tOOleS

2009-03-26T23:39:00.000+11:00

I remember her.

Confused. Lonely. Dazzled.

Walking through the world skeleton first.

Dark and moody.

I don't want to forget her.
I don't want to be her either.

When you trawl through your history you remember your youth like a jewel. Like anything it's tumbled and polished over time and it looks cleaner and more precious than it really was.

I don't want to do that. I want to remember what it was.
Gritty, messy and dark.

It was the foundation for where I am now.

Once I was milk crates and planks of wood. Musicians and writers.

Now I'm Ikea and shiny cars. Children and scribble on the walls.

Nothing's changed. I'm the same - only the world around me has evolved.

2009-03-22T23:37:00.005+11:00

I'm still here. Kind of.

The past couple of years have been fuller than I thought I would ever cope with. There you go. I'm a mum.

My days are completely swallowed by the work I have to do. The challenges and the frustrations of trying to be me in the middle of being someone everyone else needed me to be.

And the years pass like a long sigh. You don't even notice they're disapearing.

One day, you wake up again and it's almost as if you'd been asleep the whole time. You've missed nothing, you've had a full life.

Just.... you weren't consciously part of it.

Life's easier when you don't try too hard to live it.

2007-11-29T23:05:00.000+11:00

DISGUST

The boy is teething and his sharp screams of pain are the epitome of frustration.

There’s so much he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why his mouth hurts. He doesn’t understand why I’m not fixing it. He doesn’t understand why his mother slapped his legs for just playing.

Neither does his mother.

He was pinching and pulling at the light tuffs of hair around my neck. The pain was excruciating but he didn’t understand. Still, I snapped. I always swore I wouldn’t be this kind of parent and now I’m disgusted with myself. It was just one short, sharp slap but he went from laughing joyously at my repetition of “no” to the most horrified face I’ve ever seen.

That’s a look I don’t ever want to forget.

Perhaps it will remind my why I was so against hitting as a form of punishment. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be the kind of adult that lashes out at a child because they’re frustrated.

I always saw hitting as a sign of incompetence.

Parent’s are only human, I accept that. But we are supposed to be adults. We are supposed to be restrained and controlled. I can’t say I won’t do it again – be it from exhaustion, frustration, fear or plain and simple anger. I am, after all, only human. Like any animal I am prone to momentary lapses in control.

But the self-loathing and disgust I feel will well up each and every time.

2007-11-20T23:24:00.001+11:00

ABSORBED

Each day with little boy just gets better.

No longer is he a tiny lump of babiness but he's turned into his own little character and I am totally wrapped in him.

For he past 12 months that's where my dedication has been. I have done nothing but watch him change. At times I've been upset and angry at all I had lost - my creativity sapped, my Independence obliterated, my privacy non-existent, my strength tested.

But be damned if it doesn't take just one belly-laugh from the boy and it's all forgotten. One hug and I'm completely his.

Today his chubbiness played in an empty wading pool with a 4-litre ice-cream container of water and some little plastic animals. We'd set the mini-water world up in the loungeroom because it was too hot to go outside.

He splashed, the water spraying finely across my face each time and I didn't wipe it away. I didn't want to move but instead just laid there watching him.

He was so amazed and fascinated by the way the water felt and how it flowed across the crumpled plastic pool's floor. His eyes lit up with surprise each time the water splashed into his face and then he would laugh joyously as if it were the greatest experience of his life.

Laying on the carpet I was wrapped into his little world. Each splash a discovery of something I'd long forgotten. And I couldn't have had a happier moment then to be there with him while he discovered this.

The funny thing is, all of my life I've been so afraid of losing myself to someone else. Why? What's so frightening about giving yourself over to the people you love?

In many respects, nothing has changed. I am still who I am. But for right now the lives of those around me have me hypnotized; absorbed.

And it's not frightening at all. In fact, it's exhilarating.

Well, except for the eye-watering nappies.

2007-11-19T00:27:00.000+11:00

OH BROTHER

Even since I was little, I have imitated my big brother.

I wanted to play the sports he had outstanding skills at - soccer; martial arts; archery. I listened to the music he listened to and we fought over who liked them first. I wanted to go where he went. I wanted to do what he did. I wanted the friend he had.

He was my idol.

He still is.

No doubt he saw me as nothing more than a pesky little sister who got on his nerves but the truth was I would intentionally goad him just for a little attention. I used to untune his guitars just so he'd spend and extra 30-minutes in the loungeroom tuning them. I would "borrow" his music just so he would have to come looking for it.

Little changed when we go older. Only the methods of trying to get his attention became more sophisticated (at least I thought so).

I worked hard in a job I loathed, bought a unit I didn't need, travelled the world to extricate myself from a family dispute and . In doing all of this all I've ever wanted was for him to see that I was a success just like him.

Over the years I've speculated as to why he wants little to nothing to do with me. I've told myself lies that I know aren't true. I've fomulated theories about his situation. But I can't hold onto them anymore.

I'm a dissapointment to him.

And it doesn't matter how old you are. It doesn't matter who you are. There will always be a link between siblings that goes unsaid.

Little sisters will always look up to older brothers, in the hope one day they'll look down and see them.

2007-04-01T23:19:00.000+10:00

RAMBLING 26

According to my doctors it wasn't anything too dramatic. A little, just a little, internal bleeding. Over the course of a few weeks I became increasingly anemic until my doctor suggested I make a rapid visit to the local hospital for a transfusion.

But despite all of the exhaustion the one thing that amazes me and that I can't seem to shake my affection for a certain little boy. With all that's going on, his gummy smile is enough to force me to battle against the exhaustion and make it through yet another day.

Currently I am getting better but there is still a way to go. According to the doctors recovering from anemia is more a matter of months than weeks so it'll probably still be some time before I get my act together.

Don't stress though. I will be back. A lot has happened and 99 per cent of it has been good. My little boy has changed so much from the

Enough of the rant. I'm off to bed.

For now, it's

Goodnight.

Hopefully I'll be back soon and I'll be able to put all of my experiences into some sort of order.

I

just pray that all of these memories don't slip away.

Keeping tOOleS up to date is difficult at the best of times and right now it just isn't a priority.

Little boy tops that list.

My Tom comes in a very close second.

Not that it's a competition. Right now I just can't seem to find where one day begins and the other ends. They're all merging together.

Only little boy isn't the reason for that. I'm grappling for some time to myself and it appears that with how busy the day is, the late nights are the only time I have to myself. Unfortunately being exhausted doesn't allow for clarity of thought.

Perhaps I should stop putting so much pressure on myself.

