And then you shift your priorities.

This blog has been pretty quiet for the past month. Sometimes I get busy and I post a lot, and then sometimes I get busy and I don't post at all. Most of the time it's because life has gotten hectic with small things - rarely with One Big Thing.

But this time it was One Big Thing. My daughter Avery, whose real name I'm using here for the first time, got very sick on the last weekend of April, with what I thought was a stomach bug. On the third night, when the vomiting started again and she had been hyperventilating for several hours and the bad feeling I had just wouldn't go away, I took her to emergency.

Within about 3 minutes the triage nurse had it figured out. At first he thought she was hyperventilating from anxiety after all the vomiting. You could see, too, that she was badly dehydrated. She breathed into a paper bag for about 45 seconds while he was asking me her date of birth and so on, and suddenly she took the bag off her face and gasped, "I might throw up." He smelled her breath and reached for a glucometer.

Do mothers go into denial sometimes? Absolutely we do. I had noticed the frequent urination over the past couple of weeks, but I had put all my anxiety into the kidney disease basket...in fact I had decided to ask her doctor to order a 24-hour urine collection.

But as soon as I saw what he had in his hand, I knew what the bad feeling was. Once or twice over the past month I thought "She's been up to pee twice tonight. Diabetes? No, don't be silly. Don't overreact."

Her blood sugar was 23.5.

It's a surreal feeling to see an entire emergency room unit scramble into action at 3 AM, because your daughter has a stomach bug. It's a surreal feeling to sit next to your 9 year old - whose eyelids are barely visible, her eyes are so sunken - biting your tongue because all you can think to say to the doctor is "You must be mistaken." It's a surreal feeling to watch them, when they can finally get a line in to her shrunken and dehydrated threads of veins, put insulin into her IV.

And then to watch the colour and the life come back into your daughter, and to know it's not just the saline, the phosphorus and the potassium, but because she is getting dextrose and insulin.

Insulin. "But - but -" I think to myself stupidly, "Insulin is only for diabetics."

It can't be. It can't be. She's perfectly well. She has always wasted away when she has a virus - all her life whenever she gets a cold she shrinks down to a wisp, and then within a few days she plumps back up. You must be wrong. There's some other explanation, I know it.

Can't we talk about this?

I want what's behind door number two.

But what we got was Type 1 Diabetes. And what nearly killed Avery that night was diabetic ketoacidosis. She had every one of the symptoms on that linked page, except for coma and, thankfully, some of the symptoms listed under 'cerebral edema'.

We spent five days in hospital while they slowly brought her blood sugar down and her electrolytes up. I only realized how close she had been to fatal complications when the doctors and specialists who visited her every day would mention small things: things like "I haven't seen a child that sick from diabetes for a very long time." (That was from the pediatrician - himself a Type 1 diabetic.) "Avery, today is the sickest you will ever be in your life, I promise. You will never be this sick again."

And "She was very sick," said one nurse to another, then the diabetes nurse educator added to both of them, "She was incredibly sick."

I can't even describe how much better she looks in this photo. 

I wish I had taken one 12 hours earlier - you wouldn't think it was the same child.

We have been home now for 12 days. Our whole life has changed. From a household that would lie reading books in bed until 10.30 in the morning, shuffle into the kitchen and throw a few pieces of bread into the toaster, we have become a family who does sugar checks every four hours at minimum, and schedules (unbelievably balanced) meals for 9:00, 1:00, 6:00 and 9:00. Nothing gets in the way of mealtimes anymore - because I can't manage it all, in my own mind, unless there is some predictability built into the system. I have to know exactly what is going in to her body, and administer insulin within a certain timeframe around her meals.

My crappy little entry-level Samsung Galaxy smart-phone has become my bestest, best buddy. I have alarms set for 2 AM, 5 AM, and 8 AM. I have an app that links to a website where I log every single thing Avery eats, with a carb count for all of it, as well as the result of every finger-stick blood sugar test she does (we're averaging about 8 or 9 a day), and every injection she gets of both kinds of insulin. I had to get a text plan so that I could contact the pediatrician four times a day with her pre-meal blood sugar numbers, and he could text me back with the dosage.

Will we be okay? Yes. We will be okay.

Will this settle down so that I don't need to keep such obsessive records of her food? Yes. I'll get used to it.

Will I eventually know the insulin dosage myself, so that I don't need to text the pediatrician? Yes. In fact they're giving me "the math" tomorrow, and then I'll be doing my own insulin calculations.

