That was the defining moment. When I realised I didn’t feel truly myself because a) I didn’t look like me (a 2 ½ stone weight gain can do that to you) and b) events of the past few years had coloured me. So I needed a good ‘wash’ and a health kick. I started five weeks ago and have lost half a stone. (More of the same and I’ll be there somewhere).
To celebrate this small ‘milestone’ I decided to visit my No 1 watering hole, Starbucks, and instead of the chamomile tea I had feasted on in recent weeks I’d treat myself. Go mad. Skinny cappuccino. Not crazy – I wasn’t thinking in terms of venti, or even grande – no, a tall one would do. More than modest yet less than greedy pants. And I wouldn’t splash out and have a cantucci biscuit. No, I’d read that a packet of two ginger snaps were positively saintly in comparison to the obscenely calorie-laden rocky roads and chocolate brownies of this establishment (can any cake really have that many calories?).
So two days ago my eight year old and I ventured into our nearest and dearest Starbucks. I’d been waiting for this moment for – ooh, at least a week. I lovingly paid for the delights, sat at a nearby table and passed my daughter her rocky road (yes, really) and small bottle of OJ. I placed my cup and plate in front of myself adoringly. My hand reached out and picked up the longed-for ginger snap. Um. Gorgeous I thought, as I took my first mouthful. I placed it back on it's plate and savoured every crumb of that first bite.
My daughter reached for her juice and due to our constant chattering, taking her eye off the ball (or bottle, if you see what I mean) the bottle flew over, throwing its contents all over the table, all over my gorgeous biscuits, and all over the person sitting opposite – yes, that would be me. My hair, face and clothes were well splashed but it was the gingersnaps that had taken the worst of it. They were swimming, positively drowning in fact. Desperately I grabbed one and, lifting it hopefully, was about to take a quick nibble (before it really did sink) when – plop! – it fell and landed in my cappuccino. Result? Not only did I not now have a biscuit, my lovely milky cappuccino had turned sour when introduced to the OJ. The taste was definitely not for the faint hearted.
When we exited five minutes later, little one had a self-satisfied smile on her face owing to the rocky road delicacy and a few drops of OJ. Me? Well, I was dripping juice and soggy biscuit crumbs. Not a good look. The moral of the tale? I guess I shouldn't have felt smug when I'd only just reached first base. I might just get bitten on the bum. I legged it home quickly, as smelling like Jasper’s best friend, I wasn’t going to take any risks.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Designer.....? So behind her
Phew. What a week. And deffo not a good one. I haven't been able to sit down for seven days and although things are improving there are still remnants of frostbite, but it is almost behind me (oh but it were - behind me rather than in front of me, if you see what i mean). I have spent much of the week with a mirror in places you really shouldn't be putting mirrors. It was not so much 'Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?', as 'Mirror mirror, have they gone?'. But yes. Four of the infection sites I'm pleased to say are now clear which leaves one little blighter left but almost gone. Half way through the week I was desperate, pacing the floor.
"Nothing else for it", I confided to a friend on the 'phone. "I'm going to have to have the frostbite taken away".
"Well don't stress about that one", she said, "Designer vaginas are all the rage right now - quite the thing in fact. Quite overtaken silicone implants as it happens".
Now she wasn't exactly a friend, more of a 'we speak once a year acquaintance' actually. Because if she was a friend she would know that this was so not me. Umph. Cosmetic surgery may be a part of my future, but I hadn't planned to make that decision until everything went so far south it was no longer in my line of vision. This part of my anatomy though had never been up for debate. No. I would soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Pollyanna has nothing on me I thought, as I happily 'looked on the bright side'.
But then I got the e-mail from Ann Summers and that's what really annoyed me and made me feel less than satisfied about my lack of proper progress. 'National Orgasm Week' it screamed out and went on to list all the fascinating articles on sale this week to make each and every one of our orgasms particularly enjoyable.
Did they know? I huffed. Was this a wind up? Who could have told them? Because I certainly hadn't. And how the heck had I suddenly joined their mailing list?
