The Unforgetable and Unimaginable.......

Life Will Never Be The Same Again............

To be naive is to hold an innocence in your heart. An innocence that comes from a place of protection. A place of trust. A place of stability and understanding. An understanding that life happens in a certain way, that most people experience a normal, non-traumatic existence with minimal true hardship along the way. That is the norm for most people.

But not for everyone. Some people experience true tragedy in their life, that shocks them to the core. The kind that can isolate them from their families and friends, and stands them in a new 'group' of people.....a group no one ever expects to be a part of. This group are the people who have a new understanding of life. This group are those who can never return to the previous innocence they held....just minutes before. All of a sudden, the people in this group become the ones who cannot unsee the horrors they have seen. They cannot unhear the noises, they cannot remove the smell from their sensory memory, they cannot look at the clock at that particular time of the day without being transported to another time. A time they will never forget.

I remember attending my first funeral for a friend, who passed away during my high school years in a car accident. I remember the agony, the tearing of my heart and the inconsolable state I existed in for several days. It was the worst pain I had ever experienced, in my whole 15 years of life. I hadn't grieved for a friend before, I hadn't known anyone to be taken so suddenly and so shockingly, it felt like my understanding of the world had been corrupted. Because up until then, car accidents and youth deaths were things that occurred in other towns, in other groups, to other people. I went to his viewing at the funeral home. I looked upon his peaceful, makeup covered face and kissed his cold cheek. I will never forget that moment. From then on, I was changed. I no longer thought that things only happened to others. I was well aware these things could happen to me and my loved ones at any point in time. But even this, still felt as though it had happened to others, while I was watching them live through it from the outside.

Time has frozen several times during my life, in moments like these. But I became a part of this group of people who cannot unsee, when I witnessed first hand the grief of parents holding their child as he passed away in their loving embrace. A child I desperately loved too. I miss him, and I wish every time I think of him that life had been different. That he had been spared and that we hadn't seen what we did that day. And I can't even go into any detail regarding this moment in time, because no words will ever do that day justice. No amount of words will explain the pain, the raw and open emotion, the strength of a family rallying for support and love, the moment knowing the journey to Heaven was complete.

I thank God every day that he was surrounded by love, and I hope he knew and felt that. I thank God I looked upon his face, committed it to memory and whispered of my love for him. Seeing/hearing/feeling the soul destroying agony was worth one moment in time that froze completely still. That moment will forever be one of the most cherished moments in my life, and I would never ever trade it for a sliding doors option of not being there.

From that moment on, my life changed. My heart hardened. I suddenly understood more about life than ever before. I understood the reality of death. I understood true heart break. I understood how grief can consume you for a very long time. I understood there exists a beauty and calmness in the most distressing of situations.

But still, I was spared. For while I loved him, he was not mine. He didn't belong to me, and the story doesn't belong to me.

And neither does the story of a tiny man, who was cherished by his parents, by his family, by friends. Who arrived a long time before he was due. And who grew his angel wings and left this earth before anyone could even celebrate his arrival.

A tiny man whose parents cannot unsee, unhear, or unexperience what they have been through, a situation that normally happens to 'other people'.

All of a sudden, they belonged to a new group. A group I cannot assume to understand. A group of people who have seen the worst things life can offer. Who have felt agony like many will never feel. Who cannot return to an innocence many of us take for granted. They have been changed forever.

And I have no words. Nothing I verbalise equates to the injustice, rage, shock, heartbreak and true sadness I feel for them.

And nothing will make a difference. Because what has happened cannot be unseen.






RIP Thomas. xoxo

Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Ghastly :(

The Pessimist and The Optimist

My 'Silver-lining Sight' is Retarded...

I often wonder if it is draining for a pessimist to be around an optimist; are they constantly feeling like they have to drag the other against their will to see the pessimistic point of view? Does the pessimist become emotionally exhausted from exposure to the endless, hopeful positivity of the optimist? Or is it just the other way around?

My darling, wonderful, amazing husband is a hopeless pessimist, always seeming to see the worst in most situations, without realising he is doing just that. It's like it is in his genes, through to his core, his ability (disability?) to find flaws in everything without even realising he is doing so. Maybe not flaws, that's not the right term.....what's the opposite of seeing the silver lining? He sees the looming, blackness of the cloud itself, and often can't see how things will ever get better. But he doesn't become depressed, just pessimistic.

Me? I'm a sunshine and lollipops kind of girl. As much as it may have been bred into Greg to expect the worst and natural sway towards feeling disappointed in situations, my parents groomed us to always expect the best, to see the light at the end of the tunnel and be appreciative of all opportunities. And at times I have found the difference between the two of us quite trying. It can be exhausting living with a pessimist who always seems to be 'ho-hum' about the world when all you see is blessings and miracles. But I remind myself that we compliment each other and that together we have faced and survived many different situations, despite our differing outlooks.

When we became pregnant with Ava, people took great joy in telling us we were screwed! That we couldn't be lucky enough to have two 'easy' babies in a row, that we'd be in for a really rough time, due to how easily we adjusted to parenting with Lucy. Of course, Greg was well and truly on board with that perspective, but I raged against the machine. I chose to believe that if our first born child was placid, well behaved and a general positive experience for all, our second child could be too. I chose not to be afraid, not to be pessimistic and I chose to expect the best case scenario.

My mum is all about positive thinking, and putting out to the universe what you expect to receive, and even though I give her grief about her mumbo jumbo (I believe her theories are somewhat flawed), I find myself focusing on what I want in life, rather than focusing on what I don't want. Now, don't judge me, but I heard Oprah once say: "worrying is like praying for what you DON'T want to happen"..... Makes sense to me.

When I approached Ava's birth with a positive attitude and experienced a not so positive outcome, my sunshine and lollipops perspective took a swift kick to the balls. I was left feeling very guilty and awful about the lack of hormonal response I had towards my beautiful daughter, see my blog for a long-winded explanation: http://waitingforthebellylaugh.blogspot.com.au/2013/12/this-scene-is-one-of-horror-movies.html

Due to work circumstances, Greg had to return to work (part time) when Ava was only 8 days old, and on the 10th day, I had both the girls home with me first the first time without him (Lucy had been in daycare previously). When he arrived home that night, he received a call from someone asking him if he could please work with them the following day, and it was all I needed to tip me over the edge. The thought of having the girls on my own for the second day, when he had previously planned to be at home, sent me first into a rage, quickly followed by a torrent of tears.