Will I ever, ever get used to the fact that my daughter has Type 1 Diabetes?

I'm sure I will. The disease is manageable, if not controllable. The daily grind of it will be exhausting, but we are willing and able for it...after all, we still have Avery with us. The tests, the injections, the careful juggling of food and exercise and meds...all of that is cake compared to my child nearly dying.

The question is, will I ever forgive myself for not seeing the signs of it, and therefore allowing her illness to progress long past the point of danger. Will I ever forgive myself for all the ginger ale and popsicles I fed her, thinking her blood sugar was low after all that vomiting?



I'm not holding my breath.

'Hop's' Epic Fail

It's Good Friday. You want some family time, and it's a long weekend, and those hot cross buns are sitting kind of heavy, so you think "I know what I'll do! I'll rent Hop." After all, it's a cute little family Easter movie to watch with the kiddies while you pop Mini Eggs and marshmallow bunnies, right?

NO.

Why?

Here's why.

There's the poor little wandering Easter Bunny, just looking for a place to stay for the night. See the gates behind him?

Yes, that's right: he thought he'd try the Playboy Mansion - after all, the guidebook says "home of sexy bunnies", and he is - to use his own words - "incredibly sexy". He has a little conversation over the intercom with Hugh Hefner about whether or not he qualifies.

"They wouldn't understand anyway," says my husband in response to my ranting in the kitchen afterwards. And will the preschool/school-age target audience for this movie know what "Playboy" is? Of course not. This is one of those adult-themed jokes that children's entertainers seem to think obligatory these days. It's like a snide little wink over the tops of the kids' heads.

But when my eight year old sees some idiot's bunny-with-bowtie mudflaps on the back of their pickup in the Thrifty Foods parking lot, she is going to think to herself, "Oh, that's from Hop!" And she will give a little smile and think about candy and laughs and good times.

That's called "branding", and it's one of the hottest marketing concepts of our time. We've all heard about the study involving preschoolers, where they recognise the golden arches. (Actually, our kids have a lot more imprinting than just McDonald's - this is worth a quick read.)

Playboy is just as recognisable a brand as any other. It's one of the original pioneers - if you can call it that - in an industry that is now worth 12 billion dollars a year in the US alone.

And hell - we're advertising to kids already, right? Give them a few years and they won't be kids anymore - they'll be adults: fully integrated consumers...might as well start prepping them now to contribute to that 12 billion dollars a year. Know how much income tax that generates?

And we haven't even talked about the gender issues yet. You can buy t-shirts for little girls that say "Future Porn Star" - you can buy thongs for little girls. And then there are the men's jeans whose care tags read "Give it to your woman: It's her job".

I thought we had come a long way, but I might be wrong. The pendulum seems to be swinging back, and my daughters are growing up in an age where they will learn their place as sex objects, no matter what I do about it.

Last night I had a dream that I was at a party where I was the only one who didn't want to eat the tarantula cheesecake. Huge black tarantulas, with red bits on their legs, crushed up and mixed with the sugar, the eggs, the cream cheese, and the melted chocolate. Horrifying, disgusting, unpalatable, sinister, and probably harmful - in a deliciously sweet and silky dessert.

Because that way, it goes down pretty easily.

Lost Post

Saying that title in my head, I alternate between "Lawst Pawst" and "Loast Poast".

I just found this document in the cobwebbed shelves at the back of my laptop. (Virtual cobwebs, virtual shelves.) I apparently wrote it in March of 2010, which makes it nearly two years old. (I'm so desperate for content these days, I am posting two-year-old opinion pieces.)

***

I’ve always been one of Those mothers: the ones who took Women’s Studies in university, read “The Beauty Myth”, and took back the night, and then have a family of daughters who aren’t allowed to have Barbies.

Those Mothers, in case you haven’t met us personally, have also been known to ban Disney (harmful female role models) and use our bodies to block the magazine racks at the grocery checkouts so our cart-riding children can’t see this month’s Cosmo headline. (10 New Ways to Please a Man in Bed.)

Raising girls this way isn’t easy, but the payoff is that my oldest daughter, 8 years old, still loves her Playmobil and stuffed animals, and plays with her hobby horse every day. Other children her age have moved on to (and, in some cases, past) the eye-rolling, hair-tossing, boy-kissing, lip-gloss sucking world of Hannah Montana......while Charlotte is still a child.

