Sunday, November 12, 2006

Fails Yummy-Mummy Class

I realize that my last post may have indicated that I am exercising like a fiend, or at least like some kind of fit and healthy eastern suburbs yummy-mummy.

Ha! I laugh once, very loudly, at this ridiculous notion and three minutes later my atrophied belly fat is still reverberating with mirth.

When I said “a special exercise class’ I meant it.

Just the one.

Because they’re hard those special exercise classes. Also, when I said I did an exercise with my baby I lied because in fact he was asleep in his pram at the time. Which was a shame because that’s the highlight of the class really. The bit where you lie on your back and roll them about in your legs or dangle them on your knees (all the time sucking in your belly and clenching your lala). No doubt it was a blessing in disguise because Tricky would probably have heaved a gutful of cottage cheese all over my maternity(still) shirt but it was a little disappointing having to pretend I was holding a baby while everyone else had the real thing. At the end of the class he woke and I went to pick him up just to prove to everyone that I had a real live baby lying in the pram and not, say, a sock puppet, and the whole back of his pants was dripping with something that wasn’t gravy, leaving a large and fragrant stain on my stretch maternity (still) jeans.

So then I had to hastily wheel him out of the room which necessitated annoying some of the thinner firmer younger mothers who wanted to sit languidly on the floor in front of the doorway and chat. Just go around, one of them told me with a wave of her beautifully manicured hand and so, smilingly, I did.

And then I ran over her fingers. (Another lie.)

In the so-called change room, I stripped everything off my child and dropped it into a plastic bag and then, as he lay buck naked on a skuzzy exercise mat, I realised that although I had a nappy I had neglected to pack another set of clothes for him for just such an occasion.

And then he pissed over me.

At that point I laughed gaily and made free use of the paper towels and then, as if the gods had seen me and sighed at my crapness in maternal preparation, they granted me a small miracle and lo, scrunched in a ball at the bottom of my bag I found a singlet.

True it had been sicked on, but the sick was dry and it could only be seen by someone who was really really nosy.

I did mean to go back, I really did, but then I realised my abdominal muscles were actually coming back together of their own accord, albeit a little slower without the flappy metal things and the big rubber balls.

But sometimes, mornings mostly, I reach for my baby and roll him about on my legs and wave him in the air. Sometimes I even remind myself to hold my tummy muscles and clench my lala at the same time.

Also apropos of the last post (ooh, how very ANZAC of me) I realize that writing about getting a lump in your breast, even when you eventually discover that said lump is actually a cyst, is worrying and perhaps even frightening for some who read it in my blog (although these days it appears that’s happening less and less what with all the apparently loathsome ‘mommyness’ my blog now contains).

Yes well I’m sorry about that but guess how fucking scary it was for me?

Sometimes, when bad things happen, I get so worried I actually don’t write about it until it’s over. It’s like holding your breath and putting your hands over your eyes when the monster bit comes up in the movie. And when it was happening, the thinking and the being scared and the wishing I had been a bit less like my mum, I did think that I should blog it because that's sort of what I did when I was going through the infertility shit and it helped so much to just write out the fear and the anger and the completely soul destroying despair. But I didn't, because ultimately I was too scared to write the words I think I have cancer. Instead I rang my sister AJ in New Zealand and she was great and very calm, and just once I said to C in the middle of making dinner I'm scared about that lump and he grabbed me and said oh so am i, so am I.

All those weeks I thought about it and I thought about writing it and I thought about going to the doctor and I did sweet F.A.

In retrospect I realise it's not an effective strategy, all that agonising and procrastinating.

And I now realise it would be far more sensible for me to actually just get the lump checked out immediately and fuck the blogging.

So yeah, sorry and all.

But you know.
No one’s perfect.


Flicka said...

I can't remember what I wrote in response to your last post but if I bashed you for being scared, I didn't mean to. Breast cancer is EXTREMELY frightening and you had every right to feel out of your mind, especially considering family history. I'm so glad it was a cyst and not something more.

Yes, you have some mommy-blogness. But, really, isn't that what we were all cheering you on toward? It seems disingenuous to abandon you now. If I'm having a bad day, I don't come by. When I'm not (which is actually more of the time than you'd think) I come and catch up.