I was crying because I felt scared of having to look after the girls on my own again. Worried that Lucy would need something that I couldn't give her if I was looking after Ava. Worried that Ava would cry all day long and I'd have to ignore Lucy for most of the day, abandoning her to the 'TV babysitter'. Worried that I wouldn't be able to catch up on any sleep at all. And I was then crying because I felt like I should be able to do all of these things and feel okay. I was crying because I didn't want to do the next YEAR of maternity leave with this anxiety, yet I couldn't see how it was going to become any easier. And then I was crying because I wasn't coping, and I haven't ever been good at asking for help. I was embarrassed that this was so hard for me. That I was not taking to two children as easily as I took to adjusting to one. And THEN I was crying because I couldn't stop crying and that was scary! 

I continued crying for 24 hours. It was a proper melt down that scared both myself and Greg, and probably alarmed Lucy somewhat too. I remember crying at dinner the following night (that's right, I was STILL crying the following evening), trying to verbalise (not very well) to Greg how I was feeling, and trying unsuccessfully to pull myself together for the hundredth time. It was one of the darkest days of my parenting life.

I wasn't the only one crying. All I wanted to do was bond with Ava, and the harder I tried to self-create that bond I felt was missing, the harder it became to reach her. Ava cried and cried. All the time. She slept, but only on me, and she cried. And I found it harder and harder to feel like I was meeting all of her needs. I wondered if she knew I didn't have that overwhelming glow as her mother, and rather was walking around a frazzled zombie, always anxious that she would wake and start crying again....and I wouldn't be able to soothe her.

The day after my 24hr meltdown, we met with Rachel Gately, the amazing photographer I had per-booked to capture Ava's tiny newborn-ness. Less that 12 hours after my hysterical crying spell ended, I was required to play serene mother for a (lovely) stranger and smile for the photos I wanted so badly. I was feeling extremely anxious that I wouldn't be able to get Ava to sleep for the session. And I felt like a fraud, trying to hold it together in fear of losing my shit again and not being able to stop.

As Rachel tried to get some pictures with Greg and Ava together, Ava began to cry so he handed her to me. She calmed. I handed her back, Rachel snapped a few more quick ones before Ava cracked it again, and again Greg gave her to me and she calmed. And Rachel then said something to me which helped me shed some of the baggage I had been weighing myself down with since Ava's birth. She said "you have a beautiful bond with your daughter, look how much she already takes comfort from you, that's so special!"

And again, for the second time in two weeks, time stood still and I looked around with fresh eyes. The eyes of someone who saw, for the first time, saw the situation as it actually was. This was not a baby who was feeling unloved by a mother who wasn't 'glowing'. Instead, this was a newborn baby who was learning to live in a world very different to the one they were used to, and her mother was utterly exhausted from trying to be a superwoman when all she needed to be was herself. Not to mention, the physical fatigue after an intense delivery and two weeks of averaging three hours of sleep a night.

Having someone who knew nothing of my struggles point out the beauty of my relationship that I had been too distracted to see, was all it took to settle me that day. I realised that Ava relied on me no different than Lucy had. Ava trusted me as her mum and didn't know, nor care or my insecurities. She simply loved me and wasn't at all affected by any of the crap I was going through.

It was that day that I realised my normal silver-lining sight had up and left the house. My normal ability to see past the current hardship seemed to have been disabled. That whole saying about everything looking better in the morning doesn't apply when you are not sleeping.....for there is no morning if you haven't slept. Things were at a scary low for me, and I couldn't see how them becoming any easier any time soon.

People would say to me, 'she's a newborn, it will get better with time' and 'you will get used to juggling the needs of two kids, soon it will be easier' and I disregarded their rubbish advice with a grain of salt. All I could see was me crying everyday for the rest of my life, Ava crying endlessly and poor Lucy being neglected all day long as I walked kms around our house trying to get Ava to settle. Woe is me, or in more realistic language, this is shit and I am scared. I had become the pessimist.

And magically, without me to be all sunshine and lollipops, Greg took on responsibility for seeing the positive side of life. He started making comments like 'sweetie, you're being too hard on yourself, you are doing a great job and it will get better' and 'you go and have a sleep, I'll get you up when Ava needs you, she'll be fine with me'. My favourite pessimist had become an 'everything will be okay' person, as I swung heavily into groundhog days and endless tears.

Life's circumstances can make or break you. Most of us learn lessons that we can use for the rest of our lives. The first two weeks of Ava's life taught me several things about myself:

• I expect too much from myself during difficult times
• I don't like it when I feel like I am not achieving what I should
• I need to sleep whenever I can, because I become very pessimistic without it. 
• I need to give myself a break, I'm often doing better than I realise. 

And I learned one very special thing about Greg during this time....he was everything I needed him to be when I felt like i was drowning. Without meaning to, he adjusted his own deeply ingrained pessimism and became the hopeful one, seeing better days ahead had and reminding me of the reality of our situation. He praised me and thanked me and prioritised my well-being over his own, despite his own exhaustion. He was amazing, and just what I needed to get me through. And I will never be able to explain to him how dark my days were and how important his role was in pulling me through it all. He was my best friend in all of this, my rock and my strength. He believed in me and my mothering abilities and told me so. I love him even more for how he was during this time.

This photo is of Ava and I having a cuddle after the photo shoot that day, both feeling a brief sense of calm before the next emotional hurricane arrived. But that's a story for another day....

Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Good!

P.S Rachel, if you read this, I want to thank you for your words that flooded relief into my soul. I bet you didn't even know. xo

P.P.S If you want to check out the amazing work Rachel does, the blog pics of Ava and Lucy can be found at http://rachelgatelyphotography.com.au/?p=9059

"This Scene Is One of Horror Movies!"

I'm Actually Looking Forward To Birth....!

