The missing sisterhood

Growing up I often felt I was missing out not having a sister. The fact that I was an only child for the first nine or so years didn't concern me half as much, but not having a sister - another girl to share rooms with, clothes with, secrets with & fight with, almost felt like a missing limb. Occasionally now I still wonder what it would be like to have a sister to go out to lunch with, to reminisce together over our shared childhood, to wet our pants with laughter remembering the time Dad singed his eyebrows off after throwing a cupful of petrol on the wood in the combustion fire & then lit it. It felt like a little empty spot not knowing a sisters bond.

Back in the days when children were still a hypothetical, I hoped that our first born would be a boy, followed by a girl & soon after another boy. Then, if we decided to swap our family sedan for a people mover to accommodate more than five people, I envisioned our fourth child would be another girl. The perfect double pigeon paired family. 

When half of my wishes came true, my envisioned boy, girl, boy in the form of Ben, Rianan & Jack, I was almost certain that we were well on our way to the doubled up 'ideal'. When the sonographer pointed out our fourth baby's tackle during the 20 week ultrasound, we were thrilled to have a (near) houseful of boys. Somehow I convinced Doug that five children would be brilliant & Will came along shortly after, irreversibly tipping the scales in favor of the meat & two veg.

When Clay announced his presence via two pink lines & morning sickness that had me head down in the toilet bowl most mornings, we were suprised but no less excited. With a pregnancy that was noticeably different from the last three boys I thought there was a good chance we would be seeing a little squidette on that black & white screen while my belly was covered in cold goop. It was standing room only when we went off for a private early gender reveal scan at 15 weeks, filling the room with ourselves plus the minions. After many ultrasounds I'm fairly well versed in making heads from tails & certainly know what a penis looks like via ultrasound - our boys were not shy when it came to the big reveal. Neither was Clay. Our newest little squid was not a squidette but, well, a squid.

If I said I wasn't quietly disappointed I would be lying. I was excited to start imagining what our future would hold with 5 boys -  soccer balls & footballs all over the back yard, muddy boots by the front door & a stack skateboards by the back door. (Which is exactly what our house looks like - the neighbour is continuously finding balls in her backyard & you have to work your way through the maze of scooters, bikes, skateboards, helmets & shoes just to reach our front door.) But my heart still quietly ached that Rianan would now also be joining the club of the Missing Sisterhood. 

It's hard to voice that disappointment, because it is not to say that our boys are any less awesome, any less wanted or any less loved. The moment I found out we were expecting another child I loved them, when we discovered their genders I fell in love even further & with each little kick, elbow jab, hiccup & body roll I fell even deeper. By the time they were born my heart was filled with so much love it frequently leaks out my eyes. 

It's the potential dream that disappears, saying goodbye to a future that once was possible, now will not be. In the scheme of things it is really quite trivial, especially when you put it next to infertility, miscarriage & stillbirth, cancer, or any other life impacting & heart breaking experience. Though it may be trivial, it still impacted my life, my childhood & friendships. Enough for it to roll around my head for weeks now & to put all those thoughts & feelings into words here. Knowing that Rianan will not know what it is to have a sister. That she might try to seek out that missing limb in close friends, to elusively search for a sisters bond she'll never have. Speaking from experience, it won't measure up or be the same. It was only when I reached my late twenties that I stopped looking to fill that phantom void. That I realised it was simply a dip in the surface & not a desolate space that needed to be filled. 

I may not know what it is to have a sister, or to be the mother of sisters, but my life is not lacking in richness, short of love, or devoid in any way. With a husband who loves me, flaws & all, who gets me & lifts me up in every way, with six incredibly special & unique children who drive me to be better, to do better each day. To have seven people who own my heart. That is lucky enough. Then top it off with beautiful & enriching friendships with women who make me laugh, make me cry & I can be myself with. There is no missing limb. I hope that Rianan, as she grows up surrounded by her brothers, knows that it is a blessing to be a sister even if she doesn't have one herself. And that she doesn't need to fill the shoes of a non existent one either. 

Clench, hold and release

Ben's birth was blessedly straight forward & quick enough. After four hours of active labour & a second degree tear, our 7lb 6oz first son arrived. There are so many cherished memories from the days following his birth, but there is one that really stands out personally. Still now, ten years later, I can recall every sensation & the emotions that whipped through me at the time.

