What I did in the holidays...

As has now become a family tradition we spent the public holiday at the doctors. We spent Boxing day, New Years Day, Australia day and now Easter Sunday at the local emergency doctors.

Number three was looking a bit peaky on Thursday but we (foolishly) decided he'd get over it. He did, he just gave it to #4 first. #4 spent Saturday night crying and weeping, moaning and thrashing about. He demanded cuddles, but not too hard, and vomited many, many times, usually just after having medicine.

Sunday morning I put on my last set of clothes that had not been vomited on and, pausing only to check I had no vomit encrusted in my hair I headed out to the doctors, with both children and Homer in tow. Homer drives whilst I hold the basin under #4's face as I don't want my car to smell of vomit for the next six months. While driving Homer rings the clinic to make sure our standing public holiday referral is still open and I ring home to make sure #1 moves some of the washed bedding from the washer to the dryer, and refills the washer.

On arrival at the clinic we go through to our usual cubicle. A nurse I didn't know, but with a full "Working on a public holiday and not happy " face asks in a condescending voice when #4 has last vomited. Just at the opportune moment he covered her starched white blouse with vile green liquid, a la exorcist. "Just about then" I blithely say.

#4 gets an injection to stop him vomiting, so we can him medicine to bring down his temperature.

We know he's recovering when he tells #3 that he's just had an injection in his BONES and that #3 will have to have one too, and it really really hurts,....a lot. (Funny that, he didn't flinch while he got his, but he knows to tell #3 its gonna hurt..)

EEeeeeukkkkk!!!!!

Number 3 has taken up trumpet playing. Actually that isn't as bad as it could be. I have discovered that by having three closed doors between us I can no longer hear him practising.

Every now and then I go and listen to a tune, and try and name it. Sometimes I get it right!!

Number 4 has not taken up trumpet playing. He has however developed a fascination with valves and brass instrument construction. I can now put a trumpet back together with one hand whilst driving over the speed limit on the school run. I have heard that in the SAS you have to be able to break down, clean and re build your gun blind folded. Huh, child's play. They should do it whilst trying to re-assure one child that the trumpet will be fine, and the other that he needs to put his seat belt on NOW! All this to the accompniament of each child screaming that the other is on HIS side of the car.

"Mum he touched me...MUM HE TOUCHED ME."

"Mum, He's on MY SIDE of the CAR..MUM...MUM"

I'm changing my name.

The music teacher assures me that that is not spit that has drained out of the trumpet over my work uniform, it is simple condensation. The "oil-like" stain IS however oil, brass instrument valve oil.

Let them eat cake...

Thursday was my day off, so I made three lemon cakes. I always make two cakes, one gets eaten as it comes out of the oven, the other might even cool down. This time I made three so that I could take one to work. When I got up Friday morning all that remained of the three cakes was a pile of crumbs and a dirty knife.

Friday I made three apple cakes. These last a long time in a container. Well they would, but on Saturday afternoon I opened the tin for a piece and found a currant and a few crumbs.

Saturday afternoon I made two chocolate cakes. (I only had enough eggs left for two cakes, the girls can't keep up with the demand.) I just went to the kitchen for a piece of cake. I found a small pile of crumbs.

In the front room Homer and numbers 1, 3 and 4 are seated in a semi comatose position in front of the rugby, unable to move through cake poisoning.

I'm not the only one....

Footie practise this evening, all the parents are sat in their cars watching the practise (or in my case reading and silently thanking the Lord that someone else is supposed to be in control of my child).

The scene is picturesque. The green grass of the oval, the backdrop of gum trees with the occasional call of the Kookaburra. To my left is a large mound of mud, (soon to be spectator seating) and to my right other parents settled down for an hours peace.

Suddenly from my right,

"Hey, hey, yes, you A, you. Don't look behind you, you're the only A here. get on the oval or I'm putting you in the boot." (That's the trunk for Americans).

A quick glance to my left reveals child A on top of the mound of mud, with a large clod in his hand.

"I mean it, get back on the oval.....now"

Child A heads for the oval and I duck my head back into my book.

"Hey, A, I told you , back on the oval or I'm putting you in the boot."

Half time and the children descend on the cars for a drink.

#4 ducks to the back for a drink. His cherubic (I'm his mum, I'm supposed to think that way) face smeared in mud and sweat. Child A heads to the next car.

"Hey, shut the boot, get out of the boot, I'm not telling you again, get out of the boot. Is that mud you're putting in there? "

It's good to know I'm not the only one. (Incidentally the baby ogre has transferred from AFL to soccer, it's less violent. )

He's at it again..

