Lost in Luca Land

The thought of being back here blogging, dishing up my life to the public again, has been washing through my mind for a little while now. Do I? Don’t I? Who’s going to read it? Who cares? All those thoughts. So I don’t really know what has triggered me to writing on here again. Maybe it was those quiet moments spent in lockdowns, maybe it was my girls, maybe it was my apprehension of our futures. I dunno but here I am, sharing my life away again.

Firstly, thank you for being here with me. Thanks for giving me a few moments of your time and thanks for not pulling me up on my spelling and punctuation mistakes cause to be honest, I just don’t have enough focus and time to be editing my content with kids around. So thanks. I’m not sure who will read it, if anyone. I mean its kind of weird publicly writing about your life for others to read. Its weird but it also brings me a strange sense of joy and gives me a creative outlet. I like sharing all the rawness of my life. I like that it sometimes makes people laugh, gag, smirk, talk about. I like it when people can relate. Cause after all, we are all going through some sort of personal shit show and its comforting to know were not alone.
So welcome back to my shit storm.

Firstly, let me just start by saying we, as in my husband Lachlan and our 2 little girls have just uprooted our cushy little lives from our quaint and comfortable house on the Bellarine in Victoria to permanently try our luck living in NSW, in a quiet seaside town of Evans Head. It hasn’t been a smooth ride so far which has been irritating my irrational mind because I always believe that if things are meant to be, then things will happen smoothly. And right now things are frequently turning up like unexpected lumps in a smoothie and I gag on those bits. It’s fair to say that this smoothie is lumpy.

We had planned to leave Victoria in May.
We planned on demolishing our current shack in Evans and rebuilding a shed home.
We planned on these house plans being submitted to council before we left Vicco so we could spend quality time travelling in our caravan as a family while we waited for permits to pass.
We planned to stay in our caravan while the build was happening.
We planned and still plan on having the house built by Christmas…Gulp!

So far those plans are a tad wobbly. And anyway, they’re kinda crazy plans to begin with so it was bound to happen.
I mean, 6 months living in a caravan with a 5-year-old and a two and half year old while demolishing and rebuilding a house! Who’s stupid idea was that?
I always knew our plan was a bit ‘Wowzers’ but I kept telling myself we could do it. We can do it, we are doing it. We’re here doing it. It’s just going to be really uncomfortable for a while. After all, change and growth doesn’t happen when we’re comfortable right?

I think I’m a pretty adaptable person. It’s something I’ve always been quite good at to be honest. Adapting. Adapting to people, adapting to environments, to situations, so I keep telling myself that things will be ok. I am exactly where I need to be in every present moment. If I don’t waste energy reminiscing the past and worrying about the future, then I find I can manage the ‘right now’ moments and shit fights with more ease and less fucks, get the job done and move on to the next. Living in the present is liberating…

Anyway, so we didn’t leave till June. But that was ok. We manoeuvred ourselves around those last lockdowns and got out after me having a near meltdown. I say ‘near’ meltdown but it was more like a good and proper meltdown of the best sort. Fucking lockdowns!

With our house plans, our original draftsman almost had the house design complete for submission to council before we left. Almost. We were so close but the Draftsman (whom I wanted to call a dick bag on here, but my husband made me edit it out) pulled the pin on the entire job leaving us back at square one (Ongoing saga) So with no house designs submitted and no designer and no time to find another one, we trudged forth, throwing our future into the Universe to catch us. Weeeeeee!

It took us to 4 days to lug the heavy caravan up here, the girls caught a cold FFS, which turned into croup, which turned into no sleep, which turned into whinging and getting nothing done and snitchyness and irritation and lots of WTF-ing, “What are we doing?” moments. Croup in general can get scary so in caravan it aint any fun at all. But we survived of course. Onwards and upwards. The Universe still got us.

So now here we are in Evans, in our caravan at our shack. Which is a piece of asbestos shit. Grateful for it though. 4 walls, roof, hot water, electricity… simple living at its best. But it can keep the mouse wee stank, the damp smells, the dead cockroaches, the dribbling shower head, the fridge that doesn’t work and the fucking fleas. Yes, fleas!
We now have fleas in the caravan. I don’t even know how the fuck, what the fuck, when the fuck but… fleas. Oh my god. I’ve never. We’ve never. I don’t even, can’t even. I don’t even know what to do. I’m even ashamed sharing with you all but fuck, you just couldn’t make this shit up. I have fleas. Ha!
“Hi, I’m Sarah, I just escaped from dirty, diseased Victoria, my kids have croup and I have fleas. Wanna be my new friend”. Great look moving to a new town!

So they’re in our bed. I have at least 30 bites so far. I noticed some itchy bites 2 nights ago and just assumed they were midgie bites. But then more the next morning, and the next… and then this morning I was sitting on the bed and felt a tickle on my wrist and looked down to a small black creature which then jumped into thin air. A fucking flea. And then another one. We haven’t even had an animal in our caravan before! I actually think they’re under the caravan in the soil. Bush fleas. Or maybe the previous tenants’ animals were infested? I duuno. I’m stumped, itchy and pissed off. But Universe still got me… right?

So there’s been a few wild days to say the least.
We don’t have a washing machine so I’ve spend a fortune at the laundry mat washing the bed linen but I don’t even know where they’re coming from so it could’ve been a complete waste of time, effort and money washing it all. I made some essential oil spray and drenched the van in them. I even bought fly spray and sprayed the mattress… which proved to work cause I =found some of those filthy bastards dead shortly after. So I sprayed again. I never use fly spray but fuck you fleas.
I’ve never been so terrified to go to bed as I am tonight. I coated myself in lemon and citronella oil before sliding into bed this evening but I’m not happy. Not happy one bit. I feel like I’m sacrificing myself up to be feasted upon tonight. Lying here with a fucking neon flashing light on my arse cheeks screaming ‘Eat me’
I’m just praying that spray put them out of business for the night until I can completely empty the van and flea bomb it… and the house… and me.

On an up note though, we found ourselves a fridge today, so yay. Be gone sad, limp vegetables.
And tomorrow we’re off to buy a washing machine, which is going to have an extreme workout this week.
We’re getting some outdoor/indoor furniture to chill on, cause all we have is camping furniture at the moment. We don’t want to buy a lot right now as we will only have to store it somewhere when we eventually demolish the house, so we’re living off bare minimum. Lach and I have a laugh every night cause it really feels like we’re pack packing again, except with kids…. That we’re responsible for. So we need to get a couch thing for them to rest on.

If it wasn’t for the fleas, I think I’d be pretty damn fine with the simple living. Well, the fleas and the croup. That cough is sickening to watch little ones deal with…and the no sleep thing sucks large balls also but what do you do?
So if it wasn’t for those factors I’d be rather frothing over it all.
The nature reserve surrounding our block is an amphitheatre of bird song and wildlife. Apparently there’s some resident carpet pythons around too but I haven’t seen them yet. I’m so curious to see how I react to them when I do see them. Will I panic? Will I chill and admire them? What’s your bets?
All in all, it’s extremely tranquil here. But those bastard fleas have really set me off today. Come to think of it, I think they are the ones who have motivated me to be writing this blog again. Like my rage and irritation just had to be shared. Cheeky old Universe got me writing again. You got me.

Meanwhile, our girls are super happy, a little snotty but so frigging active.They haven’t asked for television once. There’s so much exploring to be had in the bush around the houes. So many tree swings to be made. So many mud pies to be baked. It’s been so heart warming to stop and observe their play amongst my angst today. Their little faces covered in black soot and their hair a web of tangled leaves. They’re thriving. And that’s all that matters really.

Thanks for following along with me. I hope to see you back here real soon.
Sarah

This one comes with a warning.
If you’re offended by swear words, pooh, and other bodily fluids than I strongly suggest you skip this one.

This piece of writing has been a long time coming for me. There’s been many a days I’ve been ready to sit and begin writing only to have another ‘experience’ happen to me and delay my writing and at the same time give me more material to write about. I have SO much raw, disgusting and beautiful material to write about but I’ve been in two minds about just how much I share with ya’ll. Usually I’m all about baring my soul, I wouldn’t think twice telling you all but this experience of Sage’s birth has left me feeling extremely vulnerable and really unlike my usual self. It’s been unsettling to say the least.

