Tia Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

This is being written in pieces - for some reason I'm now allowed to connect to the internet for about 30 seconds every 2-5 minutes. This is somewhat frustrating and definitely limits my communications!

Mog was feeling a little better this morning, and Little Fish has been bouncing off the walls these past few days, so we bundled up and took a trip in the bus. Tina's gift from yesterday inspired us, and we headed to the garden centre.

There's Mog, with a twinkle in her eye, kicking out at passersby and plant stands. Narrowly avoiding a pansy and crocus related incident, we load the trolley and head inside. Foiled in her attempts to create havoc, Mog subsides. This is a cue for Little Fish to begin ripping open seed packets. We'll be planting carrots, cress, and country cottage assorted florals then. I hope they like the windowbox, they'll not be separated now!

A quick lunch and we head out to plant up. I say we; Mog elects to sit in the warmth watching Alice in Wonderland, Little Fish therefore elects to divide her time between Mog and myself. She does fret when we aren't all in the same room together, doing the same thing. Ordinarily, this would not be a problem; I would carry on doing my thing in one place, Mog would carry on doing her thing elsewhere, and Little Fish would wear herself out get some exercise zipping between us. Handy, too; she'll come and find me if Mog coughs or if her feed needs attention. But, thanks to Bob's unfinished-ness, it's not at present possible for Little Fish to go through the door. Two small steps awaiting ramps block her way. What this means is that every 1.07 minutes I have to get up, bump her back up the steps to check on Mog, followed 29 seconds later by plaintive pleas to be allowed to return. Who was supposed to be getting the exercise here?

Finally the many bulbs are in; the seeds can wait for another day. The garden looks almost good, although what would have been more than enough bedding plants for our old borders has only covered a fraction of our new flower beds. But at least there are signs of life, and promise of more to come.

My hands hurt. Mog has a chest infection; it isn't standard practice here to take a culture unless things don't respond to antibiotics, so we don't know what's growing in her lungs. Nothing good, I'm sure. Little Fish has an infection in her stoma, awaiting results but probably staph/strep. Mog has MRSA - asymptomatic but best to practice good hygiene around her. What this means in practice is that I should be washing and alcohol gelling my hands after touching either girl. Add to this the general reasons why one might wish to wash ones hands, plus the great clumps of near-frozen soil from the garden, several antibiotic related nappies, oh and the broken dishwasher, and I think my hands have been in contact with soap and water almost longer than they've been dry. My bath tonight has finished them off - I am therefore off to slather them in very computer-unfriendly lotion and head to bed.

Oh, we made some rather nice peanut butter and chocolate chip biscuits (cookies) too. I forgot to add the egg. They still taste ok - a little more shortbread/melting moment-y than straight biscuits would have been, but good enough.
Tia

A rescue memory

You may remember that we have been having one or two minor cosmetic little changes major reconstruction work in our garden. And regular readers may also be aware that the chances of getting these finished any time soon are pretty slight. Imagine then, if you will, my delight at hearing these words "Hello, this is the photographer. We'd like to come on Sunday afternoon, and we'll be taking photos in the garden if it is fine". Oh deep and lasting joy.

Here are the alternatives. One, it is fine weather. We all troop outside to take photographs amidst a sea of mud, empty flower beds, dessicated shrubs and some nearly-but-not-quite finished decking. Two, it is wet. And we will have photographers roaming freely inside, looking for the perfect picturesque spot.

With that in mind, we set to to do some serious tidying. The sunroom has now doubled in size. Twirly curly which hang in the wind things have now found their permanent home in the apple tree. Spare furniture has been shifted around, we can now sit all three of us in the playroom so that all three can see the television at the same time. One day I'll find that freeview aeriel we were given and Mog will be able to watch her beloved Balamory again. Meanwhile the ever-growing stack of videos wobbles in the corner, threatening to concuss small children.

