Shifting sands

Since the end of the school year I have been wondering how to get back here or whether to come back at all. The thought of starting fresh with another bright, shiny blog crossed my mind several times. In all honesty the only reason I'm not typing over there is due to the lack of inspiration for a new, bright, shiny blog name. Then I decided my fickle blogging intentions were rather comfortable right here at HomM HQ, plus we have history. Forty two months of history to be precise. Those months have carried our story, reminding me of all the blurry days between the years.

Those blurry days have revealed a teenager in the house, a pre-teen on the cusp of adolescence, a young baby grown into a pre-schooler & the whispering thoughts of another child into an almost toddling toddler. Plus a dog, a cat & a partridge in a pear tree...or four budgies in a cage, whatever.

The last update was all about Jack, how far he has come within himself since we pulled him from mainstream school & began our homeschooling journey.

Journey noun

Passage or progress from one stage to another:

the journey to success

 

 

We have very much undergone a journey, not only with Jack, but also within ourselves & our beliefs pertaining to education. Our generic acceptance was challenged. The further we wandered down the beaten track the more we questioned, with each fork in the road our status quo shifted a little each time. School is not a one size fits all. It's rarely a one size fits most. I'll get into that another night.

 

 

Going back over the last post & reading how the other (school aged) minions all happily went off to their first day back to school come February, or first day at school as was the case for Will, amazes me in how much our point of view has altered. A narrow perspective has been upgraded to a wide angle lens with a birds eye view.

 

Mid year we decided that instead of sending Clay off to kindergarten in 2018, he would never see the inside of a conventional classroom. Instead he would keep doing what he's always known & that is homeschooling with Jack.

 

 

As we made this decision the other kids, particularly Ben & Blake, continued to frequently ask to homeschool. The blanket response initially was "no" for a variety of reasons, including the (misconception) that I personally wouldn't be able to do it, as well as the perception that they had no 'reason' to homeschool & hence were better off at mainstream school. Oh how I was still so blinkered.

 

 

You know when you're meant to be on another path, but you stubbornly continue to take step after step along the well worn tracks you're eminently familiar with, so the universe decides to throw a little wild weather your way. Whether it be in the form of an earthquake, a mudslide or a tsunami.

 

In our case it was a six week meet & greet with Influenza B & Norovirus - a nasty & hideously contagious gastro virus that loves nothing better than to take out nursing homes & cruise ships in one fell swoop. Or put a household under quarantine. 

 

 

Once we knew what we were battling & the kids were looking at a minimum one to two week absence from school, we offered them the choice to 'mock homeschool' or have their school work sent home from their teachers to complete. With a unanimous vote to (trail) homeschool, off we went.

 

Life. Changing.

 

For all of us.

 

Five weeks later & in the final week of term three, following several (hundred) discussions as a family, with the children separately & between Doug & I, we made the leap & put in our application to homeschool all the remaining school aged children.

 

 

It's now been three (or four?) months, though it feels so much longer than that - in a good way. It feels like life as we've always known it. The kids are even happier, which I didn't think was possible given they were all pretty happy kiddo's before. The cooperation & teamwork between them is heart bursting to quietly watch. Hearing them discuss or explain whatever they are currently reading, watching, writing, working on, thinking through, gives me more proof, if it was ever needed, that for our family homeschooling is the absolute freaking bees knees.

 

 

 

The world is their oyster school & I can't wait to travel it with them.

 



Some days you just have to dance it out

Some days after school are easy. 

Everyone piles in the front door, bags are unpacked, food is devoured & homework is finished. Then more food is devoured before they all scatter off to fill the time void between snack two & dinner time. Minimal bickering & maximum amusement. Will & Blake scamper off outside to ride their bikes or jump around like lunatics all over the back yard. Ben, Rianan & Jack pull out the UNO cards & see how many rounds they can each win before it's discovered that Rianan has been cheating by sliding a few extra cards under the couch so she can declare "uno!" first.

Other days are not so easy. 

When everyone pushes their way through the front door like a herd of stampeding elephants, bags are dumped in bedroom doorways or along the hallway. The kitchen is filled with too many kids all vying to find the best after school snack, then stomping away when there is only the usual's on offer still. When getting their homework started, let alone finished is harder than trying to devour a bar of chocolate undetected in this house filled with minions. What would normally take ten minutes to complete, will instead span over an hour painfully filled with moans, complaints, messy & spaced out writing or staring at the same pages in the same chapter of their book. And that is just the older three.