Question all the expectations that others have heaped upon my shoulders.

Resist the temptation to judge myself too harshly.

Some things are easier said than done.

Try silencing the voices of a dozen generations coursing through your veins.

Understand that everyone means well but that when it come down to it, every child is different and every way of reacting to them differs too. Little boy, for example, is

very fond of staying awake all day but lucky for me he chooses to sleep through the night at only eight weeks.

We'll just have to wait and see what happens.

X-rays, stitches, injections. All of these things are in the future. He will break bones and scrape his knee but I can't be burdening myself with those worries now. We have

years in which to experience all these worries. For now, I need to get myself healthy. Otherwise it'll be impossible for me to cope with what's to come. Anyhow, off to bed for some well earned

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

2007-02-05T19:54:00.000+11:00

TIME

It’s taken 19 days but I’m finally in the swing of things.

I can tell what cries mean what. The hungry cry. The tired cry. The attention cry.

It’s as though all the pieces fell into place one morning. Suddenly I could understand what he was saying when he wasn’t saying a word.

Little rascal is now so tired that he won’t sleep. This is the most frustrating of cries because you know the solution is a simple as him closing his eyes. But he hasn’t learned that yet – instead he just looks at me all confused and frustrated wondering why I don’t fix what’s wrong.

Time cures this cry.

Time cure all.

As for getting my head around the trauma of the birth – I’m slowly coming to terms with that. I don’t feel as angry as I did in the first week. Perhaps the anguish and the nightmares heal just like the wound. Each day the pain is a little less.

I’m getting more sleep. That always helps. I’m also being treated for anemia which was making my life just that much harder.

For now though, Boy and I are getting on pretty well. I no longer look at him and wonder where he came from. I no longer look at him and think he would have been better of with someone else as a mother.

Snuggled now in his dads arms I know that the tough newborn days will pass but that they’re preparing Boy for something wonderful.

2007-02-01T12:26:00.000+11:00

HELP

The spitting image of his father, Boy already has a receding hairline and a thinning patch of hair on the crown of his head.

His face is round and when I watch his small mouth pucker I wonder what it is he’s so desperate to tell me. His lips making a perfect O shape as he stares straight into my eyes.

No eye-brows to talk of – that’s my trait – just thin wisps of white hair. His ears are small shells that serve only to pick up that stray sounds and startle him while he sleeps.

He doesn’t so much cry as squeal and even while I was in hospital I could easily identify his cry above the hundreds of other babies in the ward.

But what’s disturbing me most is that link.

I honestly thought it was a bunch of crap. I honestly thought it was something new mothers just said they felt because they loved their kids. But it’s true. He knows me.

When I cry he cries. When I’m calm he’s calm. When I’m angry he twitches with anger.

Just another thing I’m to blame for.

When he’s upset I get the tilt of the head from who-ever is there at the time… At the hospital the midwife flat out told me “he was in you for nine months, you think he doesn’t know when you’re in pain? Since the day he was born he’s been able to tell that you’re no longer with him and it scares him. He needs you now, more than when you were pregnant.”

Who asked for that? I honestly thought when he was born that Tom would be able to share the burden equally but he can’t. Even without the umbilical cord Boy is connected to me on a level that, for now, can’t be shared by anyone else.

How much more pressure will be put upon me?

And I’m fighting again with my beast. Depression. Only now it’s officially “postnatal depression” like it wasn’t there long before I fell pregnant.

But I refuse to surrender. I refuse to give in.

I spend my night marveling at what Tom and I have created and I know that no matter how dark I feel there is one undeniable fact – Boy needs me.

I can’t afford to be self-indulgent. I can’t afford to let the beast win.

So I’m swallowing my guilt – one green pill at a time – and chasing the darkness from my head. I’ve called out and found that the support available to me is endless. I am not alone and I won’t isolate myself as I’ve done before.

Boy deserves more than a hollow shell of a mother and I’m doing all that I can to make sure he gets that.

2007-01-27T16:15:00.000+11:00

SHOCK

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to tell you.

At exactly 5am on Wednesday, January 17 my waters broke. On Thursday, January 18 I gave birth to a son.

All didn’t go as smoothly as plan. Both Boy and I are fine. We’re healthy. But we’re only now getting over our shock and exhaustion.

The labor lasted a grueling 36 hours but just didn’t progress. It wasn’t until well into the 30th hour that they tried to induce me. Five hours later – nothing had changed.

I’d spent most of the first 12 hours just moaning in pain. The next 10 hours sucking on gas until they gave me an epidural and I spent the rest of the time numb from the waste down.

The epidural wore of (or was reduced) in hour 34 as I entered break-through phase and increasingly it became unbearable. I begged and begged for a C-section but the doctors delayed and delayed.

In my 36th hour I began to push and after one solid hour of bearing down the baby hadn’t moved an inch. The doctor came in, told me there was no other option. The next thing I knew I was being run by a massive wards man for emergency surgery.

Tom’s been filling in blanks from here out because I just don’t remember much of what happened. It’s true what they say – it’s the world’s worst pain but the quickest forgotten. I remember enough to know that I was crippled by pain but not enough to tell you what that pain felt like.

I can tell you how terrified I was – the glimpses of hallway I caught through eyes clenched shut in pain. I can tell you the anesthetist had a calm voice and warm hands when he held mine to explain what he’d be doing. I can tell you that they couldn’t drug me up quick enough and that I didn’t understand one word they said because I was barely together enough to breath.

Tom tells me that they took me into surgery while he was squeezed into a hospital gown and cap and made to wait in a small room just outside of surgery – watching Hughie’s Cooking Show on Channel 10.

When they let him in, he sat beside me and held my hand while I screamed for someone to check on the baby (they’d disconnected the heart monitors) and a kind midwife held a speaker by my ear so I could hear his heart beat.

Once I heard Boy's heart beating I relaxed and stopped screaming.

They erected a blue screen across my chest and I could feel them pulling and tugging but no pain. And then, crying. Over the screen they showed me his purple foot and asked Tom to come and cut the cord.

A few minutes later they brought him to me all bundled up. But that’s when things fell to pieces. They sent Tom and the baby to the ward so they could finish closing me up.

As soon as my boys left I began to feel the pain. I could feel them pushing and shoving and stitching. Part physical sensation, part hysteria. At that point the anesthetist had no other option but to fully knock me out and the next thing I knew I was waking up in recovery.

It took three days for the nightmares to stop – both mine and the baby’s.

Seven days for my aching abdomen to heal enough for me to walk properly without having to support the muscles with my hands.

