Worry wrinkles

I'm worried that I'm worrying too much.
Someone once said to me, "I would never have had kids if I knew how much I'd worry".  At the time I didn't grasp the concept, but after some big illnesses with our kids, and having seen other kids break their bits, I now would quite happily sit at home on the very soft lounge with three little mounds of cottonwool-formerly-children.
And worry is not good for our beauty mummy ducks. 
During a rather major stint of worrying my hair decided to join the party and zap the living colour out of itself.  But I didn't go grey with some funky slick spouting out right at my cowlick at the front, nor did it ease me into it with a little smattering of nice evenly streaked looking grey. Nooooo. One nice big fat patch at the crown of my head, in the shape of a rugby ball, and another slug, smack bang on the side of my head, like a flippin' koala's ear. 
To add to the downward Giant Slide, I came out of the same experience with about 8 years worth of wrinkles, particularly prominent at the frown mark area. And "what were those cracks in my eyes?" as my boys so eloquently put it.
Worry.  Not worth it.  Doesn't get you anywhere (except UP the age ladder).
Someone suggested Botox for a quick fix, might lift my spirits after all the worry. But if Botox makes you not frown because you've bazookered the muscles therefore getting rid of the frown lines, then maybe, umm, well I just won't frown.  Rocket science.
So, because I don't stick needles into myself unless medically necessary, my new aim is to stop worrying.  And start smiling, because I want to look like these smiley, worldly women when I'm 70. 

I want smile wrinkles. Nice big crows feet which say I have laughed hilariously with my family and friends.  Permanent grin marks around my mouth, bright happy eyes and a big old relaxed look to my beautiful wrinkly noggin.
So from now on I'm going to close my eyes, look away and don't wait for it to never happen. I'm going to go a little Buddhist and try and live in the moment - 'oh look, Big Bad School Dude climbed to the top of the LIQUID AMBER!  Don't think about it.... ohmmmmm......'
Then I will find that, guess what - he's still there (ignore the fact that he's waving to me with both hands). And I have survived the experience without the worry and without the grey hair.
So I tell myself.

Hope

Lately I have been trying to explain some good news we've had in our family.  It goes something like this:
'Our daughter has a shadow of bone growing in the empty cavity of her hip joint. She will be susceptible to arthritis and will be disabled.'  Those are her newborn, healthy, little feet and legs you see above.
I often get the raised eyebrow, silently asking, and this is good news?
The rest of it goes:
'The other option was that the bone had disappeared all together. This would mean our daughter will be susceptible to arthritis and will be disabled.   But at least now there's hope.'
That is the only difference at this stage, a word, a feeling - hope.
Hope that she may grow a 100 per cent normal hip ball joint.  Hope that she won't even have a limp, let alone be the proud owner of a wheelchair.  And - please God - hope that she has no pain.
I sound rather dramatic to myself at times, when all these words come out of my mouth.  I am well aware on the scale of sick children we are on the 90th Percentile of Hope.  Every time we see our wonderful doctor at Sydney Children's Hospital - aka home of much 0-10 Percentile of Hope - I am quickly pulled into line with my dramatics.
However, at times the issue has swamped me.
But now we have hope.
And I'm telling you, it feels better than Christmas.

The things they say

Mr Three's "Chinese Salami"

(aka Japanese Tsunami)

And another....
Mr Three: "....Was I in your tummy then mummy?"
Mr Five, the all-knowing big brother: "No, you were still in God's power then.  He held you in his arms, like a baby, up there in heaven [raise eyes and throw head heaven-ward], he was making you really super great, giving you big muscles and a smart brain and making you the best. 
Then it was dark and he just chucked you down. And, well, that's it."

More please Mummy Ducks!!

Boogey woogey bugle boys

“All the lectures you deliver may be very wise and true,

But I’d rather get my lesson by observing what you do.

Though I might not understand you and the fine advice you give.

There’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.”

Edgar Guest

When I read this I started planning a behaviour to teach my children by osmosis. But the actions I wanted to change were the ones I wished were better in myself, not my children.

The more I thought about it, the less I could find something in them which needed changing, because today, they are perfect.

Then, at school this morning, I watched as the "bell" - which is actually music - went off. Up til now it has been Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which is better than any coffee or bucket of water to wake me up, so I imagine it's a magical way to start a little person's day.

