The Most Important Vote You Will Have This Year

Ok, so that's a huge lie but in any case I was hoping you might help with a competition I have just entered.

LastMinute.com is running a national competition looking for travel bloggers in each state to participate in cool events like cooking classes and fancy overnight holidays and then blog about it on their website. 

Sounds horrendous doesn't it!

Each state will have three shortlisted entries as determined by public vote (aka friends and family) and then a winner from each state will be chosen from the shortlist.

To vote for me please go to http://www.freestuffforayear.com.au/entries/11-01-28/WA/Shannon before February 20.

If you live in West Australia you can stop reading now (I don't really need any more competitors), but if you live in any other state particularly the ACT or South Australia why don't you enter.  There are less than 10 entries in each state so far, and those odds are pretty good!

The One About Visiting the Child Health Clinic [June 2007]

Dear everyone

There is some talk about boobs and breasts in this update – so if you are easily offended, I suggest you don’t attempt to have children of your own, and perhaps go and read a nice Harry Potter book instead.

Things must be improving because here I am again, writing to you all.  And Baby Bombshell is still in nappies and not at high school as I would have predicted.  I am wearing relatively clean clothes (only a little baby vomit on my top), I have eaten both breakfast and lunch, and I thought about brushing my hair, even though I never followed through on the thought.

I have even left the house, taking Baby Bombshell to the local Child Health Clinic yesterday for her first weigh-in.  According to one of the other mums I met, I am doing very well, as it took her more than 6 weeks before she felt able to leave the house.  The visit to the clinic wasn’t quite what I expected, although I must have been deluded because considering it was a bunch of mums bringing their babies in to see the nurse and have them weighed, I’m really not sure what I did expect.  High tea and scones?  My baby was the youngest by far, and luckily she lay in my arms snoozing as a progression of older babies (and older mums) came through the door.  What professionals they were, taking their turns at the scales, stripping their babies, weighing them and recording the info in the little purple books. 

No one seemed to know each other but there was polite chatter –

 ‘is it normal for my baby to put on a kilo in less than 2 weeks?'

‘what a cute baby, how old are they?’

‘where did you get that adorable suit/pram/baby/husband?’

‘Whew! Did you make that smell? Bad baby!’ 

Okay, I’m making that last one up – the mother just looked embarrassed and left very quickly.  Okay, that mother was me, but hey!  She’s only little!  For those interested in percentiles, bubby has moved from just below the 50^th percentile (for weight) at birth, to just above the 50^th percentile.  Go Bombshell, you little achiever, you!

Although the Bombshell is only 3 weeks old, it already feels as though she has been in my life a lot longer than that.  Well, duh – I know there was that whole 9 months in utero part, I mean her being out in the world, attached to my breast.  After 2 weeks worth of ouchy breast complaints you will be happy to hear that we seem to have sorted out the feeding problems, and we have moved on from bleeding boobs to dripping boobs.  I remember asking my Mum at my Baby Shower what the ‘breast pads’ were for... well now I know.  We are well acquainted.  Much like the neighbours now are with my breasts.  We considered getting blinds for all the windows, but I think we ran out of money somewhere after the HandyCam and before the BabyGym.  Oh well.

It is really astonishing how quickly your life changes.  I know everyone told me it would, but it’s not as though I actually listened to anyone.  Just like I didn’t really comprehend the whole ‘lack of sleep’, ‘night feeds’ and ‘vomit rags’.  These are meant to be taken literally!!!! Not just some hypothetical ‘could be’ or ‘might be’ if you are unfortunate enough to have one of those ‘bad’ babies.  It applies to all babies.  For those without children you have been duly warned.  For those with kids, go ahead and laugh and think ‘I told you so’ – I deserve it! 

But apart from moving my entire life into the family room, finding my wardrobe now consists of pyjamas and trackie pants, reducing my personal grooming to brushing my teeth (but not my desperately-needs-a-cut-and-colour hair) and our house decor now resembling an eclectic combination of Ikea meets Babyland, my life now revolves around a small, occasionally wet, bundle of love and spit. 

I gave up my old life at the same time I gave up my dignity (about when the catheter was being inserted, I think). Gone are the days when I would be at work before 7am and achieve a dozen goals before morning tea. Now I work hard to set and achieve a single goal that is not related to fluids going in or coming out of my little girl.

With love,

Shannon

Three Year Old Teaches Mum How to Be a Good Sport

The Blonde Bombshell received a goody bag the other day and amongst all the sugary goodness was a packet of cards: Animal Snap to be precise.

