And Away He Goes...

I've written before about the insanity that is the Hong Kong school system, and as we dive headfirst into it, I'm just as perplexed as I was back then. A quick recap for those not familiar with how it works here: Everybody does a playgroup of some sort from about the time a little one can sit; at two years of age they go unaccompanied to either playgroup or nursery; and then at 3 they embark on Kindergarten or reception at 4; followed swiftly by primary school one-two years later. I'm sure there are a couple of cultural elements behind the drive to have kids in school so young here. Parents work long hours in this city and preschools and kindergartens are basically the equivalent of child-care centres, but with uniforms and curriculums. There's also a strong emphasis on academic success and getting ahead, and there's a conviction that the younger a child starts learning, the more likely they'll be to do well. As a stay-at-home mum I know too well the temptation to have the kids occupied and out of your hair every day too! But very few seem to question just how much this pressure to be educated really impacts on little ones.

Most schools base their intake on a child's year of birth. This proved problematic for us as Josh was born in December and in most cases would have been one of the youngest in his class. In theory he should have started kindergarten last year, at the tender age of 2 years 9 months, which just seemed absurd to me. We fought the system, and found many schools to be unwavering in their policy on holding children back, despite the evidence (read this!) that shows that there are numerous benefits to delaying school, and the fact that many children here who should've been allowed to start later end up repeating a year of primary anyway...  We were alone in our quest to delay schooling, and most people thought we were mad, it was a really frustrating time. Luckily we found a school that allowed us to keep Josh at playgroup another year, and we sent him 5 mornings a week to ensure he wasn't bored. He had a chance to play, and grow, and be a kid, and it gave us a chance to deal with his eyesight issues and for the rest of the time enjoy his company a bit.

He started K1 a few weeks ago at the same school that he's been going to for playgroup. We were ready for him to take the next step, we knew we had made the right decision in giving him another year at home, and we were excited about the year ahead. For a number of reasons this particular kindergarten didn't work out - the words "epic fail" spring to mind - and we withdrew him before the daily distress over school took its toll. We had him at home for two days and briefly toyed with the idea of homeschooling him for another year. We have applied to a primary school here that has a different intake, and he's not due to start there until next year. Not having something for him to do was not a big deal, and I was even a little bit relieved. Then I turned to the Hong Kong Schools forum on Facebook where it appears that everyone is planning and talking about school options from a very young age. Toddlers going off to school by themselves isn't just the norm, it's expected. I stopped reading the comments as I began to feel like I was being quite negligent for even considering that my son would benefit more from a year at home with me than from a fully-equipped educational institution.

Josh is a very bright and social kid who needs constant interaction and a lot of stimulation, so we decided to try one of the other schools over this way. All the kids who went on ahead of him last year are at this school, and loving it, but I was very reluctant. All the effort that went into holding him back and the careful sculpting of his circle of friends and trusted teachers would all be thrown out the window, and we'd be starting him at a new school, as one of the youngest in the class, exactly where we hadn't wanted him to be! The school were very supportive of our request for a trial day, just to see how he coped with it, which was today. It's also a much longer day than he's used to so I sat by the phone all day, expecting at any minute to be called to come and get him. What I wasn't expecting was to be greeted at 2.15 by a child positively beaming. He simply radiated happiness, and appeared completely besotted with his new teacher. He had a wonderful day, and fit in so well that one of the other children said, "we like Josh, can we keep him?" All the stress that had built up after two weeks of a little boy screaming every day because he didn't want to go to school, and the "are we doing the right thing?" anxiety of the last few days, melted away when I saw his gorgeous, smiling, utterly exhausted little face. So, he's enrolled. I collect his uniform tomorrow and he officially starts Monday, 5 days a week, 9.15-2.15. It's not what we had planned, and if I had my way he'd still be at home with me until he's 6, but we're letting Josh lead the way on this one. I have to focus on how happy he is, and right now that's the only thing stopping me from freaking out about the fact that my 3 year old is at school full-time. Because this is it for the next 14 years now... My baby boy's schooling has begun in earnest. He's more than ready, and now I need to catch up to him.

R U OK? - The Tunnel

Today is R U OK Day: "a national day of action on the second Thursday of September (13 September 2012), dedicated to inspiring all people of all backgrounds to regularly ask each other ‘Are you ok?'" 
I had a conversation just yesterday that inspired me to write about this great initiative and to share a very personal story with you all.

Some describe depression as a black dog, others say it is like a fog, or a dark cloud. One friend described it as an abyss. For me it feels like a tunnel, spiralling down, dark and full of twists and turns. I was depressed after Josh was born. It took me a long time to figure out what it was and even longer to admit to it, but I was in a very dark place. I finally had almost everything I wanted - a gorgeous husband, a beautiful baby boy, and we had just bought our first home. I felt like I should have been happier than I was, and I hated that I didn't feel like I was "supposed to." I also worried constantly: I worried about whether or not I was a good mother, I worried about whether J was eating enough, whether he was warm enough, if he was happy, if I would be able to put him to sleep at night, how I would cope if I couldn't get him to sleep, whether he loved me and knew how much I loved him; it was constant and endless. I was so highly strung that I couldn't put Josh to bed at night. If he was even remotely unsettled (and he almost always was) I became a nervous wreck. I dreaded 5 o'clock when the wind down/dinner/bath/bed routine began because I knew we'd be up for hours, pacing the floor with a crying baby and I felt like we'd be doing that dance for the rest of our lives. There was no joy in any of it.

Despite that I still felt blessed, and that was an issue in itself. When I realised how close I was to having the life I always dreamed of, a sense of foreboding came over me and I became terrified that it was all going to be taken away. Worrying about the men in my life was more than I could bear, so I directed that anxious energy into worrying about myself. My hormones were wreaking havoc, and I felt like crap physically - no one had told me that pregnancy was going to have such a huge impact on my body - and I was sure that every ache, every pain, every little symptom was a major illness. After all, I hadn't really done anything to deserve the wonderful life I had, why would I be lucky enough to keep it? I was so afraid of everything, all the time. It cast a shadow over the first 12 months of J's life and there were times when I thought my husband was either going to leave or have me committed. I remember clearly feeling pretty low one day, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not muster any enthusiasm for anything. In frustration my husband pointed out that I was pulling everyone around me into the tunnel, that same darkness. It was a wake up call.

I wanted someone to see what was happening to me and to show me how to get back to the light. I didn't fit the textbook definition of postnatal depression so I never went to anyone and said "hey, I think I've got PND, can you help me?" I never talked about what was going on, I just couldn't verbalise it. Things really turned around one day when my doctor (who was frankly sick of seeing me) asked if I was happy. I burst into tears and admitted that actually, no, I wasn't. From then on I had to make a conscious effort and seek professional help to pull myself out of the tunnel and back into the land of the living, one step at a time. But it wasn't until I fell pregnant again that I started to feel like I had really walked away from it. It was brought on by a combination, and a culmination, of factors around the time Josh was born, and I was so scared towards the end of my second pregnancy that I was going to go to that dark place again, that I was determined to "get it right" the second time.