When I was in smack, bang in the throws of full blown labour and there were bodily fluids flying, leaking, dripping all around the room, Lachlan held me and said “Remember to keep this G rated when you write about it”…. My initial instinct was of course defensive, like “Oah hell no, don’t tell me what to do, (especially when I’m in labor) women gotta know about this crazy arse birth stuff”, and then shortly to follow my next thought was, ‘Wow, he knows me so well. He knows I’m going to bare my soul and share in descriptive detail about all of the grossness and beauty that is happening to me right now. Bless him.”

Leading up to Sage’s birth I prayed, meditated and completely convinced myself that I was going to have a vagina birth. (I also convinced myself I was having a boy too. Totally convinced… but no. She surprised me with her little fanny)
My baby was going to be born out of my vagina I told myself everyday. Safely. This was my mantra for months. A safe birth, from my vagina. I did the work and it payed off. The Universe heard me and I was able to birth her out of my vagina, virtually drug free. But…. I got my mantra all wrong. Be careful what you wish for. I wasn’t specific enough. I should’ve added ‘without medical interference’. It should of been “I AM GOING TO SAFELY BIRTH MY BABY OUT OF MY VAGINA WHILST HAVING NO MEDICAL INTERFERENCE’ because the medical interference is what I believe has broken me.

Sage is almost 10 weeks old this week and I still have a long, LOOOONG way to go with my recovery. I had an episiotomy, an infection, a chest infection, a thyroid scare and a Prolapse. I am in flat out recovery mode and will be for a very long time. In fact I’ve dedicated the entire year of 2019 to gently and slowly healing my body and I feel empowered by that.
Hands up who is informed about Prolapse. Not many of you I’m guessing. It’s another topic women don’t discuss enough leading into birth. I’ll be writing much more about this in coming posts and on my social medias. It’s so important we are educated about all possibilities in birth. Not just birthing itself. There’s so much more we need to talk about when it comes to birth. I’ve only just come to terms with my ‘new’ body. I’ve accepted things are different. Very different.
Why the hell women do not talk about this stuff miffs me. Why aren’t we warned, educated and supported. Take breastfeeding for example. With my first born I had no idea breastfeeding was going to feel as if someone was polishing my nipple with sandpaper, or that I’d wake in the night saturated in sweat from the increasing hormones surging through my body. I had to find it all out for myself through google and talking to other mothers to know it was a normal part of birth.

We are constantly told not to listen to and avoid anyone who has a negative spin about birth leading up to our own births. Block your ears and walk away. I get that. I know it’s important to go into birth with a positive mind set but if I knew exactly what an episiotomy was, how long it took to recover from one, the damage the forceps would be on my pelvic floor, then maybe I would of thought about my birthing choices differently. No one educated me. No one warned me. And apparently prolapse is really common. So why didn’t I know about it? BECAUSE IT’S NOT BLOODY SPOKEN ABOUT. It’s embarrassing talking about incontinence but its so important we do. Prolapse is labelled as normal, swept under the table. Your Physio will tell you to do some exercises, you’ll never full heal and off you’re sent, never to recover. I refuse to believe I will never fully recover from this. Which is why I dedicate an entire year to healing holistically.
During pregnancy all the medical world was interested in informing me about was that I was a previous caesar patient and I was at risk of tearing my uterine scar if I delivered naturally.”You should have another caesar” I was encouraged. The doctor outside my birthing suite was lurking at the door, rubbing his surgical hands together, drooling and counting down the minutes until he could enter and ‘take over’. (For the uninformed- A previous caesar patient is only allowed to push for a certain amount of time as there is a chance the uterus scar can tear and cause all sorts of implications) My babies head was crowning for an hour, bobbing up and down with every push but just wouldn’t pop out.
So just as the hour ticked over, right on the minute, he bashed his way into the suite, slapped my midwife aside and insisted I go to theater to have my baby extracted with forceps.

At this point I was almost 12 hrs into labour. I was fully dilated. completely open to the world.(what a feeling that is.. OPEN!) I’d done all that I could. I’d got to 10cm dilation with no drugs, I’d pushed for an hour, I’d been in the shower, I’d done my hypno breathing, had my back rubbed, listened to my playlist, I’d poohed all over the place. Yes, there it is folks. Humiliation. Honesty. The beauty of birth. I poohed. A lot. It was comical. Not just one pooh on the final push like you hear other woman do. I poohed on and off for the entire 12 hours of labour. There was e shit on my foot, my dressing gown. Shit all over the place I was so embarrassed… To begin with I started off apologising to my midwife when I would feel a little bit slip out, but toward the end of labour I was just like “I poohed again…and again” and continued panting and pushing. At one point my midwife was cleaning some shit off my foot with such calmness and love and in that moment, between contractions I looked at her and she was an angel. A pure angel. My heart burst open for midwives across the planet. For women in general. I felt so much love for our kind in that moment. Woman supporting women, with no judgement whatsoever. Just pure love. She made me feel ok with my shit. So I kept on panting and poohing. I love being a woman.

So there I was fully contracted, pushing, panting and pacing the room, my midwife and husband had sneakily turned my gas off an hour ago to encourage contractions but I continued chewing and biting down on that gas tube like I was back at a Dockland rave in my teens. Placebo got me through. I was feeling those feels of exhaustion, rolling eyeballs, narcolepsy. My insides were absolutely squealing. I didn’t really understand what the doctor was saying to me but I knew it meant business. I knew he wasn’t going to let me continue. I knew there was a chance I could endanger myself and my baby if I continued. I was pushing so much. Oh my gosh. The pushing! It just never ends. When you think your push is coming to an end, your body just keeps on contracting and urging you to push even longer.
I knew I was going to meet my baby soon, so I gave permission to the doctor to take me. I handed myself over to him. I knew I was going to meet my baby very soon.

In the last 20 minutes of my labour I was whisked off into theater. My fanny was chopped, my husband turned pale and forceps pulled my beautiful baby out. In that moment I didn’t think twice about my poor vagina. I just wanted my baby. I should’ve thought more about my vagina. My poor vagina. My womanhood. For what was to come broke me…. But also, strangely has empowered me.

I felt my body push my baby out. The relief.

“It’s a girl.” The surgeon announced

Tears of the purest joy and love rolled down my face as I welcomed my babies warm little body into my arms and onto my chest.

“Thank you” I whispered into her ears as I nuzzled and cried into her. “Thank you for choosing me baby girl”.

I’ve never been on a holiday where its taken me a month to recover from it. It’s usually been a day spent in the laundry, a quick food shop and then, done, recovered. But that caravan trip took more than a laundry day for me to recover from. I felt completely pooped for a while there. Once we arrived home there was no way I was stepping back into that caravan space to clean it up for a good while. Poor Lachie had to manage that on his own.

The trip was an incredible experience… but would I do it again?… Pregnant?… with a toddler?… probably not. Actually, definitely not. Especially when I think back to moments of Luca, our toddler, escaping the caravan and me having to reluctantly chase her across park lands in only my undies whilst bracing my belly and convincing her to come back to me so I can wipe the reminisce of pooh off her bottom. Or the moments when the hot water ran out at night and I still had shampoo suds in my hair. Or those car trips with hours of continuously feeding Luca snacks and contorting my pregnant body to pick up her toys that she purposely drops in unattainable places for me to retrieve for her entertainment.
A lot of those moments wouldn’t usually trigger me but with all sorts of hormones running rampant through my body they caused many of meltdowns. Like that one time when my innocent husband was eating his banana with his mouth open and all I could focus on was that horrible slapping noise slopping around his mouth and that sweet, sickly smooshed banana smell. That sent me into one of the most memorable meltdowns of the trip. I swear my bottom lip dropped so low it hit my chin. I sobbed and snotted into the car window uncontrollably. Anyone who drove passed us and saw me in the window would’ve laughed at me. But I couldn’t stand it. Every noise he was making was hair raising. He even laughed at me when my reply to his “Are you alright?” was met with a slobbering, “Just stop chewing. JUST STOP CHEWING, boo hoo hoo”, which made it so much worse, especially because I heard a bit of banana fly out of his mouth when he laughed at me. Ergh!
I can giggle about it now, visualising my pathetically pained faced sobbing to myself but in that moment I really and truly was questioning our marriage. The rage I felt for him eating that banana in those moments was serious. Of course they passed. But it was scary for a minute there.

