Burn Baby Burn

There are times in your life where you can sit back comfortably and say "Well I'm never doing that again!"

This is not one of those times.

Seeing how I can't sit comfortably at all.

But I'm never doing that again, all the same!

The 'that' that I am talking about is falling for one of those Group Buying sites, which purport to offer bigger better bargains on a whole host of needful things.

Foolishly my hips and I thought I needed to try the new body-shaping salon at our local shopping centre.

It sounded promising enough (well they always do don't they?) Save 70% on Two Sessions where "you could lose centimetres" from a chosen body part, without anaesthesia, scars, and no discomfort, if you can believe the hype.

I should've known something was up when the store itself wasn't actually named on the voucher, simply 'Shop 21' at the given address. Next hint was when I called the listed number and got an answering machine: "Sorry we can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and we'll get back to you." Again, no name, so no message from me.

Attempt number 3 proved a little more positive and I got to speak to an actual person- albeit one with a very strong accent.  I tentatively booked in for the next day.

Came the day I headed for the address, clutching the precious piece of paper that promised so much and trotted along with my hopes and my head up looking for the elusive 'Shop 21'.

I was received with great welcome and the offer of Chinese Green tea, which I respectfully declined...I was keen to start losing those centimetres!

Shown into a cubicle barely big enough for the bed, I was told to remove my jeans and lay down.  At least I think that's what I was told. So that's what I did. On her return the friendly little female fired up the machine destined to do the dirty work. Next thing that should've suggested this process was probably not recommended by doctors were the words 'Explosive Speed Grease' exploding across the front of the thing (What the hell?), but no, having spent my money with the rest of the Group, I was determined to suck it up, or at least let the machine do it for me...

First step, squirting cold conductor gel onto my flabby bits, followed by a gentle soothing massage with probe number one whose ultrasonic pulses start attacking the fat cells inside (the Radio Frequency mode).

Sorry, did I say 'soothing'? The thing emitted such a painfully high pitch while it worked that I was sure dogs from surrounding suburbs would come running to see what all the fuss was about. Either that or disappear in the opposite direction. Which is what I should have done. 

The sound was a strange robotic chime that went straight to the very centre of my hearing centre, which is a whole lot worse than it sounds (think Dentist drill times 100). It set my teeth on edge, and apparently also had a similar effect on my muscles as the friendly little female had to remind me to "Relax". (Guess she couldn't gently massage my gluteus maximus while it was maximised...) Trying to follow her instruction to "Enjoy the music" I had to tune out the squealing in my head to focus on the easternised version of a popular song: Simon and Garfunkel's 'Sounds of Silence'. (Does that sound like irony to you?)

Phase Two was a heat treatment designed to start breaking down the fat cells, ready for easy removal by the body (the delightful sounding Fat Cavitation). Unfortunately, the aforementioned female didn't reapply the gel and I started leaping off the bed every time she hit a dry patch of skin with the heat probe. "Sorry! Sorry!" she said as she then squirted enough gel to cover the necessary bits...along with my undies, the towel attempting to cover what remained of my modesty, and the bed itself. So now I'm lying there, butt in the air, in a puddle of cold conduction fluid. My only saving grace was that I had worn the 'good' undies.

Having survived Phase Two it was onto the final step- Lymphatic Drainage- a mini vacuum cleaner type attachment that promised to start sucking that fat right outta there.

By now I was way beyond relaxation, way beyond enjoying the sounds of silence, and much more in tune with my body saying it was not at all happy with my choice today.

So I wasn't particularly peeved when the friendly little female told me that my two hips equalled two sessions and my voucher was now used up. I walked out of there a lot faster than I walked in, and was indeed starting to 'feel the burn'. So much for 'no discomfort'! Unfortunately, I kept on feeling the burn well into the night (rather like sunburn on the inside), despite drinking the recommended water, and applying cool packs to the affected areas. By 5am, I was totally over the sensation, so here I am, sitting on a cold pack, dosed up on painkillers, with just as many centimetres as I set out with.

So no, I am absolutely, definitely, positively, and painfully never doing that again.

And as for Group Buying, methinks I have been well and truly burned.

Jx

©2012

Kits in the Kitchen

There's a drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.

We're talking bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.

Why is it in my kitchen?

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If you ask my Beloved, that is.

If you ask me - well, I actually can't post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.

See, our daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel ... and drums.

Coming from a fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say, you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family, across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session begins. It's the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.

