And On the Third Day, She Rose Again

I went to Sydney for three days and now I am home. Sounds easy, right?

Driving in peak hour Sydney traffic on Friday, LOST, almost crying, cursing and freaking out because Robert McKee's Seminar was starting in twenty minutes and if you were late he has been known to call you out and humiliate you in front of hundreds of people ... I still had to park and buy a coffee and find the frickin place. I wore my cowboy boots which looked cool, but sounded like a horse, clip-clopping up the street to get there. Received a text on my phone from Tim:

"Hey Eden .... Michael Jackson died, LOL!"

Then waiting in line with other tardy people, a guy got a phone call from his wife. "Michael Jackson, huh. Farrah Fawcett too? Ok. Call me if anybody else dies."

Cue three days of the most intense learning ever. He really is amazing, and knows pretty much everything there is to know about what makes a good story .. and screenplay, and novel, and TV show. He believes that the ancient art of story telling has been lost, in the muck of lazy plots and Hollywood blockbusters. It was hard ... just sitting there, trying to take in all the info. I missed my boys straight away, desperately achingly missed all of them equally. All around me were hundreds of fucking talented people ... one woman I chatted with had been working on her novel for two years. I felt like a big fat fraud ... all I came with were some ideas I had. That's it.

Struggling to concentrate I pulled out something that was digging in my pocket ... Rocco's dummy. I cried, felt so bad, and text Dave that I wished I was back at home. He didn't reply ... probably because he was a bit busy, trying to look after all the boys. It was hard that first day ... who am I? A mother, a wife, or a writer? Can I try to be all three? As Robert McKee went through elements of what makes a great story ... he said that you must thrust the protagonist into uncertainty, an unknown world. It reminded me of Dave and what he got thrust into, last year. Except if I read that as a story I would snort and think how stupid that is, that would NEVER happen.

I pulled out my phone and read every comment on my last post .... thank you for bouying me about leaving my boys. I love Blogland. Right then, I decided to honour my family by making the best of the time I had taken to be away from them. (And by the way ... you guys all have desperately horrific imaginations too!! I think we are more alike than we know. Fucking love Blogland)

Later I was inhaling a twelve dollar toasted sandwich. Paddington is a mecca for snobs and fashionistas alike ... naturally I stumble in my cowboy boots and drop my sandwich all over the road. The girls behind me stopped talking, walked silently passed, and laughed at me picking it up. I threw it in the bin. If nobody had seen me I would have just eaten it, I was so bloody hungry. Later, sitting back in the course, I ate a family block of chocolate in one fell swoop. The guy next to me was incredulous, I just tried to remain dignified.

Late that night, it was time to check into my cheap motel room. Now, Sydney and I go waaaaaay back. I gave my twenties to her ... her busy streets and colourful crowds. I also have felt some of the biggest pain in my life in this town, and have not yet created new memories. In the safety of my sister's homes, I can relax and have fun .... but I was in Sydney by my ownsome, navigating my own path. Everywhere I went, was against the grain. Crossing the street into the oncoming football fans. Driving around in circles.

Checking into the motel scared the shit out of me. It had a sickly sweet, familiar smell. The smell of Terrible Things. I walked up to check in and the guy goes, "Oh, it's you! We were all just laughing at you trying to park on the video monitor."

Silly me - I had quite forgotten that June 27th was National Laugh At Eden Day.

He realised straight away how rude that was ... I just said, "Are these rooms decent or what?"

He assured me that they were ... and they were, I just freaked as soon as I walked in to mine. At that exact moment, Dave text me. "Are you there yet bub?"

He rang, and I blubbered down the phone that I miss him, I'm no good without him. He laughed, and soothed me, made me feel better. He knows me more than I know myself, sometimes.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur ... I took so many artistic shots, to show you. Of course, one of the boys broke the digital camera before I left, and didn't TELL anyone, so no photos turned out. But, thanks to google images, here is where the seminar was:



Here is my motel:



And here is what I felt like doing after I walked into my motel room that first night:



Finally, by Sunday, I got my groove on. Stopped wearing makeup, and just relaxed and enjoyed myself. I made friends with Sydney, a bit. I learnt about text and subtext and subplot and the importance of dialogue. I heard stories of famous people, drank great coffee, got flirted with. Found my own groove and got it on.

