Dental torture

Today I had to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist, in fact I am terrified. It is right up there at the top of my most feared list, right after public speaking and karaoke.

I had a 90-minute appointment, which I was absolutely dreading. This would be the final long appointment for what is the second root canal on this same tooth, courtesy of a festering cavity ravaged by pregnancy hormones. After the hours and hours of time I have spent having treatment on this tooth you would think I would be somewhat at ease with dental proceedings by now, but no, I have found my thought processes run pretty much the same way each time.

Usually the freak-out starts well before I arrive at the dentist, culminating nicely into a full blown stomach ache with a light headed kind of feeling whilst I am sitting in the waiting room. And my inner dialogue (like that? It’s Eckhart) is saying quite rationally “OK, I am sick, that’s it, cancel it- you are going to have to reschedule!” I sit there making small talk with the receptionist, appearing totally at ease, betrayed only by my stiffly crossed arms and a jittering right foot.

When I am called into the room, the chair, I feel as though I am walking to my execution. I force myself to sit down when all my instincts are shouting “RUN, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!!” The bib thing is clipped on, the chair is slowly going back and I start to feel queasy. Is it too late to back out?

The dentist brandishes a massive needle and I try pretend that I am fine with her stabbing me in the gum. And then the numbing sensation begins. My lip. My cheek. My nostril. My chin. Oh my god, she has INJECTED TOO MUCH!! My head is going numb! I think my vision is going black! I can’t breathe! She has anaesthetised my optic nerve, my nasal passages! I am BLINDED, I am SUFFOCATING!!!!!

Convinced I am going to die, I wonder if I should say something. BUt of course my mouth is full of instruments and a dentists arm up to the elbow. Not to mention the wierd sucker thingy that sounds a bit like someone hawking back mucous. I begin to feel sick.

Oh my goodness, I think I am going to vomit. A wave of nausea distracts me from my death-by-anaesthetised-nostrils, and I ponder the logistics of being sick whilst receiving dental treatment. Envisaging some sort of fountain scenario, I realise that my heart rate is about double that of a normal healthy adult. Possibly even triple.

Oh crap, now i am having a heart attack! A heart attack at 31, what are the odds?? I always knew I wasn’t long for this world, though I thought I would go by cancer of the belly button, or something equally obscure- maybe karoake induced cardiac arrest. I picture myself on stage, like a rabbit in the headlights, keeling over dramatically, clutching the microphone to my heart in demise. It strikes me as incredibly funny.

Oh no, I am going to laugh! And I might inhale the dentists instrument! Death by dentist- I knew it! Quick, think of something not funny! THINK OF SOMETHING NOT FUNNY!!!!!

The dentist asks me if I am okay. I assure her I AM FINE. She asks me if I need the toilet. I tell her I don’t. And I didn’t until she asked me. Now I really, really need the toilet.

The dentist continues digging around in my mouth, and I become convinced that I am starting to feel it. I wait for a sharp stab of pain, tensed in anticipation. Yes, I can definitely feel something! It is not my imagination! Eyeing the clock I wonder how much more torture I can bear. Begin to wonder whether death by dentist is such a bad idea. I JUST WANT THIS HELL TO BE OVER!!!!

And eventually, after what seems like a decade, it IS over. I rinse my mouth, dribbling minty water down my chin on the numb side, and leave the dental torture chamber with an overwhelming feeling of relief, suppressing the urge to break into a frantic run. I stand, shell shocked, blinking in the sunlight, with a completely numb face and a throbbing tooth- oh the irony! If it was someone else it might even be funny.

A Butterfly Angel

Tendrils and wisps of rainbows and love
You try to grab on but find that you can’t

A promise of life bringing wonder and hope
Now ebbs away slowly like melting snow

A perfect tear glistens, burns a trail as it falls
Caught and carried by your angel, a butterfly soul.

The Big Yellow Envelope

Friday started just like any other day, with me dragging myself from bed and sitting half asleep on the couch whilst Awesome Hubby brings me my morning coffee. It was raining, had been for most of the night, and once my eyes were formally open for the day I eyed the pelting sky with trepidation.

Luckily for me Awesome Hubby was the one to get wet as he took the girls to school, and I was able to enjoy the warmth and dryness of home. However, I found myself to be at a loose end. ‘What’s going on??’ I thought in frustration. ‘It’s not Wednesday, but it cetainly FEELS like a Wednesday!’ I was in a funk.