For the first few days after Charlie was born I was riding high on oxytocin and adrenaline and I felt like I had finally put the tunnel behind me. Then came the crash. Being on standby as a milkbar 24 hours a day had taken its toll and I ached all over. I wasn't able to spend as much time with J as I would have liked and he punished me for it. I hopped into bed with him one night to read stories and he screamed for Daddy and hit me in the face. I pushed on and read to him through my tears but it left me feeling like it was all just too damn hard. I had a similar thought the same night at 3am when Charlie was simultaneously vomiting and pooping on my chest... I felt that same familiar stone in the pit of my stomach, pulling me downwards, that urge to run and hide. But I talked about it. I told my husband what I was feeling. I organised a home visit from the lovely Yvonne Heavyside at The Family Zone. I took care of myself, and stayed in my pyjamas. I played with Josh, and napped with Charlie. I called my friends, and I pulled myself out of it.

The conversation I had yesterday revolved around that awful, gut-churning anxiety that I now know many new parents experience at some point. There were a few of us who all had kids around the same age and we had all experienced daily freak-outs about something during those early months of motherhood. Whether it was over taking baby out on an excursion, or settling a colicky newborn, or struggling with breastfeeding (or in my case, all of the above), we were all sitting in our houses, stressed and miserable at roughly the same time, feeling crap and alone. But we weren't alone, we just didn't know it. This revelation was both reassuring and heartbreaking at the same time - if only I had said something to someone I may have spared myself a whole lot of angst...

My experience with Charlie has been completely different, but it has taken a concerted effort on my part to stay out of the tunnel. It still comes rushing towards me at times, like when I watch the news, or consider getting on a plane, or when I hear of a mother getting sick and leaving her babies behind too soon. But right now I am OK, better than OK, and loving life. We were lucky - we made it through those dark days, but so many don't. And R U OK Day is for them.

If I've learned anything from this it's that there's no shame in asking for help. It's hard to ask for help, but it's harder still to live through depression and anxiety alone. Whether you need help, or you know someone who might, please reach out today.

Grown Up Stuff

We've been busy going about our business lately, caught up in our renovations and daily life with two beautifully busy boys, quietly in denial about the severity of Josh's eye condition. Then a few weeks ago we had a massive reality check when his ophthalmologist (a word I'm really getting sick of writing, so will now refer to her as the Oph.) presented his case at a conference. She got back to us with a recommendation we'd been dreading - surgery.

There wasn't a general consensus at the conference amongst all the Ophs that were there, only discussion that surgery was an option worth exploring. It has been done, with success on patients with similar conditions, but J's particular condition is so rare, that no one knows exactly what the outcome would be. It could be an improvement, or it might not change anything. If he doesn't respond well, if his eye reacts badly to the procedure, or if the structure of the eye is in anyway compromised, it could very well make things worse. It's a roll-the-dice type scenario and we are more than terrified. Our Oph was hesitant to say one way or the other what we should do, which makes decision making pretty difficult, but she did say we need to make a decision soon.

We then saw an Oph here, a great guy, a rare treat in a city where decent specialists are few and far between. He also used the "S" word, but explained it to us in a way that made us realise we didn't really have a choice. It's now not a matter of if, but when... There's a fairly small window of opportunity here, while his brain and eye develop neural pathways between each other. The good news is that his vision was better when he was small so he already has the foundations laid, but as the condition progresses (and by progresses I mean, gets worse), what he sees is less clear and the brain can't decipher it as easily, so it may very well shut off the right eye. Surgery would remove the obstacle, his lens, and hopefully give him a better line of vision. He'd have to wear a contact lens and his glasses and I imagine, initially, he won't like that very much.

There are so, so, so many unknowns and it feels like a giant leap of faith. We also need to decide where to have the surgery - here, where everything is familiar and comfortable - or in Sydney, where the better specialists and family are, but where it's all a bit different and less comfortable. I suddenly feel very old. When did I become responsible for making these major decisions for another person? We're talking about our son having usable vision in one of his eyes, or not, how do we possibly make that call, knowing he will have to live with it forever if it doesn't work out? On the other hand, doing nothing could also be a really bad move. I'm torn between wanting to protect the little guy from the ordeal of general anaesthesia, hospital and a potentially long recovery, and the knowledge that we really need to do what it is in our power to do, to save his eyesight and give him a decent shot at maybe one day driving a car, backpacking around the world on his own, and doing all the other things us sighted people take for granted.

When I was 14 I had major surgery on my jaw. The doctors sold it to my parents as being necessary to prevent future problems. They trusted the advice they were given, and I had the surgery, spent a night in intensive care, a week in hospital, and six weeks eating through a straw. I woke up from the anaesthesia and the first thing I saw was my mum, crying beside the bed. I was high on pethidine and didn't know what she was so upset about. Even when I saw my bruised, swollen and unrecognisable self in the mirror later that day, I still didn't get it. Faced with the prospect of being on the other side of the bed, being that parent, I finally do understand, and I really wish I didn't.

People In Glass Houses

Let me start by saying I have been incredibly lucky. My friends are nothing but supportive, and have always been great sources of advice, comfort, reality checks and chocolate - whichever is most appropriate at the time. Today's post came about while I was researching for an article I'm writing. I asked for input from lots of different sources and I came across something that made me a little uneasy. There were some who were quite outspoken in their opinions to the point that some comments caused offense. There were others who were afraid to speak their minds on a public forum or at mother's groups for fear of being vilified for their choices (based on previous experiences.) This is my response to all of that...

I hate to admit it but I am guilty of being judgemental from time to time. I've looked at other mothers and raised a brow at some of the things I've seen and heard. I try to be discreet about it and keep my judgements to myself but I know there have been times when I have pushed my opinions onto others, sometimes because I wanted to be helpful, but I'm ashamed to admit, at other times I've done it because I thought my way was better. Sometimes I get so frustrated that I want to scream "what are you doing?!?" but I don't. I know how it feels to be judged, and there are a lot of things I do that make me feel so guilty that I want to curl up into a ball on the floor (and it's pretty tough to be judgemental from down there). Like giving my baby boy a bottle of formula at night so he'll sleep through (something I feel so guilty about I'm not doing it anymore). Or occasionally putting my toddler to bed early so I can have a glass of wine and watch TV at the end of a very long day (definitely still going to do that). To some mothers these actions are comparable to heinous crimes, and while I believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, what I don't get is women who feel they have the right to openly berate anyone whose parenting style differs to theirs. Being a mother is hard enough without other mothers, who you imagine would be your best allies, quite openly attacking the choices you've made (especially before they know the reasons behind those choices...). I don't know many ladies who would dare to criticise what their friends are wearing to their faces, or tell them what they're doing wrong in their jobs or their marriages - so why do so many of us feel it's ok to judge a mummy who might do things a little differently when it comes to parenting? Surely if any area of our lives deserves support, sensitivity and tact, motherhood must be it?