The one time that I so don't want to even think about sex, or intimacy, or anything getting any closer to me than my favourite comfy pants (no, not even my party pants), they send me a message about some rampant rabbit and tell me I must (really must) celebrate national orgasm week. Well I'm sorry but I really have taken umbridge at that one. I'm not playing. I'm definitely not playing. But have a good week everyone and I hope you can do your bit for Ann regardless. I've nominated myself to the sidelines feeling more than a little put out.
"Nothing else for it", I confided to a friend on the 'phone. "I'm going to have to have the frostbite taken away".
"Well don't stress about that one", she said, "Designer vaginas are all the rage right now - quite the thing in fact. Quite overtaken silicone implants as it happens".
Now she wasn't exactly a friend, more of a 'we speak once a year acquaintance' actually. Because if she was a friend she would know that this was so not me. Umph. Cosmetic surgery may be a part of my future, but I hadn't planned to make that decision until everything went so far south it was no longer in my line of vision. This part of my anatomy though had never been up for debate. No. I would soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Pollyanna has nothing on me I thought, as I happily 'looked on the bright side'.
But then I got the e-mail from Ann Summers and that's what really annoyed me and made me feel less than satisfied about my lack of proper progress. 'National Orgasm Week' it screamed out and went on to list all the fascinating articles on sale this week to make each and every one of our orgasms particularly enjoyable.
Did they know? I huffed. Was this a wind up? Who could have told them? Because I certainly hadn't. And how the heck had I suddenly joined their mailing list?
The one time that I so don't want to even think about sex, or intimacy, or anything getting any closer to me than my favourite comfy pants (no, not even my party pants), they send me a message about some rampant rabbit and tell me I must (really must) celebrate national orgasm week. Well I'm sorry but I really have taken umbridge at that one. I'm not playing. I'm definitely not playing. But have a good week everyone and I hope you can do your bit for Ann regardless. I've nominated myself to the sidelines feeling more than a little put out.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Yes, I have frostbite (Having a real 'Bridget Jones' moment here....)
Well I've really done it this time. Boy does it hurt. My dodgy ligament in a rather dodgy place recently experienced a flare up of inflammation. Knowing the quickest way of easing the discomfort was to pop an ice pack on it, i duly did so. Ah. That's better I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
I woke up to find I'd wet the bed. Had I? Surely not. No, sure enough, it was the ice pack that had leaked. However as it had leaked onto the ligament (just above the pubic bone..um...yes) it had at the same time slipped down and leached out over what my daughter affectionately calls 'the twinkle'. Yes. Just there. And on waking I found I was stuck to it - or rather, it was stuck to me. I prized it off gingerly (didn't fancy spending the day walking around with an ice pack dangling precariously and painfully from there thank you very much - which seemed just about my only other option at this moment in time). So yes, I prized it off and yes, it was excruciating. But once off I thought, that's it, it's over, and life as I knew it carried on as normal.
But there was nothing normal about how I was feeling the next day when I got out of bed. As I walked to the bathroom I was aware that my 'twinkle' was very puffy and swollen - I could even feel it as I walked. Help I thought - what is going on? Hopping into the shower I put it to the back of my mind and carried on regardless. Only the next day that was nigh on impossible. I was in agony. There was nothing else for it. Donning my glasses and clutching a magnifying glass, all very Inspector Cluseau, i went 'down under', holding a mirror as close to the offending site as possible. Ah! Help! I'd turned a rather bright shade of purple!
Grabbing the 'phone, I made an appointment to see my doctor. This was not something I could fix on my own. 24 hours later and there I was, up on the doctor's table, legs akimbo and all ready for inspection.
"Yes, it's frostbite. You've given yourself an 'ice burn', and it's become infected" she quickly diagnosed.
Clutching my prescription for antibiotics I left the Surgery as gingerly as I'd arrived. So. It really is possible to get frost bite anywhere. Um. If I'd been a man this wouldn't have happened I thought. Could hardly stick an ice pack to your willy now could you. Could you? Let's not go there. Please. This is bad enough.