It was time to come home ... my lungs were hurting, they don't call it the "big smoke" for nothing.. I left early on Sunday ... there was going to be a scene-by-scene "autopsy" of Casablanca. Robert McKee asked the audience who had never seen the film - nobody put their hand up. I haven't seen it - fucked if I was going to admit to it. It was also assumed that everybody there had been to university, which I haven't. I always thought I was too stupid. (You get told you are something every day of your childhood and you tend to grow up believing it.)

Writing runs deeply, in me. It was the one thing - the only thing, that I thought, during all the bad years, maybe I'll come though it and maybe I can write, someday.

And, I can and I have. Everything else - everything in my life from here on in, is just a big fat bonus. If dropping my sandwich on the road was my worst problem last weekend, then I'm doing pretty fucking well.

I kept worrying that I'd spent so much on his seminar, how dare I, etc .... but it was worth every cent to get to come home to these guys:



Rocco is just a little baby. Apparently I had no idea! And Max is a gigantor child! When did that happen! And I wanted to jump my husbands bones as soon as I got out of the car! Woot! I kissed Tim, told him how much I missed him, he blushed but I knew he loved it.

I am so lucky, so blessed.

AFTERMATH: Max tells me that "dad left me and Rocco in the bath by ourselves while he made dinner. Rocco only went under twice." !!!!! There was not one nappy, when I got home. Not ONE. I am so very sick - I think Sydney poisoned me. The doctor today said I have "trachealitis" which is just another word for "fucking sick AGAIN."

I just found this pic in my computer, have no idea how it got there. HA!

Feet Fail Me Not

Sometimes I am driving into my street and I picture my husband and children running around with blood all over them and something really really bad has happened. I panic that something has happened to someone I love and any minute now I'm going to get a phone call with terrible news. Or, driving in the car, the truck in front of us will crash into our car and we will all die horrible, terrible, slow deaths.

I'm equal parts cursed and blessed with the most vivid imagination. Part of me is waiting for the next bad thing to happen in life. And it will, I'm sure. I think the trick is to enjoy the fuck out of eating half a pack of chocolate biscuits, or dancing with your boys to Little Green Bag. Enjoy life in SPITE of life.

I've been all swirly and panicky, all week. I have to keep finding a ledge of safety in my head, breathe deeply, know that things are ok. I'm going away tonight ... for three nights. I'm going to a most amazing writing seminar that's being held in Sydney, and I'm freaked out. Staying in a hotel , all by myself! Surely I'm not THAT trustworthy?

I was excited, then I got nervous. Then worried, spun out, I've missed the boys all bloody week and I haven't even LEFT yet. This will be my first time leaving them. I told Dave the other day that I hope he goes ok.

Dave: "Course I will, hon. I've done this before."
Me: "No you haven't. You've never minded the boys by yourself."
Dave: Scoffing "Yes I have! Geez! I've minded them heaps of times."
Me: Turning blue with frustration because my husband has the world's worst memory "No mate, you haven't. You've never minded the boys by yourself yet."

And on and on it went, escalating until Max walked off to go on the swings. (Yes, we were in public.) Dave has this uncanny knack of re-inventing history. I don't care that he hasn't minded the boys by himself yet .... he's mostly been on chemo and been unable too, so I certainly don't begrudge him that. But I hate it when he makes shit up and believes it as truth. I know for a fact he's going to get a rude shock for the next three nights in a row ... getting up to Rocco. (Who can sleep through sometimes, and has FINALLY stopped the screaming thing, but he is still needs a tuck-in or a bottle in the middle of the night).

Dave can't sleep if he gets woken up in the night ... good luck with that, my champion husband who breezily assures me "he's done this before."

In 10 minutes I need to pick Max up from school and give him my undivided attention. I've spent the whole day cooking ..... Tim turns 17 today, and I asked him what he wanted for dinner.

"Ok, ummmm, lamb chops with lemon and oregano, chicken schnitzel, and your lasagna."

My guilt at flying the coop is leading me to cook all three dishes, with a chocolate cake decorated with cars, and also mashed potato and veggies and a salad. All this from a chick who used to think that opening a can of soup and heating it was a-ma-zing. I think I need some kind of award. I haven't even had a shower yet, and I need to pack my bag. I need to choose clothing that writers wear, something that says "cool" yet "aloof" .... but of course "creative."