During my first pregnancy, I was scared. So very scared of what was to come - somehow the baby had to get out. And the thought of a c-section terrified me more than the fear of birth itself, crazy I know. I remember my mum gave me some words of advice that I clung to with dear life: 'Lauren, you come from a long line of women who have birthed without complications. Your great grandmother did it fine. Your nana did just fine. I did just fine. You have good birthing genes, it's in your blood...and your hips.' Now I don't know how medically sound her advice was, but I didn't care, because I believed from that point on that I would be fine; that my body was destined to fulfill it's role in life by birthing this miraculous little being and I would come out the other side just fine as did my foremothers (is that even a word?).

And through some miracle in itself, I did survive the process of delivering Lucy. I was actually one of those women who LOVED it. I was GLOWING and totally blissed out from the moment she arrived. I cared not as the midwives checked out my nether regions for damage. I cared not that Lucy poo'd on my tummy as I held her for the first time. All I cared about that our child was here, safe and sound and she just the most beautiful thing I had ever seen! I even wrote a blog about it - and how I would never swap my role in giving birth with anyone.

I have never felt such achievement than when I gave birth to Lucy, not ever in my life. I was in awe of my own ability to focus, to stay in control and calm, to get in the zone and believe in myself. I was in awe of my own body and what it did without my conscious decisions, how it really took the lead and I was just along for the ride. So it was no surprise to me that when I fell pregnant with our second child, I was very much looking forward to the birth, to the wonder and pure joy I experienced the first time. Sicko, I know.

Yet, it seems I did not account for the fact that labour might not go the way I expected it to. I expected that I would labour at home until I needed to go to hospital, at which point I would then labour in the bath until it was time to push, and then I would choose if I wanted a water birth or not.

I didn't expect that my contractions would start and stop so many times. I didn't expect that getting into the bath at the hospital would draw a halt to the whole proceedings, which is most depressing to a woman who is five days overdue. I definitely didn't expect that Lucy would come down with a fever the night before as I was in early labour and I would have to leave her for who knows how long while she wasn't feeling well. It was my very first moment of having to let go a little and prioritise my new baby over her, and it was much, much harder than I realised it would be.

If there was one word I could use to describe my second labour, it would be active. Or maybe excruciating. No, let's go with active. I had to move, i couldnt sit still. Greg was ever encouraging, making sure I didn't sit down for longer than five minutes a row (didn't I love him for that), and bravely suggesting we 'jog it out' every time I trudged up the two flights of stairs. In the beginning it made me giggle, him jogging next to me on the spot trying to get me moving, but eventually I remember staring him down and suggesting ever so politely (between clenched teeth) that if he mention jogging once more I just might crack it. It was active, because I had to physically move in order for my contractions to progress. Which I both wanted and didn't want to occur. On the one hand I wanted to meet my baby and have it all over and done with, yet on the other hand I really just wanted it all to stop, wishing that I could just forget it all and go home like nothing happened.

I no longer felt like a warrior princess. Instead I resented the process of having to deal with such excruciating pain in order to have children, couldn't Greg take one for the team this time? I tried my best to put my game face back on as we hurtled fast towards the business end, reminding myself that the end wasn't far away. That a little (a TRUCKLOAD of) pain now to progress the labour was worth it, as it would mean a quicker labour overall. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.

But as my body leant towards wanting to push, and midwife cautioned me against doing so as I wasn't quite ready, I wondered how much more I could take. How much longer I would have to resist the most powerful force my body has ever experienced. How much longer I would have to prolong this labour that I was no longer excited about. And then my body took over. I no longer could withhold the urge to push, and so I began the most active part of any labour.....getting that watermelon the hell OUT! And in four gigantic pushes, our little girl made her entry into the world.

She was taken immediately to the trolley to ensure she was okay, and I lay on the bed thinking one thing and one thing only. Thank FUCK that was over! (Please excuse my language, but I distinctly remember thinking those exact words!) I was done. I had done what I came to do, I was spent well and truly, and my down-below hurt to all buggery! My legs trembled aggressively, and I felt extremely shaky all over, apparently from the adrenaline. Personally, I felt like I was in shock.

And all of a sudden, it felt like my waters broke a second time. There was blood EVERYWHERE! It is not an exaggeration to say it was running off the opposite side of the queen bed I was lying on. My midwifes clothes were messed. Greg took several steps back from the bed to get out of the way. After the bleeding stopped, my midwife told us that she hadn't attended this bloody a birth in a long time. That it was the stuff of movies!

And then they tried to give me my baby. And all I wanted to do was sit up a little, but it hurt so bad. I asked Greg to just please give me a second before I could take her............and that was the moment where everything stood still. Time froze for a second as I realised with great trepidation that I wasn't feeling joy, pride, awe, or wonder at anything that had just occurred. My second born child was being offered to me for my first cuddle and I didn't feel joy, I didn't feel the need to see her, to hold her.

All I felt was a sense of stark clarity. My blood was everywhere. My legs were shaking beyond control. My girly parts felt so very sore that I thought I wouldn't be able to sit for a week. And I didn't want to hold my baby right away. I just wanted a second to get over the traumatic events that my body had just experienced. God, give me a bloody second!

From that moment on, I knew it was going to be different. From that very moment on, I knew that I wasn't going to have that influx of overwhelming emotion to carry me through. That I wasn't going to feel awe or wonder this time, instead simply a sense of the harsh reality of life, of what women are put through in order to expand their families. Of the worst pain I have ever experienced.

Within the first minute of Ava's life, I experienced feelings of not being as good a mother to her as I was to Lucy. Within the first minute of Ava's life I worried that I might not love her as much as Lucy. Within the first SIXTY SECONDS of Ava's life, I was already beating myself up for not feeling joyous, not feeling wonder, not wanting to hold her immediately. I felt like a bystander, watching myself and my reaction to this situation like a foreigner watching a scene they don't belong in. This wasn't me. I loved my birth experience, didn't I? Nope, not this time.

As I did finally hold her a few minutes after her arrival, our little girl without a name at that stage, I looked down and knew that I did love her. I didn't feel a beautiful rush, but I knew without a doubt that I loved her. Again, I felt a sense of reality more than anything, and the fact was that she belonged to me, she was my daughter and I loved her. I fed her immediately and used that time to try and regroup myself, my emotions (or lack of), and we tried to figure out a name for her. Our second princess. A sister for Lucy. Our tiny Ava Isabel.

