24 Nov 2011
by Tamsinin Uncategorized
After a week of gruelling tests (definitely a post on that later) I have been a tad cranky. Today especially. Then a good friend of mine sent me a link to a review she’s just written about a beauty spa in South Africa. It made me laugh. Especially the bit about the breasts smothering you – I’ve had that one a couple of times.
It did, however, remind me of the time that I went for my very first facial. Another close friend, Diane, had bought me a facial as a birthday present. She had been utterly horrified when she’d heard that I’d never, ever bothered to get one and I was (cue fainting) nearly 30 at the time. It was with a lot of excitement that I beetled off to Fourways Mall for my first facial, ever.
I sauntered in. It wouldn’t DO to look gauche. I was ushered through to a quiet room that smelled heavenly and that oozed an atmosphere of soft light and nice things. The lovely lady doing my facial bustled in, wrapped my face in a hot towel and…bustled out. I was enjoying it. It was lovely.
I am ok with pipe music actually. Not so much whales but pipes are fine. Then again, I’ve always had an abysmal taste in music…
Anyway after a bit she came in to massage my face and rub oils in and wipe things off and all those other facial-style rituals that relax and soothe the tired mind. Except that when she gave me the intermittent massage, or rubbed lotions into my neck and shoulders, she would, ahem, run her hands down to my breasts (noombies, tatas, love pillows, etc) and massage them on the way back.
The first time it happened my entire brain went into Red Alert, “Warning, unauthorised access! Warning, unauthorised access!”
I stiffened. Was this supposed to happen?
I can remember the entire facial as if it was yesterday. I didn’t want to say anything because I was worried I was being an idiot and that this was, actually, the proper procedure. I tend to over-analyse things so my brain was rapidly churning out possible reasons for this development. All of them saying, “Tamsin, sshh, if you say anything she will think you are an idiot.”
And every time her hands moved down I could feel my entire body go rigid in dismay. Then it got too late to say anything. I mean, she’d been fondling my breasts on and off for twenty minutes already. If I said anything now, well, then I would offend her! So, I walked out of that room tenser than I have ever been in my life.
I immediately called Diane.
“Thanks so much for the facial, honey,” I said, possibly lying just a little bit.
“Ohhh, Dahlink!” she said, “Was it fabulous?”
I attempted casual, “I am not sure about the breast massage but my skin feels amazing.”
silence
“WHAT BREAST MASSAGE?” she screamed down the phone, “Did you go to the right place?”
I swear she nearly caused herself an internal injury when she got the story out of me. I have never heard anyone laugh that hard before.
12 Nov 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Baby, Husband, Mother, Squidge, Wee
I tend to avoid confessional style blog posts. I love the idea that I could be making people laugh and I also would rather tell deeply personal stuff to people face to face. This is about to change. I need to document what I am currently going through (god, that sounds dramatic, doesn’t it?) for my own posterity if nothing else.
For the past few weeks I’ve been feeling nauseous. So much so that one night, out with Squidge (a girl’s night treat as The Husband was away), I was gripped with such a wave of nausea that I could barely breathe. Now, this all was good news. Why? Because we have been trying to create Squidge Mark 2 for the past 11 months and I thought, “OMG, result!” When I was knocked up with Squidge I was ill all the time so this was potentially fabulous news.
The pregnancy test I had lurking at home was negative and I’d been experiencing kidney pains for a while so I figured it was time to go to the doctor. This is where it gets a tad tedious. Instead of my having a problem that can be described “above the belt” so to speak, I have to talk about pee. Oh, how my glamorous life continues.
There was peeing into jars (for which you now have to pay 30p) and testing and sending the samples off to the laboratory. Unexplained blood, could be an infection, don’t worry we will let you know. I totter home in tears. I know I can be a drama queen, but to go into a doctor hoping for pregnancy and walking out without anything but a possible infection is shit. And I hate the whole wishy washy, “Oh I don’t know what it is but the tests will show it“, attitude of doctor’s in the UK.
There, I’ve said it. It is a massive bone of contention between The Husband and I because I have absolutely no trust in this medical system at all. Not after my hellish experiences in pregnancy and labour and nearly losing my child because the doctors ignored me. But they are other stories for another time.
