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Faux Fur Throw
Daughter and I discussing accessories.
" Need something to protect the sofa from Dad's back-thingy"
" How about a faux fur throw?"
" Yeah. That would be ideal."
Hubby interjects,
"A ffff thhh. What the hells a ffing thingy?"
He's never going to live this one down. Mind you, when you think about what you're saying your tongue does start to enjoy a life of it's own and it does sound really silly.
Son came back from holiday on Sunday, and handed his notice in on Monday. Because of his job he had to leave immediately. Since then he has used up all the ink in my printer doing presentations and C.V's, travelled up to Solihull for an interview, down to Brighton for a days assessment, then to Crawley for a second interview and psychometric tests, and by Thursday evening had a new job which starts on Monday with two weeks residential testing. Monday I was berating him, Thursday I was congratulating him, such is life.
Work has been really, really busy. All those Christmas and New Year love-ins are now producing results. I'm thinking of spiking turkey and alcohol with bromide this year.
The boiler is mended, my wonderful gas man dedicated his week to the repair. The house is slowly filling up with clutter, we move back in tomorrow, it will be so lovely to sleep in a bed that is large enough for two adults.
Troubles come in threes
Dishwasher fire, boiler fire, what next? Call me superstitious but I have been pondering this. I had decided that the best way to beat the curse was to have a bonfire, although I was rather worried about it, I could burn down the entire neighbourhood. Anyway, my dilemma has been solved. This morning I put some washing in the machine, went off, came back an hour later and started unloading the machine, half the clothes were wet, the other half dry. Thinking I must have had some mental aberration and turned the control knob round so the machine hadn't finished it's cycle I started it again - water, pump, but no agitation, except from me. The air turned blue as I cussed. A debate followed, 'It's 7 years old, is it worth repairing?' 'No.' Looked up on internet prices for new machines, mmm perhaps I should call someone out. An hour later Carl arrived. Looked at circuit board ' Oh, its short-circuited.' Hurrah' I exclaimed 'A mini-fire, that's the third thing. Brilliant'. Carl then got out his trusty soldering iron, 'I'll give this a try, a new board and labour will be over £100, but if this works it will be half that'. It worked. I happily wrote out the cheque ,the jinx has been cast-out, and a totally bemused repair man knows that he has made one middle-aged lunatic happy.
Political
Have just read Mink's blog and off went my brain.The stats she quotes are right, but why are they so good? It's all about one-to-one midwifery and the fact they have the staff, motivated staff, to provide the individualised care that women need in labour. They have rooms, or suites, which are specifically designed to allow a woman, undergoing a normal physiological function, to behave in the way nature intented, not as a rigid system which is an obstacle course which needs to be tackled. This is why women who labour and give birth at home will generally have a shorter, less stressful birth. They have a midwife who stays for as long as is needed. She is not running from one room to another, clock-watching, aware that doctors are waiting outside to call 'time' if they consider progress has been too slow. If the woman decides that she wants a cup of coffee, whether she actually drinks it is another story, she can make herself one. When she feels that now is a good time for a bath there is no problem about asking permission, in a birth centre her midwife is only concentrating on her, at home it's her house so whose to stop her? The midwives, why are they more motivated than some in the NHS Obstetric Units? They are doing the job that they trained for. Most people don't realise that a midwife is, or should be, an autonomous practitioner. We are solely responsible for our actions and therefore should practise our 'craft' in the way that we feel best. Unfortunately we are hamstrung as a national shortage, and deliberate understaffing by trusts, means that we have to provide a standard of care that few of us are happy with. We also have to work within the guidelines, policies and protocols of our employer. These will often differ from 'best practice', and why? Because, although they may be midwifery guidelines, with midwives assisting with their development, the final say will rest with not just the clinical director, a doctor, but also with the trust executive who may sometimes have a nursing background, but in my experience never a midwifery one.
Yes, I am very angry and upset. I listen to reports about the shortage of midwives. I hear the politicians pay lip-service to the recruitment/retention issues. I have feedback from my women about how lovely the midwives were but.........., and I can do nothing.
My answer, it's expensive. Divorce Maternity Services from hospitals. Hospitals are for ill people, people who need something healing, replacing etc. 70-80% of pregnant women are young and healthy, why associate them with a structure most of us would rather avoid. Widen the scope of the Maternity Centres, have antenatal and postnatal facilities, drop-in centres. Increase the staffing levels by 25%, it doesn't all need to midwives. Assistants, or doulas, could help with a large number of tasks which require less training. Obviously there will have to be doctors, but if maternity was divorced from gynaecology there would need to be far less of them, and those doctors would then specialise solely in Obstetrics. Design these units so they don't have rooms that resemble low-tec operating theatres, make them user friendly. All the research has shown that this has a profound effect on the outcome of labour, for the better. Normal Birth rates would rise, operative births would fall, then we would need less doctors on site and the costs would fall dramatically. QED.
1 in 3
Last night we went out to celebrate, with our closest friends, that C had got Non Hodgkins lymphoma. Strange people, not really because until Friday there was the possibility that she had breast cancer, so, although what she has got is also a cancer, she has been assured that it is 'the best one to have'. It has been an anxious week for her and her family, and all her friends, scans, biopsies, and a mammogram but we are through that hurdle and now just waiting until treatment is decided upon when the real work will begin.