But there was some good news. Although my 'twinkle' was not feeling altogether twinkly at the moment, apparently I'd missed my clitoris by millimetres. Otherwise I guess I would have killed it. Gone. Dead. Forever. So thank you God. For small mercies. But not for a frost-bitten twinkle. No. Definitely not for that.
I woke up to find I'd wet the bed. Had I? Surely not. No, sure enough, it was the ice pack that had leaked. However as it had leaked onto the ligament (just above the pubic bone..um...yes) it had at the same time slipped down and leached out over what my daughter affectionately calls 'the twinkle'. Yes. Just there. And on waking I found I was stuck to it - or rather, it was stuck to me. I prized it off gingerly (didn't fancy spending the day walking around with an ice pack dangling precariously and painfully from there thank you very much - which seemed just about my only other option at this moment in time). So yes, I prized it off and yes, it was excruciating. But once off I thought, that's it, it's over, and life as I knew it carried on as normal.
But there was nothing normal about how I was feeling the next day when I got out of bed. As I walked to the bathroom I was aware that my 'twinkle' was very puffy and swollen - I could even feel it as I walked. Help I thought - what is going on? Hopping into the shower I put it to the back of my mind and carried on regardless. Only the next day that was nigh on impossible. I was in agony. There was nothing else for it. Donning my glasses and clutching a magnifying glass, all very Inspector Cluseau, i went 'down under', holding a mirror as close to the offending site as possible. Ah! Help! I'd turned a rather bright shade of purple!
Grabbing the 'phone, I made an appointment to see my doctor. This was not something I could fix on my own. 24 hours later and there I was, up on the doctor's table, legs akimbo and all ready for inspection.
"Yes, it's frostbite. You've given yourself an 'ice burn', and it's become infected" she quickly diagnosed.
Clutching my prescription for antibiotics I left the Surgery as gingerly as I'd arrived. So. It really is possible to get frost bite anywhere. Um. If I'd been a man this wouldn't have happened I thought. Could hardly stick an ice pack to your willy now could you. Could you? Let's not go there. Please. This is bad enough.
But there was some good news. Although my 'twinkle' was not feeling altogether twinkly at the moment, apparently I'd missed my clitoris by millimetres. Otherwise I guess I would have killed it. Gone. Dead. Forever. So thank you God. For small mercies. But not for a frost-bitten twinkle. No. Definitely not for that.
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
JULY IS A WICKED MONTH
It wasn’t until my daughter started school that I knew anything about the ‘who knows who’ of life at the school gates. As for birthday parties and who is and who isn’t invited, well that’s something else!
We live about five miles from my daughter’s school and there is only one other girl from our class where we live. Naturally I’ve encouraged my daughter Imi to play with Freya – she lives just a couple of minutes away by foot, after all. Each holiday for the past three years, we’ve had Freya over whilst her Mum works, and enjoyed taking her to arts and crafts club, to trampolining, to gym…. in fact when I think about it I’m quite dizzy recalling all the adventures we’ve had together. I think we almost made it to the moon once, on a particularly dull day last October.
So when Freya arranged her seventh birthday treat, for July 9th, a trip out Ten Pin Bowling followed by Pizza Hut, I felt sure Imi would be invited - especially as Imi and Freya share the same birthday.
Yet no invitation came home and this led to confusion and upset in our house. Did I arrange something else for the day in question?
In the end I arranged a family Bar-B-Q in the garden. I invited my three sisters and their children, plus a few neighbours and friends.
The day dawned and it had been raining all night. We’re going to be stuck inside, I thought - but no, an hour later, the sun came out and stayed all day. Everyone came – there were around thirty of us. It was one of those beautiful lazy, hazy summer days where we sat in the garden, three patio tables joined together for the adults. We all crowded in under the sun umbrellas, bottles of wine and bowls of salads passing back and forth. The children were on the lawn, playing tennis, swinging on the swing, jumping in and out of the paddling pool. We played pass the parcel and musical statues. It was just lovely.