Hormones are some serious scary chemicals if you’re not on top of them. Seriously. Scary. My mind had never been in those places before.
Actually, my hormones have fluctuated quite a bit with this pregnancy. I’ve had to really force myself to stop and focus my thoughts some days. I have to make sure I have some ME space to clear my mind and refocus a few times a week… if not everyday. I’ve been using Ylang Ylang oil in the bathtub to help conquer that. It’s so good for woman to use on our bodies as it helps with negative emotions and enhances our moods, so I found it the perfect remedy for a bit of ME time and to bring me back to earth… and happiness.

I was so grateful to get back to our home. Our comfortable old home, with our soft bed and all our trinkets, bells and whistles. With all the upheaval and broken routines we decided to move Luca straight into a big girls bed and not put her back in her cot. So now she sleeps like the queen she is in her queen size bed. It’s rather over the top seeing her tiny body curled up asleep in her monstrous bed but she loves it, sleeps all night in it and its working so that’s the way it is now. Which is great because the nursery is all ready to go and set for our newborn. Which is due in 4 days!!! FOUR DAYS!

I crawled into bed the other night exhausted from a day of mothering, wife-ing and house keeping and questioned Lach why on earth we are doing it again. Why do we do it to ourselves? I keep asking myself how I am going to manage. How and where am I going to find the energy to share with another little soul? I can barely muster up the strength to kiss my husband goodnight sometimes. How do some women have 8, 9, 10 children? How do they do it? Why? Oh why do they do it?….. How do they keep up with them? Feed them? Read them books. Change 8 little diapers? Copious amounts of times a day.
Some days it’s like I’ve captured a wild and slippery little eel changing Lucas nappy. Imagine doing that 8 times. I’d lose my marbles. No Ylang Ylang oil could bring me back from that.
And then I do a calm birth meditation and I start bawling my eyes out with absolute pure joy and happiness when I visualise holding our new little soul in my arms… and thats when I remember why.

Come on babe number 2. We’re ready for you.

 

I’m really enjoying this stage of my pregnancy.

32 weeks in and the anticipation of it all has me fluttery in my tummy and it’s had me reflecting lately on how far I’ve come and grown since Lucas birth. Going from my existence of just being ‘Sarah’, to now being ‘Mother Sarah’. Theres been big changes and transitions within me during that time. I suspect most Mummas feel this way too.

 

When I gave birth to Luca on that long Winters night, I also gave birth to a new me. It like I was reborn too. A new part of ‘me’ was born and brought into the light. A stronger, more determined me. A ‘give less fu*ks” me was born.

 

I first noticed it beginning when I started getting upset at myself about what I thought people and society expected I should be doing with my life.

That sounds so ridiculous just typing that sentence. I got upset at myself about what others thought of me? That concept is so bizarre to me now and I feel sorry for my old self for even thinking about myself like that and if that sentence doesnt make sense to you, the new me don’t care.  

So instead of worrying about others thought, I started to care more about what I thought of me, and that wasnt easy. It was all so confusing, confronting and painful to be honest. Lots of ‘things’ around me started coming to an end regardless of me wanting them to or not. It took a long time to understand why that was happening but now looking back, I do. I’m sure most new mothers have had similar experiences. Shit! You don’t even have to be a mother to have had this experience. This is just how it began with me.

 

In todays day and age we’’ve been expected and nicely moulded into running with the herd… and when you don’t, you’re looked upon as a ‘bit strange’. You know what’s strange to me? Running with the herd! You get bowled over, stomped on, pushed, pulled, starved even.  Why on earth would someone want to run with the herd? Is it because it’s the easy way? There’s not much thinking to it. You just get rag-dolled along with the others and arrive at the finish line all bleary eyed and wtf-ed.

 

Beats me. Sounds tiring and boring. I like my life served with a side of sirriacha spicey sauce thank you very much.

 

Luca made me look so deep within myself about what I truly wanted in my life, what I cared about and exactly where i wanted to put my energy. Now that my energy had to be shared or more like devoured by Luca, it became so precious to me that I didn’t want to waste it on just anything, anyone or on any silly, distracting thoughts I had, especially about myself.  I actually couldn’t afford too. I didn’t have enough energy to just throw it around. No mother does. This motherly experience had me all ‘who the hell am I’ for a while. I felt like I should be doing more than just being a mother. Like mothering wasn’t enough. What an idiotic thought. I couldnt help but think I should be out socialising, back working my ‘normal running with the herd job, making money and being busy, busy, busy but here I was, incapacitated, cosied up on the sofa… and loving it. What ever energy I had left after giving it to Luca had to go back into me… and Lach got the leftovers.

 

So why is it in this day and age, we as females feel like we still have to compete and show up in this ‘Mans World’. We’ve proven we can do it. But it’s this, you know, this very active energy. Male energy, of work work, work, 9 till 5 honey, always busy, racing ahead, get to the top, go here, be seen here, be seen there, book it in my diary, save a few measly $’s on the way. Everyone is SO busy is dizzying.

It’s a burning out kind of energy and one that’s not healthy for any of us and can’t be sustained…easily. I feel males need to man-up and become more in touch and open with their female energy more. Slow down and smell the roses type of energy. Who doesn’t love a open, soft, sensitive and kind fellow that’s rugged around the edges? And we females need to rise up and be in our own ‘female’ energy more. It’s happening. I see you out there nurturing your creative selves.

 

We’ve been fighting for equal rights for soooooo long now, and are still continuing to do so. The way woman have fought this battle has been to rise up to that active male energy of ‘We can do it too’…. as well as wearing our other hats of Mother, Lover, Housewife and all round super star. We prove it time and time again.

It’s Idiotic really that we’ve had to do this in the first place but, you know, Mans World and all.

 

And a lot of us have forgotten how to be feminine in the process. To be really feminine. To be totally IN that feminine energy of peace, quiet and ’self love”. To just sit there, breathing and do nothing and feel totally ok and at peace with that. To get back in nature. To get back in the kitchen. We’ve been launching ourselves out of the kitchen to get our point across in protest and honestly, I love being in the kitchen. I am a sorceress in the kitchen, whipping up so many delicious and nutritious meals, treats and medicinal concoctions. I feel powerful in the kitchen. I can have my husband trembling at the knees and drooling out of his mouth in the kitchen. I share my most intimate times with my girlfriends in the kitchen over cups of tea. I love being in the kitchen. Does that make me any less of a feminist? Of course it doesn’t. It re-energises me when I’m creating in the kitchen and it’s there where I am in my power. My feminine power. Pop me in a quiet, warm tub doused with my heavenly essential oils and I feel just like a goddess. Re charged and ready to share the love again.

 

Whilst we we’ve been out proving our worth in the mans world, without much choice we ignored that calling to nurture ourselves in the process and in doing so we’ve made our bodies sick (especially our female, reproductive organs)  and our minds are over worked and anxious. Oh my goodness, so anxious. Get out the camomile tea and roll me in lavender oil!

We’re giving way too many fu*ks about stupid, petty, societal and superficial things. We give anyone and everyone our energy. Like Oprah at Christmas… “and you get some, and you get some and you get some”. No wonder we’re all so exhausted and run down.

Start by saying ‘No’. No is a positive word I’ve found.

 

It’s taken some time (and guts) to fully hear my own voice, listen to it and in all honesty trust it… but when I do, it makes me feel more confident in knowing who i am and where i’m going and funnily enough, my stars, and my families,  seem to align more when i do.

 

Shits changing…again!

 

And I know you feel it too.

 

That familiar feeling of fear is creeping in. I hadn’t allowed myself to admit it but it’s here, softly whispering in my mind. Childbirth!

As much as I believe I will birth the way I desire and visualise this time around, I just can’t stop those niggling thoughts from popping in and lingering around. I’m a little bit scared. Not hugely, but a little bit. My last birth was a big slap in the face as I did everything I thought was possibly right for my first birthing experience. Calm birth, meditations, perineal massage, acupuncture, mindfulness, pelvic floor strengthening, positive thinking and still I had to have an emergency caesar. I pulled and stretched at my lady bits in preparation for the big show every night only to have a doctor bypass right past ‘her’ and cut my baby out of my tummy instead. It all felt like it was a waste of time and effort and like my body failed myself. I know it wasn’t a waste of time, I enjoyed and felt humbled doing all of those things in preparation for birth but I was left a fair bit shattered after all the hard yards I’d put in.