It’s not that I didn’t have things to do, I just didn’t have any desire to do them. Washing? Pffft! It will just get dirty again. Cook dinner? Meh, that’s what takeaway is for. Tidy the kids bedrooms? Nah, just close the doors. I looked in the fridge twelve times, I changed the channel on TV fourteen times, I prowled around the house looking for something that would occupy that void inside me with something of interest.

I decided that I would brave the rain and check the mailbox. Maybe there would be some interesting junk mail. Life really is boring when you begin looking forward to junk mail. Sighing with boredom and frustration at a life devoid of mental stimulation I slouched out to the mailbox and looked resignedly inside. And I saw it.

The Big Yellow Envelope.

I felt a flutter in my chest and a lurch of excitement. Big Yellow Envelopes are nearly always exciting or interesting. No-one purchases a Big Yellow Envelope unless they plan to place something important inside. Perhaps my day was looking up?

I scooped up the rest of the mail and hurried inside, trying to decide on how I was going to open The Big Yellow Envelope. Will I rip it open first, leaving the less important and interesting mail to last? Or do I save it for the end, and open the boring, white envelopes with little windows first? Such a quandary, such a dilemma!

I decided to forego the white envelopes altogether as being unworthy of my attention. Tossing them aside I hold up my prize, imagining what must be inside. Ripping open the end and slowly drawing out the pages, I unfolded the sheets with ceremony and prepare to unlock the mystery of The Big Yellow Envelope.

First glance reveals the insignia of my chosen university in the top right hand corner. With barely concealed excitement I scan down the page, savouring the words of the opening paragraph.

Dear Shereen,
Congratulations! I am pleased to advise you that your application for your chosen course has been accepted…

After ten years, marriage, three kids and one mind going stagnant with a lack of mental activity, I am once again a student- it’s official! The Big Yellow Envelope has told me so! I am on my way to becoming a writer! I imagine my name as a byline in a magazine and on the cover of a book, in big, bold letters- and felt that shift of a serious pipe dream morphing into feasible possibility. Though I had to give myself a reality check when I started visualising myself being interviewed by Oprah, striking an intelligent yet down-to-earth air as I frankly discuss my rise to fame. Maybe one day….

With a delicious glee I came to the futher important realisation that starting uni again is a perfect new-bag-purchase opportunity, and the news became that little bit more exciting. As I pictured myself going into class with my funky bag surrounded by my student peers, it became painfully obvious that there will be a *slight* discrepancy in age. Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!! I’m a MATURE AGE STUDENT!

Oh how I used to sneer at the mature agers sitting importantly at the front of the class, answering questions with gusto and enthusiasm unmatched by anyone else in the class! And now that person is me! Visions of me as a popular funky student wafted away and were replaced with me being laughed at by super styled, ipod toting Gen Y-ers.

So my Friday funk was replaced with scheming and planning on how to strike that perfect balance of mature age coolness in the noughties, and rehearsing my witty yet educated responses for my future interview with Oprah. What a difference the arrival of a Big Yellow Envelope can make to a day!

Drowning in an ocean of art

I have always been a bit of a hoarder. I like to keep stuff. I can’t bring myself to throw anything away that has any form of sentimental value, no matter how random or innocuous, much to Awesome Hubby’s distress. He likes to throw stuff.

My endearing habit of keeping things has never really been a problem, as the odd quirky (but useless) birthday present, thankyou card, concert ticket or holiday brochure could easily be boxed away and forgotten about until rediscovered down the track, at which point I usually take a leisurely meander down memory lane. I love keeping stuff.

My kids like to create stuff. They will draw and write, glue and paint all day, creating some magical and some not-so-magical masterpieces, all of which end up lovingly gifted…. to me. Combine this plethora of art with my inability to throw things and you might have some idea of my dilemma. We are drowning in a sea of art…. battling against the relentless tides of the Art-lantic!