I have become teary and emotional writing this one tonight, because although the day Ava arrived is almost 4 months ago, I still remember these feelings with clarity. It is terrifying not feeling the way you expect to about your baby. Not knowing when these feelings will end. Not feeling what you think you should be feeling about your baby.

The bliss never arrived. The trepidation stayed and grew into raging guilt and anxiety. The hormonal rush I wanted so desperately never came. Instead, I was left feeling inadequate.

And Tiny One, if you ever read this I want you to know the following:

• Your mother loves you very much, always has and always will. 
• The lack of hormones released after your birth has nothing to do with how much your mummy loved/loves you, and all to do with a automatic, physiological reaction to birth that cannot be controlled, enhanced or explained. 
• Forever your mother will remember every contraction, every feeling, every step your daddy made me walk up during labour for you to arrive. It will always stay with me how much I went through so you could have a safe arrival into this world. And no matter the pain, I would do it all again for you. And I will always fight that much for you with just as much gritted determination. 

And I know I'm not alone. As hard as it is to talk about it, it is better to reach out. For those of you out there who have struggled too, it does get easier. You aren't to blame, as hard as that may be to remember. 

Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Gloomy (at times).

Managing Your Expectations

Who Knows What Tomorrow Will Bring.......

When I was younger, I would look forward to Christmas with eager anticipation....mostly for the PRESENTS! I loved the mystery of not knowing what might be under the tree. I'm not sure to this day if it was Mum's deliberate intention to keeps us on our toes each year, but very rarely did we actually get what we 'ordered' in our Christmas letter to Santa, no matter how good we had been. But that was because often Mum had something even better up her sleeve. I remember many a Christmas Eve of sneaking a good long, lingering look at the Christmas tree during my walk from my bedroom to the toilet and back once everyone was asleep. I loved the unknown!

Sadly, it seems to be expected that as you grow up, your excitement for Christmas should dwindle out and that eventually you will say very grown up statements like: 'no, don't bother getting me anything this year, I don't need anything', or worse: 'let's just buy for the kids this year'. Because as an adult, we seem to lose that love for the unknown, and instead we like to plan our lives down to what presents we will be receiving from which family member, or not at all. 

It's the same for most facets of life. We try our best to plan ahead, to prepare both physically and emotionally for what is to come. There are very few who actually enjoy living week to week without a care in the world, the rest of us rely on stability, predictability, and routine.

In the same way that we expect, at the most basic level, to wake up each morning. That we expect, naturally, that our loves ones will all wake up each morning. That we expect, naturally, to be able to look forward to milestones we will experience in the future without hesitation.

There were tears when I put my girls to bed tonight. Not the loud tantrum tears of my adorable Lucy, who at the age of two, knows all the tricks to get mum and dad to come back to her room several times before settling off to sleep. Not even the protesting cries of my tiny precious Ava, who at three months is figuring out that when she is zipped into her sleeping bag, she is expected to sleep. No, the tears were the silent and soft, very grown up tears, and they belonged to me.

Because today I have been reminded to expect the unexpected. I have been reminded that I cannot rely on us all just waking up everyday like it is a personal right.

This morning, i woke up to the news that a mother from my August mothers group experienced the unexpected in the early hours of today. Her son, who would have been 3 months in a few days, failed to wake up. Her precious second-born child, her innocent little baby boy, her darling little man. He didn't wake up. She expected he would, naturally. When she put him to sleep last night, or perhaps after a feed early this morning, she of course expected he would wake again. And when she woke, and he didn't....well, I can't imagine.

All day, I have been amazed at the support, love and outpouring of grief felt by all who hear of this story. It is shocking, so sudden. So many have been moved to help in any way they can, and support has been offered at all levels to those who wish to share their grief with others. We are all in it together, supporting this family with everything we can. Because we are saddened for them. And it is terrifying. Terrifying because it is so close to home. Terrifying because it could have been any of us. Terrifying because we hadn't expected it.

The fact that your child may not make it through the night doesn't occur to most people, naturally. Why would it? We are planners. Expecting that the days will play out as we have planned, that in the morning we will all rise to meet another day. But what is the alternative? We can't go to sleep every night wondering if tonight the darkness would fall on our home. Thinking that each night might be the last. Constantly looking over our shoulder waiting for death to arrive.

No, we can't. But we can acknowledge that each day is a blessing we didn't necessarily earn or deserve. We can thank our lucky stars (or God, the universe, or whatever it is you believe in) that we have loved ones to cling to, and that we wake to live another day. And we can plan for the worst by remembering what is its important in our lives.

When I put my girls to sleep tonight, as I cried into their sweet heads of hair (Mummy! You're making sweaty!), all I could do was have hope that they will both live long, healthy lives. Because focusing on the alternative would do my head in. 

Spend a moment tonight thinking of all you have to be grateful for. And cherish your loved ones. 

And as for the unknown, it terrifies me these days. I want to know exactly what is in store for us all and adjust my expectations accordingly. So honey, I'd love a coffee machine for Christmas please. 

"You've Been Having Sex!"

It has never, ever occurred to me that being pregnant would publicly confirm my bedroom (lounge room/kitchen/dining/bathroom/your lounge room!) activities....

I remember the first time I put two and two together. I was in year three at school and a friend's mum was expecting a baby. I'm not sure if I was particularly curious, or it was simply the fact that my parents never shied away from the mere scientific facts of life, but I was aware of how babies were made. My mum had read me 'Where Do I Come From" so I knew all about babies being made by daddy putting his penis near the mummy's vagina, and then something about little swimming fish and a big egg (that wasn't the same kind of eggs that we ate for breakfast). I had it covered.

But it wasn't just the facts of life that I understood. The penny dropped one day when I realised that Danielle's dad had actually put his penis near her lovely mums vagina and somehow the swimmers had attacked the egg and magically she had a massive tummy. And subsequently, a baby sister! I can't tell you it was welcomed or enjoyable news to me. I was truly disgusted. And as I thought about it a little harder, I also came to the realisation that my own parents had actually undertaken the same process. THREE TIMES!