She most was excited by this new game so I thought it was a timely opportunity to teach her one of life's many lessons - namely sportsmanship and how to be a good winner.

Once we had shuffled and dealt the cards it was time to play.  We got off to a good start.

Bombshell: Doggie

Mum: Elephant

Bombshell: Horse

Mum: Well, that's actually a Zebra but no worries. Monkey

Bombshell: Cat

This went on forever and I was beginning to wonder whether we were ever going to find a matched pair when suddenly we had two Ducks in a row.  I gently took her little hand, slapped it down on the pile of cards and said 'Snap!'  Then I bundled up the cards and gave them to her saying she had won.

Bombshell: I won!  Doggie

Mum: Zebra

I won't bore you any further with the details of the game, suffice to say it took forever and a little bit of anti-cheating* on my part, but eventually The Bombshell had all but one card which I laid down with a flourish.

Mum: Elephant!  You win, you have all the cards.  Congratulations.

Bombshell: Oh. Oh... Well, you can have some of mine then.

The Blonde Bombshell promptly divided her pile of cards in two and handed me half.

Bombshell: Next time you can win Mum!

I think perhaps that on this occasion, it was Mum who learned the lesson.

____________________________________________________
*Anti-cheating:  not cheating to win but cheating to lose

My Winning Short Story

The writing competition was run by the West Australian, the state paper.  The brief was to write about the WA summer and what it means to you - memories, adventures and outings, time spent with family and friends.  The best submissions were to be published as a series and the winner (me!!) would receive a MacBook Air laptop...

7am.  It feels like the sun has been up for hours, the birds sure have. There is still a touch of cool in the air, a memory from the night before.  But the inevitable summer heat lies just beyond the horizon, you can almost feel the anticipation of the scorcher ahead in the joggers and dog walkers, who are hurrying home.  Mum is madly doing some loads of washing and hanging it out while Dad waters the veggie patch and roses.  By the end of the day the towels will be as stiff as boards and the tomatoes will have roasted on the vines.

8.30am.  The house is chaos as we pack for the beach.  The boot is already full of balls and towels and umbrellas.  Mum is trying to squeeze an esky full of fruit and sandwiches in somewhere, and Dad keeps asking everyone where his glasses are (they’re on his head).  We all pile into the car, arms and legs everywhere.  We make it to the end of the street before returning home so the youngest can pee and Dad can grab his hat which he left on the kitchen table.

10am.  Despite living on the world’s biggest island with  thousands of kilometres of coastline, it seems the whole of Perth is crammed onto the same few metres of beach.  The water is the deepest of blues, the same colour as salvation.  The brilliant white sand is reflecting the sun’s intensity, and despite Mum’s best effort with the 40+, tomorrow we will all be as red as a cooked crayfish.  We weave a path through the forest of beach umbrellas and towels as we head back to the car.  The bitumen is so hot that if you stand too long in one spot, your thongs start to melt.

1pm.  We are holed up inside.  The door and windows are closed tight against the heat outside.  Even the blinds have been closed, and we lie on the tiles in our bathers in the semi-darkness.  It’s too hot to muck around and instead we get the old board games out – Monopoly, Game of Life, Guess Who.  The fans are whirring overhead, a constant white noise that we don’t yet realise we will miss when the weather finally cools.  It’s too hot to eat anything but watermelon and icecream, and Mum doesn’t even tell us off. 

4pm. Dad has fallen asleep on the couch in front of the TV.  When Mum tries to turn it off, he wakes and complains.  Everyone is restless and tired. We have been chasing the same two flies since lunchtime.  Despite our best efforts with the chopsticks, no one can replicate the Karate Kid’s efforts, but when Mum gets the fly spray out we all feel cheated.  Someone fills the old paddling pool with water, and when we sit in it, the water only comes halfway up our legs.

7pm.  The sun is slowly sinking, taking with it the intensity of the day. This is the edge of relief.  The whole neighbourhood smells like a BBQ as families emerge from their daytime hibernation, and there is life again in the streets.  We are waiting for the first chirp of the grasshopper that will signal the end of the day.  Dad is opening a beer, the kids throwing bits of ice.  Mum brings out huge bowls of potato salad and tinned beetroot, and we eat with renewed vigour, our plates in our laps.