 

With all the self work I’ve done on myself since then, I am still unable to shake the feeling of being ripped off as a woman. Like I’m not a whole woman because I couldn’t birth out of my vagina. I felt like my body and my mind let me down. My body was healthy and my mind strong and yet, I couldn’t do it. I can still hear that soulless, desperate voice of mine giving up and gasping “Just cut me open”.

I’ve read so many other blogs, forums and articles about this feeling and I know I shouldn’t be thinking of myself in this way but in all honesty, deep down, I do. It’s a personal thing of mine. I’m well aware that being able to conceive and give birth in any form is a miracle in itself. But I just really, really wanted and continue to want to have a vaginal birth. I want to feel it all. I want to go through the motions. I want the burn, the sweat, the tears,  I want to feel strong and powerful and roar. I want the magic. I want what my body is made to do. Call me crazy!

 

Carrying and birthing life is such a, incredible and  beautiful experience to go through but it has also been one of the most consistent of stressful times too. Not a normal, anxiety kind of stress, just a high level of worry kind of stress. Everyday.  From the moment we woman find out we’re pregnant our entire way of life changes. Our relationships change, (both intimate and socially) our occupations change, our routines, our bodies, our outlook on life, our hormones. The list continues to grow.

From day dot, we never know what’s going to happen to the life growing inside of us but we have to continue on and believe everything will turn out ok.

There are so many check ups and scans and tests and doctors and needles that it can all become overwhelming… and expensive. Take this, do this, don’t do that, don’t eat that, eat more of this, less of that, go here, go there, etc, etc. And waiting for those test results to come back is nerve racking.

We’re told to keep it ‘hush hush’ that were pregnant until the ‘safe’ period of 12 weeks has been reached but from my experience, there is no ‘safe’ period. The entire 40-42 weeks is a no-safe zone. Anything can happen at any time right up until the first breath of air has surpassed those tiny fresh little lungs… and then some.

 

Every little kick and movement I feel in my belly gives me reassurance that my baby is doing well. The tiredness and complete exhaustion I feel (and complain about) lets me know that baby is getting all my nutrients and growing nicely. My increasingly overflowing bust tells me a healthy supply of milk is brewing. Everyday is a new day, and one-by-one I’m getting closer to birthing our new baby. And one-by-one I say a little prayer to keep him safe and tucked up in there.

 

When we return home from our trip, I’ll start the perineal massage again. I’ll continue with pilates, meditations, podcasts and self work. I’ll do everything I am suppose to do and more… I have to surrender to my expectations. What will be, will be. I know and believe my body is capable of giving birth naturally so i just have to surrender and sit with that.

How ever our baby enters earth, I’m giddily looking forward to it…

 

On a lighter note, we were recently camped out in a nature reserve near Noosa and run out of water. We would of had to pack up everything, reload the caravan and head back over on the barge to the mainland if we wanted to refill…and that option was not in our schedule nor in my levels of energy.  We had just enough for us to drink to get us through 24hrs but non for cleaning up, doing dishes or washing ourselves. It was incredibly annoying not only because Lach and I both drink up to 2-3 litres each a day (yes, we’re big water drinkers) but because we were camped in the sand dunes and our feet were constantly black from dirt. Luca was a permanent shade of grey with the soil she was collecting crawling through the dunes. The stink setted into my skin and under my  nails nicely.

 

At the time of Lach announcing that the water had run out, it was hot, my feet were hanging off the end of the bed all dusty, my lips were a bit dehydrated and crusty, my nostrils dry with dirt and a thin veil of dust settled on my entire body. That exact feeling when you’re 4 days in to a dirty music festival. I was so looking forward to my evening shower… but no… Stinks all round. Out came the Wet-Wipes.

 

It was however nice to reflect on just how fortunate we are to all live our super comfy lives with an abundance of clean, water gushing through our household pipes and spewing out our taps.To be able to rinse our dishes before we put them in our dishwashers. To run the cold water out of the hot tap. To rinse our toothbrushes. To not fix that constant, dripping tap. To waste and frolic in.

It’s moments like these that make me feel so utterly grateful and ridiculously spoilt to live in a first world country. It makes me feel stupid for even complaining that we had run out in the caravan. Water was a mere half hour away. I was just too lazy to pack up and go get it.

 

But seriously, I felt like it sent me into a fearful panic when Lach announced the water tank was empty. Like armageddon had hit and I had to go on a frenzy and greedily guzzle every bottle of water I could find around our campsite before anyone else could.

 

It makes me thirsty just remembering it.

 

The following morning upon waking, hang on,…let me start that sentence again. When Luca woke us in the morning with her usual 6.30 am wake up call with squealing, the sun was bursting through the curtains behind our bedhead and casting streams of orange light throughout the van. Soooooo enchanting. Our bedroom window looked over the beachfront and the sun was just peeking up over the oceans horizon as the waves lapped on the sand before it. It sure was a sight to wake up too every morning. After breakfast I snuck off without ‘my little shadow’ for a brisk morning cleanse in the ocean…alone.  As I was peacefully walking down the narrow path along the grassy sand dunes I was caught in such a joyous moment that I started to strip off…right down to my nudies. Off flew my bathers as I threw them onto the sand dunes and ran down to the water laughing to myself. Frolicking around in the sparkly, cool of the ocean I felt like a child again and when it was time for me to get out I flopped on the sand dunes and lay in the warmth of the sun, naked. It felt incredible. To have the warm sun shining where it dont usual shine was liberating and to top it off when i finally peeled myself up to head back to camp I saw Luca and Lach strolling down the dunes path with coffee and crumpets in hand. I plonked myself back down in the dunes awaiting my breakfast. What a morning.

 

On another evening whilst eating our dinner of fried rice watching a family of kangaroos nibble the fresh grass shoots just meters away,  Luca managed to successfully slip off behind us and when I finally became aware of her houdini escape, it was too late. She was standing smack, bang, right in front of a wild kangaroo having a face off. I choked a bit, threw my rice and ran. I haven’t ran that quick for a while now., especially pregnant.

With one hand supporting my belly and the other flailing around the air yelling at Luca to “stop, stop”. But it was too late, I couldn’t run fast enough. The kangaroo lurched up on its hind feet and tail and gave her a quick left, right to the face area. ‘Boof, boof’ and then hopped off a few meters. With my mind full of swear words and fear I ran my little legs as quick as I could towards my little girl. I felt like I was in slow motion and that I was never going to reach her. I was dreading what marks the kangaroo had left on her face.

I was waiting to hear her wail out in pain but it seemed Luca was entertained by the beating she just copped and found it to be so hilarious that she kept moving forward towards it, laughing and readying herself for round 2.  I was sprinting now, still holding onto my tummy shrieking like any desperate mother would be. Finally I was in reach of her and pulled her back by the scruff of her jumper. No marks on her face or body thank goodness… just a belly full of laughter. She was quite entertained.

 

Poor Lach was behind me the whole way through the grassy patch running and yelling at me and my belly to ‘stop, stop’, then there was me screaming and sprinting ‘stop, stop’ and then there was Luca coping a right hook from the kangaroo squealing with joy.

We created quite the scene in the camp grounds. The travelling circus strikes again… and that bad parenting guilt also settled in again.

 

The kangaroo experience was good preparation for me though as the next day we were to hit Fraser Island and I’d well and truly scared the pants off myself with all the readings about the savage, wild Dingos over there. All the pamphlets I read highlighted to “Always keep your children at hands reach” “Don’t take any food with you, EVER” “Never walk alone” “Never run from a Dingo” “Never travel with rubbish” “Dingos smell fear”… and all this time I was visualising ourselves having nice, family picnics, stopping to make coffee and take leisurely swims all over the island. Not anymore. And well, that last one about fear had me well and truly fu*ked.

 

So apparently If you’re approached by a pack of vicious, teeth gnashing, wild dingos, according to the pamphlets, is to fold your arms and stay very, very still and yell sternly for ‘help’. That’s it!  Just yell for help… yell for help and hope to hell someone saves you from having your face mauled or leg torn off, or worse. Argh, yuk, I can’t even.