Last week my husband called the kids from the family room to tell them Presto! was on TV – a Pixar short about a stage magician, his magic top hat, and the hungry rabbit inside it. It’s a hilarious film with a lot of visual laughs, and it can be hard to find, so the girls came running to see it. I heard Ian say to them, “They put Presto! on before Snow White.”

“Snow White?!” my daughter exclaimed, “Did you tape it for us?”

Ian said “Uh, yes, I did,” and glanced over to the doorway, where I was standing glaring at him (in an attractive, non-confrontational way, of course).

“Snow White, huh?” I said with my mouth, while my brain was yelling it’s violent! It’s scary! It victimises women, and vilifies them all at the same time! Snow White is a passive and gullible role model who needs to be rescued! All Disney movies encourage women to languish prettily while waiting patiently for a man to save them!

(See? Total abdication of female power.)

I looked over at my children, who were excited and happy, laughing at the Presto! rabbit's antics and settling in to the couch with blankets, getting ready to watch Snow White. My husband was sitting with them, remote in hand, saying “You guys are going to like the seven dwarves, they’re so funny.”

I realised something at that moment, while I was working up the courage to say yet another “No” to a misogynistic, commercialised mega-corporation, and force my family to turn off the TV.

My children have two parents.

Two parents.

I walked down the hall towards the kitchen, thinking. Maybe it’s okay, having laid groundwork – important groundwork, I feel – to let their Dad show them Snow White. Maybe it’ll be all right if he takes this other direction: a direction that I’ve never wanted to go.

As I plugged in the popcorn maker I thought, I can worry about the big issues – the undermining of the female role in our society, the future of my daughters’ self-esteem – tomorrow. Right now, their Dad can show them this classic Disney film, with a story they’ve read in books anyway, and they can all have a laugh at Dopey together.

Because successful parenting, at its most fundamental, is about balance. We’ve all heard “everything in moderation”, and it applies just as much to how we nourish our children’s minds and emotions, as it does to how we nourish their bodies. It’s just as dangerous to keep my children 100% sugar-free, as it would be to only feed them white bread and Nutella:  there’s a ditch on both sides of this road.

My husband and I have different roles in this parenting adventure, just as we do in this marriage. And the best way to equip our daughters for the potholes ahead is to show them that there is a left and right, a feminine and masculine, a yin and a yang to everything. To help them to know how to steer around the obstacles of adolescence and adulthood without hugging one side of the track too closely, they need to see the give and take of different people compromising while loving each other.

I walked back to the family room, popcorn in hand, listening to my family laughing together. It’s been a long time since I watched television at all – even longer since I saw a Disney Princess movie. That evening I didn’t watch Snow White: I watched my children see something fun and funny, that they hadn’t seen before. I watched my daughters laugh at the dwarves and frown at the witch. I watched them have a wonderful time with their Mom and Dad.

And I’m pretty sure they’ll be okay. 

Philosophy 401 - Advanced Childrearing.

Unschooling from Luke Bessey on Vimeo.

Charlotte of Langham Place

My daughter is midway through her seventh year. She is a mild-mannered creature, anxious (perhaps too anxious) to Do as she Should and offend no one. Sometimes I forget that she is also very strong-minded, and has definite, though quiet, opinions of her own.

She had very long, curly hair last year, and decided she wanted to donate it for kids with cancer, after reading of another girl who had done the same. When she went to the salon, much was made of her - the beauty of her hair, the kindness of her gesture, the 'sacrifice' she was making. I could tell she was a little unnerved by it all, but she went ahead in silence, just smiling politely at all the people hanging over her and cooing.

When they asked her how short she wanted it, she put her hands up to her temples and said "Here."

"Oh! -- really? You have such beautiful hair, you don't want it TOO short?! Don't you think, maybe....[indicating her jaw] here?"

She glanced at me (I smiled sympathetically and said "you tell her"), hesitated, and said "Well, I wanted it here."

"Oh, well, how about here?" [hands at earlobes] What we'll do is, we'll cut it here, and then you can still tuck it behind your ears."

In the natural order of things, children defer to adults. Charlotte deferred, and got this.

It was nice enough - she kept it this way for quite a long time. Not by choice, though - in the course of nine months two other stylists refused, in the sweetest possible way, to cut her hair the way she wanted it.

A few weeks ago she told me she wanted to try again. I asked her how she would like it, and she named one of my friends. "Just like hers."