Nine days and my milk still hasn’t come in and I’ve decided there is no other option but to bottle feed.

And only now and I in a position to see my son without the tears of guilt and failure filling my eyes.

I still cry though – at my body’s inability to bring him to this world and sustain him – but this too shall pass.

2007-01-16T10:19:00.000+11:00

SWOLLEN

Today I am exactly 40 weeks pregnant. That’s right – pregnant.

My plans for an early and small baby have been destroyed by a 9 pound baby that has no desire to move from its current location. But since all is well the doctors flat out refuse to induce me until I’m the full 10 days over.

Clearly all the doctors are men who have no idea what it’s like to carry a bowling ball in their abdomen. Doctors who laugh and tell me they “understand” my frustration and that it “won’t be long now”.

I’d like to give them a call at 3am to share the experience of trying to lift my enormous belly out of bed for the umpteenth time to go to the bathroom because it’s all too much for me to sleep more than an hour and a half without relieving my matchbox sized bladder.

Other than the anticipation, being at home is a boring as all hell.

I’ve watched enough day time TV to know that there are some writers out there who, despite their professions, haven’t got an ounce of creativity in their bones.

Our computer went down for two weeks so I haven’t had that escape either. Not that having the computer would have made much of a difference. The swelling in my fingers means that typing is a new experience in pain and frustration as my finger, more often than not, simply won't do what they're told.

The only upshot is going to clinic every week and seeing that there are women out there a lot worse off than me.

Being at home you’re isolated. There’s a sense that you’re the biggest, fattest pregnant women in the world and that you’ve been pregnant for longer than anyone in the entire history of pregnancy.

But every visit to the clinic you are given a show of stick-figured women with bellies swollen and red from stretch marks. Their enormous stomachs are spewing out from under their woefully inadequate clothing because they, like me, have decided buying maternity clothes is a waste of money.

But, unlike me who wore big clothing in the first place and who has accepted going up two sizes into my more daggy of outfits for the sake of discretion and comfort, they have refused to give up their trendy skin-tight jeans and mid-riff shirts.

The result is a humorous, and slightly disturbing, skinny woman with a nasty growth who makes you grateful you were fat in the first place so you don’t look so ridiculous now.

I’m not a prude. Pregnancy is a beautiful thing to look at. These women are not. Their stomachs are pushing out of the zipper of their pants and their tops barely cover their breasts and their belly-buttons are finger like protrusions pointing in an accusatory fashion at anyone in their path.

They simply look swollen – not pregnant.

The draw back of clinic is that it works both ways. While there are these women to make you feel better about how you’re making your way through pregnancy, there are those women who look simply radiant.

They’ve decided that they’ll pay the massive, gouge of a price for maternity wear. Their bellies are well sculpted bumps under their dresses and shirts while mine is a lumpy mass that could easily be mistaken for stored porridge.

These women have well groomed hair while mine looks like I’ve just come in from a windstorm. Pregnancy makes these women glow while I simply look green faced from being sick and puffy-eyed from no sleep.

The small consolation is that these women are few and far between. More often then not at clinic it’s people like me – in the middle of the road. Pregnancy hasn’t brought out the best in us but it’s clearly not the worst either.

We’re tired, uncomfortable and frustrated. We’re all just worried for the welfare of our potential children and that stress is written across our faces, knotted in our hair and staining our stretched t-shirts.

I tend to think, any women without the sense to have these fears etched into their being probably shouldn't be having a child in the first place because they're woefully under-prepared for the reality of it all.

2007-01-04T11:03:00.000+11:00

STILL WAITING

I spend my days watching my belly twist and warp.

What was once an idea is now a reality. There is no denying there there is a human being other than myself inhabbiting this body. It twists and turns and my stomach bulges and dips with each wave of movement.

And there are distinct shapes that disturb, more than amaze, me. Everyone talks about the miracle of pregnancy and birth but I can't seem to get past the weirdness of it all. I can't see the miracle because all I can see is a hand or a foot where it shouldn't be - coming from inside me.
Perhaps I'm too clinical. Maybe I can see the miracle but I just can't shake my utter fascination to focus on the spirituality of the event.

Still, at this stage (week 38) I'm starting to think my child will never come. I'm starting to think that I'll be inhabbited forever. I'm starting to think that I'll be this lounge bound, moron, for the rest of my life.

I really miss work. I miss having a nimble mind. I miss my motivation to change out of my PJs before 3pm.

While I wait, every promising twinge and stabbing pain that makes me think labour is coming turns into just another discomfort that is forgotten 20 minutes later. And no matter the discomfort I can't help but laugh at the pain because it's too odd for words.

My abdomen is nothing more than a shell now and I'm acutely aware that inside is something with a mind of its own. My child.

I feel like a great big bubble or rather a massive water balloon. Heavy and cumbersome, yet completely aware that if Nugget wasn't there that I would be hollow (and I wonder if this statement doesn't have a double meaning but I don't want to dwell there for now).

It'll seem strange but now I get a feeling of how a house must feel. There is someone knocking on all my walls and I have no ability to respond or react - at least not in a manner that person would perceive.

Does Nugget know I exist? Is Nugget even conscious of other human beings or completely oblivious to the world outside of its little room? Is Nugget able to comprehend how complex things are about to get? Does Nugget see me as the pain moving and pushing against it rather than realising it's inside of me?

Oh my God. I've just realised. I'm someone's world.

But it's only temporary and I know what I can't provide Nugget will be at it's fingertips. There is a wealth of experience out there to fill the gaps and I'm looking forward to not only teaching a child about the world around it but also learning about life from it.

2006-11-30T15:20:00.000+11:00

SICKNESS

Thank you for spreading your sickness.

It’s not enough that I’m not sleeping at night because of the small human being tap-dancing on my bladder; I’m unable to walk more than 10 metres without a break; I have searing pain up my spine from the unnatural bulge out in front of me.

It’s not enough that I’m in a constant state of exhaustion and sickness trying to push myself through these last days of work.

Now your generous gift means on top of all of this I can barely breath through the mucus building in my sinuses and my eyes are constantly blurry because of the non-stop hacking cough. When I sneeze I need half a toilet roll of paper to catch the gunk.

All because of you.

As I saw you trudging through the day, complaining about the burden of being sick, I can only assume that you were oblivious to anyone else.

You leant next to me, coughed onto my desk, spluttered your joys at the fact I’m pregnant and your “how excited you must be” speech. All the while you coated me in your filthy infection.

Then, when I get sick, you have the hide to dismiss it as part of “pregnancy’s tough burden”.

I am going to return the favour.