Ben was just over twenty four hours old & I was slowly wheeling him along in his clear plastic, hospital issue bassinet - feeling a little tender with stitches located where stitches had never been before. We had just been for a visit to the common room & I was making our way back to our private room, anticipating the arrival of lunch (& with any luck a little nap for the both of us). I had just passed by the nurses station & half way down the corridor, still another few rooms to go yet until our own, when suddenly the urge to pee came upon me with no prior warning.

Urgently. 

Really urgently.

The shock of trying to clench those bruised, battered & swollen pelvic floor muscles, only to find that they didn't really feel like clenching much at all has haunted me through every birth that has followed over the last ten years. It is one time I genuinely feared I was going to wet myself, in public, & not just a little bit either. 

I knew the importance of doing kegels during pregnancy & in the weeks & months following birth. I'd read the little snippets of real life experiences that were included in the articles of keeping your pelvic floor tight 'n high, written in by women who found out the hard way just how necessary it was to clench - pull it all in without pulling a face. 
With tips including, but not limited too, 'If you're doing the dishes or hanging out the washing, do your pelvic floors as well.'
Or, 'When you sit to feed the baby work those muscles at the same time - clench, release & repeat.'

Some how I mostly kept my bodily fluids within my body & high tailed it in a waddling, thigh clenched gait as fast as I could while pushing Ben along, still oblivious in his bassinet back to our room. That afternoon I resumed the clench, hold, release & repeat. Just a few at a time, enough to gently locate them & check they were still in potential working order, then slowly increasing the intensity over the following days & weeks. That call to nature was just far too close for comfort...& too far from a lavatory. 

Seventeen months later & half way through Rianan's pregnancy I joined a pregnancy exercise class run by a physiotherapist. Several times through each session she would run us through our pelvic floor exercises - advocating passionately just how important it really was to do them. Beginning as soon as we felt able to, while lying down to avoid putting too much extra pressure on our vagina's that had just gone a round in the boxing ring with a three kilo battering ram - or so it may seem. 

Rianan's birth was just as good as her older brother - a water birth, just under four hours & another slight second degree tear after coming out all in the one contraction. In the wee hours of the morning as dawn illuminated the clouds, I laid on my side while gazing at our daughter, memorising her five hours old newness, & began the first gentle clenches of those hidden muscles. This time, when nature screamed a waterfall was coming, I wouldn't be caught blindsided. 

After having more than the standard quota of pregnancies & births, I know how crucial it is to keep my pelvic floor stronger than my biceps. Especially if I want my bladder to stay where it belongs, along with it's contents, while taking Ben & Jack on in a round of soccer, chasing Blake & Will around in a game of chasey or joining Rianan in a display of kart-wheels & handstands. Though they aren't as easy as it was twenty odd years ago...

Over the last ten years I'm certain I've done more kegels than I have changed nappies. They've paid off though - especially after suffering morning sickness with Clay & hugging the toilet bowl every morning, or more recently finding myself succumbing to the sneezes of hay fever. 

If you are quietly suffering incontinence, no matter how mild or severe, go & see a physiotherapist who specialises in pelvic floor. Ignoring the matter won't fix anything. 

How many times have you clenched, held & released so far today? 

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." 

Troublesome tresses

At some point point in our life I think we've all experienced a horror hair cut. A tale to tell from the tress tamers. I think I can tick the boxes for just about every hair disaster. Dodgy color jobs, perms that look nothing like I hoped (more than once. I've learnt my lesson now. My hair does not do permanent curls. Or if it does hold the curl I look like a poodle hitting the 80's flashbacks hard), fringes too short, home trims, tresses tangled in styling devices, a styled cut left faaaar to long between upkeep cuts. I think the only box left unchecked is searing my hair off, Literally. (ff to 1:05). 

Several years ago I wiped the slate clean. Literally. I crossed off a 'to do' on the bucket list & shaved my head to raise money for cancer research. 

Since then I have not let a dye or a strand altering chemical within fifty yards. I have also been on a mission to have long hair again. Mission accomplished. I'm not rivaling Rapunzel, but my hair is still short enough that I don't sit on it, but long enough to get tangled up in my bra strap hooks every morning.