I expect to be up late every night getting crumbs in my hotel bed, finally catching up on blogs for the first time all week. And doing writer-ly things. And remembering who I am. Or realising who I can be. Maybe doing a pump class at one of the 24hour city gyms? Going out for a soy flat white WHENEVER I choose.

I feel guilty then not then happy then scared then freaked out. It's only three nights .... and God Himself knows how much I need a break from here. I just can't wait to come back again too .... I really hope they do all go ok and nobody gets hurt or dies in a car accident, etc. Because that would SUCK.

Stupid imagination.

VLog: Like the Von Trapp Family Singers, except we are dancing to the Reservoir Dogs Soundtrack

Some days, life is spectacular.

Best. Graffiti. Ever.

Yesterday I thought the baby had pneumonia, so off to hospital we went. Max came too, the three of us sat in the waiting room eating box after box of Pringles.

I hadn't been to the hospital since Rocco was born .... exactly 13 months ago today. I remember the morning Dave and I drove in for my c-section, Dave stopped at our local cafe to get himself a coffee. I waited in the car, couldn't face seeing anyone. Someone I knew came out of the cafe after just speaking to Dave, and made a beeline to my car. "Oh fuck OFF!!" I remember thinking. I slunk down but she came up and tapped on my window anyway. I wound it down a smidge, she stood gaping at me in horror, wanting to know how I was "fee-eeling", tsk tsk.

My husband has a bellyful of tumours and I have a bellyful of baby, how the fuck do you think I am fee-eeling?

So last night, a doctor finally came out to see us, he caught me mid-crunch with about ten Pringles in my mouth and I had to chew quickly and wipe my greasy hands on my jeans. Rocco doesn't have pneumonia, but his ear infection has still not cleared up so he is on a stronger dose of antibiotics. The doc was really nice, and, like everybody who meets Rocco, remarked on what a happy baby he is. I noticed the doc had something happen to his face - maybe a stroke or something, leaving his lip all fat and droopy. Later that night I was to dream of a terrible version of him, freaking me the fuck out, saying ..."Eeeeeden, sometimes things turn out NOT how we expect them."

We left the ER, and on a whim I turned left instead of right. I told Max we would just go and see what midwives were on, say hi to them.

It was strange and eerie, to go back there. We walked in and the maternity unit was deserted, not a person to be seen. The only thing missing was a tumbleweed. Reception, all the rooms .... empty. I held Rocco and crept over to Room 2. "Hey Max, remember this was mummies room?" It was dark in there, and held some pretty bad memories for me. I remembered the Wednesday night in particular when Rocco was three days old .... a midwife had taken him out that night so I could get some sleep.

Some kind of ghost ... perhaps the grim reaper himself, kept coming into my room when I slept. Twice I was woken by the feeling of choking around my neck. So awful. I buzzed to get Rocco back, and it never happened again ... like having him in there with me protected me against something.

So last night, we turned to leave ..... and there appears an old lady with a zimmerframe, inching her way down the hall. In the childrens ward, she was the only person there. Creepy, yet somehow fitting.

We drove away from the hospital, to our warm house where all is well and there is much dysfunction but also much laughter. I looked at Max and Rocco and loved on them so very much, determined to start living in the moment with them more.

Max and I came back home wearing stolen face masks, telling Dave and then Tim that I had swine flu. Dave just laughed, but I fully had Tim going - handed him a mask and said, "Mate, we are all quarantined now. I'm so sorry ... please don't tell anyone, I'm so embarrassed." He freaks out, I fall on his floor laughing my head off. He orders me out of his room, I went over to his mirror saying, "Wow, this is so cool. It's like, I'm a doctor. SCALPEL!"

Apparently I bought a new hoodie, to match my blog header.

Today I took possibly the best photo I've ever taken in my life. I parked the car, stood on the side of the road, and just laughed, snapping away shots of it. It's even better than the penis graffiti. This is like, hands down, best graffiti ever.
I'm posting it to share the love with all of you.

Ready?

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PURE GENIUS.

27 Versions of the Truth

This is an "About Me" blurb that I will link to in my sidebar. There's no way I can write it without sounding like a total wanker, but whatever.

I could write 27 "About Me's", they could all be equally true, just omitting certain parts. You know how somebody friends you on Facebook and you haven't seen them in twenty years, and they're all like, "HI! So what have you been up to all this time??"
I hate that question, and always have to think of how much of my truth to tell them. Although I was up at midnight on Facebook once and this guy from school asked me that exact thing and I just went for it and told him this freaky condensed history of me and he went strangely quiet.