As if my body’s response to a pack of gnarly dingos in my face would be to stay still and plead for ‘help’. My adrenals would have me well and truly packing darkies, clobbering dogs and hanging from the tree tops… pupils dilated and screaming madly. Or to simply pass out!

The first thing I did when I got there was to find a big, bad arse whopping stick. (For bushwalking of course) and I even taught Luca how to use one too. ‘Wham wham’

 

I was imaging that Luca and I would be in the car the entire time and not getting to experience and see the bloody heritage listed island because I’d be too peaking off my brain about all the noises in the bush I could hear. ‘Is that a dingo” “Ahhh, what was that?”, “Where’s my stick”.

But that’s not how it unfolded at all. In fact I only saw 4 dingos in 3 days and Luca and I were able to experience the island in full and let me tell you, it is one special place. That island holds so much magic. You could feel that you were on ancient indigenous land.

It is pure and semi, untouched. I’ve seen some pretty special water holes and oceans in my time but this place… this place took my breath away in the most unexpected ways.

 

Yesterday we packed up our campsite after spending a relaxed week camped out in Agnes Water (6 hrs North of Brisbane). It was the first week that we all totally relaxed and really fell into the zone of just doing nothing. There was no surf which meant more family time for all 3 of us. We spent the week on the beaches, digging holes and making sand castles, spear fishing and generally just splashing about in the ocean. Heaven.

Our car is now headed Southwards, back towards the chill of Victoria and our home. We still have 4 weeks to get home and I can’t actually believe how fast the time has gone. It feels like maybe 3 weeks since we’ve been gone, not 2 months. We’re headed for Stradbroke Island for the week.

As much as I am sad to see our trip slowly coming to an end I am also full of excitement to get back to our comfy home and start nesting. To drink coffee with my girlfriends again, to see how much all their babies have grown… and to meet new babies. To thoroughly clean my hair, skin and nails, to cook a delicious 3 course meal, to be able to make smoothies for breakfast every morning, to reunite Luca with her Grandparents, to have a facial, to have my oils and diffusers bubbling away, and of course…to prepare for the miraculous entrance of our new baby.

I am excited for the next adventure.

 

To be brutally honest, this trip is not overly relaxing and I really don’t know if I’d do it again in a hurry. Or at least, not whilst pregnant.

I have my days. I have my moments. Some days I’m like, ‘Wow, this is livin’ and others I’m like,‘Take me back to my warm kitchen, comfy couch and walls to contain Luca in’.

This is not your average holiday. I wouldn’t even call it a holiday. It’s more of an adventure, full of ups and downs and all of life’s lovely challenges.

So far we’ve slept in Deniliquin, Tamworth, Dubbo, Crescent Head, Yamba, Evan Heads, Broken Head, Brunswick Heads, Kingscliff, Burleigh Head, and now in Noosa Heads. That’s a lot of Head!  We’re planning to continue north and stay on Fraser Island Head, Agnes Waters Head, 1770 Head, and returning via Stradbroke Island Head, back to Yamba Head and then home to Ocean Grove Heads. (Ocean Grove Heads! How political!).

We had originally planned, or I had planned/thought we would get up to the Daintree rainforest above Port Douglas… but I just don’t think we have the time… nor the patience… to do the driving with the little one. I forget how big of a country we are. Currently we’re only half way up the coast and to get up there would require us to do 2 solid days of driving… Which is not gunna happen. A real shame but holidaying with child is tiring enough, let alone a toddler. And a pregnancy.

Being on the move constantly with a toddler who is enjoying tantalising with my limits, an ever growing baby inside of me that feels like it’s trying to escape and throw in my hairy, hairy husband Lach, and I  sometimes feel like I’m traveling with a circus and I’m the star of the show. “DA-dahhhh. Is she happy or is she sad? Behold the incredibly hormonal, over tired, ever growing, feral and sensationally swollen Woman”…. And out I waddle holding my back wincing in pain, gnawing on a toblerone. “Ahhh,  G’day there”.

So far I’ve had two meltdowns and think I’ve cried out to go home like a child only once… So far. Poor Lach. I try to keep myself together for his sake. He’s worked so hard for this dream to come true but there are some moments I’m just like… ‘Nope’.

One freezing night the water in the caravan shower went cold.  I had a meltdown. Bawled into my towel like a baby and had to be put to bed.

The smallest uncomfortably sets me off.

And because Luca is so free-range on this trip she has become more and more defiant. She’s changing so much every day. New words, longer sentences, telling us what to do. Braver.  She’s also very testing. She runs away at every opportunity found. She doesn’t listen to us anymore and is becoming quite a profesh at doing the strop and even getting angry at us. When I call out to her to stop, she yells back at me angrily with a ‘NO WAY’. She doesn’t have her four walls to be contained in, so she is acting super confident in an overly adventurous way- which scares me. She used to be so sweet all the time but now she’s getting attitude… just like her mother I guess, only she’s way younger than I was when I developed mine. Onlookers think she’s hilarious. And sometimes it is.

Today she fell off some rocks into the river after we told her not to again and again and chased her off them copious amounts of times. She struggled, gasping and bobbing in the water for a few seconds before we could reach her and she swallowed a good bit of the river. We’re pretty sure she scared herself (and us) enough to hesitate before defying our command about climbing on the rocks again. We shall see… I’m dubious. So dubious.

All my life I’ve always heard adults use the expression,‘They’ll only learn from experience…’ so I guess I’m that adult now.

Yesterday after visiting an old, dear friend of mine, my oh so lovely and determined husband (wink) ‘missed’ the highway turn off in Brisbane (I say missed but really he wanted to listen to the advice of the stupid computer navigator rather than listen to my instructions… needless to say, there was quite a bit of angst in the air) and he took us into the middle of the city on a goose chase that added an hour onto our trip.

Our caravan is a mighty 23 foot in total with the car, our rig is around 12 meters or more long, so it’s no easy feat to maneuver and requires lots of attention and concentration to get around. Especially in busy cities which we have been avoiding… until now!

Luca was becoming restless, irritating and demanding her dummy and more ‘snacks, snacks, snacks’. I had google maps going on both our iphones, the road map on my lap, the stupid car navigator directing us a million ways in that irritating computer voice and my husband bantering away in the driver’s seat next to me. It was like a scene out of a Chevy Chase movie. We were all so tense in the car, arguing over who was right and who was wrong and which way to go and don’t turn there, stay in this lane, move to that lane, watch out for that truck, don’t kill us, that when we finally got out onto open highway and we could breathe again,  I kind of lost it.

The chin wobble began, the eyes started to well up, the pregnancy hormones kicked in and in flooded the empty sadness. All the tension from the previous weeks of always packing up the caravan, preparing to leave, rain, cold, unpacking the caravan, rain, cold, setting up, washing clothes in laundries, shopping and restocking, rain, cold, chasing Luca around, reading maps, hunting through camping apps to find a spot to park up for a night or two and trying to cook nutritious food in a little space for us all is tiring stuff and needed to be let out of my body. So there I sat, limp in the passenger seat, surrounded by maps, feeling miserable and sobbing to myself.

Once we had all calmed down from our city experience and Lach was able to lovingly look at me again, he decided not to push on to our desired destination and to just pull up in the next sunny coast town… which was Noosa… for a solid week. No complaints here.

We all need a bit of solid routine and consistency back in our lives. No more one night here, two or three nights here, just a solid week in one spot. And what a spot we have. Right on the banks of the river. The sun sets and moon rises at our campsite are positively magical. Today I woke up a different person and we’ve finally reached the land of sunshine that we have been in search of.

Today, up here in QLD it is a sunny 25 degrees and not a cloud in sight. I even had my first beach swim today.  It’s taken me four weeks to get in the water and today was finally the day. Dripping with salty water and slathered in sunscreen, I lay on the warm sand in my bikini and was reborn.

Laying there, 25 weeks pregnant in my bikini and resembling a squishy, raw, roast pork leg wrapped in string, feeling the sunshine beaming down and melting into my skin was pure and utter bliss. The beach was heavenly, Luca was sweetly playing in the sand, Lach was relaxed and I thought to myself, ‘This is livin”. This was worth the angst of yesterday’.