And really I have Freya and her Mum to thank for our beautiful day. If it hadn’t been for Freya’s party we, too, would probably have had a small group of children to take either to the Bowling Alley or the Cinema or the Swimming Pool. It would have been fraught, expensive and tiring.
I guess this is life at its best; just as you think things have gone wrong they come right, and often in a way that can exceed your expectations.
The other nice thing to come out of this is that I’ve realised that the school gate ‘stuff’ doesn’t matter. Our real friends, and our family, are what matter ultimately. The road to friendship is not exactly a straight one, and it takes a while to work out who is merely being friendly and who is in fact a true friend. I must admit I’m still learning to separate the two (and having fun trying).
So July has turned out to be just wicked, as opposed to ‘wicked’ in the Virginia Woolf sense, and it bodes well for the summer. With the holidays upon us I guess we are all looking to entertain the children/grandchildren/friends/families as best we can. We have been really lucky and have received an invitation to a friend’s house in Cornwall where I’m looking forward to introducing Imi to pasties, piskies, sandy bays and calm waters (as well as finding myself a quiet corner of an old inn for a crab salad and a crisp glass of white).
In fact when I think about it, it looks to be turning into a pretty wicked kind of summer. I hope yours is too.
Bonne vacances!
We live about five miles from my daughter’s school and there is only one other girl from our class where we live. Naturally I’ve encouraged my daughter Imi to play with Freya – she lives just a couple of minutes away by foot, after all. Each holiday for the past three years, we’ve had Freya over whilst her Mum works, and enjoyed taking her to arts and crafts club, to trampolining, to gym…. in fact when I think about it I’m quite dizzy recalling all the adventures we’ve had together. I think we almost made it to the moon once, on a particularly dull day last October.
So when Freya arranged her seventh birthday treat, for July 9th, a trip out Ten Pin Bowling followed by Pizza Hut, I felt sure Imi would be invited - especially as Imi and Freya share the same birthday.
Yet no invitation came home and this led to confusion and upset in our house. Did I arrange something else for the day in question?
In the end I arranged a family Bar-B-Q in the garden. I invited my three sisters and their children, plus a few neighbours and friends.
The day dawned and it had been raining all night. We’re going to be stuck inside, I thought - but no, an hour later, the sun came out and stayed all day. Everyone came – there were around thirty of us. It was one of those beautiful lazy, hazy summer days where we sat in the garden, three patio tables joined together for the adults. We all crowded in under the sun umbrellas, bottles of wine and bowls of salads passing back and forth. The children were on the lawn, playing tennis, swinging on the swing, jumping in and out of the paddling pool. We played pass the parcel and musical statues. It was just lovely.
And really I have Freya and her Mum to thank for our beautiful day. If it hadn’t been for Freya’s party we, too, would probably have had a small group of children to take either to the Bowling Alley or the Cinema or the Swimming Pool. It would have been fraught, expensive and tiring.
I guess this is life at its best; just as you think things have gone wrong they come right, and often in a way that can exceed your expectations.
The other nice thing to come out of this is that I’ve realised that the school gate ‘stuff’ doesn’t matter. Our real friends, and our family, are what matter ultimately. The road to friendship is not exactly a straight one, and it takes a while to work out who is merely being friendly and who is in fact a true friend. I must admit I’m still learning to separate the two (and having fun trying).
So July has turned out to be just wicked, as opposed to ‘wicked’ in the Virginia Woolf sense, and it bodes well for the summer. With the holidays upon us I guess we are all looking to entertain the children/grandchildren/friends/families as best we can. We have been really lucky and have received an invitation to a friend’s house in Cornwall where I’m looking forward to introducing Imi to pasties, piskies, sandy bays and calm waters (as well as finding myself a quiet corner of an old inn for a crab salad and a crisp glass of white).
In fact when I think about it, it looks to be turning into a pretty wicked kind of summer. I hope yours is too.
Bonne vacances!