I have coughed all over your keyboard. I’ve been dumping my soggy tissues into your waste paper bin right under your nose. I used your phone, making sure I breathed as heavily as possible.

Sure, I can’t get you pregnant (no doubt your ovaries are all withered and dried up by now anyway) but I can give you back your flu.

What? Feeling a little headachy?

Suffer - you inconsiderate rat. Here’s hoping that the mutated version of your virus hits you twice as hard…

2006-11-24T14:36:00.000+11:00

BOSWELL WHO?

Well, it’s odd. Now that there’s only eight weeks before Nugget is due I suddenly don’t feel so obsessed with being pregnant. In fact, quite the opposite, I’m kind of regretting it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be becoming a mother and it’s everything I’ve wanted.

I just regret that I’ve let it come to this.

For the past seven months the pregnancy has been central to everything I did and only now I’m beginning to wonder - what about me? What happens to me after the baby is born? Who am I now?

I’ve spent my days wondering about whether the baby was ok or whether we had everything ready enough for when it arrived. I’ve wondered what kind of baby I’ll have and if it’ll look like me or like Tom.

But in the past two weeks it’s occurred to me that this entire obsession has left little room for me to just be me.

The panic culminated in a massive breakdown where a calm and collected Tom reassured me that I am not just a baby incubator.

I am still Boswell.

Still, to date my achievements while pregnant have been small and I’ve been frustrated beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.

I’ve watched as co-workers have begun new courses to further their understanding of our profession while I was deemed ineligible. My designs and plans have been put on hold and I am simply sitting here waiting for the time to pass.

I’ve watched as Tom has achieved his goals quickly and efficiently while I sit curled on the ground exhausted and resentful of Tom’s agility. I am incapable of achieving my own small objectives without assistance.

With the daunting prospect of 12 months of staring at a wall I’m wondering just what I’m going to do with my maternity leave. You can only fake interest in something for so long before you go insane and slip into the grips of the beast.

For my entire life I’ve equated getting out there and doing something to achieve a goal as a sign of success. I have never equated sitting around and waiting for something to happen to me as a significant achievement.

And that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m waiting. It goes against every grain of my being to be passive about the direction of my life.

But I have no choice other than to wait.

I’m waiting for the baby to develop enough to be born. I’m waiting for Tom to come and help me cook dinner or do one of many meaningless tasks. I’m waiting for work to end so I can stay at home and wait.

I am dependant on the people and forces around me and I don’t like it one bit.

It’s unnatural. And until things change I don’t think I can shake these blues and the creeping anxiety that comes from feeling lost.

If I were still Boswell as I know her then I wouldn’t tolerate this one bit.

2006-11-03T13:43:00.000+11:00

POINTLESS

There are forces at work in Sydney that scare me.

There are forces that seem intent on manufacturing fear and hatred.

There are forces working hard to ensure that a community once unified is irrevocably torn apart.

And I’m scared.

I don’t want to feel scared. It’s something I went to great lengths to overcome. I quit a job and travelled to Canada and spent 6 months getting rid of the fear.

But terrorists are planning to bomb a Sydney train station, more than an hour away from my home.

Now, we are safe in our leafy suburb but, and this is what the voices remind me, I work in Parramatta. Something in my bones tells me this would be a secondary target for the less than ambitious terrorist. It’s a major hub of activity. Any terrorist without the gall to attack Sydney would take this city to be a reasonable second place.

Now I can’t seem to shake one question. Why? I’ve always had a tempered perception of the world. I’ve always seen people for what they are and never been inclined to generalise about races. I’ve disagreed with certain policies and points of view but I have never, to my conscious knowledge, hated someone just because of where they came from or what they believe.

Ironically I’ve been a staunch supporter of allowing people to believe what they want to. If I hadn’t then I wouldn’t have quit journalism with such enthusiasm.

When I disagree I have voiced my opinion but only in the interest of raising dialogue and understanding, not to attack.

And here I am, a walking target.

What’s worse is that if there’s an attack it won’t be personal. It’ll be indiscriminate. They won’t know who I am and they won’t particularly care. All they’ll (whoever the mysterious they are) will be worried about is that they’ve made their point.

But, I’m still struggling to figure out what the point is.

In Israel the point of the attacks from Hezbollah is that they want the Jewish settlers out. They bomb the cities to drive them from their homes. In that sense I understand the point of their attacks (don’t agree but understand their objectives).

In most countries where there are terrorist attacks this is the point of the bombings – to drive people away.

So by attacking New York did the terrorists want the city deserted so they could take over? It doesn’t make sense. What could they have possibly hoped to achieve – it only made them look foolish. Only arguments to flimsy to stand up to close scrutiny resort to violence as a means to be heard. Even then those attacked are twice as unlikely to suddenly see "the error or their ways" just because someone's killed their family and friends.

So what could be achieved by attacking Sydney or Parramatta?

It would only create greater fear, greater resentment and greater hatred towards a people who by-and-large don’t deserve to be treated with such contempt.

The world would fare so much better if only those few inept and weak fanatics were silenced or at least shown the flaw in their logic.

2006-10-30T10:59:00.000+11:00

NEED SLEEP

Pregnancy: 29-32 Weeks Changes Your Body Will Experience
* Strong and more frequent fetal movements. (sometimes)
* Lower abdominal achiness which is related to the stretching of ligaments. (Ooooouch - think having your pubic mound punched)
* Shortness of breath
* Difficulty sleeping (difficult - read f**king impossible)
* Braxton Hicks contractions
* Colostrum leakage from the breast (change sheets every day)
* Leg cramps
* Backache
* Increase in constipation (as if not going at all could increase)
* Heartburn
* Exhaustion
* Varicose veins and or hemorrhoids
* Mild swelling of ankles and feet
* Occasional headaches, faintness or dizziness
* Increase in clumsiness

Add to this the already embarrassing list of symptoms the ongoing terror of things such as – fear of the pain of labor (get the pun?) – anxiety about baby’s amount of movement – anxiety over genetic deformities – stress from obnoxious relatives telling you what to do – frustration over not being able to do all you used to.

And they wonder why women are putting off their pregnancies until their 30s.

There is very little that is joyous about this condition. There is very little that I can tell you that wouldn’t make you consider instant sterilisation for both the pregnant woman and their partners.

On Saturday Tom and I spent two and a half hours shopping and I was done. Down for the count. Utterly exhausted. So tired that lifting my handbag from the seat of the car proved difficult. I grabbed its handle and managed to drop it not once, not twice, but a grand total of three times before bursting into tears (my handbag is particularly heavy). Tom took the offending luggage and then herded me into the bedroom demanding I get some sleep.