So ..... here it is.


ABOUT ME.

This is me. Smiling with my mouth shut because I have a sticky-outty front tooth that I'm vain about.

I'm terrified of spiders and order their deaths on a regular basis. Born in 1972 to a violent alcoholic father who went to the pub as soon as he found out I was a girl. I have two older sisters who are identical twins, and a younger brother from another father.

I have always been a dreamer, I believe in God although I do not like that word, and put Buddha next to Jesus every Christmas in our cheesy nativity set. Heaven and hell already exist on earth, I play Mario on my son Max's DS on a regular basis, and my husband got diagnosed with Stage III B-Cell Follicular Aggressive Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma - five days before our second son was born in May 2008. He thought it was a torn stomach muscle, ended up having six months of intensive chemotherapy where all his hair fell out and I tried to pretend I didn't love him so it wouldn't hurt so much but I did and always will. He is in remission. Yesterday morning he stood in our kitchen, looked me in the eyes, and announced he will never get cancer again. I've decided to believe him.

I am a stepmother, which has sucked in the past, but now I love it. My "step"son Tim was born in 1992, and I am truly blessed to be a part of his life.

My real dad died of alcoholism in 1984, then my stepdad killed himself in 1988. I had a really shit childhood and thought that once I escaped to Sydney when I was eighteen, the world would magically become a bright and happy place. It did, but it took a lot of substances to get there. Then it was hell. Then I made a fresh start and had children and got married, and I really truly thought my life would settle down and it would be all smooth sailing, but you know, CANCER.

I did IVF to get my second son, Rocco.

I wish I had been a dancer. But I wasn't allowed.

I go to recovery meetings, which continually save my arse. I hope I don't ever think I don't need to go anymore.

I'm terrified of the dentist.

I think I'm fantastic, but also have copious amounts of self-loathing. Bono calls that "being right in the middle of a contradiction." During the 2006 U2 concert Bono held my hand. Which means that anything is possible, in this life. Anything.

Having my first son broke my heart open and all this love came streaming out and for the first time since I remembered, I didn't want to be dead anymore.

Having my second son broke my heart open and all this fear and terror came out.

Life totally sucks random arse, sometimes.

I love all three of my sons. They can teach me things every day, if I let them.

I blog because I like it. Simple as that. It's free. It's like, this teeny corner of the Universe where I made something from nothing. I have been blogging for three years .... my first blog is here. It documents my IVF process, subsequent pregnancy, and then my husbands cancer fiasco.

I'm travelling to New York in August 2010 to attend America's biggest blogging conference, BlogHer .... where I will meet some of my best friends for the first time.

I have been a writer since I was 8 and three quarters. My official website is here. I wrote the text for a childrens book which came out in 09. I'd like to write a "proper" book one day. Not sure how. Maybe it's like writing in a blog, except the posts are chapters? I'm too scared to write my biography. Last time I tried, I had a bit of a breakdown so I stopped. I have other story ideas. My husband says "Just do it, hon!" Like it's that easy.

It probably is that easy.

I need to stop plucking my chinhairs in the rear view mirror in my car, but the lighting is spectacular.

Life is too short to iron. Once, I dug the iron out from the laundry ... Max was four years old. He said, "Mummy! What IS that thing?"

I have two tattoos and want more, got my drivers license at the age of thirty, and swear way too much.

Some of my best friends live in Blogland.

I am a big psycho crazy nutball and if people knew what I really thought they would run a mile.

Hey this is fun. I could go on for HOURS. But won't.

I will probably edit this at some stage.

The End.

(Actually, it really is just the beginning. That shit's exciting.)

The testosterone gang:

My husband Dave holding Rocco who is two. Tim is 18 with his arm around an 8 year old Max. Do you have any idea how much methane I have to live with?

Colourful, Swirly Skulls

Today in pump class there was a doof song on that was just so, so ... doofy. The beat, the bass, the frickin' build-up. I was back in the nineties again, off my head in nightclubs. I swear this song was so full on, I kept looking around to the other people in the class, trying to catch their eye, to say, omg can you believe it?! But then, I realised they probably weren't having ecstasy/acid flashbacks. They were just working their biceps, like normal people.