Not a single day goes by when I don't feel guilty about something. I am constantly questioning every choice I make. I am far from perfect and, to be perfectly honest, I die a little inside every time I do something that someone has told me will be bad for my kids. Like giving them formula, or letting them cry a little before they go to sleep. Even as I write this, and admit that I do those things, I'm cringing because I know there are some of you out there thinking "I can't believe she does that!" 

So, why are we so quick to judge, so keen to criticise? Is there any mother out there who doesn't question herself at least once a day? How many of you haven't had that crisis of conscience, that voice in the back of your head questioning a certain move, that late night, panicked trawl through baby books and parenting websites, desperate for answers?? Are any of us so good at this gig that we have the right to tell others what they're doing wrong, without first wondering if maybe they have good reasons for doing what they're doing? Is it a misguided attempt to be helpful? To make ourselves feel better about what we're doing? Or are some of us just completely oblivious to the fact that our "suggestions" might cause angst and heartache? I just read this great post about "Mom Bullies" that does a great job of describing the kind of mums I'm talking about. I agree that parenting is a damn tough job, and when you have a good day, when you find what works, you have every right to feel sanctimonious and superior. And I know how tempting it can be to share your insights when you see that someone has made a decision without knowing all the facts (I had to bite my tongue very recently). But that doesn't mean that what you do - what works in your house - will work in mine. Because really, whatever you practise, whichever parenting philosophy you subscribe to, there will always be "evidence" to back it up, and you will always find someone who agrees with you and who will tell you you are absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, doing the right thing for your family. But likewise, there will always be just as many voices that argue against it, and for those of us who aren't that confident, despite all that evidence, it's that one negative voice in the day that speaks the loudest. And don't get me started on how easily such helpful suggestions can be misconstrued in emails or forum comments. A tongue-in-cheek, "oh, he really should poo more often," can easily be read as, "you're clearly neglecting his needs."

When a friend, or a complete stranger for that matter, confides in you that she is thinking about giving up breastfeeding/going back to work/trying "cry-it-out" sleep training/swinging from the chandeliers high on Xanax every night, what she's really looking for is reassurance. She wants you to tell her she's doing the right thing. However much you disagree with her choices, whatever you know that she doesn't, whichever choices you think she should be making instead, chances are she has already made up her mind, and your input will not change it - it may just alienate her. If it works for her, then it will always be the right choice. What we all need is support and respect for our decisions, and the best thing you can say to someone seeking advice is "I don't know what I'm doing either..." That's not to say that you should never offer advice, because advice can literally save lives, just think very carefully about how you deliver it. A mum carrying her baby incorrectly in a sling, should probably be told, but the one buying formula, might be less receptive...

I could write post after post justifying the choices I've made, but I won't, because I believe that I shouldn't have to. But I still feel like I need to at times, and I hate that. Our world revolves around our boys (yes, we live in a Kindergarchy, deal with it), and when it comes to how to raise them we make educated decisions whenever possible, and the rest of the time we rely on gut instinct and our hearts to work out what is best for them, and we strive to make sure the needs of every family member are met. We want our kids to be happy, healthy, well behaved, independent young men who feel loved and know that they can rely on their parents to make the right choices, does any of that sound like the motivations of a bad parent? We all want that for our kids, does it really matter how we go about it? And is it anybody else's business? I may not be a perfect parent, and I'm overwhelmed by how little I actually know, but most of the time I know what works for us. So until my boys can tell me I'm doing a great job (and they may never get around to it) I just have to look at them and see how happy and healthy and bright they are, to know I'm doing the very best I can right now, with the resources I have to hand. And then I'll have another chocolate biscuit, put the boys in front of the TV and call my friends and tell them what a great job they're doing, because that's the kind of mother I want to be. It's a constant work in progress, and as I've educated myself I've changed the way we do things - but it hasn't ever been because someone has told me I'm doing it wrong.

There are so many factors that influence the choices every parent makes, and they may not always do what is considered "right" or even what they planned to do, but you can never know what is behind someone else's decisions. It's quite possible that choosing to give a baby formula, or going back to work, co-sleeping, using disposable nappies, or whatever it is you disagree with, may have been one of the toughest decisions that parent has made. In fact, the decision may have been out of their hands entirely. So, before you judge a friend, a neighbour, a random stranger on a forum who might be desperately seeking advice and wanting someone to tell her that what she's doing is ok, remember how tough this parenting gig is, and try not to make it any harder. We all deserve credit for loving our kids and doing the very best we can.

THIS POST RIGHT HERE is at the top of my list of "Posts I Wish I'd Written," and it perfectly sums up what I've been thinking this week and what I wanted to say today, only it says it better, of course.

And just to show I'm a good sport, here's a completely different point of view for the mums who do step in and bravely offer advice out of genuine concern. 

The New Normal

After the initial diagnosis of Josh's eye condition, I went to a pretty dark place. It was heartbreaking, and unfair, and I was guilt ridden in only the way a mummy can be. Then we just got on with it, and I saw him being a normal two year old, and went into a bit of denial. We put his glasses on and integrated the eye drops into the daily routine, but not much changed. When Charlie was born I looked anxiously into his eyes to look for the same tell-tale signs of ELeP, and despite not finding any, still spend disproportionate amounts of time staring at him. After all, we thought J looked "normal" for so long, maybe we were simply blinded by love and incapable of finding any fault in our children. Apart from that, I tended not to think about how this condition would impact on J's life and our future.

That all changed last week. David and Josh spent a week in Sydney and met with a team of specialists. There was the Paediatrician, who will oversee and coordinate all the different specialists we need, the Geneticist, who will help us figure out exactly what we're dealing with, and of course, the Ophthalmologist. So far, it would seem that we have been blessed with a "normal" healthy toddler (insert sigh of relief here). His wonky head is still of some concern, and we have to add a Neurosurgeon to our team sooner rather than later (a sickening prospect), but we have escaped anything really serious (for now). The Ophthalmologist spent a lot of time answering our questions. It's such a freaking rare condition that doctors who recognise it are even rarer, so we got lucky when we found Dr R. She was happy with his progress and filled us in on the next stage of treatment and some pretty big decisions we'll need to make in the future. She mentioned the risk of retinal detachment again, so he'll never play contact sports. And he may never drive a car. Things like that had never occurred to me, and it seems like a trivial thing to fixate on, but it really brought it home to me just how big a deal this condition is. I was devastated. I want to tell my boys that they can do anything they want to do when they grow up, but now somehow it feels like a little bit of lie. J simply won't be able to do whatever he wants, and that hurts. I know these things are a long way off, and hopefully there'll be more options for J in the future, but until then I'm dealing with a very different reality to the one I envisaged for my son. He can still have a great life, but it will be different, and for a little boy completely obsessed with vehicles of every description, it seems cruel to me that he may only ever be able to operate the toy versions of them.