It all starts with a pile of drawings on my kitchen bench. Cards proclaiming ‘I love you Mummy!’ and ‘You are the best mummy in the whole world!’ Paintings of fairies and mermaids and fairy mermaids, rainbows, our family and animals and bugs, and the odd Jesus on the cross… gotta love Catholic education…

Once the pile begins to impede my view of the dining room, I usually transfer the pile somewhere in order to appease Awesome Hubby who has usually begun kind of frothing at the mouth with the anticipation of throwing it out. On the bookshelf, on top of the fridge, in the pantry, in boxes at the top of my wardrobe, in drawers, under beds, behind the toilet…. Pretty soon I will be invited to appear on Today Tonight, showing interviews with elderly neighbours and local council representatives.

‘Throw it out!’ suggests my good friend Nives, ‘they will never know!’ So I try. I stand at the recycling bin, artpiece in hand, willing myself to drop the creation inside. The big lovehearts and I LOVE YOU MUMMYS shine like neon, pulsing with an accusatory glow… how DARE you consider treating me like RUBBISH!

‘Blu tack them to the wall and take photo’s of them,’ suggests Lil helpfully.

‘Stick it in scrapbooks!’ says Nat, practically.

‘GET RID OF IT!‘ says Awesome Hubby, whilst breathing rapidly into a paper bag.

‘Do you really need to keep pieces of paper with three vertical lines on it??’ questions Em, very diplomatically.

And the answer is yes. Yes I do.

So stay tuned for an upcoming episode of Today Tonight. I will be the one rocking backwards and forwards amongst mountains of smouldering lovehearts and rainbows, muttering over and over ‘Must. Keep It. Can’t. Throw It. Away….’ whilst Awesome Hubby is being led away from the burning ruins of our house in handcuffs, saying regretfully ‘You don’t understand, i had to… she wouldn’t throw it out!‘

Happy Birthday Mum!

Happy 54th Birthday, Mum. It is with love and affection I remember your favourite things, imagining what I would have bought for you if you were still here.

Birthday balloons

Chocolate Macadamias

Ginger fudge

Tickets to John Farnham concert

Dean Koontz book

Woolly Slippers

Flannel PJs

Candle from Dusk

Homemade chocolate cake with smarties

Congratulations to My Awesome Sister!

OK, I admit it, in moments of complete delusion I feel clucky. My uterus twangs, I yearn for a little bubba to cradle in my arms, to smell that perfect newborn smell, to immerse myself completely in the wonders of being responsible for creating a life. Sometimes I block out the chaos that is my life, forget that My Awesome Hubby has been snippy-snipped, and imagine having another little bubba growing inside me. For a moment I feel all glowy and sentimental. Then reality crashes in and I begin to hyperventilate. Nooooooooooo!!!!

So it seems that the perfect solution to my clucky problem has finally arrived….. My little sister is pregnant!!! I am so excited!! Apart from a core feeling that she is waaaaaaay too young to be having a baby (she is soon to be 28), I am over the moon!! There will be a little bubba that I can cuddle and dote on, and then give back!

Now this is going to present some challenge for me. It has been raised in the past that I can be somewhat pushy and opinionated (nooooo….. can you believe it????), and I really do not want to hijack what is essentially *her* experience. However, I also want to fulfil that space left by mum, provide a maternal support and unwavering enthusiasm that only a mother can feel.

So I hereforth grant My Awesome Sister full rights to tell me to SHUT UP and BUTT OUT in the very *rare* possibility that I might attempt to tell her what to do…. but also invite her to ask me anything, everything, so that I can do, be, and say all the things that she needs at this cherished time.

I love you Lis, and I can’t wait to meet your baby!!!!

photo by Boback

Donate for Tahne

This is my online friend Tahne with her gorgeous little girl.

I have ‘known’ Tahne for a few years now. She is a gorgeous, passionate, intelligent woman who loves her family, her chooks, her garden. She makes her own jewellery, is vegetarian, and she is funny. She has the best dreads ever, of which I am incredibly jealous! She is about to undergo IVF to conceive her second child, a process that has been on hold for a really long time due to persistent illness and various odd symptoms.

Tahne was recently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

In order to support Tahne and raise funds for MS, her husband Ashley is riding the Brissie to the Bay bike ride. So far, Ashley is vying for the position of top fundraiser for the bike ride, and whoever earns the most funds wins a family trip to an eco resort. I think Tahne deserves this holiday after a year of sickness and ill health. A holiday like this will help her and her beautiful little family to clear the air and bring in some positive energy before starting the IVF rollercoaster once again.