But glockenspiel?

And drums?

Most kids get given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion section.

When our son joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet player in the school band, back in my day.  Happy to say I didn't embarrass myself when he brought the thing home and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the 'Great Satchmo' Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say 'Rest In Peace' but that's not likely with us on the trumpet).

So when our little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get a similar thing, maybe some 'girly' instrument like the flute.

But no, glockenspiel and drums it is.

So glockenspiel and drums are what's taking up residence in our residence. Albeit in the kitchen.

Thing is, there's not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.

Unlike my father when we were young, we're not about to kick kids out so that there can be a dedicated 'music room' (sometimes I swear he'd escape in there just to drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).

So we're attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.

Unfortunately we didn't do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn't stay in the car, even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.

You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the stove, and the cutlery drawer!

I can only say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some strange reason).

After a number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: "As soon as we get a decent spot cleared in the front room to set it up," is his not-so-promising reply.

Looks like I'm going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a  regular basis between now and then.

And if you can't stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!

Jx

©2012

104 Needles

That's how many, on average, my son has in any given year.

104 times each and every year I must prepare medication, draw it up into a syringe, before sticking the sharp end into my little boy.

More, if you count the extra shots for blood tests he needs to monitor the effect of what we inject.

You better believe both he and I hate it every single time.

See, despite being diagnosed with supposedly the 'best' type of Juvenile Arthritis there is (if there is any such thing as 'good' JIA), with traditionally the best prognosis for remission- medicated or spontaneous- by the time a child hits adolescence; my child isn't following the textbooks and instead of stopping the meds, we've had to increase instead.

9 years into this JIA journey, he and I are still finding a way to making medicine more fun.

When your child is first diagnosed with a disease like Juvenile Arthritis, a parent- usually the mother (nothing against dads, it's just the way it is) gets a fast track to a medical degree, without the fancy certificate to whack on your wall.

You pick up the lingo almost by osmosis to understand the parade of practitioners you pass on the path to a pain-free childhood. I can discuss ANA, CRP, ESR, FBC, and LFTs with the best of them (my Beloved however has missed a few lessons and doesn't yet know his RFs from his ABCs).

You also get a few tips on how to administer medication at home that is more at home in a hospital. If you're lucky, it comes as a liquid that's fairly well received. Tablet form's a little harder to swallow. If you've ever given a pet a pill, you'll know just how hard it can be. One of the tricks is hiding crushed tablets in foodstuffs of similar colour until they catch on - despite our best intentions our son still has an aversion to yellow food (Methotrexate is yellow). He's not alone, studies have shown kids all over the world have had the same reaction to cheese, custard, bananas, even egg yolks.

When all else fails, it's needle time.

For someone who's never given an injection before, it's a pretty daunting task.  Tougher still if you're among the many who have needle phobia and faint at the sight of blood (my Beloved again).

They tell you to practice on an orange, or any citrus fruit with a skin similar to that of a human body - just take an empty syringe and practise poking the needle through. A little deeper for intramuscular injections, a little less for subcutaneous (see, told I could do medico-speak).

Braver folk take the next step and stick it into themselves, to find the spot that's as painless as possible.  I've only ever done so by accident (it wasn't that painless, incidentally), and over the years I've become much better at avoiding needlestick injuries.

There are also ways to numb the site so it'll be alright on the night. But EMLA® and AnGEL® both take time to work...time for fretting about what's to come.  Ice can numb the skin, but also makes it tougher to pierce and it's more like poking through a watermelon than an orange. After a few years of tears, the doctors told us as long as the skin itself is clean, you can go without, which reduces the pre-emptive fear somewhat, if not the sting itself.

We've come through it about 364 times so far. That's like a needle every day for a year, with a day's grace for Christmas.

And so twice a week for the next year or so we will do it again, and my little boy and I will share the pain with the purpose of one of these drugs working one day.

104 more chances to stop a disease in its tracks, and bring an end to using my son as a human pincushion for the rest of his life.

I don't want to think about how many needles we'll be up to, if we don't.

Jx

©2012

Smear Campaign

There are many, many reasons to enjoy being a female.  Aside from the obvious, you've just gotta love the ability to appreciate beauty in all its forms without being labelled queer... having the Wild Card available of playing dumb with all things mechanical so someone else does the dirty work... being first off a sinking ship (unless one is unfortunate enough to be on board the Costa Concordia, and the Captain 'accidentally' falls into the lifeboat before you).