Then there's Blake, Will & Clay, who will spend their time either a) running, screaming, jumping their way through the house until someone gets knocked over & trampled on the unforgiving floor tiles. Proceeding to burst my ear drums with their screams, before turning to retaliate against whoever they think is guilty of sending them sprawling to the floor.

Or b) Blake & Will spend the next hour or so annoying each other until I can't stand it any longer. While Blake & Will have me distracted with their arguing, Clay will quietly walk through each bedroom, opening drawers & pulling out every shred of nicely folded clothes he can reach. 

Before I know it, 5pm has ticked over, dinner isn't even thought of yet let alone cooking away. The house looks like an abandoned clothes warehouse after a cyclone has torn through & we've all given up on any legitimate attempt on the homework front. Forget about baths, at this stage the kids will be lucky to get anything more than spaghetti on toast before being shipped off to bed at my soonest possible convenience...after tidying from the storm that wiped me out flat.

Half an hour into yesterday's after school gauntlet & I could see the sides beginning to crumble. While the bags were put away, empty stomachs were filled & homework was done (because there was hardly any required) the disagreements & arguments were starting to come thick & fast. Add in several emails & phone calls that demanded my attention & could not wait, meant that everything going on out of my little bubble had to wait. By the time I put the phone down & decided the rest could be done after the crazy had passed, there were shoes everywhere, clean & dirty clothes littered the house mimicking behind the scenes of a fashion runway show, Clay was cranky, Ben, Jack & Blake were filthy from the waist down after playing soccer together & a lone empty fry pan was still waiting on the cold stove top.

I issued orders like a drill sergeant - "pick up those shoes"

"dirty clothes in the laundry now"

"put the clean clothes on the couch with the rest of the washing"

"bags in rooms"
"balls outside!"
The minions responded like a class of hyped four year old's coming down from an intense sugar rush.   

There was only one way to rescue what was shaping up to be an evening from hell & the breaker to demolish the last whispers of sanity that were stopping me from going all exorcist mummy.

Ignore the time & turn the music up.

You can't hear the petty little arguments, whinging & dobbing if they are drowned out with only the best playlist selections from the iPod on a volume level just bordering too loud.

It was the best decision made all day. It didn't take long before the boys turned the Xbox off, Rianan came out of her room (after escaping in there for some peace & quiet) & the younger three channeled their destructive energy into dancing like maniacs. While I was chopping up chicken, dancing & singing my heart out to Clay who had joined me in the kitchen, the other five had set up the coloring in gear on the table & were all happily getting along, talking, encouraging & laughing together, with the occasion dance off thrown in for good laughs.

Before we were even a quarter of the way through the playlist, dinner was cooked & the table was swiftly cleared & then set, on my first request, ready for the plates & bowls to be distributed. Knock knock jokes were told & the best things about our days were shared as we slowly finished eating. The tension & frustration that was flooding us all not forty minutes earlier had completely evaporated. Baths & showers were done, with the older minions doing a quick but thorough {enough} tidy around the house while the younger three were bathed & prepared for bed, not that much later than their usual bedtime either.

By the end of the night everyone went to bed in a good mood & I didn't feel like crap for spending the last three hours nagging & yelling while serving up a less than substantial dinner. I'm fairly certain that I'm not alone when I say I would much rather listen to the likes of Paramore, The Smiths, Ed Sheeran & Pink {to name a few}, than give myself a headache & everyone else immunity towards the nagging tones in my voice, topping off with foul moods all round.  

Next time our evening - or morning, is beginning to morph into a train wreck I'm going straight to that magic button, play.

Girls will be girls...& bitches

I had hoped to come back with a hilariously funny, light hearted post. Some tale of mischief from one of the minions to get the blogging ball rolling again. While the antics of the kids have been up to their normal high standards ripe with blogging material, my fingers have still been frozen. I almost considered to just Let It Go, let it goooooo...

Then the nightmare of on again, off again friendships between girls resurfaced after twenty odd years. 

It started slowly enough. Rianan would come home from school disheartened & sad because her {best} friend had been mean to her that day. Within half an hour all would be forgotten when A* would come over after homework to play, or by the next morning at school when A would come running up to Rianan with a smile & a hug, before they went in to class together. 

However, it didn't take long before Rianan was bursting into tears the moment she saw me after school, because of what had happened between her & A, then including their mutual friends, during recess, lunch, & even class time, that day. At first this was just once or twice during the week, then it soon escalated to most days. The girls Rianan thought were her friends, suddenly weren't. The little secrets & whispers she had told them were now thrown back at her in taunts or giggled about viciously. Being constantly stared down & glared at during class. Completely ostracized during recess & lunch, with A making sure that none of their friends would play with Rianan, forming their own little anti Rianan posse. The boy who liked her was even dragged into it.