I didn’t go home with a feeling of knowing that it was likely an infection and that I was going to be alright. Instead I went home feeling like something was wrong but nobody knew what it was and, honestly, very worried that nobody would actually find it unless I pushed. This was Thursday afternoon.
The doc had said that the tests would be in on Monday so I needed to make an appointment to see them again after they came in. I did. I saw another doc but this man inspired confidence. He spoke straight, he gave me answers and he respected my nerves. The outcome?
The next bottle of pee revealed more blood. If the tests came back negative for infection then there was the possibility of malignancy and I needed to go to a specialist to test for the big C. I left the surgery in tatters. You see, I haven’t been feeling great for over a year and have ached and pained my way through 2011 thinking it was all part of getting old. Now a voice said, what if… What if? What if? What if?
It’s this voice that has accompanied me through the nights since Tuesday. The voice that started screaming on Wednesday morning when the doctor called to tell me that they were referring me to the specialist and to wait for the appointment in the mail.
The doctor did say that it was likely to be nothing, that the chances of me having cancer were slim but he also said that my history of smoking did put me in the danger area. Boy, have I been castigating myself for being incapable of losing that ridiculous habit. Bloody things.
So here I am. I have not yet had the appointment in the post nor have I found out the results of the first test. The doctor said they would call me if the result was positive so, theoretically, since I didn’t get a call it means the test did not show infection so it is likely that there is something else going on here. Terrifying much?
I vacillate between thinking that this is fine, I’ll be fine, and that at least I don’t smoke anymore, and thinking that I have failed in my life, have left no mark and that my daughter will grow up without her mother. Like I did. How do you stay positive in the face of What If? I don’t know. But I am going to find out…
11 Nov 2011
by Tamsinin Parenthood Tags: Child, Husband, Squidge
Squidge: E! E! guess what?
E: What?
Squidge: My dad burps really loudly after his supper
E: Gasp of amazement
Squidge: Yeah, he does! He does! And it is every time.
E: Cool
A few minutes later comes the response to the email sent to The Husband outlining the conversation…
I feel vaguely misrepresented here.
04 Oct 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Anniversary, Child, Husband, Mommy, School, School Run, Squidge
I have come to the conclusion that the School Run is not suited to a wedding anniversary. This is why…
7am: BLEEP BLEEP BLEEEP. The Husband’s built-in iPhone alarm wakes me up from a deep snore sleep. I realise I am still sick. I go back to sleep.
7:30am: Meep Meep Meep, WOOF. Meep Meep Meep WOOF. Squidge’s Animagic puppies (she got these for her birthday) are eeping at each other while she manages her doggy zoo on her bed. I place pillow over head. At this point the fact that it is a) our anniversary and b) my morning shift has not been remembered.
7:45am: “Mooooooommmeeeeee” The adorable voice howls, I mean, calls at me from the bottom of the stairs. I smell coffee. I rise, like a zombie (seriously, if you saw The Hair you would totally think I had been dragged out of a grave backwards) and head for the smell.
7:47 am: “Happy Anniversary darling,” says The Husband, looking annoyingly perky and talking to me before I have caffeine. I can get off on a technicality for that. He hands me a lovely card with blood on it, “Look,” he says, “I bled for you.” Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in my head. OH. My. Holy. Knickers. I have his card, but I haven’t written in it. I have his present, but it hasn’t arrived yet. I have his gift voucher, but I didn’t print it.
8am: I have shut the lounge door and am frantically writing in The Husband’s card. I pause for a moment to praise myself for its amusing joke involving the Kama Sutra. All the cards I buy him are rude. It’s important. I am also juggling a child who is not interested in remaining in the same room. She is like a cat. If the door is shut she has to go through it. I am trying to print Amazon voucher at the same time but screen faces kitchen and the door has glass panels so is blindingly obvious I have not prepared his present. The Husband is being rather sweet about pretending not to notice his Crap Wife.
8:01am: Fastest card writing and printing in the West. Duly handed over and I’m making French Toast for breakfast. We got some Manuka honey yesterday and, along with the Olbas oil tissues, the cough mixture, the Beechams, the honey and lemon tea, the rooibos tea and the echinacea it has been added to my “eff off you effing cold” armoury.
