The Curse of the Evil Pain Stick

When it comes to immunisation, it would appear that there are three kinds of parents in the world. Those who are for it, those who are against it… and those just do what they’re told by Mr. Jab from Governmentland. I am unashamedly pro vaccine and Devilboy had been dutifully kept up to date on all his jabs until the dreaded triple whammy 12 month injection extravaganza, which we had to postpone as he was teething and already miserable when they were due. But after a nasty little reminder/veiled threat arrived recently in the post – off we went to the doctor for the jabathon.

All forgotten. By us both.

But that was then and this is now and quite frankly, I think Devilboy may have been better off dealing with with the considerable risks of measles than what he has been through in the past week. In fact, I think he may have been better off being injected with ebola virus. On Sunday morning, Devilboy broke out in a rash. A rash bad enough to take to the local medical centre where he was diagnosed with a garden variety case of hives – probably from an unknown food allergy and sent merrily on his way. No biggy, one would think.

That same afternoon we noticed that the rash had spread but had been warned this could happen. So, with a still mild fever, we tucked him into bed with a wee dose of paracetamol and figured that morning would bring us a healed and happy Devilboy.

We figured wrong.

After a fairly disturbed night he woke to a fever of 39.5 and a body covered in scarlet welts.  I took him straight to our GP. Approximately 10 seconds after arriving he was on his way to the emergency ward at RNS Hospital, as the red welts magically turned dark purple before the GP’s eyes.

After an hour or so we received confirmation that we weren’t dealing with meningococcal and I recommenced breathing… but we still had no answers and no guarantee from the Doctors that he would be ok.

As the day progressed his skin discoloured more and more. As his eyes and throat started to show signs of swelling, Devilboy was admitted and placed under observation. The following morning his hands, face and feet had also begun to swell and by afternoon had turned into tiny little balloons and he was unable to even bend a finger. His throat too had swelled and this had the hospital on high alert as there was a possibility of his airways blocking.

We sat by helplessly for DAYS as Devilboy was paraded about the hospital to a cast of thousands so they could all point and gawk and generally treat him as a sideshow freak, and us as irrelevant. None of them offered anything more intelligent than “Ewwww….That’s weird.”

There were plenty of this “might be’s…” but we didn’t want ‘might’, we wanted a confirmed diagnosis and the little lovely treated before he got any worse.

Three full days and a constant 39 plus degree fever later we were finally delivered a diagnosis of “blahdyblahblah-impossible-to-pronounce-unheard-of-medical term.” In layman’s terms he’d suffered a massive and potentially deadly allergic reaction to a medication or virus. Given that the only medication or virus he had been exposed to were the immunisations – we have a fairly obvious target when it comes to where to point the blame. And point I will! Even if it is rude.

These pics don’t show the rash in all its fluorescent glory as by the time it spread and he swelled up like a balloon  thoughts of snapshots weren’t top of mind…. but you’ll get the idea.

Monday Morning

Tuesday Morning

Postscript: Devilboy had to go back to the hospital for a follow up and the doctor admitted (though absolutely off the record), that it was almost certainly a reaction to his immunisation. When I took my boy for his 4 year immunisations = not a single doctor would administer them (though they had towed the it wasn’t the immunisation line). He was eventually sent to a specialist in adverse reactions who diagnosed him as suffering from severe serum sickness from his MMR and advise he not be given it again as the risk of a worse reaction was too high. I’m all for immunisations (my daughter is fully immunised – but doctors avoiding telling the truth about blatantly related reactions really isn’t helping the cause)

Brokeback Babies

 “One-year-olds do not play together in the traditional sense. Instead they engage in what’s called parallel play — playing side by side as each does his own thing, but not interacting directly.” This is a fairly standard passage from a parenting book. And it would seem that all the experts concur.

If this is the case it would be wonderful if someone could explain to me why Devilboy and his best buddy Fin (who shall henceforth be known as Devilboy 2)  appear to have been breaking all the rules since they were about seven months old.

So, as typical mates do, they went to the pub for a pint and a chat. (actually an art gallery before you start dialling DOCS – but you must admit it looks suspiciously like two blokes sharing a lager filled afternoon.)

“Hmmm… a pint of Stella or a pint of milk?”

“… and get this, she honestly thought I’d do what I was told. Ha!”

” You think yours is funny? Mine actually thought I’d sleep through the night! Hehe!”

“Same again thanks love”

“Phwoar”

“Holy crap! Did you see the nappy on that babe?”