Today it was changed, to a rock song.  The school playground stopped in it's game-of-catch tracks, and began an en mass uniformed boogey.  Faces were shining, cheeks were laughing, arms were stylin' and bottoms were waggling their little hearts out. Fantastic!

So the behaviour I decided to model for my children was dancing.

We practiced tonight.  I taught our baby girl the polka from the comfort of my arms - she roared with laughter and sparkled with excitement. Who says you need leg control to be able to dance! Our Action Man did some hip hop to Vivaldi, at the same time expending some of his never ending supply of energy, and giggling til he fell over. Big brother Mr Cool School was conducting Vivaldi's orchestra amdist the Indian dancing he learnt this week at his wonderful school. "MORE MORE MORE!!!" 

I forgot how I LOVE dancing.  It made me smile, and it's been a while.  In fact, I laughed til I had tears and was on the floor giggling with the three of them too. I saw that our precious little girl will never be lacking despite her setbacks, when she has this kind of spirit in her life. That her brothers will encourage it for her sake, and benefit by the tonne from it too. So dance we will, every single day. 

Kids are extraodinary in what they can teach you.

Against All Odds.

Kids are truly the most amazing little creatures God made. They surprise you when you least expect it, and most need it.

They whinge, cry, snivel and screech at the edge of your patience all day long til you begin combusting a million mummy pieces all over the kitchen bench. Then, just as you squeeze them into the highchair trying hard not to strangle their belly on purpose with the belt, they hold your face delicately and say “Mummy? Lub yooooou!”

Your vibrant little chatterbox is in hospital so sick he hasn’t moved from foetal position, opened his eyes or spoken a single word for two days. Then his beloved brother walks in the room: He sits bolt upright, colour pouring into his cheeks, points a demanding finger and states “Wash your hands with the squirty stuff before you come to kiss me”.

You spend the week in tears because you have been told, after six months of waiting, hoping, worrying and doing everything in your power to avoid, the very worst news: Your beautiful baby girl will be disabled.

Five days later she takes her first steps.

First day of Big School

What a momentous occasion this feels like.
The build up begins the year before, with orientation, meeting "buddy's", buying oversize, unnatural feeling uniforms, and preparatory talks with your child on how the day pans out at big school - how you can't just go to the toilet willy nilly and bare your bottom to the playground when you wee, like you do at Kindy.
Then there's the build up for mum. Talk of Tea and Tears commiserations after the first drop off. Picturing your little teeny weeny person, drowning in his huge enormous uniform, like a sea turtle wobbling about under his bag. Thinking about how he'll cope left on his own in the playground, swallowed by the mass of kids who know what to do.
Will he take in everything the teacher says - will he miss something important he's supposed to do or know? How will he cope with all that sitting in one spot and concentrating on learning things which are so foreign to him - writing, reading, maths? Please God don't let it be too hot in the un-air conditioned classroom, he'll flag before 9am!
Finally, it's pick up time. I'm there 20 minutes early. Waiting. Wondering. Watching the closed door.
Then it opens. Out come 25 umbrella-like navy sunhats all squashed in a group together. Which one is he?!!!
A break-away hat comes toward me and there is it - a grown up, 'I can do this school stuff'-swagger, and one helluva huge smile.
I've never felt so proud in all my life.

Living the nightmare

Sick kids is the true definition of living the nightmare.
You cannot take your focus off the pale, immobile, glazed-over little being, which is the most precious thing in your life. It looks as if a force greater than you is gradually sipping at their soul and strength. You know it won't stop till your child is fully drained. And you are so absolutely powerless to do anything about it.
Your head is only filled with questions of what to do for them. Doctor again? A different doctor? Hospital? Water, inhaler, Panadol?
You can't see past right now: Their face, their fright, their pain is a 360 degree canvas wrapped around your conscious.
You need something to break the dark momentum. But the hospital doctors seem as confused as you are. Moreso. The canvas grows darker and ever larger.
Then it spreads. You see the same signs in your other children, in your small, fragile baby. You plead with doctors it's going the same way but they maintain powerlessness to act until the disease makes it's mark. But by then, you know it will be too late; they too will end this fading into white hospital sheets and walls.