In the beginning I comforted Rianan & tried to gently guide her through this nasty side of being a nine year old girl. I have my own haunting memories full of girls whispering, turned backs & being vilified for the clothes I wore, the boy I liked, the music I listened to, the posters I had on my bedroom wall. I remembered all the times I was sick & had to have a day or two off school & being terrified that when I returned my friends would all now be my enemies for that week. Where lunchtimes were filled with sitting morosely on the oval under a tree by myself. When school work was completed well before the deadline...because I had no one to talk & giggle with & the boring assignment was a welcome distraction from the glares & taunting whispers.

It seems for many of us, it's an unwanted rite of passage during primary (& high) school. Girls will be girls. 

Until they become bitches.

As far as I'm concerned there is a line. A line that differentiates between shitty girl behaviour that we seem to accept, & outright targeted bullying. 

The line was crossed. We could no more stand back while Rianan tried to manage the behaviour mostly on her own. Both her teacher, who is aware of the events, along with Doug & I had been encouraging Rianan to stay away from A, to ignore her when she started being mean to her or about her. To play with other girls in the class who weren't tied in with their mutual friends group, or to play with her friends from previous years who were in other classes now. We advised her to now tell her teacher every time something happened during recess & lunch.

Things were still escalating & Rianan was now sick with anxiety every morning while getting ready for school. Instead of confidently walking off to class she was now clinging to my hand. I spoke with her teacher one morning, which didn't offer any further solutions beyond what we were already doing - avoidance, ignoring, playing with other girls who were not involved with A's circle of friends {& potential aggressors}. I approached A's mum again, who we had been in contact with occasionally during the girls 'off moments'. This lead nowhere.

The on again, off again, friendship was now constantly off. Occasionally, for an afternoon, A & Rianan would be friends again, but by the next morning Rianan never knew if this would still be the case when she stepped in to her class room. Through all this Rianan is not completely innocent, she has been nasty back. Which I am glad of, it shows she believes herself not deserving of such toxic behaviour. She has a backbone & isn't afraid to use it. But when she is at home, when she is in her safe environments, she falls apart. All the soft, sensitive sides of herself she has had to protect all day long with that strong back bone, become exposed. That strength that held her through the day disintegrates because she is safe at home, needing this time to regenerate for the next day. 

How far does it have to go before something more is done, before the adults make a stance & really step in. 

What makes me mad is the fact that in many bullying situations, it is up to the victim to manage the bullies behaviour & tactics. Even when these aren't working. As far as I'm concerned when teachers, bosses & parents as well, constantly give the advice to 'ignore them', to stay away from them, for the victim to change their areas of play, to change the people they are seeking out for company, to 'not listen' to what is being said to them or about them. It sends a message of condoning the behaviour of the bully. That the victim is not worth the respect they should be deserved, allowed, & have the other person pulled up on their actions against the victim. 

Telling a victim to 'toughen up', especially when they have already 'toughened up' & 'thickened their skin' over the last couple of months is a slap in the face. 

Why should a child have to toughen up when they have already been trying to deal with the bullying behaviour on a continual basis, without success. By now they have  'toughened up', if they weren't already resilient before.

Like a friend said to me recently, "instead of telling our** children to toughen up, why can't we tell them to soften down?"

Look, I understand the psychology behind a bullies behaviour, that they feel vulnerable & are often bullied or victims of a serious wrong doing against them, recent or past. I have compassion for them, I see that they are not the culmination of their behaviour but so much more than that. While this gives an insight into the reasons behind why they do what they do, it never allows them to permission to be an aggressor. It is not a get out of jail free card.

Girls will be girls & boys will be boys. There is always going to be friendships turning, rough play that gets out of hand. But when it becomes frequent, when there is a specific target, enough is enough. Don't let that line in the sand keep moving or getting blurred. 

And no, telling the victim of constant bullying (or the parent of the child) to toughen up, because as they grow up they are going to come across bullies in high school & the work place, is not sound advice. 


* A is representative, not part of the name.
** 'Our' is used here collectively, not personally. 

Don't mind the mess...

"Come in" she said, "don't mind the mess", as I step over the threshold to her home, drawing my attention to the suggestingly unkempt surroundings. My eyes flick over every surface as we proceed deeper into the house.

Though I'm not exactly sure what mess she is pertaining too. The haphazardly arranged toys that are within the confines of the baby mat, or the two mugs on the bench next to the kettle - clean & ready for expected company. Even the beds were made in the bedrooms we drifted past.