Hmm I wonder if I could make use of that? An accidental concussion might just keep Little Fish out of the way for a while. She's keen to help - over keen. I may have mentioned that one of her more regular jobs is putting the cutlery away. She knows exactly what to do, and after a fortnight without the dishwasher, she's even accepting spoons straight from a teatowel, rather than the entire cutlery rack. As it turns out, she has overgeneralised the concept. Seeing me tidying up, she rushes to help. I return to the kitchen to find Little Fish helpfully emptying the sugar bowl into the cutlery drawer. Excellent.

Meanwhile, a mysterious message on my mobile phone: "Stay in this afternoon". Tina has come to the rescue. When Goldy died, Tina offered a rose bush in her memory. We were going to collect this in March. Hearing about our plantless garden, Tina has converted this rose into something far more immediately useful. Mid afternoon, a van from our local garden centre pulls up, and four large wheelchair-proof pots are delivered, full of the most beautiful spring flowers. Daffodils and pansies, moss and ivy and conifers and undidentifyable (by me) little mini bits of shrubbery. All green and living, in stark contrast to the many pots of dead trees dried herbs currently scattered across the remains of the garden. Beautiful and practical and enough of them that I can't possible kill them all of can I? Or at least, probably not before Sunday. Whether the plants themselves last or not, the pots will remain and I can fill them with different disposeable plants according to the seasons. And will remember Goldy every time I do.

So thanks, Tina, and I hope I haven't embarrassed you too much by mentioning them. No photos just yet; I have computer issues and no chance whatsoever of staying connected long enough to upload them.

Tia

Sunshine and shopping in April

It's a complicated process, sorting out a holiday with my girls. This morning I spent three hours on the phone to travel insurance companies, being turned down by one after another after another. So many of them were "happy to insure you but unfortunately we won't be able to cover any complications caused by seizures or breathing difficulties. Would you like to continue with the application?" Over and over again they were confused by my awkward refusal to buy insurance which didn't cover the main issues we were likely to face. The one insurer who was fine with Mog's medical conditions refused to cover Little Fish's hypoventilation.Finally having given up with the online companies I phoned the very last insurer in our Yellow Pages and we are covered. And for a sum which is less than the cost of the hotel; last time we went to Florida the insurance cost more than the accomodation.

After three hours on the phone spelling things out and wondering why the agents aren't taught how to pronounce medical conditions, we finally got a yes. Hurrah! Putting the phone down I made the girls laugh and jump by singing out "We're going on holiday in April" to the tune of John Brown's Body. I may have mentioned Little Fish's sometimes indistinct speech.
Me "We're going on holiday with April" Little Fish "Poo Poo".
April
Poo Poo
Ay-pril
POO poo
AY PUL
Pooo Poo!
I do hope that isn't prophetic.

Meanwhile, drowning in phlegm here. Mog has a chest infection and I'm chasing after it with the suction caths. Little Fish is envious of all Mog's banging (chest physio) and keeps grabbing my hands and making me thump her back and shoulders too. Both girls are now on antibiotics with all the digestive joy that brings.

Roll on April! We're off to Florida having been invited to keep a friend company. Mog's excited; she wants clothes and shoes and remembers having fun last time. Little Fish is excited because Mog's excited. And friend Mary and I are excited about the idea of a fortnight in gentle sun, and will remember Goldy's pleasure from last time we went. Oh, and there might be a touch of Disney involved too...
Tia

How quickly things can change

4PM we had a meeting here about Little Fish. Mog was on top form, laughing and shouting and kicking her teacher, making sure she got her point across.

5.30 we had an emergency Dr's appointment for Little Fish; her gastrostomy stoma is infected so she's got oral antibiotics as well as the topical one we've been using for a few days. Mog spends her time at the doctor's surgery having a lengthy run of seizures, but nothing out of the ordinary and recovers without needing her rescue meds.

6PM home and doing the bed thing; Mog enjoys a bit of a cuddle and settles down.

9.30 she's unhappy, not sore, not fitting, just can't get to sleep. So I give her her sedative.