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Old Flames
Long Ago And Oh So Far Away
Last year, an old friend/flame telephoned. We were together 20 years ago and had always kept in touch. I'd helped him through some tough times - talked him into staying put when he was ready to throw in the towel both at work and at home. He'd talked me through many of my own crises. So when he 'phoned and asked if I would do some work for him I panicked. I'd put off meeting him for 10 years - even though he was always saying he'd love to come down and take me out to lunch.
But I needed the work because I needed the money, so reluctantly I agreed to meet up. We scheduled it in for a month's time and the next day I started a diet.
A few days before we were due to meet, I changed hairdressers for the first time in years. I threw caution to the wind and daringly asked for a shorter, younger style and some brave hi-lights. I went out and bought a cream canvas bag like the one I'd seen my 18 year old niece with. And a short brown fitted puffa jacket like my 16 year old niece wears. When the day came to meet I'd lost a stone. Still a stone overweight, I wondered if he'd notice. I worried about the wrinkles, the laughter lines and the tired eyes.
When he got out of his car at the Restaurant we both laughed. Older (and probably not much wiser), it was a great lunch. I came away remembering who I was - who I am. He told me he'd felt the same. We meandered a little down memory lane. I'd taken some photos along of 20 years before - "isn't age a terrible thing" he'd said, as he looked at his once trim figure (that was now portly) and his thick dark hair (now noticeably thinner and grey). Yet all I saw was that he had the same twinkle in his eyes and the same great laugh. And he still made me laugh out loud.
Why is it that time does this to us? Makes us feel world-weary? We have lovely homes, wonderful children, (hopefully) enjoyable careers. Yet we tend to forget who we are. We get forgotten in our role as Mother/Father, Breadwinner/Homemaker. We can end up feeling like an organiser with no time for ourselves. And in all the rush, our very essence gets lost. Worst of all, we forget the importance of laughter.
Sometimes it can take a person from our past to bring us back to ourselves. Today I've got a spring in my step. It's as if he's opened my eyes. I've seen the girl of 20 years ago because an old friend found me there, lurking in the shadows of myself. Where I had seen and felt my age, he had seen my essence.
When he left he said he felt chilled and happy. He feels better about things at home. In seeing the 'me' of 20 years ago he also rediscovered the 'him' of the same time. He found the boyish enthusiasm for life and pleasure, before the financial responsibilities and children came along bringing with them unavoidable pressures.
Age, after all, is just that. It is just a number, yet we can all too easily allow it to become a state of mind. So scratch beneath the surface and I bet you're there - the fun you, the young you. I hope you have the courage to jump out and make the most of your day.
Life is short - let's wear our party pants.
Last year, an old friend/flame telephoned. We were together 20 years ago and had always kept in touch. I'd helped him through some tough times - talked him into staying put when he was ready to throw in the towel both at work and at home. He'd talked me through many of my own crises. So when he 'phoned and asked if I would do some work for him I panicked. I'd put off meeting him for 10 years - even though he was always saying he'd love to come down and take me out to lunch.
But I needed the work because I needed the money, so reluctantly I agreed to meet up. We scheduled it in for a month's time and the next day I started a diet.
A few days before we were due to meet, I changed hairdressers for the first time in years. I threw caution to the wind and daringly asked for a shorter, younger style and some brave hi-lights. I went out and bought a cream canvas bag like the one I'd seen my 18 year old niece with. And a short brown fitted puffa jacket like my 16 year old niece wears. When the day came to meet I'd lost a stone. Still a stone overweight, I wondered if he'd notice. I worried about the wrinkles, the laughter lines and the tired eyes.
When he got out of his car at the Restaurant we both laughed. Older (and probably not much wiser), it was a great lunch. I came away remembering who I was - who I am. He told me he'd felt the same. We meandered a little down memory lane. I'd taken some photos along of 20 years before - "isn't age a terrible thing" he'd said, as he looked at his once trim figure (that was now portly) and his thick dark hair (now noticeably thinner and grey). Yet all I saw was that he had the same twinkle in his eyes and the same great laugh. And he still made me laugh out loud.
