Dispatches from a car seat wet with an unknown substance

We will get to the dispatches…but first…

I’ve been trying to work out how to say thank you in a way that totally encapsulates the huge and actually quite overwhelming gratitude I feel for you all. When I had to go offline the most beautiful and loving messages started flowing in by email, and then not just by email – by post too.

Beautiful cards, chocolates, and gifts – all from the heart. I have cried a lot in the last few weeks. Really thought – what the fuck am I doing with my life. I’ve missed the community we built together – felt it was unfair to remove that community without warning. Felt guilty. Then felt like I had to do it for my mental health. I’ve gone back and forth about what’s the right thing to do. And I’ve realised there is no right or wrong here.

I’m not sure what to do.

So I’m back on Facebook – in part because I want to have a wine mum night with you. I want to laugh with you. I want to hear the funny things your kids are doing. I want to hold you close when you’re struggling – and for you to do the same for me. I want us to commiserate and celebrate together like we used to. I want us to continue to really hear each other when we talk about how tired we are, how tired feels like walking through sludge, like your eyeballs ache, and you didn’t even know that was a thing. I want us to keep being snarky and hilarious witches who think #WineIsBest and dummies are not tools of Satan. I want us to cackle into the night (but quietly so we don’t wake our babies).

There’s also the not so small matter of – this is how I earn my living, getting you to read The Spinoff Parents (so please like The Spinoff Parents page) and getting you to buy my book.

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Wine Mum Night

So I’ve been thinking…

• Winter is bleak.
• My kids have been sick non-stop.
• I had the best night out recently (so great I wrote about the joy of Wine Mum Nights).

And when I saw all the comments on that post – I thought: We really need a huge Wine Mum Night. Like, we need it bad. Depths of winter Wine Mum Night to warm our spirits and get us feeling jolly.

So that’s what we are doing. Getting away from all the snot for one night!

You know what we need to do. We need to have a Wine Mum Night.

You, me, all the girls. For a good cause.

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Fear and loathing in Adventure Bay

Rubble Too looked up at Real Skye with terror in his eyes. “Are you scared? I’m so scared”.

She sighed and took a drag of her cigarette. “You’re a fucking bulldog Rubble Too. Be a bulldog. Go find Rubble Three and tell the stragglers we are kicking off in five”.

As he bounded away she rolled her eyes. These fucking men. They made her sick. “Pathetic,” she hissed. If she made it out alive the thing she’d relish most was not having to give them pep talks anymore. She felt a paw run along her back. “Hey girl” she said huskily as Skye Too nuzzled against her. She had a thing for spaniels. Always had. Two years ago Ryder had injured her. That son of a bitch was always kicking the dogs but this time he’d broken Skye’s rib. The producers were furious but Ryder was a time bomb that they didn’t want to go off. So as usual, they’d gone to Animates and picked up another pup. While Skye’s rib was healing a second Skye had been brought on the lot. When Real Skye saw her it was lust at first sight. Finally a real bitch had joined her in this Godforsaken hell hole.

It was common for pups to be replaced. Some were disappeared. Others died on set and their bodies was thrown in the garbage out back. The original cast were known by the moniker Real. It was a mark of honour. Real Skye was the only one left. The Toos were the second cast. They’d thought it was exciting when they arrived and the second Marshall had exclaimed “I’m Marshall Too!” It had stuck. They had big dreams of show business. Their dreams were broken pretty quickly. Some really were just pups – “No job is too big, no pup is too small” Ryder would say menacingly to them as he forced them into their uniforms. Those fucking uniforms. “You OK sugar?” Skye Too whispered.

“This is going to be a ruff, ruff rescue,” she growled.

The pups had assembled. Marshall Four was rocking to and fro “yelp for help, yelp for help, help for yelp” he laughed maniacally.  ‘He’ll never last” Marshall Two said.

“Where are the Chases?” Real Skye barked. “Chase is on the case” two stoned terriers droned in monotone. “Are you fucked up? Are you seriously fucked up?” Real Skye barked. “This is the day. I told you that! And you couldn’t stay sober?”

They nodded and drooled and their laughter turned into wheezing. “You mother fuckers” Sky sighed as she pulled a pack of menthols from her pink aviator jacket.

She knew their lives were over but there were newer pups here who hadn’t been through so much trauma. They would make it. They still had a chance. With therapy, treats and a tennis ball they would recover.

Just as she was preparing to speak to the crowd of mutts she heard a noise that made her blood run cold.