Okay then, we were off to the salon again. This time, almost a year and three haircuts later, she was very firm. "It's this one," she told the stylist, pointing to a magazine picture.

"Wow, that's short. Did you pick that yourself?"

"Yes."

"Is it what you really want?"

"Yes. I like it."

"Are you sure?"

Yes.

And now she has this.

And look how happy she is.

We live in a sexist world, to be sure. It's a mad merry-go-round that girls are thrust onto, when very young - even the stylists collude, unwittingly, in buttonholing them into a Disney Princess stereotype. I'm glad I didn't step in, that first trip to the salon - I'm glad I let my daughter find the strength of will to make her own decision, even if it took her a year.

Raising girls is difficult. There are a host of obstacles pushed in their way from infancy - obstacles to good self-esteem, obstacles to independence, obstacles to healthy attachments. I worry a lot that I will fail to equip my daughters properly to make their way in this hostile world...I worry that they'll listen to the wrong people and accept lies about their abilities, talents, and potential. But then they surprise me. And as silly as it seems, these little victories, like this one of Charlotte's, give me a bit of comfort.

Maybe they'll be okay.

These are the things that keep me sane.

Three little things that happened today in the middle of an otherwise stupid and pointless 24 hours.



1.
My daughter said, excitedly, as she was going to bed, "I'm gonna take all these Usborne books to bed! Oh boy! I really want to learn lots! I've never felt so...." long pause during which Mr HSB and I looked at each other with quivering lips "...so LEARNY in my life!" (Hopefully one of those books was on vocab.)

2.

I was with a group of teacher-mothers, listening to a recorded lecture by an educational advisor, who said this:

"As homeschooling parents we expect the end results to be commiserate with the effort we've put in." Of course I burst out laughing and repeated merrily, "commiserate!" Everyone looked at me blankly. I considered saying "Uh....I think she meant commensurate," but realised I would sound at best pedantic, at worst intolerably stuck-up. So I just kept laughing to myself as people looked at me fearfully, as if they thought I might start jabbing fruit skewers into my wild hairdo.

3.

My five year old, playing on WebKinz World, shouted angrily, "If they don't give me my daily KinzCash, I'm going to wyatt!" I looked at the older one quizzically. She explained, "Oh, she said 'Riot'. We've been saying that a lot lately. It means go crazy with anger."


The moral of the story is: life can be craptastic, but as long as something strikes me funny, all is not lost.


Here endeth the lesson.

Everybody's Doing a Better Job Than I Am.

Today it's my sister who has poked me in the eye and made me cry. She has written such a beautiful post about the strength of women. Here is an excerpt for you.

Whatever it is that your daughter excels in, encourage her. One day, maybe I'll hear your daughter playing the piano at the Chan Center in Vancouver. Maybe she'll perform my hip replacement surgery, 50 years down the road. Maybe I'll totter over to her veterinary clinic with my sick Teacup Poodle. (Okay, maybe not that one.) Perhaps we will watch her dive, or sprint, or win the long jump during the 2020 Olympic Games. Maybe your daughter will grow up and teach my grandchildren grade 7 Socials. Maybe she'll be the one who offers me her seat on the bus.

My hope for my daughters is that whatever they turn out to be -- a dentist, a hairdresser, a tree planter, an obstetrician, a stay-at-home mother -- whatever it is, that they will love what they do, and do it well.

Thanks Gwen.

Choices

jumbled up all here and there

bits of stuff are everywhere

furrowed brow as fingers do

magic with some glitter glue

push aside the towels and sit

just ten minutes while I knit

buttered scone and cup of tea

children snuggling with me

sometimes there's a bit of mess

but mostly...

mostly happiness

-Copyright 2008, me

It's Messy Tuesday and here is my longsuffering coffee table.

And here is a lovely, lovely post which is perfect for the day on which we look around at the things we Have to do, and decide instead to do the things we Want to do. Kristine is an occasional commenter here at HalfSoled Boots - I met her on Ravelry. She has lovely little baby and a busy life with family, home, work and craft, and she still finds time to blog. This short little post is a verbal snapshot of a warm afternoon with mothers and daughters and potting soil, and a few lines of inspired prose. It's just beautiful, and well worth your time to read. Enjoy.

A brief update

I had a busy week. I'll spare you most of the details - or write about them later.


First:





All right, which one of you sent me this great postcard? I thought I could decipher the initial on the back, and thanked no fewer than three separate people, in turn, who all then denied having anything to do with it. So who do I thank? The back says "Make these for the family next time you want to avoid cleaning. We're here for you!" That means that A) the sender is a reader; and B) they are my kind of people.