Why is it that time does this to us? Makes us feel world-weary? We have lovely homes, wonderful children, (hopefully) enjoyable careers. Yet we tend to forget who we are. We get forgotten in our role as Mother/Father, Breadwinner/Homemaker. We can end up feeling like an organiser with no time for ourselves. And in all the rush, our very essence gets lost. Worst of all, we forget the importance of laughter.
Sometimes it can take a person from our past to bring us back to ourselves. Today I've got a spring in my step. It's as if he's opened my eyes. I've seen the girl of 20 years ago because an old friend found me there, lurking in the shadows of myself. Where I had seen and felt my age, he had seen my essence.
When he left he said he felt chilled and happy. He feels better about things at home. In seeing the 'me' of 20 years ago he also rediscovered the 'him' of the same time. He found the boyish enthusiasm for life and pleasure, before the financial responsibilities and children came along bringing with them unavoidable pressures.
Age, after all, is just that. It is just a number, yet we can all too easily allow it to become a state of mind. So scratch beneath the surface and I bet you're there - the fun you, the young you. I hope you have the courage to jump out and make the most of your day.
Life is short - let's wear our party pants.
Monday, 9 July 2007
Climb Every Mountain
I'm off to Physio this morning. Never did I think I'd be going there again. I thought and hoped I'd left all that behind me a couple of years ago. My ligament was healing nicely - a pelvic ligament - um - actually it's above the pubic bone so it doesn't fit into my top ten things to chat about over a cappuccino. Not remotely. Anyway back to today. I'd been doing so well. I'd even climbed a mountain on my recent holiday. Well, half way up anyway, but that still counts. And sitting half way up Ingleborough sharing a bar of kendal mint cake (chocolate covered no less) with my 7 year old daughter was bliss. I explained to her that when I'd grown up in North Yorkshire the view out of my bedroom window had been of this very mountain. So that half-way-up walk meant as much to me as an all-the-way-to-the-top walk on any other mountain.
When we got back I was exhilarated. Yes! I'd done it. It really was one of those defining moments. Not only had I managed to climb half-way up a mountain but I'd taken my daughter to Manchester to see my old college stomping ground (whilst she took me to Old Trafford footie stadium). I took her to the Albert Docks in Liverpool and the Tate Gallery (she took me to Anfield Football stadium). So we did lots. We packed it in, a veritable santa's sack of activities.
So it comes as something of a surprise to be having this set-back. Two days after coming home I was due in Hospital for what was called an 'exploratory' op: a hysteroscopy. They wanted to make sure all was as it should be as my monthly periods had gone a bit mad. I don't want to risk it I told them - my ligament may get stretched again. All that 'there there hysterical woman you'll be fine' bit came out as they reassured me I would be OK. More fool me for believing them.
Because I wasn't fine. 24 hours post-op and I could hardly walk. Could hardly crawl. Going upstairs felt like running up Ingleborough (right to the top this time). It was agony and that's how it carried on. I can only imagine that under anaesthetic my legs were pulled, pushed, tweaked and finally shoved, a-kimbo, over my head with such gusto I'm surprised my trolley didn't come shooting out of theatre with me screaming 'take me home!'. Only no such luxury when we're 'under' - we know nothing till the deed is done.
The Doctor now tells me the prognosis is mixed: the offending ligament may come true again, but it may take longer than last time because it has re-injured a pre-existing weakness. My Physio is jolly chipper - she tells me I may never recover. Well jolly great but you know what, I ain't listening. If I thought it wouldn't come right again then I may just run to the top of the nearest mountain and stay there. But then did running away ever solve anything? Don't know but at least I wouldn't have to face the situation anyway - there are no mirrors up there for a start, so I wouldn't see myself and say 'hello you, yes, it really did happen'. No, I am sticking it out down on planet earth and hoping for the best.
But I do know one thing. No more exploratory ops for me - ever. I will wait till I'm well and truly dragged in there out of necessity before I go in hospital again.
