The neighbour's dog

Look, for the most part he’s a lovely dog. One of those oafish, friendly Labrador-Golden Retriever type pooches. He enjoys his home and often likes to partake in the neighbourhood canine conversation. Which is fine, except he chooses to place his doggy soapbox by the fence right underneath our gorgeous girl’s bedroom window.

So I’m playing sounds of the Serengeti to our little world child as she drifts off into peaceful bliss land and he’s lecturing the pups down the road on the current state of the economy. Or that’s what it sounds like, I don’t really understand dog language that well. 

He obviously can’t stand anyone disagreeing with him either ‘cause whenever one of his pals in the street has something to say he feels compelled to shout it right back at them. But ten times louder.

I have to confess though, whilst pretty freaking annoying, it doesn’t affect me the way that it did while I was pregnant. For some reason the hormones turned me into a hyper sensitive sound detector. I would be sitting in the lounge cooking my little bundle of life (AKA sitting on the couch part way between snooze and watching the Bold & The Beautiful - or Huey’s Kitchen, I can’t remember) and he’d let out of one of his flustered and emphatic speeches regarding the US dog dollar. I would catch myself mid sentence yelling (you know when you yell but you gradually get slower and quieter as you realise you sound totally crazy?), “Shut your f$#king dog up or I’ll…BE GIVING him A…‘SPECIAL’… meal.” Now that’s not nice. Especially when I really like our neighbours. (I tried to write that like it sounded. I’m not sure it translates.)

Then there’s the other embarrassing issue I’m sure he doesn’t want me to talk about. His neuroses for his owner.  Whenever the familiar ute pulls up into the driveway (also conveniently placed under the above mentioned window) he bursts into fits of “OMG!!! I TOTALLY can’t believe you’re home!!! my life has changed forever!!! just come play with me right now!!!!”

Don’t get the wrong impression; this is no man-dog bark. These are shrillish, desperate, lady-dog screams. No dog his size could possibly be proud of that. I’m embarrassed for him. Imagine what the other dogs think?

But you know what? Most of the time the little mini person upstairs just sleeps through it. So chill out Mum. The dog can bark. Maybe she just dreams about lions and giraffes that sound like lady-dogs? And she also learns a hell of a lot about doggy dollars while she’s at it.

The other day he caused quite the kerfuffle. Out of nowhere amidst the familiar barks and chatter he introduced a new, much more manlier sound - the growl. I was a mixture of regular annoyance that mini munch was trying to sleep upstairs and joy ridden pride that our furry friend had discovered his manhood. 

Until I looked over the fence to see what was going on. 

Mr Macho was standing there gripped with fear as a teency, tiny baby bird lay confused and frightened on the ground in front of him. I'm not sure how Tweety got there but she certainly was NOT feeling the love. 

It was time for me to take control of the situation.

I coaxed and comforted Mr T, congratulating him on his find and reassuring him that everything was going to be just fine. As he edged closer to the fence to hear more about how fabulous he was, Tweety looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and made the slow mo dash to the bushes under the fence. It was that way you walk when you're playing What's The Time Mr Wolf? and you have to make as much ground as possible but be ready to freeze at any given moment. She did it well. 

Before I could finish my speech of "You're so clever, yes you are. Yes you are." Tweets had disappeared off into a fort of foliage, hopefully never to be seen again by our canine captor. 

Crisis confusion averted and Doggy Wall Street was back in business barking up a stock market storm. 

True to form babycakes slept her way right on through it. 

(I must stop lacing her milk with whiskey.)

(Of course I'm kidding.)

(p.s. how ridiculous is that picture I found?!)

mother's guilt

There’s something that happens when you have a miscarriage. Speaking to other women who have suffered in the same circumstances creates an unspoken bond. We all feel it differently but the truth is, unless you’ve had a miscarriage, there’s no way you can truly appreciate the effect it can have on you – physically, mentally and emotionally.

That’s not in any way a criticism, just the reality of the experience versus the imagination.

I expect it’s similar with women who have embarked on that good old fun-ship called IVF. I’m deliberately sarcastic about the ‘joy’ of IVF because by all accounts I’ve been given, it’s one of the most grueling journeys you can take yourself on.