Of course, I had no idea (nor should I at that age) that mummies and daddies may have actually enjoyed the process of making babies - that it was arguable the most enjoyable thing you could physically do. Nope, I was simply grossed out.

As I grew up and came to accept the reality of life and discovered all new things baby making process, I also accepted that it was a normal thing to partake it when in a relationship. That you would want to do 'it'.

I've blogged before about the assumed mystery of sex and how some people think that their sex is a secret. I've always worked on the assumption that people are generally active in their private spaces unless I'm told otherwise. No big deal, right? I suppose in the same right, I've always assumed that people would consider the same for me. I've been married for 8 years this October, and have been with Greg for 10. Shock horror and surprise surprise.....we have sex!

So I'm just not sure why it took me by surprise the other day when a previous colleague came past my desk, realised I am pregnant and announced very loudly to my open-planned office: "Hahaha, I know what you've been up to, you naughty thing!" Nudge nudge, wink wink. Oh. My. God.

It takes a bit to embarrass me - doesn't happen often at all. But when it does, it will be a thorough job, with every part of me from my hair to my nipples turning a bright beetroot red! It is similar to the exercise glow I love so dearly (not), but a deeper and much more severe colour. It alarms others. It embarrasses me further, at which stage I turn from beetroot red to a deep purple you'd think almost impossible for human skin to be.

And this guy at work announcing to the office that I was sexually active with my husband got me. It got me good. All I could do was laugh along with him, and try my best not to pass out from the blood rushing to my face like a freight train.

I consider Greg and I to have a healthy relationship. We argue, we get along, we communicate (most of the time), we have fun, we get the shits with each others, we love each other, and we have sex. I've never hidden any of that from anyone......and I don't actually find it necessary to do so. I'm not at all ashamed or embarrassed that my parents (and my Nana - Hi Nana!) read this blog.  My parents are smart people who are intelligent enough to know that their children have sex, and probably even want us to have a healthy relationship which includes all of the above as well. And I will want the same one day from my children too. I don't want my children to ever feel shame for enjoying all a relationship has to offer, including the physical aspect. It's what was intended for us all to discover when the time is right, after all!

But while I'm not ashamed of our sex life, I also don't feel the need to announce it to 10 of my work colleagues. Let them make their own assumptions, if their mind takes them on that path. I can't say it's the first thing I think of when I see a pregnant woman. Maybe I will now. Maybe you all will now!

After my work buddy screamed confirmation of my sex life to the world and my face lit up like a navigation beacon, I realised that it isn't that simply anymore. I realised that the reason it has never occurred to me that being pregnant might automatically equal 'sexy-time' is that sometimes pregnancy can be a result of awful things, like manipulation, violence, rape. And sometimes it can be a scientific miracle found in IVF. Sometimes, more commonly than we might even know, it may be a result of years of tears, trying and trying, and finally succeeding. And it may have become all about the business of trying, not the fun and spur of the moment love making session that we would all have preferred it to be.

For the simplest of all things in life, supposedly the most natural thing to occur ever, I am often left pondering the old story of what's fair and what's not. Because for something that should be a simply task, an accidental 'whoops' in many cases, may seem impossible for others. I'm reminded that the human body isn't as perfect as we first thought. It doesn't behave how it should every time.

Apparently, having children (as many as you want and at the time that you want) isn't a given in life. Its a journey that alludes some, and seems freely given to those who don't want/deserve it. I'm left pondering the lack of 'fair' in the world again, the injustice that is unexplainable.

I write this as my second blessing shoves his/her foot under my right ribs and gives me a regular reminder of the fact that he/she will be in our arms in less than 3 months. And as always, I am reminded daily to be grateful.

But I also write to you as my heart breaks for several people close to me who have been to hell and back in their efforts to have children (first child or additions to their family). I'm not naive, I know I can't understand their road. That I sit in the very position they would kill to be in. I get that.

But I hope they can see that my eyes are open to their pain, and that although I am the lucky one, I hate the injustice just as much as they do. I want for them the same as what they want. It is, of course, easier to be the one in my position. But I am not blind to you. I see and hear you, and I feel some of your pain. I cry my own tears for each and every time it doesn't work out. I don't cry in sympathy, I cry in true grief. I rage against the unfairness of life. It doesn't escape me, even in my position.

And when all seems lost, all I can can offer is hope. Because at the end of the day, I can't offer you relief or understanding of how it feels to be you. I can't offer you the answers you need or the magic to happen. All I can offer is a hope that one day it will work. That one day, despite the odds and the past, it will work.

And if you can't believe anymore and hope itself alludes you, I will secretly hope for you. Because, that is all I can do.

Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Good!

Um, That's a Little Personal, Isn't It?!

I’ve never really understood privacy……..

Hands up those friends out there who know WAY too much about me? Those who I have told all manner of things, from descriptive details of how Lucy’s birth went down to what colour my poo was yesterday. Those who I have made inspect my boobs (and I’m not talking about the doctor this time!) for lumps or rashes, or those who have heard all about my most personal moments in life. What’s that?! All of you put your hands up!?

I have always been an open book. It’s my thing. 98% of the time, you will know exactly what I am thinking. I appear to be missing a filter of sorts that allows me to sort my thoughts into two sections…..private and public. Like before I have even had a chance to consider if I should say, I have already told you all about my entire day, how I have felt for most of it, and what funny/embarrassing thing that happened to me during that time. It just happens before I even realise!

Take today for an example. I went to work looking a little under the weather. Perhaps that doesn’t quite capture it…..I was told by a friend that I maybe shouldn’t have come to work looking like I did today. A colleague called me ‘the Elephant Man’. Same colleague also referred to me as Beavis (from Beavis and Butthead), and my sister suggested I looked a little ‘special’. And you know when people laugh that little bit too quickly, and way too loudly, because it is sooooo true? Well, my work buddies had a belly laugh when I asked them if I looked like Quasi Modo! Greg said I didn’t even look like myself. Lucy still loved me.