In all fairness I knew this trip was never going to be a breeze. I knew it was going to be challenging. Both on my mind and my body. That’s why I prepared myself by downloading meditation podcasts, calming music, packed all my essential oils, my crystals and bought my diffuser. The caravan, when properly set up resembles a day spa. Zen.

I know I sound kind of ungrateful to be on this adventure, but don’t get me wrong, I know exactly just how lucky and fortunate I am to be doing this trip and I really AM so grateful.  My husband worked hard for this trip to come to fruition but the honest truth is…. its freaking exhausting. Have I stressed that enough? EX-Haus-TIng. That’s the truth. And it doesn’t help that my new baby is eating me from the inside out either. But it hasn’t all been bad. Not at all. We’ ve had many positively memorable moments too and we’re surrounded with such natural beauty along the coast line, it’s hard to stay upset for long… and I’m booked in for a massage at the RACV day spa here in Noosa tomorrow…mmmmmmmmm massaggge.

With my ever growing belly, my rampant hormones, a toddler, a 23 foot caravan and a stubborn man in tow, I know I will still no-doubt have more meltdowns and Lach and I will definitely still argue over that stupid computer navigation thingy.  But I’ll learn to appreciate those moments and one day we’ll look back on them and be like, “Remember that time in Brisbane?”

I guess that’s how I now look at this trip. Like life really. What goes up, must come down.

How can we truly appreciate those magical moments if we don’t have to swim upstream to get to them. (But secretly in the back of my mind that little voice is still nagging at  me, “You wouldn’t of had to swim upstream in the first place if your husband just had of listened to your instructions”)

Ha!

 

Dear Diary,

Last month we broke Luca’s leg… Well not really, we didn’t technically break her leg. We just provided the environment for her to do it on and her little leg did the rest. I say this now so casually because she’s all healed and running around again, but at the time I can’t even articulate to you the parental guilt, shame and heartbreak that we felt. 

We had planned to give her a massive trampoline for her second birthday -which was last week- but our minds were quickly changed after the Lorne trampoline accident and instead we bought her the safety of a kite instead.

Luca was an absolute legend right from the moment she snapped her bone. She was so cool about it, we actually thought it was only a sprained ankle and iced it all that day. Idiots!

It wasn’t until waking the next morning when we popped her on the ground, lifting her out of the cot, that we realised, shit! It wasn’t her ankle. And then she proceeded to tell us ‘Sore knee, sore knee” and we were like “OMG not the knee”.

 

But we still weren’t convinced it was a broken bone though because she never cried, winced in pain or sooked like I imagined I would be doing if I was in her situation. She took it like an absolute champion. Just sat on the couch happily giggling, playing… and watching t.v. (It goes without saying that we introduced her to television during this period. She’s really developed a deep love for Thomas the Tank Engine and her obsession with Emma Wiggle is growing rapidly. All she wants is bows in her hair and tutus. I never would of guessed I’d have a little girly girl, but low-and-behold after this broken leg incident I have been left with a horse and train obsessed, tutu wearing ballerina, girly girl.) Bless.

So after finally convincing ourselves it was something more sinister than a sprain we took her to the doc’s for some x-rays…just to to be safe.

I anxiously waited outside the x-ray room and listened to her frightened cries as the radioactive machine took pictures of her bones.

I knew it was bad when Lach came out cradling her, white as a ghost with heartbreak written all over his face. “It’s broken” he whimpered to me as he cuddled her tightly. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it was actually broken. A clean break.

The guilt punched me in the stomach so fast I had the wind taken out of me and to hold myself together I had to bend forward and catch my breath. Broken! I just couldn’t believe it. She’s too young to have a broken leg. I thought to myself, “Ok, I can either lose my shit right here or pull it together and be a warrior woman who takes charge and runs the shit out of the situation… and by the looks of poor pale Lach, he was definitely not presenting himself as being the warrior on this particular occasion. (He was the one bouncing on the tramp with her when IT happened, so more guilt riddled him).

So, I mouthed a little prayer to myself, took a deep breath, stood up and got on with it. What ever had to be done and organised was done and organised and done in a surprisingly calm manner. Usually I’d be beside myself but I was surprising myself at how cool I was taking this. The whole time relaying to Lach that, “she’s ok, we’re ok, it could be much, much worse. It’s only a broken a leg”. And when I listened to myself putting it in that perspective, I actually felt really ok about the situation. After all, it was only a broken leg. We were all still alive and breathing. It wasn’t terminal, it’s just a superficial break. It will heal. She will heal. WE will heal. People have it much, much worse and this will soon be a distant memory.

And sure enough 5 weeks later, today, it is just that. A memory. Her broken cast that was sawn off sits neatly on the top shelf of a dark cupboard awaiting to become a future ‘show’n’tell’ presentation for her school days. She’s completely healed and running around on it. We do however find ourselves being extra careful and bubble wrapping her a bit more these days. 

But aside from broken legs, she’s also turned two. The time has flown, as all parents say and indeed we can’t believe our little baby bird is two. Walking and talking and telling us what she wants, and doesn’t want. My mind is blown everyday with what comes out of her mouth. It’s like every night when she goes to sleep her little brain downloads the day’s information and when she wakes she’s loaded with new concepts, whole sentences and refined her demands and commands. Like when Keanu Reeves downloads all those self defence apps in the movie The Matrix. I wish it was that easy. I also wonder if I was like this as a child. You know, a legend. She fascinates me that daughter of ours.

She even woke up the other morning, looked straight up at Lach and blatantly and boldly said “Luca can talk now”.  Like she’d completely downloaded the skill of the english language over night. Weird as!

And moving on…

We’re currently living in a caravan at the moment. We’ve taken ourselves out of the rat race for 3 months to enjoy a bit of slow living before our next baby enters our world. To spend some quality time together as a 3. We’re venturing up the east coast until September.  Lach quit his job and we’re full gyspying it. Last night was our first night on the road. When we were planning this trip I didn’t picture the first day to pan out as it did. I thought we’d be in happy, high spirits but no. No!  No we were definitely not in high spirits. None of us were. The last minute dash around the house to clean up ready for the renters, packing last minute things into the van, fixing and greasing the trailer, bossing each other around, rubbishing each others ideas and stashing bits and pieces here and there left us all emotional, worn out and exhausted and a little bit spiteful with each other to tell you the truth.

Our planned 10am departure turned into 1pm and Lach and I sat in our grumpiness and silence for at least half an hour before the dust settled and we could talk to each other normally again. 

Our first stop was in Deniliquin, at a mates house…The entire trip we were gifted with the pleasure of listening to Luca whinge and cry that she wanted to “go home” which was making us nervous for the planned 3 months we had ahead of us. After running out of snacks we finally pulled in the driveway at 8pm and for our future reference we now know that a 5 hour car drive quickly becomes a 7 hour trip when a toddler is onboard. 

It was 2 degrees in Deni when we arrived. Foggy, icey and bone chillingly cold. Luca needed to be put to bed and so did I. I was grumpy again. Freezing, tired and worried about how Luca’s first night sleeping in the van would pan out. I was imagining being stuck sharing our bed for the night and I was not looking forward to sharing my bed with my husband, my restless daughter, my ever growing baby belly and my long sausage pregnancy pillow. I was preparing for no sleep and this was making me even grumpier. We quickly plugged our electrics in, pumped the heater and prepped for immediate bed. Luca went down like a charm, walking herself into bed even. She shocks me every time. She did however proceed to tap on the top bunk ceiling above her novelly until she passed out 10 minutes later and then she slept soundly until 6.30am. Win!  

But I lay awake all night listening to the loud, stupid, donkey of a heater, loudly turn off and on, off and on, trying ever so hard to beat the imposing frost that was icing us like a cake. And our mattress is hard. Like sleeping on cardboard hard. My hip bones went numb from pregnant sleeping on my sides all night. Tossing and turning, I lay there awaiting the dawn. Don’t you just love those nights. You know, when you think it’d just be easier to get up rather than fight sleep all night.

I have a headache today. I feel hung over. I’m still tired and still cold. The heater isn’t super efficient and I’m currently tucked up in bed with blankets on, my woolies and a beanie as I type this at 11am. 

I can however, hear beautiful birds calling out by the riverside which is 20 meters away from the van. I threw off my blankets this morning defeated by sleep as the first kookaburras laughed the morning in. That was nice!