9pm.  After dawdling in the shower (not too long – water restrictions!), our wet hair leaving a blessed cool patch on the back of our shortie pyjamas, we say our good nights.  The windows and doors have been thrown open to catch the night breezes.  It’s still too hot even for a sheet.  No one can sleep in anticipation of tomorrow.  But it’s not the heat we are waiting for this time.

Later that night.  The kids are finally asleep.  Mum and Dad pull the washing basket piled high with brightly wrapped packages out of its hiding place, and begin placing them underneath the tree.  Dad eats the four chocolate biscuits left for another man with a pot belly, while Mum just laughs at him and drinks the milk.  With the Christmas lights twinkling silently behind them, they join hands and head to bed.

My Name In Print... Sort Of

If you open today's West Australian newspaper to page 61 you will find the winning entry of the Summer Agenda Writing Competition. It tells of a day in the life of a typical family of West Aussies, their journey through the scorching heat of a Perth summer. 

I wrote it.  I wrote a story and entered a competition and I won. 

I have never won anything in my life, not even a raffle, so you can imagine my excitement when late yesterday afternoon I received a call from the West Australian Newspaper to let me know that I had won the writing competition and my story would be published today.  I was literally jumping up and down on the spot.  I was on the wooden floorboards at the time and it was echoing around the room.  The lady must have thought a train was thundering past.  She said the other reason she was calling was to see if Shannon was male or female.  Fair enough.

What didn't occur to me at the time was to make sure that my surname was recorded correctly.  It's a beautiful, long and unusual name, German by way of Burma.  Everyone mispronounces it and it's often spelled wrong.  I just didn't expect the state paper to get it wrong.

Last night felt like Christmas to me, except I was the only one who was expecting a gift the following morning.  I even drove to the local service station just in case the papers had arrived early. In my mind I had already framed my winning story and hung it on the wall of my new study.

So when I woke this morning all I could think about was rushing down to the service station to buy 10 copies of the paper.  My name in print. My name in print. Do the happy dance!

At 6.19am a congratulatory text message appeared from my Mum who was very proud. 

Four minutes later another text arrived from my Mum.  This one said "Unfortunately they left the 't' off your last name."

The first time my name is in print and it is spelled wrong.  A rather inauspicious start perhaps.

I could throw a tanty like the Blonde Bombshell.  I did consider it.  But perhaps it simply the cosmos giving me a really good story for when I am rich and famous.  There I will be, an interview with Parkinson or Oprah.  They ask me about the first piece of writing I ever did.  I will laugh graciously and tell a witty little anecdote about how they managed to spell my name wrong the first time it was in print. And they will chuckle and say that now I am so famous no one will ever spell my name wrong.  Or perhaps be so famous that just like them I will only need one name: Shannon.

Or perhaps I need to stop daydreaming and get back to work.

_____________________________________________________
PS I will put the story up on this blog in a few days

The One About The Bombshell Being Born [June 2007]

Dear everyone

For those of you who don’t have time to sit and read the ramblings of a sleep deprived but very proud new mother – here is the abridged version:

Our daughter, now known as the Blonde Bombshell, was born by emergency Caesar on  Wednesday 8.06am (5 days early).  Weight 8 pounds 1 ounce (3.655kg), height 50cm, light brown hair, dark gray eyes.  Perfect in every respect.

Here is what really happened (skip to the end if you don’t want the gory details):

I started maternity leave on Monday at 39 weeks.  On Tuesday I was feeling a little crampy but didn’t think too much of it, as the baby hadn’t engaged and was still situated somewhere in my left lung rather than anywhere near my pelvis.  I had morning tea with a friend, lunch with my sister, and an afternoon appointment with my obstetrician.  I told him that I had been having cramps and what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions since lunchtime. He didn’t seem overly concerned (ie  he didn’t do any sort of examination), and went ahead and booked an induction for 41 weeks assuring me ‘don’t worry, I am sure you won’t make it that far’.

The ‘Braxton Hicks’ continued, probably 3-4 times an hour when Mr Paycheck came home from work.  He was heading into the city for a hair cut and because I didn’t want to be alone I joined him.  So there I am, sitting on Maurice Meade’s nice white leather couch having 10 minutely contractions while the staff hovered around asking me if I wanted ‘a nice cup of tea or perhaps some towels’.  Before long, the owner of the salon asked Mr Shaggy ‘is that your wife [having a baby on our nice leather couch?]’ and when he said yes, the owner shoved the junior out of the way, finished the haircut himself and kicked us out.