Please donate something, anything, to help this gorgeous woman and her loving husband. Even a few dollars will help them to have this well deserved break. I have admired the way they have coped with this change in their lives, and am inspired by the strength and commitment exhibited by them both.

To help this cause, CLICK HERE.

Negotiating with testosterone

We are upgrading Awesome Hubbys car. we have had the same one since 2003, and now that we have moved closer to the city he is now required to drive two hours a day, so he needs a better car. Needs one.

So negotiations have started. Within our relationship I tend to be the realist and he is the one with big dreams. We make a great team, he encourages me to take risks, whilst I stop him from taking too many risks. We tend to balance each other out, and appreciate that we are exactly what the other needs. Kind of like a yinyang thing you could say.

Except for when it comes to cars. My motivating factors when it comes to cars include best for the environment, gets from Point A to Point B, and it’s a nice colour. Awesome Hubbys motivations are slightly less, shall we say, tangible.

So Awesome Hubby wants a BIIIIIG car. I ask him why, WHY do we need a BIIIIIIG car? We don’t go four wheel driving. We have a family car. Why do we need a BIIIIIG car?

He says its a family car. We can go camping. It makes sense. It’s safe.

I politely suggest a slightly less expensive car. He toils and troubles over his options, with my occasionally putting in suggestions and opinions, gently, so that he doesn’t think I am trying to spoil his fun. We come up with a few different options, each varying in degree of desirability and sensibility.

So I broach the idea of the sensible option. Spacious, affordable, professional, economical, suits his image as a business man.

He puts forward his idea of his most desirable option. Blokey, masculine, fast, power. All those factors that make very little sense unless you are filled with testosterone.

Employing my most reasonable tone, I said to him, ‘OK, I thought you wanted a second family car, and does this car reeeeaaaalllly match the professional image you are trying to project, as a successful, well respected podiatrist?’ I really thought this was my secret weapon, the thing that would persuade him to see my view, how I would get MY way.

Then he pulled out HIS secret weapon… ‘But do I reeeaallly have to fit into a box? Do I have to not have something I really want in order to fit into everyone elses idea of what I should be?’

Straight away I was disgusted with myself, having flashbacks to my own struggle with fitting into a box, and my conviction that everyone should have the courage to stand up, break the mould and do what they choose irrespective of expectation. I backed off and decided to fully support him in the purchase of his vile blokey car. Either he thinks more like me than I thought he did, or he is very cunning!

SO if he gets his blokey car does that mean I can get dreadlocks?

Demon drink – a daughters perspective

Todays blog entry was inspired by this post at HERevolution.

Hi. My name is Shereen, and I am the daughter of an alcoholic. Or was. At least, I think I was. Oh, it is so hard to be sure.

I guess it seems pretty conclusive. when someone dies from Alcoholic Liver Disease then I guess the assumption can be made that that person was in fact an alcoholic. But the label ‘alcoholic’ does not seem to fit, and I feel it does a disservice to my mum’s memory.

I do remember alcohol being a significant part of my childhood, with my parents sharing quiet conversations over beer or wine at the end of each day. I did not realise that my parents drinking habit was not healthy, as they did not get drunk, were never messy drinkers, did not drink heavy liquor… I can count on one hand the amount of times I actually considered them to be ‘drunk’.

My parents led a fairly stressful lifestyle, working long hours putting their heart and souls into running their various small businesses to give my sister and I a good start in life and set up early retirement for themselves. I guess somewhere along the way their drinking became a bit of a crutch- they did not drink to get drunk the way you would expect of true alcoholics, they drank to relax, to be able to sleep, to switch off their minds and find peace at the end of each day.

I think the problem with utilising alcohol as a means to relax and dull the edges of stress, is that it is a convenient fallback when times get really tough. After mum suffered a haemorrhagic stroke she hit a deep depression, and she continued to drink on an already compromised liver, and before long she had irreparable liver damage.

There is an underlying sense of shame associated with alcoholism as a disease, and as the daughter of an alcoholic it is hard for me to accept that we couldn’t help her out of her pain, that we were not enough for her to want to live in sobriety, why she couldn’t JUST STOP. It is hard to grieve for someone who has died when you feel ANGRY that they did this to themselves, to their grandchildren, to us. To accept that she is gone and but for that demon drink she would still be here.

