Dear Blog

I suppose it is a heinous crime to have a blog and not to keep a blog - possibly the same as having a goldfish and not feeding it. I am guilty, I confess, of gross blog neglect. Can there ever be pardon for this foolish sin?

So I'm just checking in. Again. I'm still here. I live. I love. I inhale. I scream. I cry. I ache. I ponder. I laugh. I make. I break.

Since my last confession, so much has happened. My DH resigned his fairly prominent job. My baby started grade 1. I found me a business partner happy to think along the same lines as me. The guinea pig was raped by her son - oh the horror! I started a story. I stopped it because it was becoming so very, very sad. I started another one that looks more promising. I started a ladies' art night once a week which is TERRIFIC! I lost a LOT of money through an unscrupulous con artist. I painted a canvas or two. I took MANY photos of food on request and have yet to hear what the requester thinks - might not, but that's family for you. And I thought a long time about my life till now and have realised that I most probably will not ever go back to nursing (unless my DH remains unemployed for very much longer... watch this space).

So things continue. I think of you often, sweet Blog, and of all the things I know I want to tell you, and then I think of that family of mine and how much trouble I'd be in if I said the things I want to say, so I hold my tongue, and my breath, and feed on the blogs of others.

But I am here. I carry on. And I will try a little harder to check in more often.

Mystery of the Missing Menses

In a nutshell, my reproductive history can be likened to a piece of string:

* Tied the knot

* Learnt the ropes (twice)

* Got horribly tangled up

* Snipped the strings (courtesy of Mr Me)

If you follow, you'll understand that I am not a candidate for contraception. Be that as it may, I have been treating PCOS with the pill for about 2 years. Three months ago, I changed pills to one with a lower dose hormone as there is a history of breast cancer in my family, and lower estrogen intake is recommended in that regard.

My first cycle on the new pill was quite exciting. The PMS that arrived two days before my period was sent to test my resolve. More accurately, it was sent to test how much resolve I had NOT to actually act on the impulse to gouge out my husband's eyeballs with a rusty teaspoon, hammer chillies into his nostrils or shove a pineapple into an intimate orifice of his. (I was mulling these things over a salad, apparently). Apart from a few demon hours were my hair caught on fire and I danced naked around a bubbling cauldron for a bit, the first cycle was uneventful.

Cycle two was earmarked with lower back pain out of the middle ages - you know the kind that the donkeys got from drawing the carts laden with dead bodies through the muddy alleys (yes, I know, too much Monty Python). But it too was less than remarkable.

And cycle three? Well. Cycle three wasn't. My week came and went. No period. Period.

So, I hear what you're saying - you're saying "Couldn't you be? Just maybe? Just a little bit?"

I say "No."

Thing is, for me to be pregnant, it would have to be by immaculate conception (why is The Immaculate Conception even called that? Was it a neat and tidy incident?). The sperm, for one, would have to be completely phenomenal. For a start, it would have to have a titanium helmet with an all-purpose drill bit attached to the top to get out of his sealed off nursery. Then he'd have to be able to bungy jump the vast chasm of missing vas deferens to enter a viable propulsion chamber. After ejaculation, that mighty sperm amongst sperm would need to be smeared with anti-cervical plug lubricant as well as be equipped with elusive ovum detecting abilities. In fact, the latter would have to be so good that that little Wonder Sperm would need to find a non-existant egg to fertilise. Furthermore, that dedicated bit of flagellated DNA would need to defy the laws of nature that require suitable womb-lining for implantation, and bury its sweet prize in rock hard, dry endometrium.

All of this would, of course, be a bit like an inmate escaping Alcatraz with only a teaspoon and a packet of Cup-A-Soup, gate-crashing a party at Hugh Heffner's place, only to find out that the guests have already gone, and that all they left behind was a blow-up doll which our stalwart escapee persuades to take him home home to meet her parents, sleep with him and make him a full English breakfast the next morning. Unlikely.

So really, if I were pregnant after all that, the child I carried would have to be named Jesus (gender irrelevant) out of some reverence but mostly surprise. We would probably use the handy abbreviation: OMG! when labeling lunch-boxes and sports clobber (exclamation mark optional).

PS. I did a home pregnancy test at about 2pm this afternoon - just to make sure that the second coming was not going to happen on my watch. Results were negative, as I had suspected. But just to be on the safe side I have gone back to check it every hour or so hence.

PPS. While part of me thinks that being the mother of God could have some awesome kick-backs, the other part of me is grateful for the one line apparent in that test kit window.

PPPS. Note to self: Phone doctor at earliest convenience to find out what in heaven's name is going on with my girl bits.

The Death of the Easter Bunny and Other Misadventures in PMS

Easter Morning. Too early for sane people to have risen. An urgent little voice rouses me from my sleep. "Mommy," it demands. "You must wake up! It's Easter. And I looked outside. And the Easter Bunny HASN'T been! Is the Easter bunny even real?"

