeling exposed, blind sided and betrayed
Thirty-Eight – the number of cupcakes I can get out of one batch of batter
Sixty- the number of photos that the Fisher-Price camera takes that I bought Sweetpea for her birthday present
100’s & 1000’s – the name of the colourful sprinkles that I put on the cupcakes for decoration
Infinity and Beyond – the joy I feel inside when I think about how much I love being Sweetpea's Mummah
One – the number of red tomatoes that have ripened on my plants that I have grown from seedlings this season (thank goodness there is a spate of warm weather this week or I will be forced to look up a recipe for fried green tomatoes)
Two- times I've baked chocolate cup cakes with milk chocolate ganache icing (once for the kids at kinder to celebrate Sweetpea's birthday and once for my disabled aunts 53 birthday a few days later)
Two- the number of books I've bought in the last two weeks on French cookery: two called “The Food of France”, but as Driving Miss Daisy says, they’re French; they don’t have to worry about originality!
Three – is how many years I have had the incredible joy, privilege and responsibility of my daughter life on this planet, which I celebrated on Wednesday 27th February
Five – the average number of hours of sleep I'm getting to enjoy on a regular basis, which isn’t enough by far, but is better than four
Seven – is (somewhat surprisingly) the number of years since I started my diary at Open Diary
Ten – days until I have to complete an assignment which I have barely started, don’t fully understand the question let alone the content and I have to work out how to upload via a Powerpoint presentation
Thirty-Five – the number of cupcakes I wish I had the room in my tummy to eat in one day
Thirty-Three – the number of minutes I got to talk to a friend whose husband has just gone on record in a very prominent newspaper and revealed private medical records about her leaving her feeling exposed, blind sided and betrayed
Thirty-Eight – the number of cupcakes I can get out of one batch of batter
Sixty- the number of photos that the Fisher-Price camera takes that I bought Sweetpea for her birthday present
100’s & 1000’s – the name of the colourful sprinkles that I put on the cupcakes for decoration
Infinity and Beyond – the joy I feel inside when I think about how much I love being Sweetpea's Mummah
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Marching Onwards of Time
Sweetpea has grown up. I keep hoping that I'm wrong, that time will stand still where she is concerned, but alas, she keeps growing faster than a weed. The other day I was cruising down the freeway, windows open, with music playing quietly in the background as I talked to Sweetpea about the different things we were seeing along the way.
Look! Mummah! A car.
What colour is the car precious girl?
Red.
What is that in French darling....? Rouge?
Rouge. Look... a cyclebike!
Is that what is making all that noise Sweetpea? You mean a motorcycle?
Yeah, a cyclebike.
Yes my darling, its a cyclebike.
Suddenly there is a commotion behind me, as Sweetpea states, “Music Mummah”. I don’t understand so she has to repeat herself several times.
Music Mummah.... music.
Oh darling, do you want me to turn up the music?
Yeah.
So I turn the radio up to hear James Blunt singing his song “1973”. But I watch in the rear vision mirror as she sways in time and I and turned the radio down again slightly to better hear Sweetpea singing along with James. Suddenly I knew that I had a little girl and not a baby in the back seat of my car.
Look! Mummah! A car.
What colour is the car precious girl?
Red.
What is that in French darling....? Rouge?
Rouge. Look... a cyclebike!
Is that what is making all that noise Sweetpea? You mean a motorcycle?
Yeah, a cyclebike.
Yes my darling, its a cyclebike.
Suddenly there is a commotion behind me, as Sweetpea states, “Music Mummah”. I don’t understand so she has to repeat herself several times.
Music Mummah.... music.
Oh darling, do you want me to turn up the music?
Yeah.
So I turn the radio up to hear James Blunt singing his song “1973”. But I watch in the rear vision mirror as she sways in time and I and turned the radio down again slightly to better hear Sweetpea singing along with James. Suddenly I knew that I had a little girl and not a baby in the back seat of my car.
Monday, October 29, 2007
What Should I Write About?
So here I am with no university homework to do (I sent off my Journal and the Third assignment together on Friday) and I have free time and I cant think of anything interesting to write about.