So what happened to me, you say? Well, after lunch yesterday (and no, I didn’t eat anything I am allergic to) I felt my eye was a little itchy. So I scratched it. And it grew and grew and grew. To the point when I may or may not have looked like a victim of assault, people were alarmed! My eye was so swollen and puffy, I looked completely differently. This morning that eye had settled down…..but the other eye was now puffy.

Now, I don’t want you to think, oh a puffy eye, no big deal. It was so severe that people were doing double takes when they saw me. ‘Oh, I thought you were Lauren…oh wait – it is you! Holy shit, what happened to your face!?’ This actually happened. Today. Several times! I was even worried about going swimming this morning because I was concerned the goggles may become suctioned onto my face permanently – thankfully they didn’t. Apparently I may be allergic to Aspro Clear!

I’m way sexy today.

Yet some people would be mortified to declare this to the world. I’m not sure why though, because it can’t be helped. Actually, I can be helped, take Panadol instead! But you get my point. And this is what I mean regarding my tell-all approach in life. I just reveal, and reveal and reveal all the time. Because, somewhere, someone will be amused to think of how horrendous I looked today! Bastards.

Why not share it all? I don’t really understand why people are so private sometimes. In fact, what would this blog be if not a true pouring out of my emotions, thoughts and experiences? There wouldn’t be a blog at all.

Over the past 11 months that I have enjoyed writing to you, I have been ever so conscious about what I am writing, who might read it, and what could happen as a result of my declarations to the world. Before I press that publish button, I sit here for a good minute (when, clearly I should be editing the blog for spelling and grammatical errors!) and consider the consequences of releasing the blog. For example, last week I wrote about people close to me who may be unsupportive of my weight loss journey. They read my blog regularly, so it was important for me to write it in a way that would help them understand my point of view, my perspective. And of course, the last thing I’d want to do is hurt anyone by airing dirty laundry for the sake of it.

But even after I weigh up who might read the blog (should my boss really know about the doctor I am constantly flashing my boobs to!?), it always comes down to who I am as a person. And that person is an unfiltered, unadulterated, and often limitless but honest person who just wants her heart heard. What you see is what you get with me.

That is my flaw. My strength!

And people usually have one of two responses to my blog. They either cringe when they read it, because they can’t believe I have put that online for everyone to read, or they smile and love it, because they feel refreshed by my honesty. And they RELATE to my stories.

Last week, as I poured my raging heart out over the injustice I felt regarding feeling unsupported, I connected with more than just a few people. I had many people contact me to let me know they had my back and to encourage me in my journey of self-discovery and health. And I also had people who felt I spoke for them. People felt that I had written from their heart, that I had vocalised their thoughts, feelings and experiences better than they could have. It was AMAZING how many people felt this way! Like I had given them a voice - talk about being humbled!

But it made me reflect on the very purpose of this blog. Originally it was to document my journey in finding a hobby. Then it became the hobby itself. But only now do I realise it is my method of connecting with the world. Because every single time I put my own heart on the line, and become vulnerable before you all, out of the woodwork come people who are empowered to finally speak of the same situation in their own life. And not only am I sharing my ‘private’ things with you, but I have people share back their situations in return.

This blog isn’t all just me giving you an entertaining read. It’s me giving you the opportunity to share too.

Make yourself vulnerable to your people, and be surprised by how they respond in return. 

Sorry no pic today, I'm blogging from my phone due to technical issues... 

Ciao for now, 

LG - Life's Great! 

.

To add insult to injury (or allergy), Lucy’s pointer finger and my eyeball had an accidental collision last night as we were playing around, and as a result my puffy swollen eye is also MEGA red.

I’m way sexy today.

Yet some people would be mortified to declare this to the world. I’m not sure why though, because it can’t be helped. Actually, I can be helped, take Panadol instead! But you get my point. And this is what I mean regarding my tell-all approach in life. I just reveal, and reveal and reveal all the time. Because, somewhere, someone will be amused to think of how horrendous I looked today! Bastards.

Why not share it all? I don’t really understand why people are so private sometimes. In fact, what would this blog be if not a true pouring out of my emotions, thoughts and experiences? There wouldn’t be a blog at all.

Over the past 11 months that I have enjoyed writing to you, I have been ever so conscious about what I am writing, who might read it, and what could happen as a result of my declarations to the world. Before I press that publish button, I sit here for a good minute (when, clearly I should be editing the blog for spelling and grammatical errors!) and consider the consequences of releasing the blog. For example, last week I wrote about people close to me who may be unsupportive of my weight loss journey. They read my blog regularly, so it was important for me to write it in a way that would help them understand my point of view, my perspective. And of course, the last thing I’d want to do is hurt anyone by airing dirty laundry for the sake of it.

But even after I weigh up who might read the blog (should my boss really know about the doctor I am constantly flashing my boobs to!?), it always comes down to who I am as a person. And that person is an unfiltered, unadulterated, and often limitless but honest person who just wants her heart heard. What you see is what you get with me.

That is my flaw. My strength!

And people usually have one of two responses to my blog. They either cringe when they read it, because they can’t believe I have put that online for everyone to read, or they smile and love it, because they feel refreshed by my honesty. And they RELATE to my stories.

Last week, as I poured my raging heart out over the injustice I felt regarding feeling unsupported, I connected with more than just a few people. I had many people contact me to let me know they had my back and to encourage me in my journey of self-discovery and health. And I also had people who felt I spoke for them. People felt that I had written from their heart, that I had vocalised their thoughts, feelings and experiences better than they could have. It was AMAZING how many people felt this way! Like I had given them a voice - talk about being humbled!

But it made me reflect on the very purpose of this blog. Originally it was to document my journey in finding a hobby. Then it became the hobby itself. But only now do I realise it is my method of connecting with the world. Because every single time I put my own heart on the line, and become vulnerable before you all, out of the woodwork come people who are empowered to finally speak of the same situation in their own life. And not only am I sharing my ‘private’ things with you, but I have people share back their situations in return.

You're Either With Me or You're Against Me!

Here we go........AGAIN!