I hear people say ‘I know I should drink less, but hey, I would rather live a good life and die early, than sit in the corner being bored and live to a hundred!” and I just want to shake them, shake them until their eyeballs rattle, because I have watched someone I love die from alcohol abuse, and let me tell you, she was not living the good life. When a liver slowly dies it affects everything that makes you who you are, physically, mentally, emotionally, psychologically. It is not one non-stop party, put it that way.

After seeing what has happened to mum, and how the lure of the drink can take hold, I myself do not drink at all. I am scared of alcohol now. It is surprising how my non-drinker stance seems to threaten people. People are incredulous, they ask me ‘Are you sure?’, reassure me that ‘one won’t hurt you know!‘ they offer me non alcoholic substitutes, soft drinks in wine glasses to make me feel ‘a bit more special, part of the crowd’ . And I am asked ‘WHY?’

You can imagine how my honest response would go down in a party type situation.

So I lie. I just say I don’t really like to drink. But the real reason is I am scared, because my mum was a normal, loving mum like me and she died. If it can happen to her, maybe it could happen to me too?

The Bring-a-Plate Conspiracy

Nothing sends me into more of a spin than being asked to “bring a plate”. The whole process gives me conniptions. I never know what to make, or how much. In what shall I serve it? What if everyone brings the same thing? And perhaps worst of all… WHAT IF NOBODY EATS WHAT I BRING??? Visions of my lonely culinary creation standing stoically amongst plates laden with nothing but crumbs is my ABSOLUTE worst nightmare!

This morning Angel Face had her year 2 liturgy at school followed by a morning tea in the undercover area, and her class was asked to bring something savoury. Oh why does it have to be savoury??? I can whip up a mean sweet sensation, but savoury is not my love or my forte!

I trawled my vast cookbook collection, attempting to find that illusive savoury treat that would be both nutritious and memorable, utilising whatever I had in the cupboard, requiring as little time as possible to prepare. The perfect savoury solution was not to be found.

I considered piking on the whole homemade deal and just bringing something…SHOCK…. store bought! I quickly rejected that idea. NO, I am going make something from scratch, and everyone is going to think I am the perfect mother, they are going to marvel at my culinary genius, they will all want to come to my house for dinner. I will reveal that hidden talent I have for effortlessly whipping up something fabulous!

So I eventually decide to make mini quiches. I toiled over the hot oven, whipping together eggs and vegies in a frenzy, artfully placing lovingly halved cherry tomatoes in the centre of each one. My mini quiches were sensational!

The next dilemma I faced was deciding on the appropriate serving receptacle. A plate? A container? A platter? I decided on a large, square container, and I labelled that container clearly… a clever ruse that looked like I was marking my property, but in actual fact was designed to announce to everyone that I MADE THESE AWESOME HOME MADE QUICHES AND THEREFORE I AM A FANTASTIC AND TALENTED MOTHER!!!

We arrived at school and Angel Face placed the container of quiches on the designated table, and we all went to the year two Mass in the school chapel. After an hour of singing and praising the Lord it was time for the good bit- the morning tea! Waiting to bask in the glory of my culinary prowess, I arrived at the undercover area, ready to judge all those parents who brought *SHOCK* store bought fare.

I searched the laden table for my quiches, only to find someone had laid them out lovingly onto a square platter. Smugly, I figured they obviously thought my awesome quiches were TOO GOOD to be in a plastic container. Helping myself to a range of food, I saw a container similar to mine holding Samboy Barbecue Chips and Cheezels. Pfft, who would bring THOSE additive ridden evil things to a function such as this???

As I travelled down the table and closer to those nasty snacks, I realised with a sick dread…. SOMEONE HAD REMOVED MY QUICHES AND PLACED THOSE SAMBOY CHIPS AND CHEEZELS IN MY CONTAINER!!!! And the container was placed in a way so that OUR NAME WAS SHOWING ON THE SIDE, ANNOUNCING TO THE WORLD THAT I HAD IN FACT SUPPLIED NASTY ADDITIVE FUELED CHIPS TO OUR CHILDREN!!!!!

I looked around furtively expecting other home cooking mothers to be shaking their heads at me in disappointment and ridicule, and I weakly stammered, “no, you don’t understand… the quiches….” I lowered my head in defeat.

I bet the person who brought the chips also brought the platter displaying my quiches in a calculated ploy to claim glory for someone elses home cooking efforts. It is a conspiracy, I tell you!