Three hours later I woke and felt no better.

There are six weeks of work left and I really do wonder if I’m going to make it. Of all the physical symptoms and discomforts it is the sheer exhaustion that is driving me under.

I get nine hours of broken sleep – running every 15 minutes to the toilet – and after three hours of sitting at a computer trying to understand what the latest moron is really asking me to explain to them I am done. I can’t focus anymore.

It’s the little details that suffer.

Whoops, forgot a security check before giving out someone’s banking details. I’d laugh if it wasn’t a sacking offence. Luckily I have a stunning boss who understands and I managed a quick, if late, save.

Whoops, gave the wrong balance. Oh well, it’ll come out in the wash. I’m sure they won’t be upset that they’ve lost $10,000 if not literally then figuratively to my exhaustion.

Of all the difficulties of pregnancy it’s the loss of my mental faculties that is proving the most difficult to bear.

I cannot function properly.

When at the registers buying something I’m the idiot who asks for cash out – after the purchase has been completed.

When standing at a table of food I’m the one asking where are the plates, oblivious to the pile in front of me.

When driving I ask Tom to tell me when to turn. He tells me, I turn two streets later.

It’s not good. Not good at all.

I worry about what kind of mother I’ll be if I can’t even remember the basics anymore and it doesn’t help to have everyone telling me it’s only going to get worse.

Soon tOOleS will be nothing more than mindless dribble.

Hell, maybe it already is and I just can’t notice. Tired. Need sleep.

2006-10-13T14:25:00.000+11:00

OOH BABY

Why, you ask, haven’t I written more about the pregnancy experience?

Scanning the Internet I’m finding a plethora of blogs about pregnancy. I’ve read and read women’s experience and it’s been helpful and heartening and insightful. Even though I’m now six months pregnant I can’t bring myself to join them.

I potter around with my more mundane thoughts because being pregnant largely defies description or perhaps I just didn’t have the focus necessary to put it into words. More than likely though, it’s because I simply don’t want to share too much of this experience – I’ve wanted to keep it to myself.

Still, it bears mentioning at least for the sake of tOOleS’s continuity.

I could write about the aches and pains (all of which are 100 times more powerful than I thought possible).

In the past six months I spent a total of: 3 months vomiting; 2 months of carpel tunnel syndrome; sore breasts for 2 months; frequent urination for all six months; 1 haemorrhoid; ongoing exhaustion; rapidly failing eyesight (short-sighted since 3 months) and; 2 months serious pubic pain.

I could write about the tears I’ve cried over the small, inconsequential things and things that are not so small and inconsequential.

I cried because; I was scared of labour (at 12 weeks); I don’t look pregnant (ongoing); Tom brought me flowers; Tom cooked me dinner; I couldn’t do the washing up; I couldn’t paint the lounge room in one go; I dropped my handbag; I dropped my keys and; I walked into a wall.

Or, I could go through the long series of medical examinations I’ve had.

I’ve had; blood taken to test my liver function; ultrasound to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; blood tests to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; amniocentesis to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; ultrasound to make sure all of nuggets bits and pieces were there; ultrasound to make sure the placenta was still attached (after the car accident); internal to make sure I wasn’t leaking amniotic fluid (also after car accident); endless urine tests; endless blood pressure tests and; had my abdomen poked to find my fundus (successfully located at week 22 in the right place).

It just doesn’t cut it. Particularly not when you feel that flutter in your abdomen that tells you it’s all real. You are the proud owner of a new life.

I first felt Nugget kick way back when… About week 16-17. Small flutters that were a presence but nothing too significant. They came, but more often they went and remained my little secret.

Week 23 things changed. Nuggets small flutters became rather pronounced bangs. Washes against my abdomen wall that made me feel, quite frankly, a little sea sick.

Now, week 26, the hits and kicks are clearly life. Nugget is no longer a thought and I find myself finally getting into the swing of being pregnant.

I can’t deny Nugget’s existence any more. And the sensation is indescribable. I could grapple with terms – like fish swimming into your sides; like popcorn popping; like rhythmical bubbles of gas; butterflies flapping - but the imagery (all a little disturbing if you ask me) just doesn’t come close to explaining what it feels like.

So I rub my belly with pride, even though I don’t look particularly pregnant and instead look like I’m congratulating myself after a good meal. It’s enough (sometimes) that I know inside is a small child stepping on my bladder. And I complain about the inconvenience of running to the toilet for such false alarms. I complain with a smile on my face that nothing could wipe away.

Because I know something you don’t know. I know Nugget’s real name and I’ve been using it during our private times together.

Nugget is…. Real.

2006-10-09T16:48:00.000+11:00

WELFARE

Well, it’s begun. Tom’s kids were on the path to becoming just like their mother – a professional victim and sponge - I just thought we’d have a bit more time to try and intervene.

Three weekends ago, both miss 8 and Mr 13, stole $120 from their grandmother. The money was being held in money tins for them, however they had been told time and time again that it was savings that they could have when they turned 18 to go towards a car or whatever they needed then.

Grandmother had been putting in $5 a week for them and last weekend left them alone to count their money, which they love to do. While she was in another room they pocketed all the notes they could find – including money from their grandmother’s wallet.

The kids have been bragging about all the new things they’ve bought lately too and I can’t help but suspect they’re not even feeling the slightest pangs of guilt.

It’s the culmination of a few months of lies and carry on that Tom has been in denial about. And he’s still in denial. He still thinks it’s “understandable” and “not their fault” and my personal favourite “not as bad as you’re making it out to be”.

I’ve been screamed at by Mr 13; listened to them fight and scream at each other non-stop for hours on end; been blatantly lied to by Miss 8; broke up fist fights and all of this in the past two months. It seems as though it’s never going to stop because no one, other than me, gave a damn about it.

The problem with this latest incident is that their grandmother wants to deal with this herself and as a result we won’t be saying anything about it. Grandmother won’t be either.

“That’s just the way my family works,” Tom sighs. “If she wants to deal with it that means that I can’t say anything or she’ll get upset.”

WTF? Whose children are these? Is no one going to step up to the plate and be a parent? Will no one take responsibility for them and their well-being?

They’re going to end up thieves, liars and dole bludgers all because no one wants to say anything. No one wants to hold them accountable for their own actions. No one wants to teach them that they can’t and won’t always get want they want and that they have to earn their place in this world.

What is with Tom’s cloak and dagger obsessed family – they’re wonderful to your face but tearing you to shreds behind your back or in sneaky hit and run attacks? Who cares if she’ll get upset? Just like everyone in your lineage it’s just something she’ll have to get over.