Before we got married, I tried a diet program called the Cohen's Lifestyle program. I lost 12 kgs in 8 weeks. It was hugely successful....up until the point where I began to resent eating the same thing every day and I stopped. And proceeded over the next year to put those 12kgs back on again. So I signed up for Weight Watchers, a more common sense approach. But I didn't like going to the meetings.....which seemed to be full of people my mums age. A few years later and at my heaviest, I joined the Tony Ferguson craze and lost another 12 or so kilograms. And I have managed over the last few years to maintain that somewhat. During all of this time, I have signed up at several different gyms, but that hasn't really stuck either. And earlier this year, I lost 10kgs during my frist round of the Michelle Bridges 12 Week Body Transformation. And during the subsequent round in which I did nothing, sat on my arse and ate shit, I put that all back on.

So I do understand completely the feeling of frustration, disappointment or sadness you may point in my direction when you read this blog today. Because whatever you may be feeling for me, I feel it a thousand times more than you! The fact that my victorious loss earlier in the year has just piled back on is somewhat devastating and also somewhat ridiculous. How have I let this happen? AGAIN!? Well, I have eaten shit, I have not exercised and I have used every excuse in the book. And yes, it has been a terrible year by all accounts. A family member was diagnosed with cancer two days after we laid a dear friend to rest after her battle with terminal cancer. Amongst it all, we have been plagued endlessly with sickness and bugs that just won't leave us alone. Its been a difficult year. And as I said..........every excuse in the book.

But you know what? Here I am owning this shit. And as much as I can point out the circumstances which made me feel as though there was no point, or which made me feel as though I had no time or energy to prioritise myself, they can't be blamed for my inaction. Only I can take the blame for that. So I do. And I am frustrated, sad and disappointed in myself. Because now I have to lose that all over AGAIN! Plus more!

I can tell you why the last round was a non event. Because I did not have the strength, nor desire to wake up earlier than the rest of my household 6 mornings a week and workout for an hour. I did not care to spend long periods of time in the grocery store buying from a well thoughtout list, or to prepare meals on Sundays ready for the week. I did not want to find time to watch Michelle's videos on her website about mindset lessons, nor did I bother to jump onto the forums to see if anyone else was going through the same struggle. Because i just didn't want to. I was sick of endlessly striving. Because it's all on ME! I am the one who does all this. Who has to do all this.

Hands up out there who has looked at the scales and realised they need to lose 50kg to be within their healthy weight range? For those of you who feel it is near impossible to lose that 5 or 10kg you are carrying....IMAGINE HOW I FEEL! Honestly, sometimes that is just too much to consider. It seems impossible. Unrealistic. Disheartening.

So I'm sorry if you are sick of hearing about this up and down ride of weightloss I seem to be continually on. I know there are people around me who feel that they are constantly supporting, constantly trying and constantly being disappointed by my lack of effort to care about my self for more than a couple of weeks in a row. Well, listen up because I have something very special to say to you. I'M STILL HERE. I'M STILL TRYING. I HAVEN'T GIVEN UP!

Because I want a healthier life for myself. I want to feel comfortable in my body, in my clothes, in my social situations. I want to feel fitter, be proud of myself when I look in the mirror and succeed in achieving milestones I didn't realise I could.

So I don't apologise for yet again picking myself, dusting myself off and refocusing on what needs to happen. Not once will I apologise for that. I won't apologise for the money I spend on the programs I do either. Because to me, it's worth it. To me, it's what I need to focus on to help me along. It's the encouragement and the support that sometimes doesn't come from others, and its the understanding that the fit and healthy people around me don't have.

So you know what? I write to you slightly defiantly today. A little on the defensive. Because I have a little rage inside. And despite what you may think, no I am not even mad at myself. I'm hell proud of myself. I'm proud for reassessing, yet again, and doing what needs to be done. I am pleased that I am yet again in a position when I feel I can again spend the time I need to for this to happen. And I am thrilled to have discovered that I now thirst after a hardcore proper workout, rather than a slack, half-hearted workout. If I set aside the time to workout, I want it to be a bloody good one! And this is something I have only just discovered, and am mega pleased with. Go me.

But I'm mad at those who don't get it. I'm mad at the people who think that it is as easy as 'if you say you're going to do it, just do it'. I am mad at those who have suggested it may be a waste of money. Or who may think (and actually say to me!) 'why bother!?'. And I am bloody furious at those who are frustrated with me FOR BEING EXCITING ABOUT THIS! For the people who are annoyed that I am yet again READY to make the effort I need to to lose weight! Who are shitty because they are going to have to hear all about my goals, my promises (that they think I will renig on - and I might!), my hopes and aspirations for the future and the program. Well, here is something very special just for you...... how about you go and shove your attitude up your arse!

You are either with me or you're directly against me. There is no middle ground. You can't claim to be supportive, and yet feel hard done by because I am beginning again. Like it puts you out!

And life is harder for me than it is for you, believe me. The effort for this journey does not lie in your hands. It lies in mine. I am the one who needs to reshape my body. I am the one who needs to focus on my health. I am the one waking up early. I am the one working my arse off to burn off 600 calories per session. I am the one tired and sore at the end of each day. I am the one who had to convince my head to just get out of bed and GO. I am the one who has to say no no no no no to foods I love. I am the one who has to say yes yes yes yes yes to fueling my body for performance rather than pleasure. It's on my head, not yours. It's my journey. Not yours.

So next time you think you are disappointed, frustrated, sad or annoyed because you have to be a bystander in MY difficult, hard and fluctuating rollarcoaster of a journey, consider this: I am still here. I am still trying. I HAVE NOT GIVEN UP. And I won't give up. I might go through tough patches. But understand that I will always be there, picking myself back up, rallying my emotions, courage and strength to stand and fight another day.

And do you know what? I don't need your support. I don't need your approval. I don't need your enthusiasm or your energy. But it's a hell of a lot easier with it.

Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Great!

Hi Doctor, I Think I Have a Chest Infection......Perhaps You Need to See My Boobs!?

To think of the holiday we could have had with all the money we have spend funding our doctor's holiday this year.......