We'll never be able to fix this thing, but we can make sure that J develops as much sight as possible in both eyes. At his age, while connections are still being built between the eyes and the brain, it's a case of use it or lose it. Which means putting a patch over the weaker eye for a few hours a day. Given his response to having to wear glasses I knew this would be a challenge. We had some time together on the weekend, and I decided to introduce the patch, or "special face sticker" as we call it. I put on my teacher's hat, and pulled out a few tricks (and a lot of bribes) and he wore it for a whole half hour. The teacher in me was proud, but watching him tripping over things and really struggling to see, the mummy side took over and I was fighting back the tears.

We've had a few developments with toilet training this week, and I've been wanting to wean him from the damn dummy soon, but part of me wonders if we should be bombarding him with so many changes  at the one time. Then last night he got so excited when he peed on the toilet I realised that we need to keep things as normal as possible if we want him to keep feeling like a normal kid. Peeing on the toilet is a big deal to a 2 year old, and any win is a big win. So while I want to indulge him, I think helping him to grow up, and treating him no differently to all the other toddlers out there, is the kindest thing I can do for him. And in a funny way, these small battles help me stay focused on what really matters.

As for Charlie, his eyes are completely different to his big brother's and a beautiful shade of blue. We'll have to take him to Dr R next time just to be sure, but we are almost 100% confident that he won't have any eye problems. We got lucky, with both boys really, but we're now left wondering whether we'll get lucky again, and if we're willing to take the risk. Read all about it in my next post "The Lottery."

The Eye of the Beholder

I honestly don't know where or how to start this post. It's been running through my head for a couple of weeks now, and I want to get it out there, as promised a few days ago, but it's going to take some time. I want to apologise to those of you who were worried about us after my last post, and assure all of you up front that we're ok. Here's the full story...

We've always suspected that our beautiful boy had some issues with his eye sight. Our GP advised us to wait until he was a bit older before we put him through the trauma of visiting an opthalmologist. So we did, glad for someone else to be making that call for us. I always thought it would be challenging to assess the eyesight of someone who couldn't yet tell you what they could or couldn't see, so it made perfect sense to me. On a whim, we decided to see if we could get him into a specialist while we were in Sydney recently. We thought, worst case scenario, he might have a lazy eye, or be short-sighted like me. So, on an idle Tuesday, days before Christmas and after D had flown back to Hong Kong for work, I drove us to a tiny paediatric opthalmology practice in Hurstville (a million miles out of my way, and a suburb I'd only ever been to once before) where we waited, and waited and waited. I almost pulled the pin a few times. I didn't want to be there, especially not on my own, and my little man was rapidly losing patience. I was convinced it was a waste of our time, and the time of the doctor who had squeezed us in as a favour to a friend who happened to work with J's grandfather. I was rude to the orthoptist who saw us first, and didn't allow her to put any drops into J's eyes. I just wanted someone to look at him, tell me if he looked normal or not, and be sent on my way.

The opthalmologist was more patient with me than I deserved and took a look at him like I had asked. She told me his eyes weren't "normal" and wanted to put drops in and take a closer look. Then I was scared. I did as she asked, waited for the drops to take effect and went back in with J half an hour later. By that stage we had been there over 2 hours and we were well past J's nap time. While we waited I had called D in tears just as he was about to board a 16 hour flight to New York. If I thought my half hour wait was long, his 16 hour one was excruciating. The opthalmologist looked at his eyes very carefully and talked me through everything she was doing. She diagnosed a very rare condition known as Ectopia Lentis et Pupillae (or ELeP), which basically means that his lenses and pupils have formed in the wrong place, in the opposite direction to each other. He's also really short-sighted, and one eye is worse than the other, so the bad eye is going to be a "lazy eye" sooner rather than later. So when my little man sits with his face pressed to the TV screen, it's not because he's a typical 2 year old, it's because he can't see it.

There's a lot about this condition that we don't know, but we do know that it can't be fixed, and it is progressive (meaning it will get worse), but there are things that we can do to help. We put in eye drops to dilate J's pupils and increase the area of his eye that he can see with. I cried the first time I had to do it, but it's getting less traumatic as J gets used to it, and his favourite stuffed toys now get eyedrops too. He also has to wear glasses. I've been wearing glasses for 20 years, and J's prescription is 5 times stronger than mine, so we're not off to a good start. Also, getting a toddler to wear glasses is like trying to walk a cat on a lead, but we're hoping he'll eventually realise they make life easier.

We had never heard of this condition before, and it's so rare that we haven't been able to find out a lot about it yet, there isn't even a Wikipedia page for it and our local GP had never heard of it. The doctor in Sydney suggested we also consult a neurosurgeon about J's wonky head, a terrifying prospect, even though there's a good chance the two things aren't related. Every time I sit down to research I get frightened sick by all the syndromes this condition is associated with and all the words I don't understand. There's no way of knowing how it will progress or affect his vision in the future. We do know he'll always need glasses, and he won't ever play contact sports, due to the high risk his retinas will detach. He'll probably develop cataracts or glaucoma at some point and may need surgery one day. What we do know about the condition isn't half as scary as what we don't know, and I am so grateful that we found a doctor who knew what she was looking at. I have been terribly busy freaking out about all the potential complications and issues this will raise for J in the future, but a lovely friend reminded me the other day that medical technology has come a long way in the last 30 years, so hopefully by the time J's eyes start to deteriorate, when he's in his 30's or 40's, more can be done for him.

The real blow came when we learned that this is a genetic condition, and a new term entered our vocabulary - autosomal recessive disorder. It means that D and I both carry the gene but we're not affected ourselves. When we first met we discovered we had a lot in common, who would've known that, along with a love of Coldplay and Cointreau, we also shared a defective gene... So, not only are we waiting to see how J will be affected by this condition, we're also waiting to see if our new little one also has it. There's a 25% chance baby will be affected, and a 50% chance he/she will carry the gene but have normal eyes, and another 25% chance there'll be no sign of the condition at all. I'm torn between feeling terribly guilty that we didn't find out sooner, and that we were so blase about falling pregnant again, potentially creating 2 little people with serious eye problems, and at the same time devastated that this has put an end to my dreams for a 3rd baby. We simply couldn't risk it knowing what we know now. We need to have genetic counselling, another nasty term, to find out if there are any other "surprises" lurking in our DNA but, for want of a better term, the horse has already bolted.

I've done a lot of crying and cursing since the diagnosis, and I feel sick with worry one minute, and relieved that it's not more serious the next. I'm angry that the joy of a new baby has been taken from me, and I will be anxious until I know for sure whether or not baby is affected too. Of all the awful things that could go wrong in the human body, this is fairly minor, and while we still have more tests to do, we know how lucky we are that it's not worse. Support from family and friends has been amazing, and has stopped me from heading to that dark, dark place I go to when I worry too much. A million thank you's aren't enough to cover that.