8:05am: Am frantically juggling hot spitty pan, temper is frazzling as coffee machine on a go slow and STILL no caffeine, and child has come into kitchen for the fourth time to argue about getting ready for school. “Mom, how am I supposed to get ready if I don’t have any school clothes to wear?” she asks. I snap. I pick her up and carry her into her room, dump her on floor, yank shirt, knickers, socks, and pinafore out of cupboard (all of which are in plain sight) while yelling (not REALLY yelling), “It is all here so stop coming up with excuses. WHY we have to go through this EVERY morning when *blah blah blah*”
8:15am: Sulky child sitting at table with French Toast. Husband glaring at Sulky Wife who knows she should not have gotten cross but is refusing to back down in spite of having now had some coffee. The Husband is also grumpy about being undermined by aforementioned wife when he weighed into Getting Dressed Argument. The Husband is tad sulky too. I attempt to lighten mood by going, “Ooooh, look, Manuka Honey!” The Husband responds with, “Bet it is just a marketing scam.” Child responds with, “It tastes funny! I don’t want it! Ack! Ack! It makes my throat burn.” I try to drown self in coffee mug.
8:25am: Child sits like angel while I brush her hair. She is, stubbornly, refusing to offer hugs and to make friends. She is a master manipulator and knows how to push her mother’s buttons. I am so pathetic.
8:30am: The Husband hurtles downstairs screaming, “TIME TO GO!!! We are late!!!” He insists Squidge goes as she is, sock-free, as she was told ages ago to get ready. He relents as he walks out the door, half carrying her and half putting her socks on. Silence reigns over the house.
8:55am: Email: Dear Husband, thank you for my lovely anniversary present. I love you. Not sure we should have our anniversary on a weekday anymore.
Reply: Well, quite.
16 Sep 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum
Ever seen Medium? If you like sci-fi/urban fantasy stuff watch it. If you don’t, don’t.
For those of you who have no clue what Medium is, or who Alison DuBois may be, allow me to explain. She is a (wait for it) medium (no, kidding!) who wakes up pretty much every night, screaming. Her poor husband is usually jolted awake by her panting, heaving, sweating, shouting and (as mentioned before) screaming. None of this has anything to do with sex. It’s her vivid dreams of the dead.
oh, wait, it may have something to do with sex after childbirth after all…
ANYWAY so last night I pulled an Alison on The Husband. There he was, happily snuggled beneath (most) of the duvet, snuffling contentedly when I woke him up by grabbing his chest violently.
In my defence I was half asleep.
I had this dream, you see, where I was at a lunch with a bunch of friends from South Africa. A very, very vivid dream where I found myself telling TeePot (she knows who she is) that The Husband had left me for a Karen Gillen look-alike. I was rather upset in the dream. It was so real that I sat up in horror and, well, grabbed my husband and ordered him to, “never leave me you asshat“.
Not exactly the way most men like to be woken up but The Husband appeared to take quite well….
15 Sep 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Fascinating Things Tags: Exercise, Fat, Husband, Saffa, Turning 40
You ever have a fat day? The day where you turn and accidentally catch sight of your ass in the mirror and a part of you starts screaming like Munch and doesn’t shut up for at least 24 hours?
yeah…
I get them. Funny how I get them more now that I actually am fat. I look back at skinny me and mentally slap her for stupidity. If I still had that old figure I’d be sitting here naked and wearing nothing but knickers on the school run. If I did that today, there would be heart attacks, medical emergencies and a restraining order. And that’s just from my husband…
I read, recently, that as you get older and into your 40s a woman’s body deposits fat on the arms and thighs as a part of some or other ageing process (translation: god has a sick sense of humour) but I had no idea this happened OVERNIGHT. Yes. If you are not 40 yet, please be warned that you will go to bed 39, looking ok, but wake up 40 with your upper arms and ass dragging on the floor behind you. Allow me to give you the name of a good surgeon…
Anyway, this morning, as I was wrestling my arms into some sleeves (kidding) I got an email from a dear, dear Saffa I love. This email has officially made me laugh so hard that I may need back surgery. Here it is, enjoy…
30 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Exercise, Fascinating, Fat
…do I really LOOK like a drug addicted maniac?