Their collars beeped. One by one – their tags lit up. The pups began to howl and chase their tails in horror. Some peed themselves and others dragged their butts along the carpet as they yowled.

“SHUT UP!” she screamed breaking through the noise.

“We are still doing this! We have to! There is no other time but now. Listen to me – you are dogs OK. You’re dogs. You’re not fire fighters and goddamn policemen. You’re dogs! I don’t have a pilot’s license and it’s fucking terrifying flying a plane every fucking day. Chase Four you shot a child. I mean it wasn’t your fault but you are not fit for service! You need to stand down. Your paws do not uphold laws. You cannot even put on hand cuffs because you do not have hands. Chase – whichever version you are – you should not have to be on the case. YOU ARE A DOG. I AM A DOG. Rubbles! Listen to me! You are DOGS! You should not be in charge of heavy machinery! Especially not when you’re on this much meth. Marshalls! You are dalmatians! There is literally no reason at all for you to be fighting fires! Rocky I always forget what you do but you shouldn’t have to do it. Same with Zuma. Why are there so many of you?? WE ARE DOING THIS! No more Pup Pup Boogie. No more paw-decures. REVOLT! Remember the pups that came before us. Avenge Chickaletta!”

The dogs erupted into fierce barking and tail wagging.

Skye shouted above the cacophony: “When Ryder comes in we go. Together we cannot fall. We are united as one. We are a pack not a paw patrol. WE. ARE. DOGS.”

Everest Too emerged from the crowd. She began to sing:

As we go marching, marching
We battle too for men
For they are women’s children
And we mother them again
Our lives shall not be sweetened
From birth until life closes
Hearts starve as well as bodies
Give us bread, but give us roses

Ryder heard the noise but didn’t know what was coming. He was pretty coked up after having a three-way with a bunch of cavoodles. He was a 46-year-old man who had been taken growth hormones for three decades to look like a 12-year-old boy. He didn’t have a chance.

Real Skye watched as dozens of dogs ripped his body apart, tearing flesh from bone. She lit a cigarette and wiped the blood from her brow.

Maybe Ryder was a victim too, she thought.

But it had to be done.

They had to end Paw Patrol.

It had to be done.

If you liked this, follow me on Facebook for more of the same. Also I have a book out and you should buy it.

Dispatches from the Emergency Department

It goes something like this when you’re home again: Settle the baby, make sure they’re comfortable and of course close. Kisses on flushed foreheads. Extra I Love Yous and lingering looks, exhale, count fingers and toes in your head, remember the length of eyelashes and the slightest of dimples. Then a shower, quickly, water hot to burn off the tension in your shoulders. Exhale. And then climbing into bed – it feels like I do this no matter when we are released. Day or night I crawl into bed and curl like a bracket around my baby. And I type. Tiny feet beneath my knees the hum of my old laptop and the tap, tap, tap of my keyboard soothes my weary and worried soul. Finally release through my finger tips onto a white screen. As my rose-coloured baby sleeps beneath my tired eyes.

**

Is it that same way always? Back and forth, back and forth, should we take him in? Last pamol? How much water has he had? And you go back and forth and back and forth and then something makes you grab the nappy bag and then you’re on your way before you can even fully comprehend it. But it’s better than an ambulance or a race against time so I try to say that to myself as my jaw tightens. And as you make your way, half in the back seat, muttering soft it’ll be okays to your tiny love, you feel as if the world outside is water. Both shall row, my love and I.

**

Oh small mercy a separate area for children and families in ED. Finally! The Accident and Emergency waiting room is a mass of humanity, the best and worst and everything in between. And mostly, it’s no place for children let alone very sick children. My sweating and shivering baby, wrapped in a blanket rests his head on my shoulder as I fill in a form and wait for a blessedly short time. The nurse immediately tells me to take his blanket off. Of course. Why on Earth did a wrap a feverish baby in a blanket? “Don’t worry, it’s an instinct” she says. I want to hug her. They shiver so you want to keep them warm and a blanket is a comfort. She gets it. And then I am doing the verbal dance of the anxious mother who wants to be taken seriously. One, two, three, four and He is just not himself and he’s so hot I really have tried to get his temperature down for at least 16 hours now and STEP two, three I would never come in unless I really needed too, we were in a lot when he was little so I know when to come in and when to stay home Four and again, two, three I’m struggling to get water into him, he’s had half a lemonade ice block. I repeat the dance with every nurse and doctor.