Man I needed a chuppa chup to get through that song. A smoke machine, five snorts of amyl, and two packs of Styvos.

It was like being in one of those "hip" clothes shops, and the music is turned up so loud and all the pretty young things are bouncing around and I am just a haggard old lady with DYED HAIR.

Finally the song ended, as all things eventually do. The song after that was Moby's "Extreme Ways", which TOTALLY blew my mind because I often tell Dave this song is my rock bottom song, the song right before recovery came streaming into my life: "I had to close down everything/I had to close down my mind. Too many things caught me/Too much could make me blind. I've seen so much in so many places/So many heartaches, so many faces/So many dirty things ... you couldn't even believe."

By the end of pump class I had felt every emotion possible. Then I took my baby grocery shopping, now I am at home doing laundry and cleaning up. I still can't believe I live this life, these days. I hope I can always maintain it.

My sisters came up on the weekend. To laugh, eat, shoot the shit, and most importantly, watch History of the World Part I. We know every single piece of dialogue in this film ... Dave watched part of it with us, but went to bed early and left us to it. It was great to have them here as "guests" and not the "chemo helpers" they were, last year.



We all went to the orchards and bought big boxes of fresh apples, laughed at the waitress who was so passive-aggressive it was ridiculous, and felt like three peas in a pod. My sisters and I weren't close as kids, which makes our amazing bonds so much more special now. Dave took the pic above, at the growers market yesterday. Leigh said to me, "Mate, I love how you are always in the middle!" We laughed, remembering the many car trips where I always had to sit in the middle. And HATED it. Sometimes, when we are introduced to new people, they think I am the eldest. "No," I always say breezily. "I am the younger but taller one." And I try to pat my sisters heads, as condescendingly as I can.

Last night in bed I woke up around 2am, and I just wanted to hug and hug Dave so much, whisper to him to never, ever get sick again. Don't ever die before me. Don't leave me. I love you. But I didn't, because he would think I was waking him up for some sexual relations, so I just sent the thoughts along to him via osmosis. I'm sure he heard them somewhere.

I'm so busy and overwhelmed and behind in emails and reading. If I had it my way, I would get a catheter inserted, buy 25 pizzas (no pineapple) and sit on my couch reading blogs for a week straight. But life keeps getting in the way ... I get overwhelmed easily, which is annoying when you are married to the most capable guy on the planet.

I want to marry my new blog header ... make sweet, sweet love to it and have teeny skull babies. It's by the amazingly talented Meg from Knuckleheaders. My brief was "colourful, swirly, skulls." I spent ages thinking up a cool tagline, and couldn't think of anything. How are you supposed to sum up your whole blog in one sentence? I finally decided on "Life is hard. Eat more chocolate." Until, the very moment I was sending the email, Meredith's voiceover came on when Greys Anatomy started, and she was talking about how we can't outrun our shadows. Bingo.

I have tried to outrun my shadow for many many years, and failed. My shadow got me into a LOT of trouble. It's still here, with me, and always will be. I'm trying to make friends with it, and laugh as it remembers all the hazy drug days in the middle of a pump class.

There are lots of skeletons, with lots of skulls, in my closet. I may as well dress them up in colourful, swirly things, and write about them.

Arse vs Ass

I sniff my food. Why? You need to go to Gemini Girls place to find out. I guest posted, all about my passion for AMERICA. I love Australia, but I lurvvvve America. I could totally live there and wow people with my odd but endearing accent. Crikey!

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week to Stop Injecting Smack Into my Eyeballs

When last we spoke, I was a bit vomit-y. I had just finished telling Dave (smugly, yet nicely) how much I feel "free" when he is not here, then a few hours later I had to beg him to come home. I was SICK.

Then I got better, Rocco and his lip and his cough improved, so I decided to drive the hour down to the hair appointment I have been cancelling for months now.

Yesterday was the second time I've got my hair did in a year. I was soooo looking forward to it.

Confession: I get my hair coloured, sometimes. Apparently, when you have red hair, it just fades and fades, the older you get. I like giving it a lil "pick-me-up". A subtle one, so people can't often tell that I get it dyed or not. Nicole Kidman is letting hers go blonde, frankly I don't like it. I prefer red.

You know that scene in Bride Wars, when Kate Hudson watches the towel getting lifted off in the hairdresser? And her hair is blue? And she goes, "My hair is blue! BLUE!"