Whatever happens, J is still my bright, confident little man, and I'm reminding myself of that every day. I'm almost grateful that we didn't find out sooner because it has meant that we have always treated him as if he could see normally. He doesn't know any different, and whatever happens, he will always be my beautiful boy, even when he's a grown man who complains about his mother constantly calling to remind him to get his eyes checked. While I'm tempted to homeschool him for the rest of his life to spare him from incompetent teachers and cruel classmates, my hope is that we'll be able to surround him with people who know what they're doing, and who treat him like the great kid he is, and not the funny-looking one with the thick glasses. I'm determined to make sure he grows up knowing he can do anything, whether he can see or not. And as for the one on the way, he/she will be loved the same way - ferociously and completely.

Like I said, we were blindsided completely, and we're still struggling to come to grips with it all. We're on an unfamiliar path without a map, facing specialist appointments, battles over glasses, and big decisions to make about things like schools and treatments, all while getting on with the business of daily life with two kids. Stay tuned.

Mondayitis

Back in the dark ages when I was at school, the start of the new school year always coincided with my birthday at the end of January. Whether it fell on the last day of the holidays, or the first day of term, it always sucked. I counted my birthday as part of the holidays - Christmas, New Year, Summer, Birthday, so for me it always marked the end of something. Even though February, like August here, is the hottest month in Australia, going back to school meant summer was over, and it always made me sad. When I grew up and started working I relived that feeling every Sunday night. I'm going back to work tomorrow, although it seems strange to say "going back" because it's been so long since I really worked. Technically I'm starting again, a brand new job in a brand new school. It's the end of summer AND a Sunday night, and I have a serious case of the blues.

I haven't worked full-time since 2008 - a long time. I've been busy, you know, seeing the world, falling pregnant, having a baby and doting on him all day, every day. I was freaking out just a little at the prospect of going back to work, I really wasn't sure if I wanted to, let alone whether or not it was the right thing to do. I've been lucky that I haven't had to, really lucky I know, but a few unforeseen expenses later and now there's not much choice. I've been beside myself over the summer as I counted down the remaining days; juggling the feeling that I'm abandoning my little guy with the need to make sure we have money in the bank, always with the thought that this is a great job, that will be really good for my career, floating around in the back of my mind. I hate the thought of someone else spending the day with J, and I am especially worried about the impact my absence is going to have on him. I'm sure he's going to cope, he shouldn't miss me too much, but what worries me more is how he's going to change when our helper is in charge. Last week I stepped back a bit just to see how she would handle certain situations and my enthusiasm for going to work dwindled even further. It doesn't bode well. Working full-time and the inevitable exhaustion and mummy-guilt is also going to be detrimental for my poor, already neglected blog.

Apart from all that, and the gnawing-at-my-insides separation anxiety, this is a new job, in a school I've never worked in before. It's been a long time since I had to start again. When I was at school I only ever changed schools once, and that was because the school I went to for 11 years finished at year 10. So I went to school with basically the same group of kids for 11 years. I can't begin to tell you how terrified I was on the first day of year 11, and well, you can imagine how I coped with those early days at uni ("O Week", was more like "hell week"). This sheltered little life I led didn't exactly prepare me well for dealing with change. It may have been 15 years since I left school, a few years at uni and several jobs since graduation, but that fear of change, of the unknown, of the end of summer, is sitting like a rock in the pit of my stomach tonight. I was in a panic on Friday afternoon waiting for an email from the school telling me what time I would be starting tomorrow morning. I hated not knowing exactly when I had to be there, who I had to see and what exactly I would be doing.

Being the new kid is never easy. I may be standing at the front of the classroom these days but tomorrow I'll have more in common with the kids in their shiny new uniforms, nervously hoping I don't get lost, than with any of my colleagues. When you're new somewhere you want to make a good impression, but until you find your feet, until you've made a few friends and proven yourself, you're always going to be a little bit behind. I've already worked out what I'm going to wear, I've got my sensible shoes out, I've packed my bag with my snacks and supplies, and I've checked the bus timetable so I'll be on time (control freak maybe?). But I still don't know the kids I'll be working with, when I'll get to eat my meticulously packed lunch, and who I should sit next to in the staff-room. I've been in some pretty hostile staff-rooms in my time, and sometimes it's easier just to eat your lunch in your classroom, pretending you're really quite busy. It's just occurred to me I'll probably have to do playground "duty", a thought which, in this heat, scares me more than a hostile staff-room... The kids will always push their luck with new staff to see how much they can get away with. It's been such a long time since I've been bad-arse Mrs C that I'm not sure I remember how to show them that they can't get away with very much at all. I'm exhausted just thinking about it and I haven't even started yet!

So I'm going in at 8.15am tomorrow morning to face a lot of unknowns. It's more terrifying than exciting but I think it will be good for me, and if it's good for me, it'll be good for J (fingers crossed). One thing I do know for sure, is that I only have to get through 6 weeks of work (6 Sunday nights, 6 Mondays) before I get a week off, and the holidays are already on the calendar. And that reminds me why I became a teacher in the first place. Have a good week everyone.

Mission Aborted

Sorry doesn't begin to describe how I feel about bailing out of my promise to write a post every day this week, but I do have a very good excuse. You see, we must have done something to offend the powers that be recently, because we've had a few really bad days, a few bad weeks in fact. And did I mention there's a typhoon on the way...?


It all started when I left my boys to fend for themselves for a week, and J got a nasty chest infection. This plague upon our house then spread to my husband (man flu deserves a post all its own), and I finally succumbed this week. In an attempt to boost our little man's immune system after all this illness we took him to a homeopath last week. We came home with a bag full of supplements, administered them as per the instructions, and then watched as our child turned into a puffer fish after having an allergic reaction to one of them... He woke up an hour after we put him to bed, screaming the house down. His little face was red and swollen and he was having trouble breathing. We gave him some antihistamines and he quickly started to look more like himself, but he was clearly having stomach cramps. We spent the whole night awake, trying to make him more comfortable. Unfortunately that involved sleeping in his dad's arms, or between us in the bed. At one point D and I were perched on the very edges of our king-sized bed, wrapped around our son like awkwardly shaped bookends, exhausted and demoralised, and feeling certain that we were passing a parenthood rite of passage. Surely it couldn't get any worse than this...


But it did. J was fine after that night of horror, we were shattered, but relieved it hadn't been more serious. With the supplements safely placed in the back of the cupboard to gather dust with the lentils and green tea, we went on with the business of living. We had a great start to the week and all was well until J took a tumble down the stairs yesterday. He's always been fairly confident, but cautious when it comes to our staircase. There's a gate at either end so he can't tackle them boldly on his own, but he always checks to make sure the gate is closed when we're going up or down. It was while I was closing the gate behind us yesterday that J decided to step off the top step on his own and his little hand slipped out of mine. He was at the bottom before I could catch him. I thought I was scared on Friday night, but nothing prepared me for the terror I felt watching helplessly as my son fell down those damn stairs. When I got to the bottom, a split second behind him, I picked him up and checked for damage. Apart from a few bruises he was fine. Hysterical, but fine. We held onto each other as if our lives depended on it and he gently fell asleep on my shoulder. Relief quickly gave way to the guilt that comes with knowing I could've prevented the whole thing, and that it could've been much much worse. It didn't help matters when my husband pointed out that I needed to be more careful...clearly. I sobbed into my little guy's neck and gingerly took him upstairs to bed. Then I made plans to carpet the stairs.