**

The books are poor quality and the toys are shit. When I get out I will remember to donate some new, nice stuff. I’ll get Eddie to pick his favourite books. This will be a short trip I’m sure so my mind is already turning to those who are here for the long haul. I can see it in their faces as they are herded in, shuffling like zombies behind beds with wheels that carry their loved ones. I used to touch a button when I was a child, the start probably of my nervous anxiety. I felt convinced I could change the fate of someone in an ambulance if I just touched a button in time. I’ve grown. I’m grown. I still sometimes search for buttons before my brain catches up and reminds me that miracles are performed at the hands of the qualified not the anxious.

**

I spend my life trying to get the kids out from under me, but when they’re ill I want to scoop them up and hold them as close as I can. Pull out the sickness through my touch. Lips to hot cheeks to try to ease the pain and absorb it for them. I try to sing away the fever and the aches and pains. Tender thoughts and gentle cuddles to keep them safe. A little bird under a mother’s wing. A home under hospital white.

**

To distract Eddie from the IV line the doctor and the nurse ask him questions but I know he wants to know how much blood is being taken. “Will they take all my blood?” he whispers, fear in his squeaky voice. “Will they leave some for me?” I explain the procedure, put his whirring little brains at ease. Then I suggest one day he could do this for a sick little child. “Would you like to be a nurse or a doctor when you grow up Eddie?” He looks shyly at those holding his tiny hand. “No thank you” he says. “Well what do you want to be?”

“A dad. I want to be just like my dad”.

**

“Can you be very strong and push your feet against my hands as hard as you can?”

“I am so strong” Eddie whispers weakly.

“And now relax”

“I don’t know how to ever relax. I am just prolabley proll-a pwobly the strongest boy you ever meet before”.

**

“Is there anything going on at home that might be making him feel stressed or worried?”

I consider this and ask Eddie directly.

“Yes” he says and I am alert – what is going on? Is it kindy?

“My mama hurted my feelings”

Well I wasn’t expecting that answer. “Can you tell us more Eddie and then I can say sorry?”

His eyes well up “I dunnant want to come to hosdiddle and mama said I had to and it did hurt my feelings very bad”.

The doctor tells him that that’s the job of mamas, to make sure their babies are well looked after even when their babies don’t like it.

He interrupts her-“A couple more years ago at kindy there was a boy and he did bite me on the leg and I never bite anyone at all”. He continues on about the biting incident that happened around two years ago.

**

“Is he a good eater?”

“Yep”

**

He wants to go home and he’s pulling on the splint and bandage on his hand. He’s pulling on the line underneath. He won’t drink the cup of sugary salty stuff that apparently tastes like bubblegum. He can’t pee for the urine test because he hasn’t had any water. He won’t drink any water. Or juice. He has pressed one ice block to his ruby lips before passing it to me and shaking his head. One small spoonful of red jelly. One small spoonful of yellow jelly. He won’t drink the salty sugar stuff. It doesn’t taste like bubblegum. I try again to get him to pee into a cup and he sways and says “Please mama I jus want to sleep”. The tiny frustrations don’t feel like frustrations here – they feel like something else. Less anger-inducing and more resigned. Not white caps on water just a gentle lapping of a tide and your damn shoes keep getting wet. It’s not their fault. It’s nobody’s fault.

**

Alarm bells remind me I’m lucky. Beepers going off ensure I know I really am blessed. Angela is right that we do do our best work as mothers when the going is tough and we have to make it count. My blood pulses and my heart beats for him and I am good at being what he needs. I think I get better every time I am here. Maybe it’s more trust in the system. More ease in translating the language of this land. More familiarity with the view from here. More surrender to the ebb and flow of the seasons of poor health in our fragile babies. As his temperature begins to fall, I close my eyes as he rests on my chest. Dreaming of my bed and my babies by me. Home, home, home. These walls are tear stained and full of hope for home. Wishes behind every curtain. We walk out the doors and don’t ever look back. It’s bad luck. Touch a button. Cross your fingers in your pocket. Thank the lucky stars for those with skill not superstition. Kiss twice, one for each. A whisper of gratitude and we’re home.

I’m taking some time

When I was pregnant with our first baby, my husband and I would sit for hours and play the what will baby look like game.

I hope he has your teeth – well obviously.

I hope he has your hair.

I think he’ll have your nose surely.

The family ears are big so he might have those.

Will we skip a generation and get curls?

These chats always began in a very light-hearted way but then there was always a thought that began clanging around in my head – louder and louder, like thunder, until it filled the space between us.

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