So I'm trying to find plenty of things to do that you can do whilst 'resting'. They keep telling me I should be 'resting'. How does the concept of resting go side by side with having a child to look after? Tricky to be sure. Especially as the long 6 week holidays are almost upon us. Help! School! Cancel the holidays for this summer only! The holidays are usually my favourite time, and we had such plans, most of them involving sandy beaches and maybe even a little sunshine. Plans now will be curtailed for the foreseeable. Just off to rest.
When we got back I was exhilarated. Yes! I'd done it. It really was one of those defining moments. Not only had I managed to climb half-way up a mountain but I'd taken my daughter to Manchester to see my old college stomping ground (whilst she took me to Old Trafford footie stadium). I took her to the Albert Docks in Liverpool and the Tate Gallery (she took me to Anfield Football stadium). So we did lots. We packed it in, a veritable santa's sack of activities.
So it comes as something of a surprise to be having this set-back. Two days after coming home I was due in Hospital for what was called an 'exploratory' op: a hysteroscopy. They wanted to make sure all was as it should be as my monthly periods had gone a bit mad. I don't want to risk it I told them - my ligament may get stretched again. All that 'there there hysterical woman you'll be fine' bit came out as they reassured me I would be OK. More fool me for believing them.
Because I wasn't fine. 24 hours post-op and I could hardly walk. Could hardly crawl. Going upstairs felt like running up Ingleborough (right to the top this time). It was agony and that's how it carried on. I can only imagine that under anaesthetic my legs were pulled, pushed, tweaked and finally shoved, a-kimbo, over my head with such gusto I'm surprised my trolley didn't come shooting out of theatre with me screaming 'take me home!'. Only no such luxury when we're 'under' - we know nothing till the deed is done.
The Doctor now tells me the prognosis is mixed: the offending ligament may come true again, but it may take longer than last time because it has re-injured a pre-existing weakness. My Physio is jolly chipper - she tells me I may never recover. Well jolly great but you know what, I ain't listening. If I thought it wouldn't come right again then I may just run to the top of the nearest mountain and stay there. But then did running away ever solve anything? Don't know but at least I wouldn't have to face the situation anyway - there are no mirrors up there for a start, so I wouldn't see myself and say 'hello you, yes, it really did happen'. No, I am sticking it out down on planet earth and hoping for the best.
But I do know one thing. No more exploratory ops for me - ever. I will wait till I'm well and truly dragged in there out of necessity before I go in hospital again.
So I'm trying to find plenty of things to do that you can do whilst 'resting'. They keep telling me I should be 'resting'. How does the concept of resting go side by side with having a child to look after? Tricky to be sure. Especially as the long 6 week holidays are almost upon us. Help! School! Cancel the holidays for this summer only! The holidays are usually my favourite time, and we had such plans, most of them involving sandy beaches and maybe even a little sunshine. Plans now will be curtailed for the foreseeable. Just off to rest.
Thursday, 5 July 2007
Birthday Parties
A child's birthday party should be an eagerly anticipated event, a highlight of any child's year. I have fab memories of my birthdays as a child: a few friends coming round for tea and games played on the lawn.
Today there is a myriad of things to choose from and none of them include playing at home. No, by the time you've looked at the various options - swimming, bowling, discos, cinema, clowns, and all the other entertainers - you could well do with a sit on the lawn! And that's only the start. You then have to decide on the menu to be served (sandwiches and jelly and ice cream would appear to be so last year, if not last decade, for the average 8 year old) and also the length of the party. All day - even a sleep-over - seems de rigeur.
My daughter's birthday falls on the same day as another little girl's from her class, and of course she is always invited to whatever we arrange. But last year the invitation wasn't reciprocated. The other little girl held a marathon - bowling, pizza hut, party bags, you know the sort of thing - and my daughter didn't receive an invite. To make matters worse, my daughter - who did invite the other child - arranged her party (a bar-b-q at home) on the same day, unwittingly of course. How could we have known? We didn't receive an invite. So we had the added problem of re-arranging our party.