Let’s start at the beginning. Last week The Husband and I set out on our planned Home Renovation campaign that involved a lot of painting, sanding, cleaning, washing and (occasionally) yelling at each other. On our very first day I went down the stairs, slipped on a hidden puddle of paint, and fell down.
I only fell maybe three steps. Not far AT all, especially seeing as they are carpeted and I am well padded. Unfortunately the one step hit my left shoulder at exactly the wrong angle and knocked it out. The “()£*)(“*()*£” thing.
The pain is, I have to tell you, extraordinary. I screamed. No, wait. I fucking screamed. I didn’t bear down with stoic composure. I didn’t gracefully bite my lip and whisper to my husband for help. No, what I did was this…
As I hit the second step and felt the bugger pop out I screamed (and this was punctuated by the bonk thunk of my ass hitting subsequent steps) “AAAAMBUUUULAAAANCE!!!!”
The Husband went, “Oh no, not again“
It wasn’t a heartless remark, it was one filled with utter fear for me, knowing how agonising it can be. Off he ran to get the phone. I sat at the bottom of the stairs, holding onto my left arm as tightly as I could while sweat POURED off my face. When the nice paramedic arrived I stuck my arm at him and gasped, “Morphine!”
Ok, OK, I know this doesn’t look good. I do. But if you have ever dislocated anything you will know how completely painful it is. Apparently (I have no way of confirming this short of empirical testing, which I don’t plan to do any time soon) it is more painful than a break. I also have zero pain threshold and cannot cope with pain.
So morphine and entonox were, literally, my only lifeline. Last time my shoulder stayed out for around 6.5 hours as the A&E was busy. A real bugger when you realise that it takes about 10 mins to put me under and whack it back in.
Luckily for me, the arm swacked back in as I stood up to get in the ambulance. We didn’t know at the time, it took a VERY confused X-Ray technician for us to realise that the agonising pop that happened when I stood up was actually my arm returning to sender.
However, while I was there (and I must point out that my hair is still growing out of the short haircut and looks AWFUL and I have put on a ton of weight and I was wearing clothes covered in paint) a nice doctor sort of rushed me through the system so I wouldn’t have to wait six hours again.
I was beyond grateful until I suddenly realised, two days later, that maybe he wanted the scary bag lady out of there as I was scaring the elderly? Or I was his charity case for the day.
This was reinforced today when I went to the hospital for my check-up and, after vaguely poking at me and making me lift my arm, the guy goes, “It is very badly bruised and torn, don’t do anything for another 2-3 weeks.”
Fine. Frustrating, but I can live with that. However, when I asked him for pain relief he said, “No more for you, take paracetamol” like I was some kind of drug addicted freak.
To be fair, he didn’t know I spend all day in front of my desk typing as I work from home and have no choice BUT to work. STILL! Do I LOOK like a bloody codeine addict?
I think, perhaps, I need to get this mad mop of hair and this diet sorted out before someone hands me a trolley and 6 cats and tells me to get on with the mad cackling…
26 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Fascinating Things, Slightly Insane Tags: 40 Hour Famine, Charity, Fascinating, Starve for Charity
I know that it looks like I am a “start a charity page” addict but, to be fair, I am only as good as my last fundraising attempt and this year has been a little too self-absorbed for my liking.
While I was in the shower an idea came to me. As they do. Ideas always seem to appear when you are either half asleep at 2am and have woken up figuring out the answer to World Peace but forget to write it down and can’t remember it in the morning, when you are on the loo and too embarrassed to scream out, “HOONEEEY GIVE ME A PAPER AND A PEN IMMEDIATELY!!”, or when you are in the shower.
This time I remembered it because I thought, as you do, that it was a stroke of genius. I am going to starve myself for 40 hours, allowing no food to pass my lips from 01 September until 8pm on 02 September and raise money to help people struggling in the grip of a famine in Africa. For 40 hours I’ll get to experience what they have for MONTHS.
What the people of Somalia are experiencing at the moment is beyond horrific. Women are being raped as the try to cross over the border, their children are forced to watch, fathers bury their children as they die from hunger. It is like the scene out of a horror movie and yet, this is happening right this minute.