Then of course there's the not-so-fun stuff.

One of them springs up approximately every 2 years for women of child-bearing age.

Which comes up on my calendar right about now.

Being ever aware of what can go wrong with the human body, I take great pains to, well, avoid pain if at all possible. But sometimes it is unavoidable. You've gotta be cruel to be kind and all that jazz.

I've discussed the pleasures of my annual mammograms before. Thankfully I still have a 6 month reprieve before I have to go through that again.

This time it's your friendly neighbourhood Pap smear.

Being in my 40s I figure the amount of times I've had to undergo this fun little procedure to be about 13 times now.

It never gets any easier.

For the benefit of those who've never experienced one, here's a quick summary: female patient has to strip from the waist down, lie on a tiny little table with knees up, while a caring physician prepares a little duck-billed device that looks like Daffy Duck meets Iron Man: the shiny steel speculum, AKA gyno's delight.

They also come in disposable plastic, which is no less scary when it's going to be used on you.

The practitioner squirts a hefty dose of lubricant on the bill end of the thing and you're open for business (and I do mean in the biblical sense).

Consider this, you're lying there in this undignified position, trying to remember to breathe normally when the attending clinician says : "It's easier if you relax."

Yeah, easy for you to say, who doesn't have a metal device shoved in a delicate spot.

"No really, it will go a lot better if you don't hold your muscles quite so tight".

Try telling my legs this as they make like a vise and clamp together in my body's bid to end the indignity. It's amazing how much strength is in muscles you weren't even aware you had. Seriously, one doctor thought he was going to lose use of his hand.

Of course there are ways one can prepare for such an invasion of privacy (aside from the obvious personal grooming issues), but the usual ways people tend to relax are not suitable for this situation. Taking a muscle relaxant beforehand might sound good in theory but in practice it's kinda hard to drive yourself whilst under the influence.  And a quick nip of liquid courage may work wonders in other scenarios when one wants to loosen up, but probably not appropriate when one has to um, part one's legs but not fall about laughing at the same time. Seeing I had recently thrown my neck out (yet again) I opted for a massage right before the other appointment, to see if that could ease the tension.

So with slightly settled shoulders and some stone cold courage I front up at the doctors', follow meekly when my name is called, then just lay back and think of England.

At least it only takes 2 attempts (this time) to insert the speculum and wind it open enough for the nurse to get a scraping of my cervix.

You are then relieved of some cells in the name of science, unceremoniously offered the box of tissues to "clean yourself up a bit", and allowed to put the panties back on.

Unfortunately, you're then presented with the bill (these medical procedures don't come cheap you know) to pay for the pleasure.  Oh and then try to walk out of the surgery like you haven't just ridden three days from Dodge.

But since real life doesn't imitate CSI or those other forensic science shows on TV, you now have an anxious wait for results to see whether you're all clear for another 2 years. Or whether there's more gynaecological fun in your future.

Thankfully I have never gotten any fallout from these smear campaigns so far, and I can get on with life without any further impressions of a cowboy; at least until the next letter comes reminding me I'm due to pop in for a Pap.

Jx

©2012

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

There's something about bubbles.

Think a sweet sip of chilled champagne, the frothy foam in a steaming bath, the ubiquitous bottles of bubbles that show up in every child's party bag or wedding reception. And at least one chocolate company has marketed the fact that "it's the bubbles of nothing that make it really something".

And who hasn't succumbed to the pleasure of popping bubble wrap?

So you can appreciate the temptation that presents itself when a child's shiny new school book also comes with a bonus little bubble.

If you've ever had the parental pleasure of covering text books you'll know how hard it is to get the plastic wrap off the backing and onto the front and back of the book without crinkling, creasing, inadvertently sticking the stuff onto itself...or an air bubble. It's kinda like tinting your own windows, on a smaller, not-so-dark scale. And we all know how easily that little project can go pear-shaped.

So I cannot possibly tell you what possessed me to stick my hand up when the school asked for help covering a new batch of texts. Silly me thought maybe half a dozen books would come home with the kids, but somehow forgot that the vast majority of students at our school are orphans, apparently. The same few mothers (and some fathers I must acknowledge) always end up doing the bulk of the work when parental help is needed.  My designated pile of books wouldn't fit in the backpacks of both my kids combined. It took a couple of trips to the car with the backside falling out of the flimsy plastic bags they were packed in, before I could head home and get started on my latest volunteer work.