It always makes me wonder about people who are against the premise of IVF from an ethical standpoint (and if you are, that’s fine, we’re all here to speak our truth). My take is, if you have a couple, and most particularly a woman, who is willing to put her body through that amount of pain and stress in order to have a child, then you’ve got a woman who really, really, REALLY wants a baby. Surely they’re the kind of people we want to be having babies in our world? Not just the girls who are walking fertilization machines and have kids because the baby bonus sounds like a good deal. I DIGRESS.

Where was I?  Ah, yes.

These bonds that we form through our shared struggles  - be it miscarriage, infertility or IVF, can be incredibly comforting, especially at times where the future of ‘family’ is blurry to say the least. These are the people who you know ‘get it’. No awkward conversations, no not knowing what to say – no well meaning but really frustrating advice.

I remember times after my second miscarriage where I felt like these were the only people I wanted to talk to, that it was just too heartbreaking to speak to other people who loved me dearly, but who didn’t know what to say.

But then something happened.

I fell pregnant.

And this time it stuck.

I embarked on such a ridiculously happy time in my life. All those dreams and wishes were finally coming true. But through all the elation, excitement and joy there was a pang of guilt, and if I’m to be honest, a little bit of fear. How was I going to tell those women that I knew and loved that I had broken the curse? What had I done differently that scored me a golden ticket into the baby factory? I knew for the most part that they would be over-the-moon happy for me. I also knew a little part of their heart would break as they were reminded that their journey was still unfolding....and they might have a really, really long way to go.

The reason I know this is because I’ve felt that very same heart break before.

I know that there’s also a heap of women out there who want babies but who haven’t yet met that special person they want to bring tiny little people into the world with. But there’s something different, something even cruel, about putting so much of your heartfelt energy into trying to make life – to even get a glimpse of what it would be like – then to have it stolen away from you again. It’s for those beautiful people, who have been told by the universe that their efforts aren’t good enough that I ache.

It can all be negative though, right? I guess on the flipside I can serve as a beacon of hope. While I’m feeling guilty for finally getting my embryo to talk to my uterus, maybe they are thinking, “Well, if she can do it, so can I”?

Or maybe they're not even thinking about me at all.

Because let’s be honest, as any woman who has been trying to fall pregnant will tell you, no story about some miracle feat by another women falling pregnant makes one teency bit of difference to you when you keep getting a single pink line on that little stick.

I then have to ask myself if it’s really guilt I’m feeling, or just fear? Do I feel reluctant to share my happy news with them to protect their feelings or am I just trying to avoid the relationships that connect me to a particular set of memories? Am I trying not to feed the fear that tells me my new life is a dream and if I’m not careful I’ll wake up from it?

Maybe it’s a bit of both.

I can tell you one thing for sure though. If I could, I’d play mother stork and drop a gorgeous little bublette onto each one of their doorsteps.  With a little note attached saying:

 “You deserve this. xx”

Sorry…Sorry…Sorry.

I don’t think I’ve ever said “sorry” so much in my entire life.

To be fair, I’m not the most spatially aware individual when it comes to gross motor skills. I have been known on more than one occasion to walk into a doorframe or a wall. I put it down to my long limbs. It should be no surprise to me then that I am equally inept when it comes to driving a pram.

Look, I realize that we didn’t buy the smallest pram available, but I think it’s the best thing ever. I feel like an elite athlete as I’m pushing First Class passenger #1 down to the shops…or the cricket ground…anywhere really. It’s one of those all terrain prams that has a matching all terrain sunshade and storm cover. I’m a little bit in love with it. Cue sponsorship deal with Mountain Buggy. Mini Michael Schumacher loves it too. She lets the wind rush through her poppet Mohawk, taking a breath only to draw back for a little sneeze from the hay fever laden air. Not only does it give her the thrill of her life, this thing is so amazing that it will have her asleep within 4.45min of getting on the road. Amazing indeed.

So whilst I’m totally infatuated by it, I’m not sure if the rest of the world is.

I would consider our suburb a reasonably ‘pram friendly’ suburb. Most shops have enough room in their aisles for you to twinkle toe your way through. I like the term ‘twinkle toe’. It’s what I think my pram looks like as I tip it forward onto its front wheel only to squeeze it through those pesky narrow spaces.  But while in theory many places accommodate our F1, in reality I feel like a big shade clothed nuisance.

The other day in the little organic shop where I buy our coffees I had to ask the shop assistant to mind the kit and kaboodle (baby being kaboodle) while I went down the back to order the drinks. There were just too many crates of Bonsoy and perfectly organic bananas in my way. Every time I tried to twinkle toe I’d bash clumsily into another crate, potentially adding another bruise to those already well bruised bananas. Why do organic bananas always look bruised? I know they are chemical free, but what are they doing – beating the bugs off with a cricket bat?