Growing up, I wasn't a particularly sickly child.....but I wasn't a particularly healthy child either. Yes, I was active, and loved to play outside with rollarblades, the netball hoop in our driveway, and climbing my favourite tree up onto the garage roof when I was ten, much to my mothers horror (GET DOWN NOW!). I didn't know what the big deal was....until eventually I broke my arm falling from that very tree. Apologies Mum, I now understand your thoughts for my safety. We ate well as children, so well in fact that I was always trying to swap my wholegrain/multigrain sandwich and Amway apple juice with my friends for something far more interesting. And most of the time, they wanted to swap too. Not sure who that reflects on worse.....me, because I wanted something a little tastier than what mum had packed in my lunch box, or them, because they were craving something a little more substantial than what their mother had packed for them (canteen money).

But I did suffer pretty bad asthma as a child and several times ended up with pnuemonia. I remember one time in particular, when I must have been around 9 or 10. I was so sick I could hardly move, and my bestie Belinda brought around one of her favourite toys before school that I could look after until I was feeling much better. I think it was her Maggie Simpson doll. As I stood at the front door trying to thank her between rasping breaths, all I could think about was that I was either going to pass out, or vomit on her. But I managed thanked her, she left for school, and I promptly vomited as soon as I was out of line of sight.

Our family doctor was a cranky, rude, and brash kind of guy, who often rubs people up the wrong way (not physically!). But he was a good doctor. So good in fact that he is near IMPOSSIBLE to get into on the day you actually need to see a doctor, so I was forced to branch out as an adult to find a new family doctor. After trial and error, I have found one I am reasonably happy with at the moment. And unforunately he isn't old, rude and cranky, but young, lovely and understanding. What's that? You think these things are good characteristics in a doctor?! Well, I suppose so, but it makes for awkward situations when I am forever trying to force my boobs upon him.

Now I have your attention. No, I am not trying to sexually assault my poor lovely new doctor, or accost him with these big boys through means of entrapment. I'm simply trying to get to the bottom of the issue at hand on the day, and it always seems that my boobs might be the route of all problems.

You remember back in March that we went on a houseboat trip and I achieved many awesome things that week, like stand up paddle boarding, wakeboarding and working out with the lads? Well at the end of that holiday of epic awesomeness, literally as we drove into our home town and dropped Stafford off at his place, I said hmmmmm, my throat is sore. Within about 90 mins of that statement, I was shivering to all buggery in the shower, turning it up hotter and hotter and just not being able to warm up. I climbed into bed, in my hoody, trackies and socks and spent the night shivering away under a horrible fever that wouldn't shake.

Now, that just sounds like a normal sickness yes? Fever, sore throat? Well, yes normally, but of course then there were my boobs! You see, at the beginning of that week, I had finally dropped Lucy's last breastfeed and my boobs were EXPLODING in pain! I couldn't lie down. It hurt to walk. I couldn't hold Lucy without them killing me. I was a mess of sore throat AND horrendously sore boobs! And for those of you that know boobs, you may also know a little infection called mastitis. Which can come along when you are weening off feeding. So it wasn't completely unreasonable of me to fear that I had developed a horrid case of mastitis, right!?

So in I go to our young, lovely and understanding doctor who asks me what is going on. I say (in my deepest man voice imaginable) "I think I have mastitis! I have just weened Lucy (who of course he knows very well) 10 days ago and my boobs might actually explode soon! They are killing me! I have a sore throat too." So the doctor says "have you any red spots on your breasts, or any lumps?" No. "alright, I may have to check your breasts, but how about I look at your throat first?" Sure. So he looks into my mouth and says very quickly "what you have is a nasty case of tonsilitis". And then we talked about normal breast engorgement after weening. How embarrassing! Greg always teases me about this and we laugh at the fact that I went to the doctor with tonsilitis and almost gave him an eye full for fun!

Which of course would be fine if it was just that time. But recently I have noticed (much to my alarm) that one side is growing again and I now belong in the majority of the population who have one side bigger than the other. Feet, hands, arms, balls, boobs! Apparently everyone has something. And apparently it's my turn to experience this joy! Except it isn't a joy. Not at all. Because if you know me or have seen me in person, you could attest to the fact that I already have my fair share (and probably the fair share of 3 or 4 other girls too!) in breast tissue, and do not require the growth of either of my boobs! In fact, I detest such an event! And this one-sidedness has me concerned, as I fear I will begin to walk with a slight turn towards one direction and start veering off into oncoming traffic or something!

So back to the doctor I went. Back to my young, nice, happy doctor to show him my boobs for real. Because noticing sudden changes in your boobs is something to take serious note of, and certainly something to get checked out. Even if it is mortifying. And as he stood in front of me and assessed my boobs, poking here and prodding there, staring here and lifting there, all I could wish for was my cranky old rude doctor who would say something stupid which would make me resent him and I could just focus on that instead of the current situation I was in. After a thorough examination, my lovely, young, understanding doctor announces to me (and Lucy who is standing next to me, staring in fascination at this strange happening) that there is no medical issue with my boob becoming larger than the other one, that he is satisfied that I do not need to be concerned, and that perhaps if it is a real issue for me cosmetically, there were paths that I could take to rectify that. Thank you, you can put your top back on.

So each visit I see the doctor now, all I can think is 'are you thinking about poking and prodding my boobs?'. Probably not. But maybe!

I went to visit him yesterday again. Because I seem to have contracted a cold, which turned into a chest infection, which has the added joy (again, joy is not the right word!) of SEVERE asthma attached to it which basically means I can hardly breathe. But this time, I felt so shitty I forgot all about showing my boobs to him, and just got down to the task at hand. Hit me with your best drugs so I can stop feeling like I am going to cough a lung up and have a prolapse!

Blah!

Anyway, the message of the story today is that if you need to see your doctor, always offer him/her the opportunity to check over your boobs just in case. No wait. That isn't really the message. The message is, if you notice a change, probably it will be nothing, but better to be safer than sorry. Get it checked by a professional. And then forget about it as soon as you can. Because it is still embarrassing. But embarrassment is better than cancer that could have been cured if caught earlier.

 That goes for you boys too you know! Get your balls and prostate checked! Now GO!

P.S This blog does not give you the right to stare at my boobs next time we see each other, or try and pick which one is bigsy! I have written this so you will take care with your body and track all changes, and react appropriately. And because it's funny. ;)

Ciao for now,

LG - Life's Great!