This should really be a salutory lesson to everyone, don't ignore strange lumps. C discovered a small node in her breast last Saturday, when she phoned me I was reassuring, it was mobile, the size of a pea, and we are at 'that age' when boobs feel rather more lumpy due to a loss of elasticity. 'Just nip to the Docs Monday, and phone me.' I never received the call, C arrived on my doorstep 'I'm really frightened' she said, and burst into tears. Doc was reassurring but asked if they had private health care and suggested she make an appointment for the local BUPA hospital. That was it, we whirled into action and she saw the consultant there on Tuesday. So here we are, a week later, with C now needing the kind of support that she always gives to others. The lesson for me is not to underestimate signs and symptoms. What I would have done is ignore the lump. Wait and see, would have been my attitude. I would have been right, the lump was nothing, just co-incidental, but because they did a scan they saw the enlarged lymph nodes and have, hopefully, discovered this disease early enough to stop it in it's tracks.
In the midst of all the muddle........
I can't stay sad for too long with these two around.
Jack stayed over the weekend whilst his Mummy and Daddy went Brands for the last race of the season, and the after race party. Two very subdued parents arrived to pick him up, hangovers! He still has lots to say, unfortunately it is Jacks own language. Been there before with my son so not worried, it will come. He has perfected his roly-poly though, this was ably demonstrated during a shopping expedition with Nanny and Grandad who were misguided enough not to take his buggy, or his reins.
Amy is 'Little Miss Sunshine'. Still not rolling over, but is sitting, unsupported. On Saturday she decided to have a conversation with Jack. This consisted of exchanging high-pitched squeals, they were obviously sharing jokes as it was punctuated by laughing fits. It's lovely to see them growing up together, I hope they always stay this close.
On Sunday we are having our first family meal at our new table, in the dining-room. Having waited 14 years for this we are all really excited about it. Amy's Dad has decided that he will be the one to cook the meal, I'm not going to argue with him about it! We may have our ups and downs, but we have each other and that means more to me than anything.
Do you want to?
I always thought that I would love to have another 'surprise' baby. Of my three, two of them were 'surprises', but I was young then. As I have embraced (ha ha) middle age I have harboured the secret dream that one day an ingenious little egg would find a way past the clips and make me a Mummy again. Today that insane desire has gone, I accept that I am too old. When Jack's Mummy works he comes and stays with Nanny. The first day and night is fine, we bounce endlessly to Franz Ferdinand (his favourite), I crawl, in a most unseemly manner, around the floor with him on my back, and we practise our roly-polys until I have a headache and/or a bruised back. It's the next day that ruins me. I have never been an early bird, even when mine were babies I would not rise from my pit until at least 8am, so Jack's 6.30 starts are a bad beginning to the day, and it gets worse. The energy I had the day before lies dormant, but his is undiminished. Today was bad. He found the repeat button on the C.D player and if I hear FF asking me if I want to, again, I shall scream. He fell asleep at lunchtime, and I left him, in his highchair, whilst I collapsed on the sofa. Bad move. When he woke he was horrid, really horrid. Grumpy, weepy, clinging to me like a little koala and throwing one tantrum after another. He had just recovered, and was brushing my hair for me, when his Mummy arrived to collect him. Apparently I should have put him in his cot, he doesn't like falling asleep anywhere else. I didn't like to explain that I was so happy to be able to put my feet up for half an hour that I didn't want to risk disturbing him. Boy, did I pay for that mistake.
Anyway, do I want to? No. Now I know why Grandparents always say their role is lovely, 'cos you can give them back'. We obviously have all had that secret fertility dream, would like the joy of another baby, but once we look after the Grandchildren realize that 24/7 would kill us. Perhaps Hubby should have the 'snip' just in case there is an athletic little egg planning it's route. Mind you, every cell in my body is knackered at the moment..... so I should be safe.
Sounds
Yes, it's the middle of the night and I have given up trying to sleep. Hubby is snoring......loudly, Earplugs, pillows and my 'Sounds of Nature' gadget have failed to mask or cover up the sound of an inebriate male in deep sleep. It doesn't help that my brain has gone into overdrive, I am a woman obsessed, I want kittens. It has taken over 4 months but I now feel that I would like to have cats in my home again. I have been spending more and more time thinking about my cats who died in the fire. After the first terrible sadness I avoided talking or thinking about them. There was so much happening, moving out, choosing everything for the house, then moving back in, unpacking etc. Now my house is a home again, and I am missing them more and more. I'm almost back to square one, feeling weepy at the most most inappropriate moments, imagining I see them out of the corner of my eye. Tonight, whilst trying to ignore the rumblings Hubby was making, and I think just dozing off, I thought I heard a cat miaow. I've spent the last few days searching local papers, Loot, Free Ads and Google for kittens. So far, unless I travel over 100 miles I am out of luck. Tomorrow I shall try phoning the rescue homes, but their web-sites offer very little hope. If I have no joy then I shall cease my daily (lets be honest, my 3 hourly quest) and just search evry other day. What really doesn't help though is that just before the fire I had done a Cosco run and stocked up on cat food and there it sits, in my larder, reminding me constantly of who it was bought for. I gave some to son and daughter, but they refused to take all of it as they said I might need it soon, I really hope I do.
On a cheery note. Jack was back being his usual happy self yesterday and today. Not a tantrum to be seen. He even deigned to call me NanNan and bestow unsolicited cuddles and kisses. I have also found his weakness, tea. Can't get him away from Grandad in the office, suggest a cup of tea. The paperclips are discarded, the pens tossed on the floor and he is there, with his cup, peering expectantly at the kettle. I discovered his perchant for the brew by accident. Daughter and a friend were round and I asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea, Jack stopped trying to ride a stuffed duck, shouted tea, grabbed my hand and led me into the kitchen. I'm not too sure if his Mummy would approve, but really it's more coloured milk than a cup of char.
Right, I can feel my Valium kicking in, I shall try accessing the Land of Nod again. If unsuccessful I shall recount the surreal telephone conversation I had this morning with my totally insane Mother.