 

My first caravan coffee was nice too. And our warm porridge. And the fact that Lach has taken Luca into town to purchase a mattress topper so I can get some rest…Now that is bloody lovely.

So things are looking up.

And after our first chilly night in the van,  we’ve now decided to skip parts of our trip and get the heck out of the cold and bust a move to get above Sydney, where the sun is shining a little more warmly than here. 

Stupid face trying to hold down an ice-cream

 

If you’re familiar with my face in the photograph I have provided then you’ll know exactly what it means. I’ve described that face before in my very first post.  But here it is again…

 

I’d like to introduce you to the ‘stupid face’. ‘Stupid face’ is when you don’t have the energy to hold up your own facial muscles. ‘Stupid face’ can be caused from being insanely hungover, nausea, extreme fatigue, mental confusion, idiocy and… morning sickness.  

 

Once again this particular ‘stupid face’ in the above photo is molded by lethargy, pain and morning sickness. Yes, yes that right. It seems we are having another baby folks. After all my ranting about how challenging and provoking having a baby is in previous post it just so happens that there will be a lot more ranting to come! Let the good times roll.

We actually didn’t even know we were pregnant. We weren’t trying and we definitely hadn’t planned to have one so soon… but as it turns out, we are. We have been incredibly lucky to be gifted with another bubba and we are giddy with excitement… and nervous too of course. Super nervous. Just the thought of heading into that ‘newborn storm’ again makes me already tired. So soporific. No sleep, leaking milk, swollen boobs, hot sweats at night. That gut lurching feeling you get when you’re FINALLY asleep and then you hear your baby screech awake in the middle of the night…again! Its like your heart is escaping from your chest. You know that feeling? Tough times but weirdly its insanely beautiful too. Sitting in the dark silence of the night nursing your warm bug back to sleep. Bliss!

 

I’m going on 17 weeks and my middle is as big as I was at 6 months during Lucas pregnancy. My back fat is outta control. I’m already in my granny underwear. Size 16, high waisted knickers that come up to my shoulders. But oh so comfy. The maternity pants have been dug out of the box and I’ve past that ‘you just look fat’ stage. I now actually look pregnant.

 

And as many women do, I spent the first 12 weeks dragging myself around the house and workplace holding down vomit. How quick those old memories from my first pregnancy come flooding back. And weird shit too. Like in my first pregnancy I couldn’t talk about tumeric lattes and the very thought of Byron Bay made me want to throw up.That’s where we found out we were pregnant first time around. In Byron. It did pass though. I can handle the place again, thank goodness. But it’s so bizarre what our hormones do to our minds when we fall pregnant. Another friend of mine recently found out she was pregnant when she was camping and then the very thought of camping made her spew from there on.

 

So a few weekends ago those same hormones came a knockin. I was beginning to lose it, emotionally. It was Sunday morning. Lach was home with Luca and I was frowning, foaming at the mouth and generally slothing and miserably throwing myself around the kitchen. Lach, like any good man, could smell the hormones leaking out of me and knew he had approximately 10 minutes to evacuate the house with Luca, quickly, quietly and swiftly. Bless him.

 

Once alone, I stripped off and flopped myself on the floor of the shower, turned the hot water on so it was nearly singing my skin and cried. Ugly cried. Full on ugly cry, howling at the ceiling, gapping at the mouth, bawling my eyes out, making all sorts of strange, wild animal noises. And, as I was doing this I was asking myself in my mind why I was crying. It wasn’t making sense. I had no reason to be crying and because there was no reason it made me cry even more, deeper and louder. I wasn’t sad about anything. Life was good. Snot was dribbling out of my nose and I howled even more watching it swirl down the drain. I just sat there in my unknownness and cried for at least 20 minutes. Off and on. I would stop and catch my breath, stare at the floor and wonder why I was crying and then it would rise up again and out it rumbled. I felt a bit pathetic really. Like ‘pull myself together you silly woman’ but it just kept on comin.

Once I had finally calmed down and regained my self worth again, I had an intense craving for a fresh salad sandwich… but the thought of making one myself was just too much. It was too much energy for me to get out of the shower, dry myself, get dressed and make a sandwich. I began to howl again. “I’m just so tired’ I was howling to myself. “I’m just soooooo tired”I roared.

 

And that was it. That’s why I was crying so much. I was just too tired to deal with life that particular morning. Once I realised that’s why I was crying, I made a plan which entailed making that damn salad sandwich and high tail it straight to bed. Which I did.

I wrapped myself in my dressing gown, slapped some mayo on some bread, stuffed it with greenery and tomatoes and took it to bed with my like the Golem with his ring. As fast as I could I scoffed my sandwich, eyes closed and then pulled the sheets up over my head and passed out. For a solid 4 hours.

I woke up feeling like I’d risen from a coma. Dazed and fuzzy.

 

There has been no more crying since that day. Maybe I cried it all away.

17 weeks in and I’m actually feeling quite good now. With Lucas pregnancy, I was ill for 6 months, which is why I think this one is a boy. It feels different.

 

So now not only am I going to be ‘lost in Luca land’ but I am also going to be lost in ‘someone else’s land’. I wonder when ‘I’ will be found? Will I forever be lost in my childrens lands now? I’m thinking this is what motherhood is. To forever be wound up in their ‘lands’. Always putting them first. Always worrying about them. Protecting them, sacrificing for them, losing sleep over them.

I guess my challenge will be, to somehow blend and balance our ‘lands’ together.

 

Women are incredible. But we all know that right?

Alrighty, so I’ve had this one written out and sitting in my drive for over 3 months now. I got distracted and never posted it. But now I have the urge to start writing them more frequently again so i thought I’d better get this one out first…

This post is about the first day of abandoning my baby at childcare. That’s what it felt like for me. Is this what it felt like for you? Abandoning her/them?

Turning my back on her whilst she tried with all her might to break free of the strangers arms I just plonked her in, wailing for me to come back and embrace her.

“It’s best if you just go” the stranger whispered to me with an underlying tone of pity.

So reluctantly, I did.

 

Walking anxiously back to my car, Luca’s heart wrenching sobs became more distant with every step I took away from her. My mind was telling me one thing and my heart was screaming another. The grip on my car keys had my knuckles turning white. That tickly feeling in my sinuses let me know that tears were on the way.

“Keep walking”, my head was saying. “She’s fine.” “This is good for her”. “It’s good for you.”

But her sobbing kept echoing in my mind, over and over. “She wants me.” “She needs me.” “I can fix her.” “I can soothe her.” “Run back to her” my heart pulsed.

How could I be doing this to her I asked myself.

 

I was just about to burst into tears when I saw my friends arriving to drop off their baby girl. I had to pull myself together as best I could before they saw me. How embarrassing? Shaking my head and taking a deep breath I pretended I was ok… But I’m totally transparent and my friend saw through me. Knowing it was our first day she gave me a gentle, reassuring hug. We laughed off the emotions and I called myself a stupid, bubbling mess…

 

Holding myself together, I shakily opened my car door, plopped my body down and inclosed myself in my vehicle. The noise of my daughters crying was shut out too. Again I white knuckled the steering wheel, starring ahead into the nothing, just staring mindlessly I let the horrible feeling of guilt rumble up inside me and it exploded into ugly cry. Not a huge explosion but enough to be a bit of a weeping mess.

 

What a mix of emotions. I thought we (Luca and I) were so ready and prepared for this. Luca is 20 months old. I thought well and truly she would handle this like a little legend. I thought well and truly that I would handle this like a little legend. But nope.  Leaving my daughter for the first time with ‘strangers’ twisted all sorts of emotions within me.

 

I knew in my mind that she would be totally fine and having fun within minutes of me leaving but I also knew that in that very moment of leaving her, I broke her heart a little bit.

 

And that’s what got me.

 

Knowing that I was the first person in her innocent life to tear at her heart-strings.

 

Even my heart was breaking as I was walking away. (Perfect time to que in ‘I’m walking away’ song by Craig David)

 

In the lead up to the big day, we had talked about it. She eluded me to the fact she was ok with childcare as she was perfectly behaved at orientation day. Walking off and playing with the other kids immediately. Even waving and saying “Bye-bye” to me as I walked out the gate. ( My heart broke then too, like she was happy to see me go) So you can see why I thought we had this in the bag. She had disillusioned me.