No piles of washing all over the couch with not-so-fifty-shades underwear & holey socks flauntingly visible, forgotten to be tucked deep into the mountain. Kitchen sink empty of breakfast bowls, no dried weet-bix or puffed up rice bubbles lingering on the table - or under the chairs. Either her children slept in their clothes the night before, or it is their pyjama's I can hear in the washing machine quietly swishing away.

The floors look clean enough to follow the three second rule {for dropped food}, curtains open & windows barely visible - not a smeared hand print or dried up cascading dribble to be seen. 

I think to myself, if this is classed as messy then my house belongs on 'Hoarding - Buried Alive'. Knowing that as I closed the front door to take the minions to school, I was closing the door on pyjama's left on bedroom floors, breakfast bowls un-rinsed & stacked next to the sink, with the dishwasher clean but not yet emptied from the night before. Wet bed sheets & quilts stripped & fermenting in the dirty laundry basket, the washing machine silent. The evidence of packing lunches on the kitchen bench remains & while the dining table is wiped of any solid food matter, cloudy streaks are easily seen & rice bubbles litter Will & Blake's chairs. Our floors, not fit for the three second rule, but clean enough for Clay to escape my hip on.

With that one careless statement, perhaps meant to clear her of any responsibility for a missed mirror streak or mote of dust I may see, but not notice - evaporating from my mind faster than a shopping list. The standard is set. The precedent of expectation which goes both ways.

Weeks later I open our front door to welcome her into our home. With a smile I say "Hi! Come in, don't mind the mess, we've been so busy the last few days I've not had a chance to clean properly." A partial truth. 

We walk down the hallway, past bedrooms & lounge rooms - doors wide open to welcome inspection. Small talk is made while we make our way to the kitchen, where two mugs await next to the kettle & a plate of {store bought} goodies already set out.

What she doesn't know is that I ran around like a blue arsed fly the night before - cleaning toilets, wiping toothpaste off mirrors & polishing windows until I could see my reflection. Washing piles thrown hastily into cupboards, floors swept & quickly mopped. That morning the kids were dropped off at school looking irritated & harassed - because I spent the previous two hours acting like a Drill Sargent. Make your bed! Put your pyjamas in the wash! Whose breakfast bowl is on the table still? Put it in the sink! Rooms tidy! Brush your teeth, make sure you rinse the bathroom sink after! 

Instead of walking each minion to their class, I kiss them good bye & head back to the car before the morning bell has even rung. Eager to gain an extra ten minutes to ensure everything is looking as clean & display home'esque as possible. Not a rice bubble in sight. Super House Wife badge on. 

This became the norm. Doug always knew when I had plans to catch up with someone the next day because the night before instead of sitting next to him on the couch, I would be mopping & folding as much of our Mount Washmore as I could before tiredness set in. 

Then a few months ago I called enough. Our house is our home, not an open door display house. I was sick of the falseness, the illusion, the expectation. I wanted to look forward to catching up with friends, not feeling annoyed that I had to sacrifice my quiet evening to make sure every surface was free of minion prints & milk spots. If a friend knocked unexpectedly on our door I didn't want to chat at the front door to hide the lunch dishes in the sink, the unfolded washing dominating the couch, unmade beds & the dozens of shoes almost certainly to be scattered through various rooms.

I also do not want other women to feel the same way. 

Now I'll still say "come in, don't mind the mess." But you will know see exactly what mess I am excusing. Whether it be the crumbs on the bench, the dining table I'm wiping down before we sit, the glass door opaque with hundreds of hand prints or the baby toys & action figurines that lay abandoned on the floor. The real mess. 

Pop over for a cuppa, come for the company. You're welcome any time, just mind the washing.

Defining the perfect mother

There is a woman that exists, though no one has ever found her or met her. Mothers everywhere strive to be her. They follow her examples, strive to achieve all this woman accomplishes. We measure our own successes & failures against the precedent of this infamous idol of perfection.

The Perfect Mum.

Last week I wrote a post My foray with postnatal depression & one common thread kept repeating itself from almost everyone who messaged, commented or spoke with me. 

I wanted to be the perfect mum.

So I pose the question here, what makes a perfect mum?

Is it the mum who stays home to raise her children - or is it the mum who returns to work to build a better future for her children?

Is it the mum who spends hours in the kitchen cooking every meal from bare scratch, with organic everything - or is it the mum who cooks quick nutritious meals in fifteen minutes flat?

Is it the mum who home schools her children - or the mum who drops her children off to school every weekday?