It's almost a waste though, because my signature look, & I use that term loosely (more appropriately lazy look) is rolling the mane up in a top bun. Messy if I can pull it off. Whenever I try to do the effortless just flipped my head upside down & 'ta-da' instant gorgeous, chic, messy bun it never, ever looks effortless. It looks like a flock of birds have made a nest on top of my head. So I spend time {I don't have} every morning trying to get it to look semi presentable - if I can reach somewhere between birds nesting & ballerina-bun-face-lift look then I call it safe for public viewing.

If it was four inches shorter (this is a PG rated blog so pick up your minds from that gutter you're rolling in) it may be more manageable but I refuse to cut it. It takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R for my hair to grow, except when I'm pregnant & temporarily turns into Cousin Its', well, cousin. After having no more than 3mm of hair, seven years & three pregnancies later the ample length is back (minds people, pick 'em up) & due for a cut, desperately. The problem, besides having six children that I do not want to take with me so time needs to be juggled precariously. Also, going to the hairdressers for a trim inspires anxiety of epic portions. Watching those scissor wielding, chatty, distracted, snippy hands come closer & closer to my hard won for coiffure & I'm sweating

We all know "just take a centimeter or two off the ends please" is hairdresser speak for hack it all off.  

Lacking the aplomb to bring sharp devices within fifty yards of my person, a top bun works just fine. It also keeps my hair off the dirty plates as I load them into the dishwasher, out of the urine being emptied from Will's potty into the toilet, getting yanked as it gets stuck under my arm or giving myself whip lash whenever I go to turn my head whilst driving. Who else has long hair with a mind of it's own? Tell me I'm not the only one with tomato sauce tainted, urine soaked tresses?

Despite the hassles long hair can bring (because the ick factor of dipping your ends in urine is higher than a sky scraper), regardless that less than half my hair sees the light of day trapped on the top of my noggin, or that my arms fall off whenever I blow dry, straighten or try to get some curls to hold, I refuse to cut it. 

Since seeing the shocking split ends earlier this week, the time has come to find some of that courage that has seen me through six labor's & births & prioritize some time without the minions to get myself within the presence of a scissor wielding, instruction following hair dresser. I'm hoping that getting this all out there is the motivating force I need.

If I have not reported back sans split ends before the first sunrise of 2015, you have permission to inundate me with images of the most heinous & horrifying hair styles you can find.

Momnesia ~ the barest bones of a memory

It happened again. It's not the first time & I'm sure it won't be the last time either.

I forgot my PIN number, right in the middle of paying for my items. As hard as I tried, I just could not remember those important four digits I've used several times every day for the last seven odd years.

After the EFTPOS machine beeped & informed that there was an incorrect PIN entered, for the second time, I admitted memory defeat. The last thing I needed was to lock myself out of my bankcard at the first of many shops I needed to visit that day. As quietly as possible I muttered to the shop assistant that I had forgotten my PIN & would need to call my husband for him to remind me of those four essential digits that had escaped me. Imaginably, after this confession, she was thinking 'who on earth forgets their PIN number' or, 'it's probably a stolen card', while smiling politely at me as I bumbled my bankcard back into my purse & tried to make a hasty exit - as hasty as one can while supporting a baby in a sling who is squirming around trying to grab anything in reach, including other customers. As I temporarily walked away from the counter maybe she wasn't thinking of anything but her next break time & it is my own embarrassment filling the void of her unheard speculations. Either way I was blushing & flustered.

Sudden thoughts of early onset amnesia plagued me as I walked back to the car for my phone. (Funny how my thinker couldn't recall a simple code, but could easily recall many instances over the last few years where my memory just packed up & left. Ironic.)  Wondering when is baby brain more than a superficial forgetfulness & the beginnings of something more serious. My thought processes can be a tad dramatic sometimes, running away with a worst case scenario before I've even had a chance to think rationally. It's quite common for several possibilities, where there is a tragic end, to flash before my eyes at the beginning of any health related incident. Blake has bruises all over his legs, my mind jumps ten steps ahead & is suddenly convinced he has leukemia. Will develops a persistent & constant cough, this means he must have whopping cough & is going to infect Clay who is not yet fully immunised. Jack screams as though he's dying after falling off his bike, immediately my mind relays all the horrible bone breaking, skin shredded injuries he'll have. I like to think I'm not the only one who does this, that it is a parenthood induced condition. Hands up who else has a mind that fills with numerous potential nightmares when it comes to something horrible happening to your children...Or when they just fall off their bike. I love these little minions something fierce & would do anything to protect them, so if that means my brain is always preparing for the worst possible scenario, then bring on the gray hairs.