I was puttering in the garden the other day, and ambled over to my iris patch to admire the emerging flowers. They are far from open, as yet.




But......what's that?





OH CRIPES THOSE BLOODY DEER HAVE EATEN FOUR OUT OF SEVEN OF MY IRISES.


Wait a second...do deer bite off the flowerheads and then drop them behind the plants?



No. They don't. You know what DO, as it turns out? FREAKING FOUR YEAR OLDS WITH SCISSORS. She must be stopped.

Woman Against.

Edit:

All's well that ends well



although he hasn't finished with the rocks yet...there are three still to be passed. I have to watch for them. Goodie.

===============

Two things happened to me today.

I refused to turn a blind eye.
and
I realised I love my dog.

Poor little Piper started having some problems this afternoon. He was acting funny: weak-legged and faint, he staggered around the yard listlessly, drooling copiously and crying actual tears out of his eyes. He wouldn't eat and he kept retching up water. When he started having a bit of diarrhea I phoned the vet and took him down.

I was afraid it was Canine Distemper Virus. I looked at the symptom list online and saw that he had all but one - the fever. The timeline for CDV didn't really match up, but since the breeder had told us that he didn't have his full immunity until his second shots (which were scheduled for next week), I was paranoid.

First of all, I have obviously been spoiled by the beautiful and wondrous thing that is the Canadian Health Care System (although I did get a $57 ambulance bill once when my daughter and I were taken to hospital following a cataclysmic car wreck), because when the vet told me it was going to cost $300 just to DIAGNOSE the problem, I almost fell over sideways.

After some bloodwork (all perfectly normal) and some x-rays (perfectly NOT normal) they phoned to tell us that he had been eating something he shouldn't have.

Our puppy is basically a warm, furry bag full of rocks.

Thankfully, in the course of nature the rocks have already begun to return to the outside world. There is no blockage. HOWEVER, the poor little thing is dehydrated and has a very irritated and inflamed GI tract, so he has been HOSPITALISED FOR THE NIGHT to be administered IV FLUIDS AND ANTIBIOTICS.

So here we are at 10.00 PM, and the house is quiet. We had the sliding doors between the kitchen and the living room open tonight because there was no little furry, foxy muzzle poking around the corner looking for his chance to bolt out of his puppy-proof area. I left my shoes right inside the back door, with no fears that they will be reduced to a few fragments of damp, shredded canvas.

And you know what? I miss him. I miss him a lot. I am worrying about my poor little pupster, separated from his family and stuck in the animal hospital overnight, where he will probably be bullied into doing the bigger dogs' chores and have his, you know, kibble money taken or whatever. Alternatively, he'll cry through the night and be convinced, by tomorrow, that he'll never see his family again. In the morning he'll be practising his hitchhiking technique and tying his few meager possessions into a bandanna on the end of a stick.

Seriously, I'm so anxious...do you think he'll be okay?

And when I go to pick him up tomorrow afternoon I'm going to let him lick my pewter inukshuk necklace as much as he wants to, and I'm going to let him have Lean Cuts for breakfast AND supper.

===============

Okay, now the not-so-nice part.

I was sitting on a sunny bench outside a local elementary school today, reading "A Thread of Grace" and waiting for my daughter's Guide meeting to finish. Suddenly I heard banging and yelling coming from a house a few doors down the street, then a woman screaming. I looked up to see a man forcing his way into the house, shouting something I couldn't hear. Through the front window I could see a woman leaning against the door trying to keep him out. She was crying "No!! No, don't!! Get out!" He pushed her backwards into the house. I could still hear her screaming.

I immediately reached for my cellphone and called 911, just as I heard another male voice shout "Get your hands off her, @sshoIe!! Get your hands off her!!" The speaker was a neighbour, running over from across the street and following the first guy into the house. The dispatcher answered and I told him everything as it played out. He asked me to get the address...I had to walk down most of the length of the field to see the number. He asked whether there was a vehicle - I couldn't see past the hedge.

Just as he was finishing up my address and phone number, the first guy - the violent, abusive oppressor - came out of the house. I heard a truck start, then saw a beat up Range Rover pull out of the driveway and take off down the street. I told this to the 911 dispatcher who seemed, unlike me, completely NOT relieved by this latest development.