While the kids wound down from the pressures of learnin' (read: in front of television, snack in hand), I set to work measuring, cutting, and cracking the backs of a small mountain of materials designed to expand young minds. While my own went quietly crazy with the task.

Anyway, only a few hours after I started this insanity I sat back, exhausted, yet safe in the knowledge that no less than 22 new text books are protected from the pending onslaught of students.

And what do I see? About halfway down the pile, a brand new book covered front and back with glossy plastic coating.

And a damn bubble.

Now anyone who's ever sat down with a child to do homework knows how little it takes to distract said child from said homework. A sibling sitting too close. A catchy tune drifting in on the breeze from a stereo somewhere. The smell of dinner cooking. A bright shiny light. Now add the temptation of a little pocket of air and it's like bubble wrap personified. Many hours will be wasted by flicking, clicking, chasing it 'round the cover and trying to squeeze the air out. If we're lucky the bubble will burst first go, and there'll just be a little flaw in the plastic.

So now I have three choices. Try to tear the covering off and start again (but there's no guarantee same thing won't happen again next time). Simply not return that book and tell the school they miscounted (yeah right, 'cause they don't cover the 3 Rs at our school). Or send it back and hope that it's not the one issued to my child.  Maybe we'll get lucky and one of the alleged orphans will get it instead, let their parents keep them on task. Think of it as a small contribution to the school community.

I go with the last option, and realise that even though I completed my own schooling some 20-odd years ago now, I can still learn something.  Next time they ask for volunteers to cover the new books...I'll put my hand up for canteen duty instead.

Jx

©2012

The Worm Has Turned

My kids made some new friends during these summer school holidays.

I'm not sure I like them very much.

Now I want to make it clear here that I am not one of those 'Helicopter Parents' always hovering over their kids watching every little thing they do.  I like to think I give my children enough space to make their own decisions, which are hopefully the right ones.

Nor do I have to "approve" their choice of playmates- suffice to say I trust my kids to choose wisely, lest they get led astray and suffer the consequences.

No, no, I parent from the periphery most of the time, with a gentle reminder every now and then as needed.

But this time I really had to step in and have an intervention. This was one relationship I did not want to see become long term.

At the risk of grossing anyone out, especially those who might be in the midst of a meal right about now...I'm talking worms.

I suspected something was afoot, er, abutt, when I noticed a spike in appetites of both my children, along with a general increase in irritability, but it was that telltale scratching that gave the game away. I now knew who was hanging out with my kids.

According to the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne, threadworm is a common childhood infestation, and it's almost a rite of passage for Aussie schoolkids to bring them home. Mine were simply smack bang in the middle of normalcy. I should be so proud.

After this delightful discovery, it was off to the pharmacy for the latest worming treatment.

How proud was I, when after wandering up one aisle and down the next one, with two itchy kids in tow, boychild spotted an assistant and helpfully called out (in his biggest bestest voice no less): "Can you tell us where the worm treatment is please?"  Another Kodak moment in motherhood right there folks.  Thankfully, 'tis the season, and we were but one family making that same enquiry that day.

We were then faced with a big decision: to go with the one-size-fits-all suspension, or the ever-so-attractive chocolate squares that promised to take threadworm, roundworm and hookworm out of the family equation.

Happily, the kids wanted to try the special chocolate, and only my Beloved proved a problem in taking his medicine like a big boy (apparently I should have offered him the kid-friendly choc squares too, rather than the adult option I went with for us). But I was determined to follow the recommended advice and treat the whole family at once. All for one, and one for all, and all that.

Of course the real fun begins once the treatment is taken... you gotta make sure that every single family member has clean clothes and bedding every morning and night for at least the next three. Bath towels and hand towels too. Oh and don't forget to vacuum thoroughly around all the beds each day, just in case any eggs are left lying around. Those hardy little devils can lay in wait for up to two weeks for their next host. Evil eggs.

With this in mind, I pretty much took up residence in the laundry, Dyson in hand. (We had a lot of sandwiches over that time. With PLENTY of handwashing done in between.)

Happy to report that all the attention and treatment seemed to do the trick, and the budding relationship my children had formed was budding no more.  We're now at week three and worm-free.

So imagine my dismay when I turned up at vacation care yesterday to collect my kids only to be informed that a suspicious little bug had hopped off girlchild's head.

Ah headlice, my old foe.

I feel another intervention coming on...

Jx

©2012