The big question is, is Tom’s entire bloodline incapable of being honest with themselves and with others?

I’ve gone beyond caring what happens to the kids. No one backs me up and I’m fighting a losing battle because I have no say what-so-ever. What is the point caring when even their own blood relatives are willing to watch the kids’ lives fall into rack and ruin because they don’t want to be seen as the bad guy?

So I’m cutting my losses, at least for now, and focusing on my responsibility to myself, Tom and Nugget.

When they’re in my house I will tolerate them but nothing more. I will lock my valuable away and let Tom deal with them because I simply can’t deal with it anymore.

Every fortnight there’s a lingering presence of the resentment I feel towards Tom, for allowing the obnoxious pair to rack more damage than a whirlwind through our lives and not calling them to account for their behaviour.

My attitude will come and go. My resolve to allow their family to take responsibility for them will waiver – particularly when their behaviour impacts on me directly – and I’ll find myself trying to amend their ways. But for right now I can see no reason why I should care what happens to them anymore.

It’s been made painfully clear that no one wants to see the kids for what they are – obnoxious brats heading for complete destruction. Destruction that could be easily diverted if someone would set some simply boundaries and teach them what’s right and wrong.

Something tells me that Tom’s in for a rough time when the teenage years really hit.

It’ll be a tough thing he’ll have to handle on his own because every time I try to help, it’s made crystal clear the kids are not my concern.

And I won’t be concerning myself with their welfare any longer.

2006-09-28T17:35:00.001+10:00

I

I wish I could be one of those people who just let it go.

I wish the driver of the penis-enhancing 4WD that tried to kill us getting away with his behaviour didn’t make my blood boil.

I wish watching people who weren’t even working here six month ago walking off to do the course I was promised more than a year ago didn’t make me want to cry.

I wish that in the face of ongoing injustice I could be as cold as ice.But I can’t. I’m not like that.I wake at 1am and can’t sleep until dawn because it’s injustice that makes me want to give up on the world.

Not only the injustices visited upon me but those that are visted upon my family and friends and even the strangers in the street, I carry those injustices with me too.

I know these are little thing. I know that they’re inconsequential.But all of the little things build up to one big, unbearable existence.

I wish I knew how to forget about it all and I wish that I could take things as they come.

I want to believe everything happens for a reason. I want to believe that there is balance to this world. I want to believe that I can accept the universe’s decisions and that when one door closes another opens.

But when I see fools, cheats and losers getting ahead and I’m falling further behind I lose heart.

Why bother?

Why not cheat and lie and steal?

God knows it’s those people who appear to be wining.I want to believe that that’s all it is – appearance – and that their victories are hollow victories.

But I know that a win is a win any way you can get it.

So I’m tired. I want to quit right now and curl up in bed.

It’s disheartening, sometimes, that this is the world I’m bringing Nugget into.

Frightening to think that this is what my child has to look forward to.

But then I think I’ll teach Nugget to be a fighter too. I’ll teach Nugget to stand up and fight for justice.

I wish I could do that and that it would change the world.

And then I think – I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Having your heat broken each and every day is a horrible way to live.

2006-09-25T16:39:00.000+10:00

ACCIDENT

It happened in slow motion.

Tom pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and a black 4wd, which had decided at the last minute to undercut a truck, shot past with plenty of room to spare.

Tom pulled back onto the highway and began to merge as our lane dictated. The black 4wd swerved back across the line into the merge lane and locked up its breaks.

We hit the breaks. Slid. And the front of Tom’s car crumbled.

Tom screamed abuse but then regained his composure before stepping from the car to confront the driver.

“What?” Tom demanded from the other driver who’d also jumped from his car.

“That’s what you get for cutting off a car doing 80.” The red-haired prick responded.

And so the dialogue continued and I can only remember it in bits and pieces.

The prick told Tom he’d had a bad day. Tom topped his bad day with a detailed description of his. I said I’d call the police. Prick then disappeared. But we’d already exchanged details. We know where he lives. We know what he looks like.

The police were no help. Tom was coming from behind so he’s at fault. The fact the Prick declared he did it on purpose makes no difference. The fact we have witnesses makes no difference. The facts play little part in an incident like this.

What followed is also a blur. Hospital. Worried looking doctors. Uncomfortable beds. Invasive procedures. I’m fine. Nugget’s fine.

Apparently shock is a big deal when you’re pregnant.

My heart rate doubled. My blood pressure jumped dangerously. I spent four hours attached to a drip while Tom waited in the emergency lounge for his turn to come – a sprained wrist.

Doctors took blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds and internal examinations to assess whether Nugget was stressed or to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid. I had my blood pressure checked every half hour.

At 1am I was ready to go home but instead they wheeled me up to the maternity ward and stowed me in a room full of women destined for inductions the following morning. It took a further hour before I fell into a restless sleep – half afraid that they’d induce me by accident in the morning.

After an intensely boring period of waiting the doctors sent me home at 3.30pm the following day with a clean bill of health. I feel physically fine. I just don’t know that I’ve dealt with it all yet. I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve forgotten something or that it’s not really over.

What’s more disturbing is that I’m not seeking justice. Normally I’d be boiling about this but I’m not. I don’t care. I hope the Prick dies in a fiery wreck but I'm not motivated to do anything to help that along.

In fact it’s worse than that – I don’t care about anything.

Other than Nugget, Tom and myself.

What we could have lost weighs me down. I spend my days waiting to go home and make sure Tom is there. I sit, silently, waiting for Nugget to kick.

Tom promises me that he’s not going anywhere and that Nugget is going to be fine but it’s not up to him, is it?

His words offer little comfort as I obsess over the fact I could lose them at any time and there is nothing anyone could do about that.

Until that fear subsides I don’t think anything I does matters to me.

2006-09-18T12:47:00.000+10:00

THE BEAST

The bitch is back.

After a peaceful and ignorance filled couple of years the bitch that is my mother (on Ativan and armed with clinical depression) is back. So far she’s two for two visits.

Her behaviour trashed what were otherwise a perfect birthday (Tom's sterling efforts to make it special making her carry-on all the worse) and the exciting setting up of the nursery.

I had planned on going into details but the conversations are usually too absurd for me to want to re-live. She says something. I respond. She starts crying because clearly any response I make is an attack on her and couldn’t possibly be a joke or the honest sharing of my opinion.

We are not allowed to have opinions or disagree with her when she’s like this. In her eyes we should smile and nod and accept all the rubbish that flies from her mouth. Even then we’d be being condescending and that would simply make us a further target for abuse.