Blog about whatever you'd like, my dear. I, for one, am not going anywhere.

Lindy said...

V. quick comment to wave hand frantically and shout I'm here I'm here and then duck back into the hell of a 3 yo with double ear infection and a wee 3 mo old who wants to be held asap.

Reading through bloglines mostly now, does that mean you can't tell I'm here?

steph said...

Hmm. sounds like my attempt at mom and baby yoga, except for that part where you actually went. I just stayed home and got peed on here. I still have the flyer laying around here someplace, but I doubt we'll ever go now. You totally win.

Calliope said...

But you see, your "Mommy-blogness" cracks me up. I ASPIRE to be as clever and funny as you are as much as I aspire to have my own version of Tricky (sans cottage cheese spit up, pretty please)

I'm thrilled that there were two posts in a row! high five on that.

& please get the lump checked out. I know that has got to be freaking you out- it's freaking me out all the way over here.

Lut C. said...

Tricky can aim, how sweet. ;-)

Fertility Faux Pas said...

Hoping he peed while he was still naked on the exercise mat! Dry puke is easily excusable, but he'd probably object to a wet onesie.

Glad to hear you are okay...

heleen said...

I agree, nursing is great. My little girl is not so interested in solids yet (maybe because her lower bodyweight), but my boy just gobbles it down. Crying when I take the spoon out of his mouth...

You'll know when Tricky is ready. And once you feed him solids he won't necesarily be nursing less, but he will sleep more at night, so that is a nice side effect!

Trevor said...

I, for one, am pleased at both your tardiness at posting (giving me less to read and catch up on following my extensively decadent six week holiday), and also that you got the all clear on the dreaded lumpiness (leaving the door open to further posts and, you know, breathing and stuff).

Breda and I suffer a certain degree of guilt at, after 5 years of failed IVF attempts, actually having triplets. It seems somehow disloyal to all the other people who we know who are stilling going through the crap. It’s like there is only a limited number of babies to go around and by having three we have somehow stolen the chance for someone else to have one.

If babies were fish, we feel we have exceeded our quota.

On another note, as soon as I get a moment I intend to sort out the links side of my blog and would like to link to you as I wish I’d found this blog when we were still in the land of infertility. The humour and honesty with which you treated the situation would have been a great help and I’d like to help other people find that help as well. If you have any objections please let me know.

And finally. Breda never went to the exercise classes at all. It’s just too hard to lift your baby on your legs when the number of babies outnumbers the amount of available legs.

seepi said...

Yeah I went to Mums and Bubs yoga a couple of times.

Other people's babies lay quietly on mats next to them and slept as their Mums streched and breathed.

Not mine.

Cat said...

You have to remember that your blog is yours, it's personal, and the way you choose to write it is up to you.

As far as mummy-blogness goes, I find your story inspiring, and although I may not relate to your blog as much as I used to, I still read it religiously.

Nico said...

I'm still reading too! I wanted to comment on your last post (my abs still have a lovely gully between them), but while reading is easy to do with a babe on one's breast, commenting is a little harder. So I'm still reading religiously, just not commenting quite as much!

Urban Chick said...

reading but not commenting is the new reading and commenting, doncha know?

hey, install statcounter and you'll soon see that we're still stopping by :)

oh, and not replying to emails is also very now *blushes and opens new window to search for long lost email from OG*


Sparkle said...

I wish someone had told the person who came up the with term yummy-mummy to shut their cake-hole!

On the other hand the person that named Britney the slummy-mummy - gold star!

Give all those Eastern Suburbs pooh-bum Y-M's a swift kick up their designer jeans for me too!

fisher queen said...

I wish you had run over her hand! Or asked her to hold the gravy-pants while you changed him, right there.

The cysts are definitely scary, that's for sure. I'm glad that's all it was.

frangelita said...

I don't think the mumminess is loathsome. After all, there is a reasonable amount of talk of throwing up and inappropriate widdling. Plus, I reiterate, you deserve it.

Anonymous said...

Hi, just to say that I'm here - and I'm loving your blog....:o)