Is it the mum who bounced back to her former pre-baby svelte self - or is it the mum who still has her pregnancy weight five years on?

Is it the mum who breastfeeds her toddler - or the mum who lovingly gazes at her baby while he drinks formula from a bottle?  

Is it the mum who puts her own dreams & aspirations on hold as she dedicates her whole self to raising her children - or the mum who regularly takes time away from her children to do things by herself that make her happy?

Is it the mum who keeps her house clean & tidy what seems every minute of every day - or the mum who has a sink full of dishes & a thick layer of dust coating most surfaces?

Is it the mum with the perfect hair style & immaculately applied make up - or the mum with a hastily tied pony tail & baby vomit on her shoulder. In public.

Is it the mum who regularly sits down to do craft time with her children - or the mum who has an aversion to all things glitter & paint?

Is it the mum who always looks calm & serene - or the mum with the deep frown lines & stressed look upon her face?

Is it the mum who feeds & rocks her eleven month old baby to sleep - or the mum who follows a controlled crying routine?

I could go on. The helicopter parent, the attached parent, the free range parent, the authoritarian parent. All these labels confirm there is no perfect, ideal way to parent. At the end of the day every child, every baby, every tweenager & teenager need the same bone deep conviction - they are loved without reserve. Everything always comes back to that - a soul deep, universe wide love. 

So this perfect mum, this mythical creature that debilitates us, as she inspires us to reach further. I've never met her. 

I see her though. I recognise her, in every mum I know. 

Every mum I see holding her back straight as she pushes her screaming, tantrum throwing toddler through the shop.

I see her as she puts jars of baby food & cans of formula in her trolley. 

I see her in the mum who home schools her children. 

I see her on my way to school when she's driving to work. 

I see her in the mums taking their child to playgroup. 

I recognise her in the lone woman sitting quietly in a cafe.

I see her when she's pushing her child on the swings, kicking the ball at the park, building sandcastles at the beach. 

I see her when she's trying to reason with a defiant three year old, creating boundaries with a freedom seeking twelve year old, grasping for more patience with a sulky eight year old.

I spot her in waiting rooms when she is trying to stop her children from jumping on the chairs.

I see her doing the best she can, as she can, in that moment.

My definition a perfect mum - it's every one of us. 

My foray with Post Natal Depression.

{Ben three hours new}

Out with the placenta, in with the Dolly Parton boobs. When your hormones change, flood in, it may catch you. I'm not talking the endorphins, they're the happy hormones. No, the despair, the dread, the frustration, the lonliness. Thoughts of what have I done?

Other times the little black cloud rolls in slowly. One little grey wisp at a time. Sneaky. Harder to notice, unobservant to the gradual changes. After all becoming a mother (for the first time or the eighth time) comes with a suitcase of upheaval. When life is already trying to find it's new axis, the seemingly smaller problems fly under the rated. In the beginning the little thoughts don't rate on the priority scale. 

Post Natal Depression.

This week is Antenatal & Postnatal Depression Week. Statistics show 1 in 7 women are diagnosed with Post Natal Depression. I believe the numbers are greater than that. How many women just keep going, even when they know their real self is hiding somewhere. Lost in all the mist.

That was me.

After Ben was born, & I've written about Ben's first year before, it was so far from how I imagined life would be. Our baby was not the happy, content little boy I imagined during pregnancy.

{A very familiar sight}

He cried. He was so hard to get to sleep. He screamed. When he did sleep, he didn't sleep for long at all.

There was already so many changes during that time - leaving full time work to stay home full time, Doug changed employment which also meant a change in working hours from a flexible shift roster to a Monday to Friday working week, plus work was now further away too. He left earlier & was home later. All of a sudden I was home by myself with Ben from 6am to 6pm. Add in Ben's aversion to sleeping & constant crying, I became an ideal candidate for PND.

Initially I tried to convince everyone around me that I was fine. I was coping & happy. It was easy to know all the right things to say to the community health nurse when she would ask how I was, how my moods were. The new mothers survey - occasionally I felt a little sad [tick box] but over all I was happy [tick box] at least that was what my manipulated answers indicated. I was still convincing myself that I was fine, I wasn't ready to think that I wasn't coping. To admit failure. I didn't open up to anyone about how I was really feeling. Not to myself, not to Doug, which is silly but true. That is what post natal depression did - it changed me. I fought internally against myself all the time. Every thought became a battle. Sometimes I would be desperate for help, for someone to really see the conflict inside my mind. But when asked how I really was, the mask came on. I was my own worst enemy.