Well, yesterday, the hairdresser lifted the towel off my head, I sat there gobsmacked, looking in the mirror. She starts talking a million miles an hour about some crap, and I'm like, "Uhhhhh, Tanya? I look like Ronald McDonald. RONALD MCDONALD!!"

She shat her pants and scurried off to call the dye company, while I sat there looking at my bright, neon orange hair. The whole hairdressers went quiet. All the customers were straining their necks to look at the poor orange-haired woman, I think to order their McHappy Meals. I did what I always do in times of exteme anger/fear/sadness ...... start uncontrollably crying.

I've had my hair done at this place religiously for three years, never has there been a problem before. I had bright motherfucking orange hair. She came back, stuttering that nobody picked up, so now she has to put a grey dye on my hair. GREY. I cried more, she's like, oh, oh! I wiped away my tears with my leopard print scarf, telling her it's cool, it's only hair, I'm crying because I'm sleep deprived.

I told myself to stop crying like a BAY-BEE, a plane just went down in the ocean last week, and I'm worried about my stupid hair!? But's it's not just my hair, I'm a bit sick of planning and looking forward to something so very much and it all backfires in my face. Like, looking forward to the birth of your baby and then your husband gets diagnosed with cancer, for example.

So my hair looks SHITHOUSE, and I had to still pay for the CUT. (But not the colour, Eden! I'll let my boss know why I gave you that for free!!) Gee, thank you for the privilege of paying $59 for being traumatised. It's so so dark, I may as well make a little sign with arrows pointing to it exclaiming "DYED HAIR!"

Then other stuff happened yesterday which is sad and scary, etc etc. Then, Rocco slept through but Max comes in at 3am ... vomiting!! WOOOOOT.

__

OMG I just received a text from the hair salon, asking me to confirm my appointment next week. This is what I just wrote back:

"Are you serious? I had to PAY for the pleasure of getting my hair ruined yesterday."

I took a photo to show you. Obviously I couldn't show you my face, as after all that crying I look 100 years old. It almost looks ok in this photo ... but in direct sunlight it has PURPLE tones.

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Excuse me, but this vain bitch has to take her other sick son to the doctor. Bile STINKS.

Oh ... and by the way .... winter? You can kiss my freezing, goose-pimply ARSE.

Provocation

Rocco got better, then he got worse. Then he banged his mouth on the steps SO HARD that his lips blew up so big he now looks like Lisa Rinna.

I took a photo of him on my phone and text it to Dave, he's like "What the fuck have you done to him!!"

Then I got a tummy bug and have been vomiting and toilet-destroying all morning.

BUT.

We have had the best weekend together. Yesterday, we held our own personal U2 concert, blasting video clips on the big TV. It was kind of triumphant for us both ... not even U2 could make me feel better last year after Dave got diagnosed, so I shunned them for a while. The first song that came up was "Beautiful Day" and looking at the DVD cover I noticed it was filmed in France in October 2000. The exact same month I got clean. I had a funny river feeling in my heart, and looked at Rocco as he held his dummy up to the sounds, like he was waving a lighter at a rock concert.

"Hello! Where did you come from?" We have played and bonded and have not left the house all weekend. My little embryo implanted, and now I am watching Bono sing to him. Beautiful day indeed.



My blog has been nominated for "Most Provocative" ... at first I spun out and thought, is that bad? But, I have decided it's good. What is provocative, anyway ... but truth-telling. (The dictionary says "To provoke sexual desire" but whatever.) When I go about my IRL world, I like to tell the truth, and not pretend.

I went to many rehabs, detoxs, and a few psych wards. (What? We're all crazy, right?) One day, at the last (hopefully) hab I was in, I asked to read my file. The counsellor questioned why, then handed it over. I will never forget the very first sentence:

"Eden has no idea what being honest means."

Some brain synapses started to form together ... apart from being insulted, I actually wondered if this was true.

Some eight years later, I like to think I know when I am being honest or not. Some days I am too honest .... I thought I would start this new blog and link it to prospective writing clients, and show off my writing style. HA. No frickin way. I feel like Jim Carey in Liar Liar ... "I ca-ant, lie!!" I have a tendency to be a "naked" blogger and I just can't help it. I won't say "Dave and I had an argument" but "I want to rip Daves head off, why did I get married?" Not "I was sick this morning" but "Just then in the shower I pushed pieces of coffee-flavoured apple down the drain with my toes." Not "I have a touch of PND" but "I want to run away from my family to some exotic island and do hard drugs with a toyboy lover."