This year I didn't want the same situation arising. I decided to face the situation and feeling mature, texted the mum in question to ask if she would be having a party, saying that I would make sure I didn't choose the same date again. I received a reply saying they weren't having a party. So we went for the date of our choice and arranged one at home. I don't have the cash to throw at a lavish affair so my daughter and I decided each child will paint a plant pot and when the paint is dry, fill it with compost and plant a flower each. They can then take this home with them. If the weather's bad, we can make some cookies and decorate them.
So it was with disappointment that my daughter came home from school yesterday almost in tears, tellling me that the same little girl was indeed having a party - Shrek 3 was mentioned - and that my daughter wasn't invited.
Why is it that children's birthday parties always cause such distress when they are supposed to be such happy occasions? And the competition is fierce - even the party bags are de rigeur. Yet it remains a shame that a happy, joyous occasion is marred in this way.
Oh well. I'm praying for sunshine. We're going to have a traditional party in the back garden with games and activities and a big group of children. And yes, we're having sandwiches and jelly and ice cream and iced gems and pass the parcel. Call me old-fashioned if you like. Only no, please don't. My party bags are lush. So this century. And my house will be rocking with music - karaoke no less. Joseph? Grease? We got 'em all. A fine time will be had. And you know what? The kids will love it. Because as great as it is to give them choice and variety, I still think what kids love most is being left to their own devices to run free and be themselves. At least when they're eight. As they get older that will change, and yes, we'll be up there with the rest of them. The stretch limo is booked. But for this year, bring on the fun, the innocence and the simplicity. And a large dose of luck. I'm hoping for a fab day.
Today there is a myriad of things to choose from and none of them include playing at home. No, by the time you've looked at the various options - swimming, bowling, discos, cinema, clowns, and all the other entertainers - you could well do with a sit on the lawn! And that's only the start. You then have to decide on the menu to be served (sandwiches and jelly and ice cream would appear to be so last year, if not last decade, for the average 8 year old) and also the length of the party. All day - even a sleep-over - seems de rigeur.
My daughter's birthday falls on the same day as another little girl's from her class, and of course she is always invited to whatever we arrange. But last year the invitation wasn't reciprocated. The other little girl held a marathon - bowling, pizza hut, party bags, you know the sort of thing - and my daughter didn't receive an invite. To make matters worse, my daughter - who did invite the other child - arranged her party (a bar-b-q at home) on the same day, unwittingly of course. How could we have known? We didn't receive an invite. So we had the added problem of re-arranging our party.
This year I didn't want the same situation arising. I decided to face the situation and feeling mature, texted the mum in question to ask if she would be having a party, saying that I would make sure I didn't choose the same date again. I received a reply saying they weren't having a party. So we went for the date of our choice and arranged one at home. I don't have the cash to throw at a lavish affair so my daughter and I decided each child will paint a plant pot and when the paint is dry, fill it with compost and plant a flower each. They can then take this home with them. If the weather's bad, we can make some cookies and decorate them.
So it was with disappointment that my daughter came home from school yesterday almost in tears, tellling me that the same little girl was indeed having a party - Shrek 3 was mentioned - and that my daughter wasn't invited.
Why is it that children's birthday parties always cause such distress when they are supposed to be such happy occasions? And the competition is fierce - even the party bags are de rigeur. Yet it remains a shame that a happy, joyous occasion is marred in this way.
Oh well. I'm praying for sunshine. We're going to have a traditional party in the back garden with games and activities and a big group of children. And yes, we're having sandwiches and jelly and ice cream and iced gems and pass the parcel. Call me old-fashioned if you like. Only no, please don't. My party bags are lush. So this century. And my house will be rocking with music - karaoke no less. Joseph? Grease? We got 'em all. A fine time will be had. And you know what? The kids will love it. Because as great as it is to give them choice and variety, I still think what kids love most is being left to their own devices to run free and be themselves. At least when they're eight. As they get older that will change, and yes, we'll be up there with the rest of them. The stretch limo is booked. But for this year, bring on the fun, the innocence and the simplicity. And a large dose of luck. I'm hoping for a fab day.
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