I felt bad that Ben cried. A lot. Doug didn't do well with all the crying too, & after spending a long day at work & then driving home in peak hour traffic, I wanted to have it all together for Doug once he was home. Instead of a hot dinner, I had to pass over a screaming baby, because I just needed half an hour without grasping for ways to calm our baby. Again, silly but true. It changed my normal rational thoughts into something else altogether.
It was me who really wanted to start our family, my maternal clock was chiming loudly, while Doug was happy wait another few years, so when life wasn't perfect, I took all the problems on myself. Thinking I was the one who signed up for this, not Doug. My thinking was skewed (screwed). I felt guilty, accountable, for everything that was wrong with our baby, though none of it was my fault. This was the depression, the little dark voice telling me I had made my bed, now I had to lay in it. 

Slowly I began to lose myself. The way I was feeling, I thought it was just a new mum thing.

When I thought of post natal depression images of women not being able to get out of bed came to mind. Constantly crying. Ignoring their baby or wanting as little as possible to do with him. Failing to bond. Crouched in a corner or against a wall. Shutting out the world & everyone in it.

I didn't have problems getting out of bed each day. I didn't cry without good reason or desperation. I loved Ben & interacted with him (though at times it was with a forced smile. A happy mask because I didn't want to scar our child with buried memories of an expressionless Mum gently shaking a rattle in front of him) I only sat against a wall when I was listening to Ben cry while taking a break from trying to rock him to sleep. I went to our local mothers group. We went for walks & family dinners.

I didn't have post natal depression - according to my thoughts of what post natal depression looked like.

But I did.

I knew I did, but I was in denial. I thought it would go away as Ben got older, got easier.

Maybe it would have, maybe not. I honestly can't say if I could have continued on the way I was feeling, without reaching for help.

My GP was great, we started a treatment plan for Ben's reflux, which was quite severe & a root cause for many issues we were having. I started taking anti depressants, along with regular visits to track & document my depression & Ben's reflux. I was advised that there may not be any noticeable differences for up to three weeks, so when within four days of commencing anti depressant medication I felt great, coinciding with Ben being a little more settled than usual as we got a handle on his reflux, I thought to myself 'Ha, I don't have depression, it's just when Ben has a bad day, it's hard. It's not me after all.'

Without seeking medical advice first, I stopped taking the anti depressants. Two days later I crashed emotionally. I was back to how I felt two weeks earlier. Flat, unenthusiastic, sad, at times desperate. For what I can't specify. Perhaps desperate to feel like 'me' again. Desperate not to feel useless when our baby cried & I couldn't calm him. Desperate not to be stuck how I was feeling.

While I was back in my grey mist, Ben was still more settled & sleeping a lot easier. So it wasn't Ben. It was me as well. That was the moment I accepted I did have post natal depression.

Immediately I started taking the medication again & when we went back to the GP a few days later I told him everything that had happened. It was a relief, to find 'me' again. All those martyr thoughts evaporated, if Ben was crying I knew it wasn't because it was something I was or was not doing, I didn't get so tangled up in obsessing over nap times. I let go of the happy mask I was clinging to as a life line & let every one in. After four or five months, with Ben's reflux as good as it was going to get without invasive treatment, I slowly weaned off the anti depressants. 

{In the post birth bliss, before the getting lost in the grey mist of depression}

That was ten years ago. The emotions I felt during those horrible months still haunt me, settle over me like a heavy cloak when I think back to those heavy months. My heart beat picks up, the dread in my chest returns, the itchy nose that preludes the tears. The feeling of precariously teetering on an emotional ledge. It wasn't until I was out the fog of depression that I could clearly see exactly how bad I really was, how much I had ignored the little warning signs & over looked all the persistent, small negative thoughts. 

After that hellish & displacing experience I swore that if & when we had another baby I would would never go back to that lost version of myself again. I would seek help the moment I thought it was more than the 'three day blues' or lasted longer than a week.

In the weeks & months after Rianan was born both Doug & I kept a very observant eye on how I was feeling, how I reacted, how present I felt, & also following the births of Jack, Blake, Will & Clay. Thankfully it was a one off, because while at times I have felt sad in the post natal months, it was never anything close to that depressed fog that slowly absorbed who I was.

If you think that maybe, just maybe, you don't feel like who you are, if there are some dark clouds hanging around that can't be shaken off, or wonder that maybe you might have antenatal or post natal depression - please speak to someone.
Your doctor, your husband, partner, friend, mum, community health nurse, strangers on a parenting forum, anyone.

Because that grey fog, it really, really sucks.