"It's too early for the Easter Bunny to have been. Go back to bed." I mumble.

Of course she doesn't. She goes to wake her sister and the two of them busy themselves with the PS2.

I roll over in bed. The man sleeping next to me has not flinched. He is immune to the early morning pleads of our offspring. I kick him in the shin.

"Here's the plan," I instruct the zombie lying before me. "We'll put all the eggs in one basket - literally. I'll get the breakfast things going and you put the choccies in a nice gift bag, take them around to the front door, ring the doorbell and the girls can find them there."

We are in agreement. The next few minutes are a jumble of pyjamas, clothing, shoes, gift bags, eggs, tissue paper and coffee. He disappears discreetly out the back door and I start a load of washing.

The doorbell rings. Unfortunately, I'm up to my elbows in er, cornflakes. I yell for the girls to get the door as my darling husband waltzes in the back door - a bead of perspiration clinging to his left eyebrow.

The girls dash to the door, struggle with the keys, open it and Lo, and behold! A beautiful gift bag lies abandoned on our doorstep. Oh the excitement! The sheer thrill of finding a treasure like this. Hastily they bring it in, giggling and chatting about what it could be and who it could be from.

Peering over their shoulders, the man of the house declares, "It's from the Easter Bunny, of course!"

"No, it isn't!" is not the response we were waiting for, but it is the one we got. The eldest child has discovered a card attached to the bag and proceeds to read it with great care: "Dear Air-Bear. Happy Birthday! From Hannah"

Silence erupts. And then the moment dissolves into utter confusion.

T-bird says, "Air-Bear, it's for you. From Hannah."

Air-Bear says, "But it's not my birthday."

Father says, "No! It's from the Easter bunny." And snatches the evil card away.

I shoot daggers at the man who, up until that point had played his role flawlessly. He gestures over their heads, "What?!?!?"

I gesture, "You die today."

I mean REALLY!!! Standing on the brink of the beauty which is childhood fantasy and the looming, neverending tide of reality and you go and do an irresponsible thing like that! Just throw it all away, why don't you! And while you're at it tell them the tooth fairy didn't react well to the Target insecticide spray and that Santa Claus died about 50 million years ago. Thank you very much, darling husband of mine!

Just Lucky, I guess

Oprah captured the idea best when she coined the phrase: "An Attitude of Grattitude".

I don't mean to sound condescending or pompous or supercilious, but I feel at moments (like this one right here) that I lead a charmed life. Sure, I don't have loads of material possessions and I'm still really behind as far as the latest and greatest technological developments go, but I genuinely feel that there is so much good in my life. So much to be grateful for. So many multi-faceted bits of magic that capture the sunlight and reflect splashes of light and love around me every day.

I know that I am lucky. I am privileged. I am fortunate.

Not in the "born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-her-mouth" kind of way. No. I am advantaged in a way that has nothing to do with class, status, career, wealth or accumulation.

The core of my great fortune rests in my little family.

My wonderful, caring, generous husband is a man who strives to protect his integrity in the face of the brutal cut-throat corporate world he is immersed in. And my two miraculous daughters flank their father; one a ray of sunshine, one an echo of moonlight. Two fantastic children who are amazing in their own right - I cannot fully comprehend how all three of these precious beings ended up in my care. I am just that fortunate.

My husband and I have just celebrated our eleventh anniversary. We are in a good place. We are friends. We talk. We embrace one another. We wait up for one another. We make each other tea. We sit quietly together - not saying anything - just being together. We laugh together. We love together. He is my king. He gets me. And I believe in him. It works for us.

My firstborn is my sunbeam. A poised and purposeful dancer. Graceful and determined. She is warm and strong. She is a bright and tenacious soul. Head-strong. Persistent. A leader. We do not always see eye-to-eye, and at times I am blinded by her brilliance, her insistence, her force. But she shines for me and I live for her. While I am warmed by her radiance, I fumble as I try to encourage her to harness the great power she possesses. Everyday my sun shines on me and I on her. We hold. We let go. We dance a complicated waltz. And while she has so much to learn about her dazzling character, I marvel at how lucky I am to witness her solar awakening.

My moonbeam child followed her sister very rapidly from the outer edges of the universe. She is a soulful, enlightened being. A thinker. A seeker. The holder of the secrets of the cosmos. An iridescent entity. My delicate moonlight sylph has an understanding of the world and what is beyond the world that far outreaches her few delicate years. She sees things. She understands things. She makes sense of things. She questions and she contemplates. And all the while her gentle spirit reaches out to those around her - a cooling hand, a soft embrace. She is beautiful empathy. The bringer of peace.

So privileged am I to have the influence of these three people in my life. I am wealthy beyond measure.

I have experienced pain. I have experienced sorrow. I have waded through misfortune. I juggle stress. I worry about money. I become annoyed. I can yell. I wish for more, for better. I doubt. I cry. I fear what the future may hold. I am just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. But I choose to see the magic in the good cards I have been dealt. And that makes all the difference.