Ring Ring,

Hello, CCC pharmacy can I help you?

PC: Is Eve there?

"It's for you Eve, I don't know who it is, they sound upset?"

Me: Hi, how can I help you.

PC: It's #4.

Me: Silence

PC: Hello.......hellooooo, I know you're there.

Me: Ye..es, it's me. Did you try home.

PC: You don't know what he's done yet.

Me: Did you try our house first?

PC: Yes, Come and get him.

Me: I should be able to make it in....

PC: NOW

Me: (carefully) What did he do?

PC: It's shave for a cure day in a few days. (People shave their heads for charity.)

Me: Yes?

PC: S****** J***** had long blond hair this morning. (My heart beat really fast here.)Do you use food colouring at home?

Me: ? (gulp)

PC: Green food colouring?

Me: ? sorry

PC: S.J's hair is green, all over.

Me: Thank God for that. (People colour their hair as well on shave for a cure day.)

PC: ?

Me: Oh I thought you meant he'd cut her hair off. (Short pause) How blonde was her hair, and how long?

PC: White, she can sit on it.

Me: Oh

PC: Come and get him, NOW.

Luckily SJ's mum is being pretty cool about it, she laughed and said "It'll come out easier then the bubble gum did. I have two boys, don't worry. Really, don't worry."

I had my doubts that #4 had done it as there is no trace of green on him, which seems highly unlikely. The teacher says he put his hands in plastic bags to protect them while he coloured S's hair, "like the hairdresser does". The teacher looked meaningfully at my newly coloured hair.

We left.

A new doctor.

I decided I would get a new doctor, one that instilled confidence into me, one that seemed to know what he (or she) was talking about, one that would tell me what the heck is going on with my health. I did research and found a GP that 1. Is known as good at hearts and 2. Is open when I can see them. (A combo that is no small feat in our town.)

Mmmmm. For my survival a good idea, for my peace of mind a bad idea. I need ten more years before #3 and #4 are "old enough", obviously I'd like more.

I explained how every time I'd seen my last doctor he'd given me a new diagnosis, worse than the last, so I'd stopped going. A plan that, so far, was working very well for me. My new doctor agreed that some of my old diagnoses did seem a bit "out there", so we'd start from scratch, so to speak.

It got worse though, apparently denial is not an effective cure for heart disease. (Who knew?...me lol). So, an increase in blood pressure meds, a new medicine added and a new shaking of head and tutting at my ecg and another armful of blood later I await a new dreadful diagnosis in a state of denial.

Also, I can't start smoking again. This is good news, I have always maintained that when I get ill enough I shall start smoking again as it was a past time I enjoyed. Once my health is truly stuffed there will be no point in maintaining my abstinence and I shall restart.

Yes, folks it's six months since I quit and although I wouldn't kill anyone for a cigarette, or even harm them severely, I still want one, a lot.

Unfortunately (actually fortunately) I can maintain my exercise regime and increase it, but the lard butties have to stay off the menu.

My new doctor gave me a talking to, and a plan of action.

1. Actually get blood pressure under control.

2. Probably add more meds to the ever increasing list I am on, although he did stop two as pointless.

3. Try and actually lose some weight....perhaps 20 kilos? mm? (I didn't hide my sulking about this)

4. Increase my exercise (see 3.)

5. Lose about three inches off my waist ( a deal struck from the initial six he wanted.)

6. Less cheese and salt.

7. And, No, smoking is still out. (I knew that, but I keep checking.)

A slightly depressing post, but I need to itemise my plan of action and actually stick with it. Writing down what needs doing means I (may) have to do so some of it, or at least face facts.

Cyclone watch

Cyclone Hamish is sitting off the coast, lurking with intent. So far it is taking after its name and wavering about like a Glaswegian on Sauchiehall (or something) street on a Saturday night.

Jokingly, last time they called a cyclone a stupid name (Larry) I said that nothing with such a dumb name could do much damage, at which point it set off for our house in a straight line unheard of before or since in cyclone mapping. In deference to this history I shall say that Hamish will be taking after all things Celtic and causing mayhem and madness (or falling down drunk in the middle of the coral sea after an all nighter.)

Hamish is only a three, and we've bought a generator, so I think all in all we'll be fine.

#1 wants to be sure we've got enough beer in, #2 wants to go to her boyfriends, #3 has practised the trumpet (oblivious as always) and #4 wants to know if the roof is going to blow off. Yes, yes, stop that and hopefully not.