Places to reach out for help

http://www.panda.org.au/vic-pnd-directory

http://www.blackdoginstitute.org.au/public/depression/inpregnancypostnatal/resourceslinksreading.cfm

http://www.beyondblue.org.au/resources/for-me/pregnancy-and-early-parenthood

http://www.beatbabyblues.com.au/links.aspx



**This is just my side of our story with post natal depression. I haven't touched on how my depression affected Doug. How much he took on & tried to help, even when I wouldn't let him. That's another post for another day.

Half a dozen facts from a Mum of half a dozen

You know how sometimes you imagine how something will be, but then it is completely different to what you expected or thought.

Like the other day when I was eyeing off the corner of Blake's banana toast. It was all thick & perfectly toasted with a melting glob of butter right on the edge. I imagined how nice that little piece would taste, how the butter would melt in my mouth as my teeth sank into the crunchy edge. I gave in & put that tempting little morsel in my mouth. Then remembered I don't like banana bread. It tasted nothing like I imagined.

Raising a large family is a little like this. Sometimes it is absolutely nothing like you thought it would be. So I thought I'd compile six fast facts.

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1. Richie Rich

Minions are money sponges but they don't soak up every last cent. The perception that because there is an astronomical number of kids, the bank account must be astronomically low as well is not how it really is. We watch our pennies (dollars?), but with a budget in place everyone gets everything they need {& then some}.

Alternatively, the presumption that we must have a lot of money to be able to have a large family is about as accurate as the articles in an OK! magazine. Once someone said to me "Oh your husband must earn a lot of money, to have so many children & be able to stay home with them." Again, to afford big ticket items we plan ahead. Or use the credit card & pay it off. 
Though a spare money tree growing in the backyard wouldn't go amiss. 

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2. Resentment, Schentment

The kids don't resent having a big family. They love having many brothers & sister(s) - even when it doesn't sound like it some days. 
When they play stuck in the mud & more than two get stuck there is still another sibling or two to un-stick them. Twister gets really twisty. Friday nights are like a bonafide slumber party with five kids in the same room all whispering & giggling. Backyard cricket means having a full team, with a bowler, batter, wickie plus fielders.
They don't know it to be any different, sharing a room with another sibling is normal, moving over to make room on the couch for another body is habitual. Sharing is just a given with most things. 
The sibling bonds between them are distinct & far stronger than any sibling rivalry.
I hope when they are adults & look back on these days of their childhood, they are still grateful for one another.

3. It's as easy as it looks...kinda

Raising six children is not as hard as it seems. The bigger minions can dress themselves, put on their own shoes, get their own drinks, brush their own teeth. The smaller ones all want to do this for themselves too, which if you play your cards right can work for you without tantrums. Encouraging the little ones to find their own shoes, put on their own pants (after laying them out straight) they brush their own teeth, though I do a quick all over brush either to begin or finish up. 

Our family size did not morph into epic proportions overnight, we've had several years to adjust & refine our routines. There is a lot of organization behind the scenes to make sure everything run smoother though & gets us out the door without running ridiculously late.
If I can do it, you could do it.

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4. Supermum is about as real as Superman. She only exists in the movies.

By no definition are Mum's of large families Supermum's. We are no better than any other Mum, just as no Mum is any better than the next. We're all just doing what we must to get through each day, with the house still standing & every one alive, healthy & hopefully happy. There is nothing special about Mums to many. Our patience is not infinite. We are not saints. We lose our cool & get our shriek on. We are not immune to Mummy guilt either - but I'll cover that another day.

5. It is as noisy as you imagine

I'm not about to tell you otherwise, there is no argument here. Lots of people equal lots noise. When Doug gets home from work, when we're just about to sit down for dinner, or when someone comes over, it gets loud. Really loud.
Our meal times can look a little something like this.

Five kids all talking at once, plus a couple of adults (potentially with one trying to get the minions to quite down - without adding to the ear bleeding decibel levels by yelling to garner their attention & be heard). I've mentioned once or twice before that living large also means living loud. 

6. Loving them is as amazing as you think

Life with so many kids is as magical, chaotic, entertaining, constant & unending, crazy & eventful, amazing & awe inspiring as you believe.

Loving them is the easy bit. It's the dirty clothes & dirty dishes that's hard.

Do your ovaries scream loud, do they ache & cry for more? Should you tie the tubes in a knot, should you tie them in a bow?

It's no secret I still consider my uterus a fully functioning organ I hope to use again in the near future. For the first time it's become a very realistic fact this may never happen...& it's cutting me up.