I have a big post brewing about what blogging has meant to me. I started two years ago, to document my IVF process. And then all this "life" stuff happened, so I kept writing. I'm extremely excited about my new header that I've ordered. Game on, baby. But, Lisa just woke up and I need to go and vomit right now. I will NEVER get used to vomiting from sickness and not alcohol. It's just not right.

Oh Baby

This morning Rocco woke up so listless and upset. He vomited, and then just cried and cried. I knew it was serious when he let me cuddle him, just lay there looking at me. I decided to take him to see a doctor, as there is a long weekend here. No-one could fit him in, so I had to go to the medical centre and wait, as a "walk-in." The poor guy was so upset at that stage, squirming, not happy anywhere. After an hour and a half, one of the docs took pity on us and saw us.

Thank goodness I took him in. He has an ear infection and a secondary chest infection, topped off with a nasty fungal nappy rash. He's on antibiotics, with strict instructions so take him straight to hospital if he gets worse. He has a dreadful cough, very rattley. He ate some dinner tonight and vomited all over me, dripping all through my hair.

He is asleep now, in his cot. Needless to say, he has the emergency dummy in his mouth. He has never been this sick, looking at me like, help! I keep going into his room, making sure he is still breathing. It's freaky. Dave and the other boys are away, so it's just me and the baby. I'm so flat I'm not even scared ... usually I visualise being murdered in my sleep, by a crazy loon who has been living in our roof for three months. But I'm just too tired tonight. I had to lug all the fricking wood in and light the fricken fire, like some kind of pioneer woman. I usually like doing this but tonight I just wished there was a button to press for instant heat.

I wish there was a button to press for a do-over on Roccos first year of life. I hope he knows how much I love him. Controlled crying during the sickest week of his life? Awesome.

The only good thing is, I finally got a new charger for the video camera. So when he gets better I can film him again. I never found my mobile phone .... all the video and photos of Rocco in his first 6 months were in there, never downloaded because I am an IDIOT. I couldn't charge the camera on his first birthday because of the missing cord. It really does feel like I fail him a lot. Even though he is sick, it's so nice to pour myself all over him. Children are so forgiving, it never fails to humble me.

I'm off to load so much wood on this frickin fire that it turns into a sauna. Maybe smoke out crazy loon roof guy.

Operation Crybaby .... BIG SUCCESS!

Last night, the baby slept from 6.30pm till 7.20am.

I heard him once, about 1am ... he gave two teeny cries, then went back to sleep.

The annoying thing: Daves mobile phone started beeping at 3am. (!!!!) Of course he had his trusty earplugs in, so I had to get up and turn the fucker off.

And then Max had a nightmare, so came in at 4am. I gave him a cuddle ... which was fine, because, NO SCREAMING! I'm a new woman. And Rocco seems so much calmer. Obviously he has been sleep deprived too, the poor sweetheart.

When Max was a baby, there is simply no way I would ever ever let him cry, because he only ever cried for a reason. On the day Rocco was born, he was pulled from my belly and started crying like an air-raid siren. It literally took 10 seconds for me to think ... seriously dude, WTF!! I'm actually thinking of taking him to see a kinesiologist, I suspect he might have been quite affected by the circumstances surrounding his birth. I'll take Max too, he holds everything in and doesn't say much.

So, hopefully we are all on a new sleeping journey.

Thank you for your support.

Signed,

Eden
Poo Catcher of the Universe

Panic at the Disco

It was a fully-fledged panic attack.

What caused it? The thought of another night living in Screamingland.

I haven't had a panic attack like that for eight years! I'm strangely proud of myself, and immensely relieved it wasn't my heart.

__

I've changed my method, and now sit next to his cot. It took an hour to put him down tonight ... he wasn't crying, just kept looking at me, making sure I was still there. So I guess that's what I'll do from now on. He needs to have some good, big sleeps, the poor guy. I took his nappy off tonight before his bath ... you'd think I would have learnt by now. Familiar grunting noises led to me running over to him and neatly catching the massive poo. In my bare hands. Max stood there in disbelief. I said, Max .... these are the kinds of things you do when you are a parent.

Max said he is NEVER going to be a parent.