I actually did write something yesterday but it was full of self-pity. I've been feeling very responsible for this run of bad luck, and since I've been back it seems like I've lost my groove. J didn't want anything to do with me on Friday night - his dad was the only one who could comfort him. Not only did I feel responsible for his pain, I felt obsolete as a mother. Then he had an accident on my watch, it was like I failing miserably at the one job I thought I could do. Here is an excerpt from what I wrote yesterday, just to give you a hint of how bad I was feeling...


So, I'm left feeling like the worst mother in the world and wondering if perhaps my boys would be better off, safer even, if I packed my bags and headed for the hills. I've never been a completely confident mother; I question myself a lot and wonder if I'm doing the right thing, and I take even the slightest criticism really personally. But I've always been confident that I was doing the best I could with what I had. The last few weeks I've felt like I've lost my mummy-mojo, and that my best simply won't do anymore. When I was a kid I expected a lot from my parents and I hated it when my mum would say "you'll understand when you have your own kids." One thing I do now understand is that parents are far from perfect, especially at the start, and sometimes no matter how hard we try, we can't stop our kids falling down the stairs. We just have to pray that if and when they do, they'll bounce. I'm taking full responsibility for the recent series of woes that have befallen us and I'm going to go upstairs and watch my beautiful boy sleep until I can figure out how to make my best better. Does anyone else ever have days like this? I'd really like to know.


You'll be happy to know that I didn't pack my bags, but I did go and watch my son sleeping. While I was there I pulled a book off the shelf that some friends gave us before J was born. It's called "1000 Top Tips for Mums and Dads," and it's brilliant. There are lots of great tips on general parenting for kids of all ages. Then at the back there's a chapter simply titled "Wisdom." It was if this chapter had been written for me, and it was exactly what I needed at the time. It talked about not beating yourself up when you have a bad day, but giving yourself credit for all the things that do go right. The book also reminded me that if you treat your kids with love and kindness, they'll love you unconditionally, no matter what (this also made me cry). J didn't blame me for his trip down the stairs. He'd completely forgotten about it by the time he woke up. My little boy wasn't going to forgive me, because there was nothing to forgive in his mind. It was a bit of a revelation! We might be sick and bruised, and our spirits might be slightly broken, but we're all still here, still functioning as a family, and that deserves to be celebrated. So yesterday afternoon I put the pity party away and we spent the gorgeous summer afternoon on the roof in the paddling pool. And that's why there wasn't a post yesterday.

The Comfort Zone

I am a bit addicted to this whole blogging thing, so I'm always thinking about topics and how I'm going to write about certain things. I really wanted to write a lot about my recent trip to the UK, and the whole time I was there I was on the lookout for interesting things. I had a great time, and I could write pages and pages on what I did, what I saw, my impressions of the place, and my friends, but I'm not sure how many of you would be interested in reading about it. So, what did I take away from the whole experience that I'd be willing to share...? Apart from the vast differences between this trip and the last time I was in London, eleven years ago, there was only one thing that really stood out. There's this little song and dance I do before I go away, especially far away. I do love travel, but I am rather set in my ways, so there are always moments before I go anywhere when I think I would much prefer to stay home. Especially when I'm particularly happy with my home life. Sometimes it's the fear of the unknown, or the sense of upheaval that comes with packing your bags and leaving the familiar behind. Other times it's just sheer laziness, but either way it's a battle to get myself out the door.

Being the first time that I was leaving my son behind this recent trip was no exception, and dragging myself out of that comfort zone caused me a whole lot of angst. I was due to fly out at midnight on Wednesday night but the flights were looking pretty full. Rather than risk not getting on I made a last minute decision to leave on the afternoon flight. I hated the thought of my little guy waking up from his afternoon nap to discover that while he was sleeping his mummy had left the country. I almost pulled out a couple of times but once I was on that plane there was no turning back. The crazy part was that I had wanted this trip. I needed a break, and I've been moaning for months about how hard it is being stuck here while my husband gallivants around Europe and North America (yes, I know it's his job, but it seems so unfair that he has so much fun doing it!). Eleven years ago I travelled because I desperately wanted to be somewhere, anywhere other than where I was. Today I'm living somewhere that feels pretty damn far away from where I started out, but I still feel that same urge to get away. Maybe not as strongly or as often, but the fact that travel is more available to us now, makes me feel like I'm missing out if I'm not taking advantage of it. And yet, at the last minute I really wanted to stay put.

While I was away I read an article where a mum talked about the way motherhood is a series of compromises. She said that there is always a part of you that misses the life you had before children - the freedom and fun and sleep. Then there's the part of you that wants to spend every waking moment with your child, the part that feels like something is missing when your little one isn't with you. You're always torn between the two. I could really relate to that internal battle. In indulging the part of me that needed time out, I was missing out on a week with the little person who is my reason for getting up in the morning. A big part of me was worried that I would miss J so much that I wouldn't enjoy myself, and I wondered whether or not he would forgive me for abandoning him temporarily. But there was also a tiny part of me that worried that I would enjoy being away too much, that I might just decide to hop on a train to Paris and leave the daily grind behind. It was becoming clear to me that maybe it wasn't just the comfort zone holding me back, but the way I was over-thinking everything.

Despite my reluctance to leave I had an amazing trip, and I left to come home feeling like I could've stayed longer.  I didn't have a terrible time but I didn't have such a great time that I couldn't bear to come home again. I think that having a child has made that comfort zone just a little bit more comfortable, but I needed to get out of it to realise just how much I like being exactly where I am. I got a lot out of this trip, but I'll have to fill you in later on how things went down at home while I was away....