It’s exhausting and with all that’s on my plate it’s the last thing I need.

Of the appalling situation I now find that the one time in my life that I’ve truly needed my mother she’s simply not there for me. She’s there for herself.

In the past her behaviour has stressed and upset me but this time it’s something more devastating. It’s total abandonment and I promise myself that I will never do this to my child.

Every day I am grateful that I have acknowledge and confronted my beast and that while it still exists I can distinguish between mine and it's actions enough to keep it in check. Having this knowledge is power and means that should the beast take control I have techniques to put it back in it's place.

Mum has never accepted depression’s part in her behaviour. She has never been willing to admit that people disown because of what she's said and done. In fact, nothing she ever does is wrong. It’s always someone else’s fault. In her eyes she’s so incredibly hardly done by.

In my life I haven’t had a Christmas, birthday or major event in my life that wasn’t ruined by her carry on. Looking back I can see all that my brother and I did to try and help only to be told we were failures time and time again.

The crying for no reason. The constant abuse and reinterpretation of events to make her look like the innocent victim. The sulking in a corner like a 3-year-old. The surprises she ruined because she didn’t want to get our hopes up about the crappy presents she’d bought.

Like I said. I could quote a hundred stories but I am just too tired.

I know it’s not all her fault. I know the beast that’s crawling through her veins. But it’s her fault that she won’t see the beast. It’s her fault she won’t do anything to combat it.

It’s her fault that she would rather make us miserable than deal with her problems.

The family has pleaded. The family has explained. The family has withdrawn. And still she refuses to see her beast for what it is.

What makes the situation worse for me is that for some God forsaken reason my father uses me as a sounding board. I’ve endured hour-long conversations about her behaviour and been asked a million times what I think he should do.

But I can’t be there for him anymore either. I can’t go back to the way things were just because other people refuse to change.

I’ve changed. I’m not their counsellor anymore. I refuse to be. I sacrificed my childhood to the beast and I won’t go back there.

I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t need this crap right now.

From what my dreams tell me I’m washing my hands of her. I have to. Maybe being completely cut off will encourage her to get the help she needs.

But more than likely she’ll just see it as proof that she’s right and everyone else is wrong.

The beast has it's way with us all and you can either choose to stand up and fight or become it's bitch.

2006-09-11T14:16:00.000+10:00

IT’S TIME

You are going to die today. Nothing you say or do will change that. How do you want to spend your final moments?

With the death of Steve Irwin, Peter Brock and the five-year anniversary of September 11 it’s a question that’s been on my mind quite a bit.

In 2001 after the initial tragedy it made me change my life forever because, while I didn’t want to die, it is inevitable. The only control we have is not when or how we go but in what surroundings.

I’m not talking – On the couch, facing north, watching Days of Our Lives – specifics. I sure as hell didn't want to die being miserable journalist trapped in a thankless and pointless job, living in a tiny unit and having seen nothing of the world. I didn't want to die having done nothing.

I want to live.

But making a change, making the decision on how we want our life to be, has to be tended to every day.

So we choose a job we love rather than sticking it our at a place we hate – ask yourself, if you were going to have a heart attack would I die happy at this desk?

We choose relationships that are fulfilling – ask yourself, if I died today would everything be said that has to be said?

We choose adventures to make life worthwhile – ask yourself, if I died today have I done all or at least most of what I’d planned to do?

No one is prepared to die. No one wants it or even contemplates it nearly enough. But I remember the gut-wrenching feeling from September 11 didn’t come from all the senseless deaths. I recall the daze of walking around muttering to myself like a mad woman “they just went to work.”

I imagined they hated their jobs and their lives as much as I did and now they weren’t ever going to get the chance to right that wrong. I thought about the waste – not the waste of life but the wasted opportunity if I were to let that realisation pass me by.

From that moment on I vowed I would make a life for myself in which I would be happy to say I have lived. And for the most part, I have.

I waivered. I wasn't perfect. Despite my best instincts I almost returned to my life before. But I am lucky and fate has interviened to steer me straight again. I am thankful every day for that intervention.

Now I will be late to work in favour of hanging with friends or family. I have travelled and seen the world’s greatest beauties. I have a job, while frustrating, that fills that hole without causing any disruption to my life as a whole. I have a husband I love completely and from whom nothing is held back. I have a child on the way who I have wanted all of my life.

Still, there are times I feel as though I have a long way to go before it’s complete. There are rough edges to my life that need to be smoothed away before I am content. Being on this path makes certain I will achieve that goal.

Steve Irwin’s death, while sad, is reassuring. It proves all of the above is achievable. He died doing what he loved. He died with a life complete – a wife and children who he loved completely, charities designed to protect the animals he loved, adventures that will make him legendary.

Peter Brock appears to have a similar sense of completion to it. He was doing what he loved and has died with everything in order.

With Irwin and Brock I wonder how much is appearance and how much is fact. If I choose to accept it as fact then their deaths are less tragic and more inspiring. They are tales of lives completed.

Yes they died too soon – we all do – but in their time they have lived.

It really is something to aspire to.

2006-09-14T11:38:00.000+10:00

NESTING

I don’t want to go outside or leave the house. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to make idle chatter with family members. I don’t want to hear about my friends/families woes.

I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to have lunch with colleagues. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to deal with screaming children in lifts. I don’t want to overhear dull, predictable conversations on the train.

I don’t want to walk through the rain to my car at the car park.

I don’t want to hear about what’s happening in the world. I don’t want to be miserable over killings in some far off country. I don’t want to be warmed by charming stories about puppies.

I just want to curl up in bed, preferably with Tom by my side, and let the days slip away.

Is this being pregnant?

Finally things are starting to move. Reaching the halfway mark took so long I thought it wouldn't end. Now I'm finding the second half is moving much quicker.

I'm running out of time.

I have to make sure the house is ready to receive Nugget and to do that I need at least 12 more hours in the day. Of those 12 hours I need to sleep about 6.

It's an odd combination. I'm equally motivated to make major changes and too exhausted to execute my plans.

At night, before going to bed, I find myself walking the halls and mentally listing all that has to be done.

We have to move the drawers from Miss 10's room into Nuggets and the drawers in Nugget's room into Miss 10's. We have to paint the kitchen. We have to renovate the main bathroom and remove the mouldy old walls replacing them with new plasterboard (I am not taking my child into that bathroom!). We need to sand down and stain the nursery chair. We need to wash down the walls in our bedroom. We need to steam clean the carpet. We need to install a door on the ensuite. We need to build a massive shelving system in the loungeroom.