I digress, back to the shop assistant. She thoughtfully put my bag of unpaid goods aside & patiently served the next person while I made a hasty walk back to the car, fruitlessly unable to remember those damn four numbers. It seems under pressure I can remember all my past PIN numbers, Doug's PIN numbers, phone numbers from childhood friends twenty years ago & the due dates of our minions (which none of them arrived on, so are essentially useless numbers, only holding a sentimental value.) But I could not recall four numbers I use every day. Even cell memory was no help, my fingers couldn't do the walking (or the recalling) this time.

Getting Doug on the phone, I awkwardly ask him what my PIN number is. He says "Oh what, ****, that one?"
Even as he says the numbers out loud & I repeat them back to him there is no strike of familiarity. No flash of recognition. Clearly there is little hope for me. My memory, or lack there of, is on it's final legs, or on it's final cells. I blame the kids. They are all reasonably smart which they obviously, & figuratively, sucked my brain dry got from me. From Doug they got his sense of humour, which he still has in abundance. Unfair. You need your wits about you in this house & I'm at a clear disadvantage.

The precarious & inconsistent working state of my memory has long been a source of humour (or exasperation) between us, especially since Blake's pregnancy & has only spiralled downward with each positive pregnancy test there after. One of Doug's excuses reasons against having a seventh child is because he fears for the thin strands of cognizance remaining. Apparently the hiatus my memory took during our last pregnancy was at best amusing & at worse perturbing. Sadly I have no argument, even I was aware of just how ditzy & off with the fairies I was. Heck my forgetful state during Clay's pregnancy even exasperated me, at least on the rare occasions where I remembered what it was like not to feel the fuzzy & cotton wool filled haze of pregnancy brain. 

With Clay now six months old, I think this is as good as it's going to get any time soon. Especially with remembering everything going on with the minions. If it doesn't get written on the calendar, who has what excursion, on what day; who needs to be where at what time; doctor appointments for whom & when; what bills are due when, then there is every chance I will forget. Even written down isn't a fail-safe guarantee. Geez they're lucky I can remember their birth dates & most of the time, their names.

Maybe it's time I tattoo my PIN on my palm. It may not be subtle, but my memory needs all the help it can get these days. Plus I'm not sure I could handle admitting I've forgotten my PIN again to Doug & get away without a teasing.
 

　

Earning your stripes

I remember a few weeks after Ben's birth that the scales showed I was back to my normal weight. What I remember the most is how my body had changed. For the better.

The flat, taut stomach was upgraded to a soft, nurturing belly. The pale breasts evolved to provide nourishment & comfort. The bright & bag less eyes softened to a more tired yet life filled gentle glow.

Six times over. 

I have looked in the mirror many times in the days, weeks & months after each of our babies have been born, & been thankful for the changes I can see. In awe of all that my body has achieved.

There is no way I would trade all the little signs that give proof to the lives this body helped to create, to have back the body of my 17 year old self.

My arms may not be slender & graceful, but they are more than capable of calming a distressed child, carrying a gurgling little baby, providing a safe haven for an emotional daughter & a sense of security of an insecure son.

My legs may not be slender & toned, but they are more than capable of chasing a toddler before he reaches the road, kicking around a soccer ball with a soccer-crazy boy, playing hide & seek with an energetic four year old.

My belly may be a mere glory of its former self. But there is nowhere more comfortable for my husband to rest his head at night together on the couch. There is no where more ideal for a greatly anticipated baby to grow healthy & strong.

I have gained silvery stretch marks. I have gained spider veins. I have replaced muscle for curves. I have gained an incredible amount of self awareness & self confidence. I have gained more emotion than I know what to do with at times. I have gained more love than my heart feels like it can contain, yet it doesn't burst but just grows & grows. I have gained six little bodies to tuck into bed at night.

There is nothing I have lost, as I have gained so much more than I could have ever wished for or dreamed possible.

I love my silver stripes, even if my hair is falling out