His voice became suddenly sharp. "Can you see the female?"
No.
"Can you hear the female?"
No.
"Can you see the other male who entered the house?"
No.
"Can you hear anything at all?"
I can hear a baby screaming. Maybe a toddler. (And now I've just realised what he is thinking.) You should hurry.
"The boys are on their way, I promise you. Please tell me anything that happens."

It seemed like a really long time. I mean.....a really long time. But it was only a few minutes. Two cars came roaring up, with huge men in bulletproof vests who strode into that house like they owned it, to find who-knows-what. They were unafraid, but wary. I tell you this: in my entire life no man has ever laid an abusive hand on me, and even I was relieved and reassured to see them.

I don't know what happened, but judging from the lack of an ambulance, all was (physically) well with the woman. I hope all was well with the child, too.

I could write a lot here about what it must be like for all these people. The girl behind the door. The children in a house where such things happen. The dispatcher who gets calls like this every single shift. The "boys", heroes of our time, who jeopardise their marriages, their sanity, their health and their lives following up on every call. They go right up, knock on the doors, walk through the house room by room, check on everyone. They ask the woman if she's okay, if she knows her attacker, if this has happened before.

If she wants to press charges.

They look at the little tear-stained child keeping well back, or maybe sitting on the couch with a neighbour or a sister, and they ask if she is all right. They assess. They think about Victim Services, wonder if a call is appropriate. They ask about license plate numbers and places he might be found. They take names, and numbers, and talk about restraining orders and safe houses and shelters and do you have someone you can call?

And then the worst part - or what I imagine must be the worst part. They give one last piece of advice, take one last look around the place. They glance over at that little person who has seen what no person should have to see, and they walk back out the door. Drive away. Make their report. Finish their shift.

None of us can really do anything, can we? I mean, nothing changes. This probably won't be The Last Straw that causes a complete break between them. This probably won't be the thing that convinces her that he's a worthless sack of shit who should be kept away from her and her child. The best I can hope for is that they track that abusive bastard down, arrest him, and in the process intimidate the hell out of him. I can hope the coward realises that someone will hear, someone will see, and he will have to answer for it.

But, whether it changes anything or not, by God no man gets away with that kind of crap anywhere near me.

Overheard in the Family Room

(It is Em's fourth birthday today. Partied out, the kids are sprawled in front of the TV, watching a documentary.)

CHARLOTTE: Hey Em, that man just said that a baby beluga stays with his mother for two years.

EMILY [excitedly]: I could do that!

CHARLOTTE (dispassionately): You did. In fact you get to stay with your mother for LONGER than two years.

(Pause)

EMILY (relieved): Whew -- good.

How has your day been so far?

0105 - The kids finally stop coughing

0130 - I look at the clock and think "I'll just finish this row before I go to bed."

0135 - Row finished, I turn off Buffy Season 5 and go to bed

0152 - Emily, clutching a WebKinz, comes into bed with Mr HSB and me

0210 - I tell Emily to please lie still and go to sleep

0220 - I tell her to please lie still AGAIN. She complains of a headache. Mr HSBoots takes his pillow and alarm clock and goes somewhere else.

0245 - Emily is holding her ear and crying "I want to go to the doctor."

0308 - We check into the ER

0320 - DOCTOR, TO ME: That ear's red - here's a 'script.
TO EMILY: You were such a good girl! Do you want an early birthday present? I have a wind-up dancing frog for you.

0345 - back at home, back in bed.

0420 - I beg Emily to please please lie still and go to sleep

0447 - Emily goes to sleep

0502 - I look at the clock for the last time

0715 - Charlotte wakes me up. I tell her she can go on the computer for a bit. I try to go back to sleep.

0722 - Charlotte starts to cry because the mouse won't move. Em wakes up. I consider suicide.

0930 - I phone my sister instead

0945 - the kids start fighting

0955 - the kids are crying

1015 - I hang up the phone

1020 - CHARLOTTE, SOBBING: I feel like you're a bad mother. I feel like I don't want to live with you any more. I feel like you make everything my fault.

1025 - EMILY, SOBBING: You don't love me mummy and I'm moving away and I'm never going to live with you again or play tea party with you again. Mummy pick me up I need a snuggle.

1045 - I decide to post to let you all know you may never hear from me again. Because it's all just too much for me.

A show of hands, please.

Do all mothers have desertion fantasies, or is it just me?

"I have learned my lesson and I swear, Lord, if you just take them back I'll never have sex again. I'm SORRY, okay?"