1AM I get up to have a drink and can hear her whimpering quietly. Go in and she's got a temp of 39 (102.2F), and is gasping like a fish out of water. Double dose of paracetamol and ibuprofen, a saline neb (the neighbours must love me; sounds like we're drilling for oil so I try not to do that at night) and her temp has come down to 38C, I give her a wipe over with a wet flannel and confiscate her duvet, and am now just waiting for her to settle down to sleep again.

Side note. If you have a SATs Monitor, and if it is a small fingertip portable one, do remember that it needs to be read the right way up. 98% is MUCH better than 86%!

It's half term next week and we have a week off school. She might at least have waited until then to get ill. Grumble grumble whinge.

UPDATE: 6.30AM and whilst I don't think she's been back to sleep, her temperature is back to normal, her colour is fine, her breathing is also back to normal, or normal with a touch of stridor at least, and she's grinning away having had Norah Jones on a repeat loop for the past four hours. So she's going to school today! Not as cruel as it sounds; if I let her sleep the day away she'll be up again all night, school is half a mile away so I can be there quickly if there's a problem, and as well has having a nurse on site, her teacher is a retired nurse. So she'll be in good hands. Now here's hoping Little Fish's antibiotics make her sleepy so I can get some sleep in too.
Tia

Embarassing moment number 24623

Little Fish calls my parents Gaggy and Daddy; she can't get her tongue around Grannie and Grandad. Daddy has now become her preferred term for all men, although there's a special emphasis on the word for her actual Grandad and for anyone who looks a little like him. Watching her whizz around supermarket aisles shouting for Daddy is a little embarrassing, but we've got used to that.

This morning she surpassed herself. Our school bus driver is a retired chap with a nice silvery head of hair, just like Grandad's. Little Fish likes to sit in our windowsill watching for the bus, and banged smartly on the window saying "Hiya bus" when it started backing down the lane.

Loaded her into her powerchair, popped her coat on, found Mog's coat and their school bags, and turned around to see Little Fish powering her way down the ramp from the front door and turbo charging her way up the road waving her non-driving hand with all her might and shrieking "HIYA DADDY!" at the bus driver.

I'm just pleased the neighbours know she's adopted.
Tia

The day I became a parent.

It wasn't the day I was approved as a fostercarer. It wasn't the day I met my first fosterchild, and it wasn't the day that first child moved in. It was a day about six months after that, when I was fostering a different child entirely. This child was a seriously gorgeous little cutie-pie. His parents supplied exquisite designed clothing, he had a little angel face, and a truly wonderful innocent joie-de-vivre, a complete trust in the adults around him. He was, for various reasons, hard work. But he was also delicious.

This little lad had been living with me for five months, on a shared care basis with his parents. I had him during the week, they had him at the weekends (and I had a variety of other children instead, to keep life interesting). I woke up early one morning and for some reason decided to check the child. Not something I'd usually do; generally he'd come and find me when he woke up. His little feet and his panting breath as he huffed his way up the steep staircase to my bedroom from his were generally the first things I heard each morning. A lovely way to wake up.

Back to the story. On this particular morning I woke up early. Much earlier than usual, and instead of simply turning over and going back to sleep I walked down to his room and checked on him. I found him having a lengthy silent seizure in bed. Not a common occurrence; in fact only his second seizure ever.

How do you explain that? The seizure was silent, and his room was on a different floor to mine, so I would not have heard him thrashing about if he had been? I choose to believe that God woke me when I was needed; over and over again since then I've had similar experiences with my fostered children. I have been woken from a deep sleep knowing that I needed to check Mog, and found her not breathing or with her head trapped in her bed. I have been nudged to check Goldy, and found her trapped on her back, silently vomiting. These are just the ones that stand out, the ones where there was nothing noisily obvious to wake me.

But that wasn't the moment I became a parent either. Instinct took over, I called 999, gave him his emergency medication (which was ineffective), threw some clothes on over my nightie and grabbed a bag for hospital. I held him down as the paramedics fought to get a line in, I hushed him as he fought the oxygen, I rocked him as he slept. And I called his birth parents at breakfast time.