 

That morning as I was packing her favourite snacks into her lunchbox, we discussed how I was leaving her at ‘playtime’ for the day. I’d covered her in my magic oils to repel her against any germies, (I’m so paranoid of her getting sick. I love my sleep and sick baby = no sleep for me. Selfish but true.)

I rubbed oil all through her hair and neatly tied it up, slipped on a super cute dress, threw a spare change of clothes into her bag, extra nappies, cuddly toys and her stupid dummy and we were off. In the car we were chatting excitedly about ‘Playtime’ the entire trip.

Closing the car doors, we hopped out and together walked hand in hand to the gates. When I opened the gates, she hesitated and began to walk slowly and cautiously. She could smell that something was up. She peered in slowly and then ran back to me for a leg cuddle. (I love a good leg cuddle but not in this circumstance. This meant trouble)

 

We were greeted by her minder and I began to say my goodbyes. That’s when it started. Staring with fear into my eyes her tears started rolling. Sobbing ‘No, no no” and trying to climb up on me.

I knew I had to get up and turn my back on her. I had to walk away from her and leave her. My heart was tearing in two but I didn’t want to be that overprotective, pesky Mum. So up I got and out I walked. Biting my lip I pulled the gate shut and walked off on her.

 

As cold as that… Iccccce cold.

 

Her cries became distant, as did my responsibility for her.

 

I drove off in a fog. A dazed, foggy mess. I didn’t know where I was driving. I had an entire day to fill… ON MY OWN. With no child.

What was I going to do?

How strange that feeling is.

Having no responsibility attached to you.

I felt kind of empty. Like not whole.

 

I drove to the beach to wash off the anxiety.

Parking the car, I heard my phone beep.

I looked down.

It was a text from Child Care.

 

Opening it up, I found a photo of Luca happily staring into a fish aquarium and it read “ Loving the fish bowl minutes after you left”.

 

I dove into the ocean and washed away the fog.

 

Now, as I stated earlier, this blog was written 3 months ago… So a quick update… I’ve now moved Luca to a different child care. A busier, more stimulating one. 1 day a week so I can work. And she loves it. So much so that she cries when I arrive to take her home. I feel embarrassed in front of the childcare workers when I go to pick Luca up to take her home and she cries out “No, no. Stay here. Not home, not home’. Like our home is an awfully boring place to be…

 

I have to up my ‘at home’ fun.

Cutesy little beach tents have one sole purpose… and that sole purpose is to humiliate and drive you into publicly displaying your inner psycho.

Since becoming a mother I have celebrated two Christmas’ and on both occasions I have asked Santa to bring me a beach tent. The most finest of beach tents that are simple to both erect and take down. One that a mother with child can operate easily and swiftly. No fuss. Light weight, provides shade and yet sturdy enough for an afternoon at the beachside.

Last Christmas, Santa must have had a good ol’ chuckle as he dropped my present under the tree. It was one of those pop up, umbrella like tents. Instructions read like a dream, simply pull this lever and “BOOM”, up goes your tent.

Sounded easy enough.

Santa had my approval.

That Christmas day I watched my husband set it up with ease. So later that week I trotted off with Luca and the tent riverside to set up camp for the day.

I never got the tent up.

I stood there like a frenzied cat in a bag, flinging about a nylon tent sheet, mumbling obscenities aloud to myself, cursing Santa and contorting my body into all sorts of positions trying to erect the stupid thing. I nearly broke the lever. I nearly broke into tears. I felt I had failed.

Surely enough I did what any good woman would do, threw it to the side, left it spread open, unerect, flopping around on the sand for the afternoon while Luca and I gayly splashed around in the water and ate snacks under the shade of our hats.

Fair to say the tent failed my expectations and is now for sale on gumtree. Any takers?

So this Christmas, a beach tent with the same description, again was on my Santa list.

A local store in my hood had put up a post on Instagram raving about these new beach tents they had in stock. In the picture was a bubba enjoying a day at the beach running around their tent and underneath it had written “So easy to put up & down, even with 2 sandy bummed kids in tow”.

This intrigued me. I was curious. Could this be it? Apparently so said my friend when I ran into her on the beach the next day. She had also seen the post and purchased one after going into the store and having a demonstration. She said it was eeeeeeasy peeeeeasy.

I had to see this for myself, so in I went for a demo.

‘Poooooof” The lady threw the folded up tent into the air. It miraculously untwisted itself and landed perfectly on the floor, all set up and cubby like. I was blown away. “This actually could be the one I thought. Now to see the ‘pack down’. I was dubious.

“Now just pick up the sides, bennnnnnd,  fold it down like this, twist aaaaaand snap. Done!”  she demonstrated like a magician.

Now my turn. To my astonishment the tent folded neatly and seemingly easily into its cocoon of a bag. I’d done it.

I’d found ‘The One.’

On the 2017 Santa list it went.

Santa provided.

Christmas day came and I unwrapped my beach tent and demonstrated to the family how easy this tent was to assemble and disassemble. It was a little trickier this time around but I managed with enough ease to raise a few approved eye brows.

Finally, a beach tent I would use. I felt so lucky to have come across this tent. I was superbly pleased with it and couldn’t wait to take it down for a lazy afternoon of delight by the seaside.

 

That day came. Today in fact. Two girlfriends popped over. One has two babies. We packed up our beach bags, slip, slop, slapped on some sunscreen and I proudly threw the beachtent bag over my shoulders. “Wait till you see how easy this tent goes up and down” I proudly bragged to the girls… and off we went.

 

“Poof’ Up went the tent as I threw it into the air. So easy. Right before our eyes shelter and shade was provided. Tick.

We snacked and swam, bathed in the sunshine and chased our little ones all over the beach. It was a lovely day, the water was refreshing and crystal clear as it lapped at the water’s edge. Everyone was having a lovely afternoon.

 

At the first sign of our little ones exhausted moans we decided it was time to pack up and leave. There were a hundred things to do. Collect all the splayed buckets and spades, return someones boogie board Luca had stolen, put a nappy on her, wipe sand from every crevasse, shake out the towels, slop all the half eaten snacks back into their containers, find the car keys and… pack up the tent.

“I got this tent pack down routine in the bag” I thought to myself.

“Ok, so watch this guys. Watch this, watch this” I enthusiastically called out to my girlfriends as I proceeded to demonstrate and twist up the bendy shelter tent.

And I kept proceeding… for about 15 minutes.

“Oh hang on, it’s like this. Nope, it’s like this. Ah no, maybe this way.

I don’t remember doing it this way. How did I do it again. This doesn’t feel right. Oh god, everyone is looking at me. I’m that idiot on the beach that everyone is laughing at. I would be laughing at myself if I was watching me.

Now even Luca was starting to point and sternly mumble at it. She knew the tent was misbehaving.

 

I had quite the intense, internal rage and conniption bubbling inside my body. On the outside I was keeping pretty cool and calm, a bit of twit and aloof laughing at myself but inside was hurting with anger. I was so frustrated at the tent. Why did it betray me now? Why couldn’t it have done this in the shop, or on Christmas Day in the backyard? Why did it have to do this to me now, infront of everyone. Especially in front of my GF’s whom I’d just been convincing they need to get one.

Finally I surrendered, bent down and sweetly twisted the life out of it so that it had nowhere else to go but into its stupid cocoon bag. All twisted and busting out of the zipper it sat.

 

It was the pressure. The pressure of the people watching me that had made me fail. I was too calm and cocky going into it. I shouldn’t have said anything and just done it humbly. Stupid tent.

I went home with my tail between my legs. Lucky I have an essential oil sanctuary to go home to calm and regroup myself in. My inner rage had failed me but I had managed to still keep my cool on the outside. Not like last years tantrum.

But I wasn’t going to let this little tent have it over me, so when I arrived home I threw it open into the yard. ‘Poofpphf’. It sat all wonky now due to the forceful stuffing. Sitting sideways on the lawn it mocked me. Hands on my hips  I starred it down for a minute or so. I’d shoved it in its bag pretty hard and it was showing.

Breathing deeply I calmly approached it, took it by the sides, folded it down and “BOOM”. It collapsed into its god given shape. There it was. Neat and tidy, swiftly sitting in my hands.

Yooouuuu bastard!