“Quick, she’s seen us checking her out, look casual.”

“Hey… pull my finger”

“Ewww, dude!”

“Oi you! More drinks NOW!”

“Dude, act straight or they’re gonna cut us off.”

The two Devilboys were soon enjoying leisurely days seeing the sights.

They bonded over bevvies.

And shared lazy days in the sun.

It soon became clear that it was true love for our little Brokeback Babies.

They quickly formed a little two man team and not only interacted whilst playing but began to work closely together with genuine camaraderie and a real spirit of co-operation. Mostly this ‘work’ involved complete naughtiness – like helping each other to nick stuff.

First Devilboy started by stealing mummy’s placemats from their hiding place whilst Devilboy 2 happily aided and abetted and drove the proverbial getaway car.

But just like a baby Bonnie & Clyde, this is a love story that seems to be the beginning of a more serious life of crime.

Our little outlaws began to aim their sights higher and higher.

From stealing strollers…

To stealing cars…

But  these sweet & crazy boys are mostly just guilty of stealing our hearts.

 

 

Imagine…

I understand that many children have imaginary friends and that they generally appear between the ages of 3 and 4. I also understand that this is generally not an indication that said child is lonely or in any way mentally disturbed. More often it is a sign that they are simply creative, imaginative children.

But… in doing my research I have yet to discover any information about the workings of a 13 month old Devilboys imagination.

Not that Devilboy has acquired, as far as I am aware, an imaginary friend. I think, for the minute, he is quite content with the real life flesh and blood friends he has.

However, about a week ago my mad little man seems to have found himself himself an imaginary block. That’s right, a block – as in a small piece of wood generally used for stacking on other small pieces of wood to create unsteady structures for the sole purpose of smashing into oblivion. At least it would be a small piece of wood, if it actually existed.

I have observed now on three separate occasions the following, admittedly entertaining, but rather peculiar scenario.

First Devilboy removes all the blocks from his block box by chucking them with wild abandon across the room – completely normal 13 month old behaviour.

But each time he has stopped to look over the blocks he has scattered on the floor with intense concentration before checking back in the empty box. He then reaches into the  box and very definitely picks up a nonexistent object and carefully places it amongst the others on the floor or on top of a one of his crude and primitive constructions (I’m talking three blocks precariously balancing  – I am not claiming Devilboy is an architectural genius here).  

I have watched him as he forgets about it for a few minutes then comes back for it, remembering exactly where he left it… even though it doesn’t exist. Twice he has even passed the imaginary block to me and then taken it back out of my empty hand to put back in the box for safe keeping. It warms my heart that at least Devilboy is showing signs of generosity and is happy to share his lunacy. (Or maybe the block is real and I jcan’t see it becasuse I’m the loon… hmmm )

I’m hoping that this means he is destined to be an easy to please child… as opposed to a low achiever. I mean, if he’s going to go to the trouble of creating an imaginary anything he could have aimed a bit higher than a small lump of wood and gone for something good like a truck (though why I would think he would invent something as normal as that when his favourite toy is the small plastic vulture that came in a box of alphabet zoo animals, and which he won’t leave home without – much to the consternation of strangers who find an angeliclooking baby boy playing with a toy vulture a trifle macabre to say the least.)

I think it a fair assumption that having an imaginary block is a clear indication of early onset insanity but when you consider the gene pool Devilboy emerged from it really isn’t all that unexpected. 😉

 

Confessions of a slummy mummy

Those of you who followed my demented ramblings about the untold fun of infertility and IVF   may have noticed it’s been a little while between posts.

76 weeks to be precise.

Admittedly, this is a trifle tardy. No, I didn’t drop off the face of the earth, I simply became a pregnant person which made my musings on infertility a tad obsolete.

After finally achieving my longed for pregnant state, I suffered a severe and debilitating case of writers block. In all honesty, it wasn’t so much writers block as the fact that with conception came stupidity. I became dumb. So very, very dumb. We’re talking George W. Bush dumb, here. 

So to those of you wondering… yes, The Truffle was born. In March 2008 I gave birth to a 3.1kg bundle of yum.

 

This is he a few days old.

That very day it become clear that I had made my first (alleged) mistake as a parent while naming our son. As we announced to all and sundry that The Truffles post fetal moniker was Rafferty… all and sundry replied as follows;

“It’s a stupid name!”

“Are you sure?”

“But isn’t it a dogs name… why don’t you call him something normal like Jack?”
 