Modern Dilemmas

Lately I've been faced with a bit of a dilemma; whether or not to go away with my husband, sans bebe. I think it says a lot about how lucky we are, if this is the biggest thing we have to worry about, so I'm grateful for that. I don't expect any sympathy for the fact that I have to decide whether or not I can face a trip to Milan (oh, poor me!) but I'm sure that most parents, at some point, need to get away and can at least relate to that aspect of my problem. I know if we still lived in Sydney and had a somewhat normal life we'd probably have left J with his grandparents months ago and headed off to the coast for a weekend. The fact that we're talking about an international business class trip might make me sound spoiled, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Before we were Mama and Dada we did a bit of travelling together and I went on two of D's work trips. Back then he was mostly flying to North America and the Middle East so I tagged along to New York and L.A. and we had an awesome, but brief, time. At the time I was working, and spending 32 hours on a plane for a 48 hour layover required more stamina than I could muster most weeks, so I didn't go away as often as I could have. As soon as J was born and I was grounded, D started flying to places like London, Milan and San Francisco, and he's had some incredible travel experiences without me, much to my dismay. As he's due to do his upgrade in a couple of months these trips will soon become a thing of the past, and I'll be a little less envious when he's flying to Taipei and back in a day. For a while now we've been talking about taking advantage of the great rosters and the option of me going to work with him once again, since Hong Kong's proximity to the rest of the world is one of the main reasons why we moved here in the first place. This month D was given a Milan trip with 2 whole days there. We talked about a side trip to Venice, and when we realised that it was a few days before our anniversary, it seemed like it was meant to be. Then we calculated that we'd be away from J for 4 nights, 3 days, and it seemed like an awfully long time to be on the other side of the world. We talked about taking him with us but the thought of a 12 hour flight with a 15 month old and an 8 hour time difference ruled that out pretty quickly. Putting him through that just because we couldn't be away from him seemed more selfish than going without him. We tried to justify it to ourselves in so many ways. It'd be good for us, he'd be fine, we'd make sure everyone in the neighbourhood knew we were away and ask them to check in. We talked to other parents about it and it seemed that everyone felt pretty strongly one way or the other, there were very few sitting on the fence with us. There were those who were quite happy to take off for a few days and leave the kids with the helper, and they wondered why we were even talking about it, "book now," they cried. Others hated leaving their kids for even a day, and wouldn't dream of going so far away without them. Their faces would twist into an agonised grimace as they said, "oh, no! I couldn't do that!" and looked at me like I was clearly a terrible mother for even thinking about it. People with more than one child were more likely to support the idea, and the older the kids are the easier it is to leave them apparently.

I was torn, and then D announced that if we were going to go we'd need to organise our wills and make sure we had decided who would take custody of J if anything happened to us. Suddenly our little trip to Venice took on a whole new light - I pictured the infinite number of ways we could come to grief (those gondolas are floating death traps!), and it suddenly seemed less appealing. So in the end D left last night, without me. He still plans to go to Venice and even though he was trying to appear disappointed, he was buzzing with barely contained excitement as he packed his bag. As it turns out, it wasn't meant to be; I have tonsillitis and wouldn't have been able to go anyway. Surely it's better that I chose not to go rather than being forced not to at the last minute? I would've been bitterly disappointed if I'd gone through all that angst, decided to go and then had to can the whole thing.

I know a certain friend was hoping I'd jump in and take the trip to Milan so that he could use it to encourage his wife to do the same. What I think would be a better solution would be for us girls to go away together and leave the dads in charge (sorry, S!). I wouldn't need any convincing for that kind of holiday; I'd be perfectly happy on the other side of the world if I knew J was with one of his parents. You see, this whole debate has got me thinking about the kinds of travel I really want to do, because these days it's a pretty big investment. I've realised I'm less keen for global adventure, and more interested in some quiet time somewhere else. Top of my list is obviously a family holiday, just the three of us. A parents-only break would be a nice treat if we could tear ourselves away. But deep down I'd really love to go away by myself. Just for a weekend, a few days, to get some sun, sleep, eat a meal without being interrupted and lie idle by a pool. Sounds fab doesn't it? And a lot easier to commit to.

For now we've decided on a trial baby-free getaway, somewhere close by instead, and next week for our anniversary we're off to Macau. We'll be gone for a night and the ferry trip is only an hour. So we could be back in a heartbeat if we needed to be. I have to admit, I'm ridiculously excited about it already, and if it all goes well and we cope without our little man for 24 hours, we'll see what the roster holds in May.

In other news, I've put my time lying sick in bed to good use, and I've given the blog a facelift. I hope you like it.

Pins and Needles

First I have to apologise for being quite slack in the blogging department lately, but once you read this post, you'll hopefully understand why.

I've mentioned on and off that I haven't been feeling great since J was born. Lack of sleep has had a lot to do with it, but I've also had some weird symptoms that have been getting progressively worse, and causing me a great deal of stress. I haven't really talked about this stuff with many people, so I'm sorry to those of you who are going to be thinking "I had no idea, why didn't you tell me?" It started out as numbness in my feet and pain in my hands while I was pregnant. My GP put it down to the fact that I had suddenly evolved into a camel and was retaining enough water to last me several months in the desert. She told me it would probably go away when I got back to my normal weight. Only, it didn't... It got worse, and pretty soon I was numb and tingling down the whole left side of my body. And pretty freaked out as you can imagine. I went to see a neurologist who put me through MRI's, blood tests and a whole lot of nerve tests, while I left my then 8-week-old baby at home and thought the worst. The more I worried about it, the worse the symptoms became, and by the end of the week I was a wreck! But the test results were all normal, and the doc put it all down to stress. Hearing that was enough to put me at ease and I was so relieved that I instantly felt much better.

But the symptoms didn't go away completely and after our trip to Bali in January I felt pretty lousy again. I figured if I felt so bad after the most relaxing week I'd had all year, how could it possibly be stress-related? My GP, who clearly thinks I'm a huge hypochondriac by now, sent me to another neurologist. He read the first doctor's report, and without doing any tests of his own or examining me in any way, prescribed what he called a "nerve relaxant." Now, when you get medication here, 9 times out of 10, it comes in a plastic bag, without any information, warnings, or ingredient lists. So I googled this particular medication, wanting to know what I was taking, and it turned out to be an antidepressant/antipsychotic combination... Frequent side effects (according to Dr Wikipedia) were things like drowsiness, nausea, dizziness, anxiety...! There are so many things wrong with that scenario that I don't know where to start. The fact that I was given something so potent (and inappropriate) and expected to take it without question, is so typical of the medical profession here, and quite concerning. I was also disappointed that I was given something that would cause such extreme side-effects, without warning, and despite the doctor knowing that I was responsible for a small child.  You'll be pleased to know I didn't take it, and I haven't been back to that doctor since. I also checked with a doctor in Aus, and he agreed that it wasn't something I should have been prescribed.

Unfortunately I was still left with these bizarre, uncomfortable symptoms, and no explanation or fix for them. I went back to my GP yet again and she basically told me that since they'd ruled out everything serious, I'd just have to live with it. At 32, with hopefully years ahead of me, that wasn't the response I was looking for. For the last couple of weeks I've been feeling completely wiped out, cold, numb, aching and quietly very worried. I'm ashamed to admit that the other night I was so worked up about it all that I had a panic attack. That, of course, made me feel even worse and it has been a battle ever since to keep myself calm. I just keep thinking about how I might feel in 10, 20 or 30 years, if I feel like this now. And if one pregnancy did this to my body, what will another one do? It could just be stress, and that would be great, oddly enough, but there's always that niggling voice in the back of my mind saying "what if it's not and they've missed something?"