So we came home and I pottered around filling my hospital suitcase, asked Mr Useful to put on my TENS machine and began timing the contractions.  They were about 6-7 minutely.  Naturally, my beloved went to bed.

By about 10.15pm I said I would call the hospital ‘just to see what they thought’.  Strangely enough they thought I should come in! On the labour ward at about 11.30pm someone finally came to do an internal exam.  I was 4cm dilated and fully effaced.  Mr NonBeliever was gobsmacked.  He admitted he thought I had been over-reacting. 

I had requested a natural, non-intervention, non-drug, non-anything labour.  So they left us to it for a few hours.  They came and monitored the bub every so often, but it was so relaxed it seemed to sleep through the contractions.  After 5 hours it was time for another internal.  We all expected I would be fully dilated and ready to go, but alas, things began to go pear-shaped as I had only progressed another centimetre or so.  They called the doctor who wanted to induce me, but I stubbornly  refused.  After two hours of 2 minutely contractions, the doctor came in and examined me.  Still no more progression.  They broke my waters and while things (ie. pain) kicked up a notch, nothing else happened, and after an hour I swallowed my pride and asked for an epidural.  The epidural didn’t work. 

It took them another hour to bring on any sort of effect but by this stage the doctor had decided that the baby was stuck and would not be able to be born naturally – he said I needed a Caesar, and soon.  The baby still hadn’t engaged, it was lying in the wrong position, its head was stuck, I hadn’t dilated past 5cm, and I had been in labour for over 12 hours. 

 The Caesar wasn’t any fun at all.   I had been strongly anti-caesar so I cried through most of it.  I remember being absolutely freezing and they had to cover me with blankets: tell me, why do they put the theatre table right under an air conditioning vent?  But with Mr Excited at my side (and about 30 people in the room all staring at in innards (and out-ards!!), at 8.06am they pulled out a little blue baby girl.  They placed her by my head for a quick kiss and took her away.  Mr Surgeon was able to cut the cord (we have photos!!) and he held her while they stitched me up.  The doctor was so proud of his handiwork he even called my beloved over for a look.  He saw my uterus – eugh!

In Recovery I was able to breast feed for the first time, although the epidural had gone all the way up to my chest and I couldn’t really feel much (big mistake), but my little girl seemed happy enough.  Then we were wheeled to our room, the baby in my arms, Mr Packhorse pulling along all of our dozen suitcases and bags (note to pregnant women: despite what baby magazines say, it is NOT necessary to bring a CD player and relaxation music to hospital).

The day after the birth I was out of bed, showered and walking around the room.  By the following day, all the tubes were out and I was free!  The baby was a bit jaundiced and liked to sleep.  A lot. I didn’t think that was so bad.

In all, I was in hospital for 6 days, arriving home last Tuesday (the day after I was due).  Mr SleepOnTheFloor was able to stay with us in the hospital as a boarder.  No one got any sleep.  But gee we were fed well!  Three course meals three times a day plus morning and afternoon tea!  Brilliant! 

Today is Saturday – Day 10.  I had to check my diary to see what day it was.  Apparently it’s June, but I wasn’t aware of that either.  I barely recognise myself these days.  Despite having the baby’s room all set up, we don’t use it.  We have moved everything into the family room, so it is now the kitchen, the bedroom (I have been sleeping – if that’s what you call it – on the couch), and the bathroom (for baby, not us).  I schlep around in my pink PJs, haven’t brushed my hair since last week, and spend most of my day interacting with one bodily fluid or another.  Our life is now all about ‘trucker burps’ (she has a whole repertoire of fascinating bodily noises), nappies, milk, little feet and hands, avoiding being peed on, spending money on even MORE baby things we hadn’t previously thought of, and trying to remember what life was like before, and telling ourselves that life will be normal again, at some point in the future.

She is truly beautiful, even when she is doing explosive poo on you and it lands on the floor.  She has an angelic face, even when she is doing farts that would make a bogan cringe.  She has the sweetest noises (even when she is squawking she sounds cute), and her little hands and feet make me cry every time I see them.  I spend hours just watching her.  Which is why I have only just made it to the computer. 

So that’s the story of the Bombshell, her first 10 days anyway.  Thanks again to everyone.  As I catch up on sleep and get into a routine I will begin checking my email more regularly.

With lots of love

Shannon, Hubby and the Bombshell  (oh, and the Bunny – we haven’t quite forgotten him.  Yet).