I could share my latest quest in my attempt to win the “Worst Mother in the Whole World Award” in which I sit at the computer trying to re-enrol in university and allow my daughter to shut herself into the shower, turn on the hot water and start screaming because she couldn’t get the door open to get out again. The only reason I didn’t get top score for my score card on the Worst Mother judging system is that our hot water system is really slow to heat up and so by the time I reacted instantaneously (that was where I fouled up in the scoring obviously) to Sweetpea’s distressed cries for help (she was scared that she couldn’t get the door open) the hot water was just starting to come through and it was my arm that got burnt as I reached in to turn it off, and not her whole body. It was a close call to getting the highest score for the Worst Mother, because she was soaked to the skin along her left side. But I think if this story tells us anything, it’s that I have real potential to reach the dizzying heights of the Worst Mother in the Whole World.
I could tell you that in the last week I have spent around $100 on skin care stuff to try and stop the eczema that seems to cover Sweetpea’s every inch of skin. Bath oils, moisturisers, special creams and potions, and none of them seem to be working. I just started washing her hair for the first time since she was around 8 months old because the bottle of Mustela cleansing gel that Nurse Friend gave me some samples of (from a nursing round she did) doesn’t seem to dry out her skin and is leaving her hair shiny and curly. Until this point all I've been able to do is rinse her hair with bath water (with bath oil in it) because anything else (even baby shampoo) left her scalp covered in raised scabs and left her back (where the soap would run down her back) and any other part of her body it came into contact with covered in angry red welts. Its been really nice to see Sweetpea's hair all soft and shiny and smelling so yummy. I spent around two hours searching the interest to find a store that sells the stuff, but in the end had to buy some from an internet store because I am the world’s worst researcher on the internet. What makes its a little easier for me to justify all this spending is that it is lovely French stuff, so I'm being tre cosmopolitan!! I cant tell you the guilt I feel when I touch my daughters body and feel dry patches everywhere despite being slathered in skin lotion that the pharmacist recommend. And the grief I feel when she is covered in heat blister spots... and everyone tells me I'm doing everything I can. Yeah, I'm supposed to just let my little girl scratch herself to bleeding because her skin is dry and itchy and hurting her. Can I just say that doctors and pharmacists are full of shite and don’t give a damn about a child (and mother) in distress because its “not that major a condition now is it?”
But no, those two items seem like such boring things to write about that I think I will leave my blog un-updated and spend some more time thinking about what to write about.....
I could share my latest quest in my attempt to win the “Worst Mother in the Whole World Award” in which I sit at the computer trying to re-enrol in university and allow my daughter to shut herself into the shower, turn on the hot water and start screaming because she couldn’t get the door open to get out again. The only reason I didn’t get top score for my score card on the Worst Mother judging system is that our hot water system is really slow to heat up and so by the time I reacted instantaneously (that was where I fouled up in the scoring obviously) to Sweetpea’s distressed cries for help (she was scared that she couldn’t get the door open) the hot water was just starting to come through and it was my arm that got burnt as I reached in to turn it off, and not her whole body. It was a close call to getting the highest score for the Worst Mother, because she was soaked to the skin along her left side. But I think if this story tells us anything, it’s that I have real potential to reach the dizzying heights of the Worst Mother in the Whole World.
I could tell you that in the last week I have spent around $100 on skin care stuff to try and stop the eczema that seems to cover Sweetpea’s every inch of skin. Bath oils, moisturisers, special creams and potions, and none of them seem to be working. I just started washing her hair for the first time since she was around 8 months old because the bottle of Mustela cleansing gel that Nurse Friend gave me some samples of (from a nursing round she did) doesn’t seem to dry out her skin and is leaving her hair shiny and curly. Until this point all I've been able to do is rinse her hair with bath water (with bath oil in it) because anything else (even baby shampoo) left her scalp covered in raised scabs and left her back (where the soap would run down her back) and any other part of her body it came into contact with covered in angry red welts. Its been really nice to see Sweetpea's hair all soft and shiny and smelling so yummy. I spent around two hours searching the interest to find a store that sells the stuff, but in the end had to buy some from an internet store because I am the world’s worst researcher on the internet. What makes its a little easier for me to justify all this spending is that it is lovely French stuff, so I'm being tre cosmopolitan!! I cant tell you the guilt I feel when I touch my daughters body and feel dry patches everywhere despite being slathered in skin lotion that the pharmacist recommend. And the grief I feel when she is covered in heat blister spots... and everyone tells me I'm doing everything I can. Yeah, I'm supposed to just let my little girl scratch herself to bleeding because her skin is dry and itchy and hurting her. Can I just say that doctors and pharmacists are full of shite and don’t give a damn about a child (and mother) in distress because its “not that major a condition now is it?”
But no, those two items seem like such boring things to write about that I think I will leave my blog un-updated and spend some more time thinking about what to write about.....
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