Of course the shop assistant was incredibly gracious and pretended to keep an eye on her until I arrived back. Happily for everyone Ms Schumacher was well and truly into her 4.45 pit stop so was none the wiser.

Off the topic completely, but interesting nonetheless – our little miss likes to have the sunshade down when we’re out and she’s ready for a snooze. If I don’t put it all the way down she feels obliged to stay all wide owl eyes and stare off into the blur of objects that whizz past her. We roll the piece down and off she goes into happy cocoon land. So we’re often cruising around in this state and I realised today that I was getting curious looks from other mums and dads with their bubs. 

Then it hit me – they think our baby girl is a celebrity tot! 

It’s true, she does look like she’s trawling incognito around the leafy streets. It’s a dark and menacing piece of shade-cloth apparatus; reminiscent of some big black Hummer you’d see dropping P.Diddy off at a red carpet event. You can’t see her in there at all - happily for her if she wasn’t so lulled into it’s blissful sleepiness, she’d be able to see everything going on outside of it. So I figure we’ve got the streets around home completely owned. These other parents must be thinking, “Who has she got in there? The new Honey Boo Boo?” – either that or they’re thinking, “It’s not even that sunny today. She must be one of those hardcore helicopter parents”.

Anyway, I’ve realised whilst I might think this pram is totally rad, I’m not actually that good at driving it, and I’m fairly sure I’ve pissed a few people off with it. I have to confess the other day I ran over James’ feet. I say ‘feet’ instead of ‘foot’ because both copped a crushing. First one, then the other. Once you’re in a situation like that though you’ve got to commit. No reverse and recorrect – you just end up looking like that scene out of Austin Powers. A full ram raid is the only way to get through it. James stood there in disbelief and amusement as after running over the initial foot I remained focused and unshaken, rolling straight over the second. That’s just the way it’s gotta be.

BUT.

Some people are really pram racist.

When you’re walking down an obviously two-way footpath, my feeling is that it’s one per direction. I can happily pass you with your bag of groceries, but I’m not going to cop being faced with you and your flower-carrying friend. That’s not fair. Just because I’m wheeling the goods doesn’t mean I should have to get out of your way. And I often find that I’m prone to giving way to compensate for my insecurity of being a less than amazing driver. But why should I have to apologise for myself? I’m just trying to be a functioning human who’s allowed to leave the house to buy a few groceries without breaking the law for leaving the bublette at home on her own. Nevertheless I find myself sadly sputtering “sorry” out of my mouth every time I negotiate past a duo of less than caring shoppers.

I ALWAYS say "thank you" if someone obligingly drops into line so we can fulfill my one per direction dream. I consider myself very polite. I find myself a little disheartened when someone eyes off the baby machine and opts to make my life even harder, like I should be punished for needing to use a pram for my baby. “You were a baby once too lady! I’m sure at some point someone wheeled you around and I bet you weren’t ostracized for it!” 

Here I am feeling as though I’m doing my little bit by not taking the car and giving bubsicle some fresh, blowaving air, and for some people out there I’m public enemy number one. It doesn’t seem very fair, or more to the point, very sensible. 

We should be embracing our wheely friends people!

Happily there’s a group of society that don’t despise me for my three-wheeler wielding ways. For the most part I find there’s an unspoken understanding between fellow pram pushers – even if it’s a narrow, rickety footpath we all find a way to become the let-in or the let-inerer. (Technical road terms of course)

A nod and a smile and we’re on our merry way; cognisant of the “sorry” each of us may have begrudgingly offered on our way to this spot in the road.

So I’ve decided, no more Mrs Nice Pram Lady Guy. Did I mix my references? 

I am taking a stand – for myself, and for all other baby wheel challenged people out there. If you try your two down the one-way tricks, from now on I will proudly and unashamedly take my place on the path.

I will not swerve.

I will not twinkle toe.

I will not say sorry.

I hope that you all will support me in my endeavour.

And FYI – I’m one of the best reverse parkers you’ll ever meet. I’ll take on any guy who thinks he can do a better job than me. In ANY car. 

I feel better after saying that. 


(Pic: http://www.boatdesign.net/forums/attachments/sailboats/38148d1260417491-dinghy-foiling-hummer-h3-wooden-wagon-wheels.jpg)