Strangely, I have never met a dog named Rafferty – though I have met several hundred called Jack. But I digress. The net result was that by naming my son Rafferty I would disadvantage my poor child before he had even left the hospital. Seriously, it was such a travesty I’m surprised DOCS weren’t called in to intervene. Without the constructive and helpful feedback from our acquaintances and friends our poor child was destined to live a life of abject horror and deprivation because we weren’t selfless enough to give him a name shared by 25,000,000 other children.

Regardless, as we are clearly evil and destined to be terrible and wicked parents, we stuck with Rafferty. Thankfully, one year later, the world hasn’t stopped spinning on it’s axisand Rafferty has survived his naming intact and is perfect in every way. Amazingly, there are even people, whose opinions we respect, who actually like his name and agree that it suits our raffish little Devilboy to perfection.
 

 

See evidence of said raffishness here. 

Before I continue, I’d like to take the opportunity to thank those helpful people who were so negative in those first few days whilst I was overwhelmed by postnatal self doubt and new mummy anxiety and have this little message for them.  “You wanna name it, you give birth to it! Oh, and fuck off!”

Why didn’t I write after Rafferty came along? Partly because after delivering my baby and living without anything resembling slumber for quite some time I became even dumber. In fact, there are chimpanzees who,  with the help of some flash cards and a few hand signals, have better communication skills than did I at the time. Plus, I had important gazing and cooing to do at my delicious little baby . Quite frankly, I had nothing to say that didn’t involve my beloved offspring and I figured that no one wanted to read another self indulgent mother’s blog about the tedious minutiae of their babies existance.  

So what’s changed? Not a lot. My brain is slowly regenerating and I am now probably capable of enjoying discourse with the aforementioned monkeys and, on occasion, I even valiantly attempt articulate conversation with sentient human beings.  I still don’t have much to talk about other than being a stay at home mother/ freelance media whore and my treasured little man.  But when a terribly clever and articulate friend whose opinion I respect told me I should get back to it, I had a rethink and decided I would – if people don’t want to read about my adventures with the lovely Devilboy they don’t have to.  It’s not compulsory. 

Whilst I will no doubt dribble on endlessly about babies (and mine in particular) and parenthood, think of this less as a gushing festival of mummy mush and more as me reccoiling in horror at the media’s fixation on yummy mummy’s – like women don’t have enough body image issues already without being expected to look like an airbrushed Kate Moss before they’ve even cut the umbilical cord. The reality for the newly mummmyfied is more of a bloated and hollow eyed fembot, with admittedly gigantic bosoms (though said bosoms will undoubtedly be leaking) who is more likely to fall asleep covered in baby vomit and finds time for something as washing when the Earth, Sun and Moon are perfectly aligned.

Expectations of immediately donning the Jimmy Choos to strut our svelte and sexy stuff are insulting and unrealistic and we should embrace our sensationally sloppy sleep deprived selves and just enjoy our new babies.

My other gripe is the avalanche of uninvited advice, criticism and lack of respect that one receives, seemingly as a matter of course, after becoming a parent. Where once I was seen as a mildly funny, thinking human female – I am now glared at with abject horror when attempting to make light of motherhood and am seen more as a nameless incubator for a small person… and an imbecile. It’s been so long since anyone actually addressed me by my real name I may have to change my driver’s license to read “Raff’s Mum” so as to not confuse people.

I will confess my parental shortcomings, frequently, for there are many and I am unashamed.

I am prepared to confess that I am a bad mother because I played The Clash and Iggy Pop instead of Beethoven whilst my baby was in the womb and because my son has yet to hear or see Bob the Builder but jiggles excitedly to Bob Dylan while he eats his breakfast. I am a bad mother because vegemite sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and tea – though allegedly should result in him being as bright as bright can be – does not a balanced diet make. I am a bad mother because I sometimes feed him to sleep and when no one is looking sneak him into bed next to me so I can cuddle his warm soft little body while he snoozes. I’m a bad mother because occasionally I read to my son from trashy magazines instead of educational children’s books and because I can’t help but laugh when he does something naughty…  and let’s not forget that I am a very, very bad mother because I gave my son ‘a dogs name’. 

I may also confess to loving the above little man more than life itself.

I realise that being more of a slummy than yummy mummy carries with it the risk of being condemned by some but at a time when so many people live to pass judgement and an army of childcare ‘specialists’ are discovering fab new ways to be a teribble parent every day… I’ll take my chances.

For those who want to hear more about the adventures of the delicious Devilboy and his terribly naughty mummy… stay tuned.