If you are about to eat a sandwich or drink a cup of tea, pause for a minute and know that what you are holding in your hand is like an unobtainable dream for some of these people.
So, here I am, hat in hand, asking you to take five minutes out of your day to donate to my fundraising event. You honestly don’t need to donate a lot. 10p? SURE! £5? Awesome! Anything you can spare, anything, will make all the difference in the world.
Please help me to make a difference on 01 September.
22 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Fascinating, Husband, Mommy, Poo, Squidge
The Husband and I, since July 2006, have been haunted by the Inconvenient Poo.
It all started when Squidge was a baby. As we sat down to dinner, looking down at the adorable little baby in her playpen/cot/pram/baby holding device with fond eyes and happy smiles, she would get that focused expression that can only mean one thing. An enormous poo.
At first we didn’t notice but after a few weeks we realised that, no matter how we shifted the timing, Squidge would have a poo as we sat down to eat our dinner. I am surprised that I wasn’t really thin back then. It is hard to return to cold food after having wrestled, for ten minutes, with a crap that has possible sentience.
We even named her poos after Scottish distilleries when Squidge had the most powerful and utterly terrifying poo ever at the Glenmorangie distillery. I was off on the tour, sipping whiskey and licking whisky caskets (no, not really) while The Husband had to race into the nearest loo and literally CUT her clothes off her and throw them in the bin. There was, apparently, poo up to her neck.
So, those violent and messy poos are Glenmorangies, the ones that are accompanied by lots of noise and dramatic crashing noises but somehow yield no real results are called Dalwhinnies, and the Glenfiddich is the more casual and yet alarmingly whiffy poo.
To this day Squidge will declare, usually in a loud voice and usually at a restaurant (with non-child carrying friends trying not to look horrified), that she requires a poo JUST as the food lands on the table.
However, the Inconvenient Poo does not just strike when food is nearby. It has a plan. It wants me to have a nervous breakdown and cause my last nerve endings to collapse in anguish. For the Inconvenient Poo will almost always arrive WHEN WE HAVE JUST LEFT THE LAST TOILET BEHIND.
And when I say last toilet I mean – it is late and we are in town and all the shops are closed and there are no nearby pubs or restaurants, we have just hiked to the beach where there are NO public toilets in reach and an accident WILL occur by the time we hike to the ones we can find, on a bus, on a train when I am carrying 16 bags and then have to wrestle them, her and ME into the tiny toilet, on a train where all the toilets are out of order and there are still 1.5 hours to go (this HAS happened), and when all the toilets in the surrounding area are out of order…
We have also had the, “Oh I didn’t realise I had a poo” while standing in it on the floor of a restaurant. The “Oh god what the hell do I do with this” poo that appeared while walking through a nearby farm and resulted in my burying it. I still feel faintly worried about that farmer hunting me down somehow. And the “I appear to have had an accident mum” when in the car on the M25 where (apparently) nobody is allowed to wee because there are NO TOILETS.
Actually, am considering a side business of opening up some rent-a-toilets on the M25 for people like me who drank an entire large skinny latte before hitting the M25 and then realising, in a massive traffic jam, that Houston had a Problem.
To this day we are haunted by the Inconvenient Poo, an all powerful being that remains utterly in control. The only weapons we have are wipes and spare knickers. Stay on your guard parents, next time it could be you…
15 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Husband, Mommy, School, Squidge
On Friday morning I was running around the house like a blue-arsed fly, trying to get all my ducks in a row before I went to meet up with other mums in the park. This whole “juggle a full time workload with a school holiday” thing is rather tough. I am so tired I may need a holiday off on my own when Squidge goes back to school. Am SUCH a lightweight…
ANYWAY
I am pootling this way and beetling that when I suddenly realise that I’ve failed to call my poor father in two weeks. “Shit,” I say, believing it to be a barely heard mutter. I should know by now that I am incapable of anything quiet. I was born without volume control…
Squidge looks up at me in horror.
“Mummy!” she says, “Did you just say ‘shit‘?”
I look at her guiltily.
She shakes her head and says, “Daddy is supposed to say that, not you.”
I am NOT kidding…
I laughed so hard I sneezed.
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