By the time I've finished the list I'm too exhausted to do even the smallest thing on it.

"It'll get done. Maybe not before Nugget's born but it'll get done," Tom assures me.

I don't tell him but that's not good enough. I want the house to be perfect. I want the house to be perfect now.

So I spend my weekends puttering around the halls and doing the little that I can to bring my vision that bit closer to reality.

I've concentrated my efforts on Nugget's room. For now I'm making myself settle for perfection in that one small space.

But I just can't stop myself walking the floors, writing my to do list and worrying myself to the point of exhaustion.

2006-09-08T11:09:00.000+10:00

CALL ME

This is what I’m thinking when you call me…..

“I don’t care about how much you earned.”

“Shut up woman. Shut up. I don’t care who you have to call and I sure as hell don’t care that you’re stunned your employer has ripped you off. I hear it every day and your piddly missing money doesn’t concern me one bit.”

"Woman, if you want me to answer your question you are going to have to let me say more than two words without interuption. Come on. Can you not hear that I'm still talking? Forget it - go about your ignorant ways and I hope it costs you a fortune."

“Damn. Are you senile? I’ve told you twice and now you’re repeating it back to me and you’ve still got it fucking wrong. And you’re an employer. You are walking proof that this world is run by idiots.”

“I gave you two options. I said there are only two options. Now you ask if me if there’s a third one. Yes, you moron, it’s a secret third option kept only for special people like you. The third options is fucking off. There, was that what you were after?”

“Do you not understand no I will not give you any more money? Perhaps if you tell me your pathetic story one more time I’ll change my mind. Really, your husband left you for another man? You’re car’s been impounded because you own $50,000 in speeding fines? You’re having a life-saving lobotomy? No. No. No. Oddly enough our pathetic plight doesn’t change the law. Sure. Scream at me. Your screams will rocket me to the head of this company and I’ll suddenly have the power to change laws that were put into place a decade ago. Now that you’ve vented your spleen… No. Sure. I’ll get my supervisor. She says no in much more creative ways than I can.”

“I’m not repeating myself again. You are a loser and I have no desire to help you.”

“When I ask your name I just want to know what to call you. If you insist on spelling every single letter in such a long, exaggerated fashion, I will call you dick head. I honestly don’t care that you pronounce Cunt as if it were Kent. I would simply like to get on with my life.”

“Really, I didn’t know that you were calling on your mobile. No. I won’t call you back. This is a local call. If you’re too stupid to take yourself to a landline and would actually choose to spend $1 a minute for the next 20 minutes on your mobile rather than forking out the 40c then that is your stupid fault. And by the time I’ve finished padding out the basic speech about how we can’t make outbound calls I comfort myself that your stupidity has been punished to the value of $3.50.”

“You called me. That tells me that you knew why and who you were calling. Well, you’d think it did. To fumble through your wallet searching for your account details after 5 minutes on hold demeans us both and I find it increasingly hard not to ask you to call back when you’re better prepared. Ah, found it. Why did you call? Can’t remember. I’m hanging up. I have better things to do with my time.”

….. it’s been a tough, idiot filled week.

2006-08-24T09:50:00.000+10:00

WAITING

In my Ben Lee haze driving to work today, all I wanted to do was talk to Nugget.

I don't know what I wanted to say just that I was desperate to say it.

Up until now I've done what I can to keep my distance (as much as you can when something's inside you) because of all the things that could have gone wrong. There was this dark fear in me that I was putting too much stock into my pregnancy running smoothly. I simply didn't want to get too excited in case something went wrong.

But today, for the first time, I'm allowing myself to let go of that fear. Today, Nugget became more real to me than it ever has before.

We're only half-way there. Everyone keeps telling me how quickly the first five months have gone and I can't help but ask them what drugs they're on.

They weren't there every single morning when I threw up. They weren't there when I spent three months living on toast. They weren't there at 2 in the morning when I was peeing for the eighth time.

It's gone quickly for them because they weren't there.

Now I have the pleasure of this dragging on a further four months when all I desperately want to do is see my child. All I want to do is dance with Nugget in the lounge room and start telling it stories.

Still, the last thing I want is for Nugget to come early too. I want Nugget to take all the time it needs to take full shape before entering this world.

I just wish that the next four months could slip by like the past five months have for all the people who weren't there.

But then for that to happen I would have to be somewhere else and since everything is finally beginning to go smoothly - I wouldn't wish that for a second.

It's the connundrum of anticipation. To want something so badly and at the same time to want it to not happen before it's time.

2006-08-22T11:06:00.000+10:00

WHY BOTHER?

The question is why do I bother?

I come in to work, without fail, whether I'm sick or well. When I do take sick days it's as a last resort and more often than not those sick days are half days because even when I'm at my worst I drag myself in. On the odd occasion when I can't drag myself into work I will call and explain that and still state "but if you really need me I can come in." and when they've asked I have done just that.

When I'm at work I have to admit I'm not perfect. My scores rise and fall, as any human's would, depending on how tired or distracted I was. But I can honestly say that I have always given my best - although it may not have been up to my high standards.

Now though, I wonder why.

I have survived on promise after promise after promise.

I was promised we could begin a course in October last year but were asked to wait because "everyone" would be doing the course in January. In January we were promised in April. In April were were promised "soon".

Now, in August, apparently that promise was just for some.

The company has just allocated the course for 3 people only. 2 of the three have been here less than half the time I have, barely even bother to turn up for work and are your garden variety slackers.

I'm ropable. I'm so angry my chest is hurting. I have been fighting for the course for so long and made my determination clearly known and then I'm not even considered. I want to scream discrimination but I wasn't the only worthy candidate overlooked.

I'm just really really tired and wondering if I shouldn't do what everyone else here does and gets rewarded for - go home because I've got a headache.

Indirect discrimination.... The implementation of a policy that indirectly discriminates eg: holding a course on a Friday night which means Orthodox Jew could not attend and would miss out on valuable skills.
Or perhaps, delaying the start of a promised course until it's impossible for a pregnant member of a company to take part.

Should I play that card? Am I going to have to?

Do I really still want this course that desperately? After two-years I really do love this job but is this enough to make me stop caring about this place?

How can you respect people who aren't true to their word? If you can't respect your supervisors then what motivates you to do a good job?

There's a bit part of me that's just given up. With maternity leave pending I honestly don't give a damn anymore. I've been fighting for so long and it's just not worth it anymore.

I'm leaving here in four months for a 12 month break. 12 months is long enough to decide if this is a job worth fighting for.

I don't want to leave - I don't want to be adrift again - but they're not really giving me any reason to stay.