I decided I had to be proactive, and not just accept that this is how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life. So I did what anyone living in HK who's been let down by Western medicine would do, I turned herbal. I had my first ever acupuncture treatment yesterday and I came home with a bag full of potions and supplements. I spent over half an hour just talking about my symptoms, with a lovely woman who seemed genuinely interested in my health. Then I got to lie on a bed in a warm room for another half an hour while she inserted the needles and let them do their work. I didn't feel instantly better afterwards, I didn't expect to, but I did feel incredibly relaxed and balanced. The first thing I noticed when I got down off the bed was that I could feel the carpet under my feet, a foreign sensation after all this time with numb feet. And I still feel quite serene and light. The Chinese medicinal potion I have to drink twice a day is foul, but I'll persist with it, and I can't wait to go back next week for my next acupuncture treatment. Who knows whether or not any of it is necessary, or if it will help, but I feel better knowing that I'm at least trying to help myself.

We experienced the same degree of frustration with the medical profession here when we were trying to find someone to fix J's crooked head (see Head Case) but we were lucky enough to eventually find, after much disappointment, someone who took our concerns seriously and who has helped more than we expected. The culture here seems to be to blindly trust and do what your doctors tell you to do. If I had done that I would've ended up taking something normally reserved for manic depressives and schizophrenics, and who knows how it would have affected me and my ability to look after my son. I'm not a firm believer in traditional Chinese medicine yet, but it has been around for so long that I figure it's worth a try. I'm also going to start a regular yoga class and treat myself to a foot massage once a week. I'm tired of feeling like my body is staging its own Jasmine Revolution, and I'm hoping that if I take better care of it I won't be forced into exile anytime soon. I will keep you all posted.

On another note, I want to say how truly sad I am to see the devastation in Japan, and to appeal for help. Hong Kong based readers please check out this site Hk Mama With Love, and donate if you can. They are a local group of mums collecting baby gear, food and clothes and sending it over to Japan. I saw on the news this morning that it has started snowing in the areas hardest hit by the tsunami, and with hundreds of thousands of people living in shelters, in freezing conditions, they need all the aid they can get. The Red Cross will take financial donations too. Have a good weekend everyone.

Things that go Bump in the Night

Our little guy doesn't crawl yet. From about 6 months of age he's much preferred to walk holding on to someone's hands. Despite reading a lot of negative reports about baby walkers we had to get one to save our backs and he loves it. We keep it downstairs and there's nowhere that he can trip or fall out of it so we feel confident that he's quite safe. He has full scope to chase the dog from one side of the living room to the other with a mischievous glint in his eye, and he lets us know he wants to go out by heading straight for the door. We were worried a few weeks ago that he wasn't crawling so we kept him out of the walker for a week. It didn't make any difference; he was just very cranky!

In the last week or so he's finally started showing signs that he might be crawling soon, and he is much more mobile. He's pulling himself up on furniture, and as soon as he's standing he gets a great big grin on his face, as if he's so very proud of himself. His latest manoeuvre is to transition from sitting to all fours by leaning forward (usually to grab something he's not supposed to) quickly followed by collapsing onto his belly. It's painful, but wickedly amusing, to watch him get so close to a crawl only to fail at the last hurdle. We're starting to realise how unsafe our house actually is as J lunges for cords and pulls things off shelves. We made an emergency purchase of stair gates, door closers, cord shorteners and corner cushions on Kiddicare.com this week so hopefully this time next week the place will be a little more baby-proof.

Our biggest worry, safety-wise, was the cot and we lowered it as soon as we realised J could use the bars to pull himself to standing. We've been a bit lazy to this point and have not been in the habit of raising the side gate. So late last night when we heard a loud crash coming from J's room we both instantly thought he'd fallen out of the cot and ran in there quicker than you can say "slack parents!" J was safely curled up asleep; all he'd done was kick the side of the cot, but my heart was palpitating for about an hour afterwards. The irony is, last night was the first night this week that J was feeling better and slept well...

I know as he gets older and able to get into more mischief we'll have to think of new ways to keep the house safe, but for now we're going to start by raising the side of the bed, every single night.

Thanks again for all the support this week, especially to the friends who offered to take my calls in the middle of the night; it's very much appreciated. We all got sick in the end and we're desperately hoping that we can harden up and avoid catching every little bug J brings home.  See you next week x

An Open Heart

Since this is something new for me I think it's important to clarify that this blog isn't meant to be a whinge about motherhood, but a celebration of it too. My first post was a bit negative and I feel the need to back it up with something a little more positive. So here's how I feel about being a Mum. I never had much direction in my twenties and had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. All I knew is that I wanted to be a mother, and now that I've realised that dream my ambition is to be good at it. Motherhood is everything I imagined it would be and more, and for the first time in my life I feel like I'm doing something that I was meant to do.

A family member once told me that motherhood is a "heart opener" and I can't think of a better description for it. There are times when I hold my son and look into his beautiful eyes that I feel a love I never thought possible. I want to take those moments and freeze them for days when I'm cleaning pureed carrot out of my favourite white t-shirt, and other times when I might forget for a moment how lucky I am. I feel a primal sense of protectiveness towards my son and know instinctively that I would do anything for him. This new love has made me more empathic and compassionate and, I think, a better person. I now find joy and excitement in the simplest things. Like the grin on his face when he first sees me in the morning or the sense of pride I feel when he reaches each milestone. One day last week we were eating lunch and J said "Mama" for the first time. I know he doesn't know what it means but they have to be the sweetest 2 syllables ever uttered. He has now worked out what makes us laugh and repeats things through the day and waits for a response. Our junior comedian is so cute we can't help but laugh. Yes, my heart is definitely so open and full of love I feel it might burst some days. Like tonight when I discovered the meaning of unconditional love. J had just finished his dinner and was 3/4 of the way through his bedtime bottle when it all came back up, projectile style. Shocked, I tried to catch it and ended up wearing most of it. This has never happened before so I was torn between revulsion ("yuck I'm covered in vomit") and distress ("what's wrong with my little boy?"). J was unaffected and so excited by the prospect of a second bath in the space of an hour that we wondered if he'd done it on purpose. After cleaning myself up and establishing that J was fine, I sat with him on the sofa and attempted the bottle again. I had already planned to write this post and was thinking I was going to have to dig pretty deep at the moment to find the positives when I looked down at J and noticed that he was gazing up at me adoringly. His huge grin made me feel as if I'd passed a secret test; the "proof of unconditional love test". In that moment the drenching I copped was forgotten. I just hope I don't have to take that test again...

On the flip side, this newfound and often overwhelming love and openness has made me worry more and feel hurt more deeply. There are times when I've been left searching for an inner strength I never knew I had. Like in the early days of colic and reflux, when we were left feeling completely helpless as our son screamed day and night for no apparent reason. When tragedy struck close to home recently I remember talking to my husband about the days when the biggest things we had to worry about was whether or not we could afford a holiday, or what movie we should see on a Friday night. I couldn't believe how silly we were to worry about the things we worried about. We had it good back then, if only we knew it. You've probably worked out by now that I am, by nature, a worrier. It runs in my family, and my grandmother assures me that I'll still be worrying about my children when I'm 85 and incontinent. The worrying might keep me awake at night but it means I appreciate and value what I have all the more. So bear this in mind when I'm complaining about sleep deprivation, jackhammers and projectile vomit, and I promise to write about the good times as well.