Monthly Archives: February 2012


It’s official.

L has epilepsy. 

The definition of epilepsy is two or more seizures.  L has only had one seizure.  Every one is allowed one seizure.  Normally.

You see they don’t normally investigate a single isolated instance because seizures happen.  They happen for lots of reasons.  Once, this one time could be a one-off, so normally our local hospital wouldn’t bother to investigate,

L’s seizure did not fall into the normal category.

It started primarily with her left side and once it was over, her left side remained weak for a few hours.  This always flags up as unusual and cause for further investigation, even though after some questioning, I have found out that some weakness in one limb or side of the body is common.  She wasn’t found to have a fever when the first responder arrived, which is another flag.  Young children are prone to seizures when they are ill, particularly if they have a high temperature (although you lot will already know this – I know one of my worst fears was the dreaded febrile convulsions.) The final cause for concern was the duration.  Thirty minute seizures are a medical emergency.  L was forty minutes.  That is a long time. A forever really.

So, they investigated.

The awesome (yet also slightly scary) news we had on friday was that her MRI was normal.  There is nothing structurally wrong with her brain which would have caused the fits.  A relief.  The alternatives are scary…

But they also would have offered an explanation.  They are something that can be fixed (for the most part) so therefore they would take the risk of seizure with them.

Now for us and their childcare and anyone who looks after my daughter the risk is there.  There is always a chance she may have another fit.  She has no triggers so we can’t control what she has access to and they won’t medicate for a single episode so we just live and wait.  I am constantly terrified she will go again an the sickening memories will return and be played out.  I’m scared she’ll do it when I’m there and this time I won’t recover.  I’m scared she’ll do it when I’m not there and I’ll feel guilty for not being there for her when she is terrified and just needs her mum.  The whole thing has my head whirling.

We’ve told everyone about the clear MRI and it’s been asked if that just proves it was a one-off.  Oh how I would love too be able to sweep it under the carpet.  To pin it to a virus or similar and just carry on would be great.  But she had an EEG during her time in hospital. 

An EEG measures brain activity and draws it out on a neat little graph.  I spent a long time reading about the brain and how it works and I still don’t fully understand.  From the information we have though, Ls brain activity is abnormal.   She has discharge spikes.  They are regular and linked to specific areas of her brain.  When one of these spikes reaches a certain threshold, she will have a seizure.  There are no set triggers to these spikes.  The threshold is her own tolerance which will rise as she gets older. 

The spikes she has are typical of Benign Rolandic Epilepsy.

So we wait.


What do normal parents do?

This week is my last week as a SAHM.  Next week I join the ranks of the BOTTOMs and see my kids as they wake up and briefly before they go to sleep.

I’m still not sure I like that idea, but anything is better than the grinding whinging that I have tolerated for the last ten months.  And that’s just from myself!

So, I’ve posted before about how being a SAHM isn’t the life for me.  Mainly because I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’m not a great mum.  I’m average.  By that I mean I get the job done. The kids are fed, watered and for the most part sort of cleanish.  I shout a lot, which isn’t good for anyone and I have a red hot temper which leaves me seething if she’s having a bad day.  Yeah, so not great.  But ok.

I don’t look like a mum.  You know you see some people, then you see them with their kids and they look comfortable, confident and as if they belong?  I’m not one of those.  I look like the teenager being forced to play with her siblings.  Or the cousin called in to babysit out of sheer desperation; obviously related, completely clueless.

Then there’s the domestic failure.

I don’t cook.  I have not baked since school and because of my weird relationship with food, cooking is not good for me. I can pull stuff out of the freezer and slap up a dinner if I really have to but I prefer not to have to handle the food before I eat it.  Cooking does not leave me with a satisfied smile.  It leaves me feeling a bit queasy and put off dinner.  I’m lucky OH likes to cook.

The less said about cleaning the better.  I’m trying not to look at my Cheerio covered floor.  I’m ignoring the nappies in the hall and shunning the scum in the bathroom.  All these things actually drive me wild, but I have a permanent attachment in the form of O which prevents me from doing them. I can tolerate the mess.  An hour of screaming – not so much. So I have no idea how normal mothers find time to do all these things. No idea.

Washing I can just about keep ahead of.  Shoving dirty clothes in a washing machine every hour isn’t hard.  Putting them away so they don’t cover every surface in the kitchen is another matter.  So again, we will avoid speaking about it.