It's only been eight short months since Clay vacated the oven & already I'm suffering a serious case of belly envy. With several friends up the duff or in the midst of newborn haze, I get both my belly rub & newborn nuzzling hits, along with a good old whack to the ovaries & heart strings, every time I bump into these lovely ladies. 

Reading a pregnancy announcement with a photo of a positive hpt {home pregnancy test} (for those not in the ttc {trying to conceive} lingo), brings goosebumps & a fast trip down memory lane as I flash back to all those minutes spent in the bathroom during my own POAS {pee on a stick} past addiction. The stick being a pregnancy test strip, not a twig from the garden that will do nothing to foretell of any toilet bowl hugging, stretch mark itching, watermelon sized uterus to follow in the next nine months. Exposing the roots of my crazy I still have all our positive pregnancy tests from each of our minions. Including the double ups that were taken just to be certain the first test wasn't a fluke.

Then there is the guilt. With an innumerable amount of individuals, couples & families who are a hundred times more desperate than I am to feel their belly expand & fill with the nudges & stirring kicks of life. I feel like I should just be happy with our car full & ignore the sense that someone is still missing in our troop. I am deliriously grateful for our six crazy monkeys & would never think they are not enough or take our family for granted. Still I can't shake the yearnings for just one more. 

Of course, it takes to two to tango, & to say Doug is hesitant on expanding our tribe of minions any further would be a grossly dramatic understatement. A firm resounding NO can be felt even from here as I type out this post. I understand his thoughts & completely respect his opinion. Which is probably why I am so torn up, because I doubt we will ever have nine seats occupied at our dinner table every evening, despite how fiercely my heart screams for a child.

Last night as Clay was trying to get up onto his knees for the first time my eyes welled up & my chest began aching with pride & happiness. Along with despair & indescribable sadness that this may well be very well will be quite likely (even in written form I still can't put it as a final 'this will be') the last time we get to witness these first moments. Seriously, I am going to be a blubbering mess in the lead up to Clay's first birthday, even more so than with the other minions.  

Looking around our house I can easily imagine another bunk bed, another toothbrush at the bathroom sink, another body to add to the pile on movie nights. Responding with "we have seven children" when asked how many little people we have brought into this world. Seven just fits in my own little make believe world & its consuming far too many thoughts in my real world. 

For now I will just continue on as I have been - living in hope. It seems far kinder to my heart to live in hope for however many years it takes to accept that my Mama status is only applicable to six, than to cut the strings - or Doug's testicular tubes, & live a life dreaming of the what ifs & potential regret floating in the background. So many times I have read or heard first hand of hasty vasectomies or tubal ligations that were regretted three, four, five years down the track. I'm hoping after five years the intensity of my craziness will have dulled enough for me to see reason, or at least accept we won't be anticipating another little person in our family. With Clay off to school, no more nappies in the house, & hopefully enjoying full uninterrupted sleep most nights. Maybe getting out of this baby stage once & for all is what will kick me towards embracing the next stage of life. No more forty week count downs. The baby name books left to gather dust. 

With the age gaps between our kids ranging from seventeen months to two & a half years, I'm working on the theory that a five year age gap will be just what is needed to get used to calling our brood complete at half a dozen. After having less than three years between all the minions so far, to suddenly having a five year gap doesn't sound appealing to me. Especially when I've found the shorter age gaps the most enjoyable, & if I dare say it, easier, than the gaps over two years.

Some days I do wonder if I'm not half nuts & completely irrational, wishing for seven. Mostly in the moments when Will single handedly manages to dump a 750ml pump bottle of baby shampoo into the bath I was running for Clay, & then unravel a near full roll of toilet paper around the house while I was giving Clay the above mentioned bath, all in thirty minutes. With Will reminding me how impulsive three year olds can be, I question if I really want another baby. Because after the morning sickness passes & the belly grows fit to burst, after the newborn squawking cries transition into a normal baby cry, when they find their feet & their independence, they grow up. And there is a lot of growing up to do between the ages of two & twenty. Can we raise another person through that heart bursting, frustrating, awe inspiring, angst ridden, tears of joy & tears of despair, food devouring minefield?

It would be easier if my head said no while my heart said yes, because then I could find reason & agree with Doug. After all, just because I feel like eating chocolate all day long, I know that I can't. It would only cause stomach aches & nausea after the chocolate induced endorphins wear off. It just sucks that both my head & my heart are screaming "pro-create! pro-create!" Even though this would also cause nausea & stomach aches after the endorphins wear off.

I fear that for me (I'm certain Doug is terrified as well) 'just one more' will never reach a final number where the longing finally evaporates. 

If only it was as easy as saying the words "we're done. No more children."