I didn't become a parent when we reached hospital. I was still the carer, still the significant adult in his life at that time, but I was not a parent. It was much later that day when parenthood hit, when his father and I sat by his hospital bed. And it was only a very small moment that tipped the balance from carer to parent.

I sat by his bed, holding his hand and idly reading the monitors. I ate some surreptitious lunch (hospital regs against food on the ward) and thought about how long I had been up. By 1PM, I was acutely aware that I was wearing dungarees over my nightie, and whilst this had been acceptable at 5AM and odd but understandable at 9AM, it was definitely bordering on the scarily eccentric now. It was as the clock ticked over to 1.40PM that I became a parent. Sitting beside this child I noticed the time, and my ex-residential-social-worker (my previous job) mind said "oh, not long to go now; late shift starts at 2 so I should be relieved in about an hour and" and then I realised. There wasn't going to be a late shift, I wouldn't be relieved, I certainly wouldn't be getting time off in lieu or compensation for my disturbed sleep-in. As the second hand ticked round, I realised that from now on, I was a parent.

Until that moment I had still somehow thought of my role as residential carer, but with me working every shift. With a child here just Monday to Friday, I had pictured my shift not as 12 hours long but as 5 days, with my nights not as life, but as sleep-in shifts. I had considered time spent by the child at nursery or school as "time off", and resented work based interruptions to it (Sick child, the inevitable constant round of meetings, etc). Realising this was just the first step towards being able to give up my residential role and relax into parenting instead. But that moment beside his hospital bed was definitely the moment I became a parent. The rest I had to learn on the job, just like any new parent does.

It's interesting that the day I became a parent was a day when the birth parents of the child I was now parenting were present too. Parenting is not an exclusive business, especially in the world of fostering and adoption.

Tia

The laundry time forgot.

Where to start? With the pile I found at the bottom of a bag in my bedroom, including a babygro belonging to the baby we borrowed for Christmas 2006? With the mountain of stuff we've brought back from hospital and hospice? The layer currently covering the kitchen floor, which was grabbed from the smaller pile in front of the machine and used to mop up after Little Fish's efforts at doing the dishes for me?

Somewhere offstage, someone is scattering soiled handkerchiefs and smelly socks, sending them floating down through the rafters until they settle in drifts in odd corners around the house. It can't be me; I don't use hankies. It is the same somebody who hides stained spoons and crusted knives, stockpiling them behind cushions on the settee creating boobytraps for the unwary, the same some one who steals odd socks and purloins my pillowcases.

The washing machine is now doing the washing it's supposed to do, but has forgotten how to do a silent wash. It is ordinarily so silent even when spinning that the bip bop bip bop bip bop it emits to let me know it has finished comes as a surprise each time. Only now it's not so much surprise as relief - the gentle satisfied hum has become a three hour squawk, the work surface rattles, plates fall off the draining rack (must get the dishwasher fixed), the floor vibrates under foot. The 17 minute final spin cycle now requires my assistance; I need to lean my full weight across the machine to stop it from walking across the floor and blocking the back door. It is definitely no longer possible to sling a load in at bedtime and rescue it first thing in the morning.

So the laundry mountain is growing daily. And in the meantime odd bits of washing detach themselves from it, suicide sock squadrons throw themselves under the wheels of Little Fish's chair, to die painful deaths wrapped around the castors. Kamikaze knickers wrap themselves around my shoes, and remain hidden until I answer the front door, when they reveal themselves, knowing their fate will be to be kicked into the flower bed as I point out interesting clouds to hopefully unsuspecting callers. Distressed dresses lie down to die, knowing that nothing now will ever remove the rhubarb stains. And my dressing gowns have flown the nest. I have two. They aren't in the waiting to be washed pile, they aren't in the waiting to be put away pile(s), they aren't under the settee, in the car, stuffed down the end of the bed, in a pile at the bottom of the wardrobe anywhere. I can only assume they have made a bid for freedom, and taken my bedroom floor with them. It too is nowhere to be seen.

Tia