Puffy Heart

Apparently, when you are doing the crying-it-out-method with your twelve month old baby .... IT SUX. BAD.

Apparently, when you are doing said method and he has cried for two hours, then slept, then cried some more ... so finally you go in, to realise he has been crying from having a dirty nappy and the worst nappy rash of his life?? Yeah, also sux.

Apparently when you are changing said nappy at 3.15am and he doesn't even kick you, just lies there looking at you in gratitude that you are changing his nappy - his poor bum so sore and red - apparently you curse yourself a thousand curses.

I can't tell you how bad I've felt all day. And tired! It's like, a whole new level.

So, I did a pump class today and pumped SO HARD, that I'm at home right now breathless and fucked up, heart pumping so fast it's freaking me out. I'm either having a heart attack, or panic attack. This could be my last blog post. Dave didn't even take me seriously, just put the phone next to me in case I need to "call someone" then left.

I just googled "breathless after exercise" and came back with "pulmonary embolism". Why is Dr Google always so serious with the diagnosis?

If this IS my last blog post, tell Dave that next time his wife says she's having a heart attack ... HIS WIFE IS HAVING A HEART ATTACK.

Goodbye. Love deeply. Eat more chocolate.

Eden XOXOX

A Post to Get the Previous Post Off the Top

Once I swallowed the small gold cross my grandmother gave me for making my confirmation. It came out in my poo. At that moment, I knew I was going straight to hell.

When it comes to parenting, I have no fucking clue what I am doing. Usually winging it. I know I will fuck my kids up ... hopefully not too much, not enough that they need therapy.

I have needed LOTS of therapy. Oodles. I knew something was wrong when I was twenty years old and just wanted to die so badly. I went to this therapist who took down my entire drug and alcohol history, which took two sessions. I never went back, because (quote) "My depression has NOTHING to do with how much booze or pills I take." (!!!)

Around that time, I worked in an ice cream shop. The uniform looked like aqua pyjamas, so mortifying. I was stoned every shift, spun out and freaked that I served this strange sweet goo for a living. Slowly. Ve-ry slowly.

My twenties are a rich minefield for stories. Sometimes, I have sat with my sisters and they say "Tell us a story." And I tell them something so preposterous, so terrible, so outlandish .... we get the dog-whistle laughter going at some of my atrocious predicaments. Can't believe I made it through alive. If I ever wrote a memoir, I'd have to disguise it as fiction.

I went to pump today and pumped it So. Hard. I just want to kiss my guns right now.

Tonight I taught Max how to melt chocolate in the microwave. After he sat there and had licked his plate clean, he solemnly said: "Mum thank you so much for telling me this. I will never forget it." Just as gravely I turned to him and said, "Max, you are so welcome my champ." Then we turned back to the television.

Spoke to both my sisters today. After reading my post, Linda rang up, laughing, saying ... "Is somebody a widdle bit tired??" And Leigh was all with the tough love: "Fucks sake Eden, this baby is one. Not a four-month old - he should not be crying like this. Are you going to do something about it or still be talking about it when he's two??" I LOVE my sisters. She advised me to throw all of his dummies (binkies) out ... so I did. The liberation. I'm reclaiming my parent power - when he wakes in the night I've been scared of him! No longer. I even gave him his bottle before he went to bed, no more bottles in bed. He cried (actually, hollered and howled for an hour before falling asleep.) I may be in for some tough nights, but there's light at the end of the tunnel. I'm going to do the crying it out thing, I know it's the only way. If I go in there and soothe him, he just cries louder.

So.

I feel better. Thank you. I emailed everyone who left a comment .. it's my new thing. If you ever want to email me, it's edenriley at gmail dot com

Feel free to de-lurk, anyone. Especially if I know you in real life *cough* (Because IP tracker programs are pretty amazing now and they show actual address of people visting blogs ... as in, streets and towns. Who knew!)

I'm getting a new tattoo. Maybe a Boab tree, maybe a singing bird in a blossom tree. Any suggestions?

When Dave got home tonight, I excitedly told him about the power reclaim, the dummies in the bin, etc. He told me this was not a good idea, shouldn't he have a say in it.

A SAY IN IT? WHY? He doesn't get up for the screaming child at all! What is this "say in it" of which he speaks??!!

Suddenly, I thought of a much better place to stick Rocco's dummy. Starts with D and B and ends with aves umhole.