I do craft.  I make jumpers.  Lots of jumpers.  I love making jumpers.  If you want a jumper made (to receive next year!) then I’m your girl.  See, knitting I can do while cuddling and feeding, sewing up needs precious hands free time.  Time which is at a premium. Time I use for hanging washing to stop it smelling, or for hoovering up Cheerios or putting the oven on.

I just want to  know what normal mothers do. How do they handle the tantrums? How do they find time to stop the house from looking shat in as opposed to just lived in? How do they manage to hold it together when they are slowly losing their identity?


Shit on the floor

No it’s not a metaphor, although it would be a good one to describe me generally.

I’m talking actual brown logs on the actual carpet. If you don’t want to read about poo, look away now.

This was the beginning of my day.

You see, L in her infinite toddlery wisdom decided that she needed a po.  She also decided that she needed to take her nappy off to do said poo.  What she didn’t decide to do is ask for the potty or remove her pajama bottoms.

So, poo rolls down the inside leg of her PJs and on to the deck. Nice.

OH goes in, just as I’ve managed to get the non-sleeping baby to doze next to me in the bed and I hear cries of needing my help as there is poo everywhere.

Of course I feared the worst, jumped out of bed and lept in armed with half a roll of loo paper wrapped around my hand…all after waking non-sleeping baby to move him to the cot.

I’m greeted by the carpet bum-fudge. It’s not nearly as bad as I imagined.

A wipe and a flush and we’re once again poo free having survived our first escapee turd monster disaster.

For my benefit.

L was a screamy baby.  She could scream for hours.  It made no difference who she was with or what she was doing.  If she wanted to scream, she would.

O is less screamy.  He’s easily consoled by mummy cuddles. But this is the problem.  The mummy cuddles.

On Monday they did their first session with the new childminder.  It was the first time O was away from me for more than a few hours. I dropped them off at 8.30am. I was expecting a phonecall to come and get him at about 11am.

You see, on a Thursday when he’s here with his Nanny then his father he gets hysterical.  On Friday when he was at home with Grandma he refused formula and cried himself to sleep. When I’m here with him he cries if I leave the room, if I put him in his travel cot and if I don’t feed him when he expects it.

We have been trying to give him formula through the day but he won’t touch it. 

All of this I thought would amount to an awful first day for him.


He cried twice. He napped easily.  He took the formula.  He ate the food. He’s a little shitbag.

I say this because yesterday when I was running on low tolerance he cried each time I left the room.  He cried when I changed him after he expected a feed.  He cried in the pushchair.  He cried in the highchair.  He completely refused the formula and cried.

I am devastated that he’s behaving this way for me.  It breaks my heart to think that someone else is already getting the best of him.

The relationship

I know, it’s cliche.  Everyone and their sheep is going to be posting about love, relationships and all that romantic crap today but as it’s all happening now and misery loves company, I figure there is no better time.

Our relationship is not great.


I feel like we are two people just existing in the same house.

I actually like it that way.

I like the lack of anything physical. 

I like doing my own thing.

I like feeling independent.

It isn’t that I don’t care about him. That’s not the problem.

I believe the problem stems from spending so long trying to make babies that now I’m through with having kids sex seems pointless.  It has served its functional purpose and now can be ignored.

I have no idea how to change this perception.

To be honest, I don’t want to.


Most women I know would kill to have a size 8 body, to be able to squeeze into skinny jeans, to have a flat stomach…

A friend posted a link on facebook along the lines of “It’s not acceptable to call someone fat, so why suspect I’m anorexic?”
And I can identify.

I’ve always been super slim.  It doesn’t matter what I eat, I don’t put weight on.  THIS DOES NOT MAKE ME LUCKY! It is HARD to keep body fat on.  If I exercise, I know I have to find time to consume extra calories.  People suspect I starve myself, or don’t eat.  If I’m not hungry I feel like I’m being judged for my small portions.

That girl you just called skinny? Yeah, she’s now got a complex about eating.

This is what happened to me. They watched me eat through school.  They watched me until I got panic attacks about it. Panic attacks I still have.  I stopped eating when I was self harming, but only because the watchers showed me it was easy to control attention via food intake.

So, next time you think the skinny girl is “lucky” take a second before you mention her weight.

What she is thankful for.

Tonight we went to the Lovely Ladies church for sticking, gluing, dinner and general small child excitement.

Messy church.

They tell a Bible story, do some crafty bits, sing a couple of songs and then we have dinner.

Now, I am not religious, but I do adore the Lovely Ladies.  The children were asked what they were thankful for.

I tried to get L to say Lovely Ladies.  So she stands at the front, hand in the air, waiting to be asked.

“And what are you thankful for L?”

The mic gets lowered.