Coping

I must admit today I was a little taken aback today.

I was speaking to a woman about a genuine housing issue, which we agreed on and then she came out with:

"You know, every time I come and look through your window it looks really messy and you seem very chaotic. Are you coping?"

I felt instantly hot.

And a bit like my mum had caught me doing something I shouldn't have.

Then I felt cross.

Is it not bad manners to go deliberately looking though people's windows when it is otherwise avoided?

Was she actually trying to help or was she being a nosey bat? Previous experiences with her and other residents experiences with her very much point to the latter. However innocent until proved guilty. Maybe.

"Is your Health Visitor helping?"

I gabbled some things and bade a quick goodbye, shutting my front door and smarting. I didn't need to look: I knew my front room was a mess. I have always been messy and struggled to stay on top of tidying up. Recently has been extra hard, as I have just felt my bones so heavy with exhuastion that it makes me feel a little ill. I'm really not deliberately slovenly but maybe I could try a bit harder. The trouble is, in the daytime as soon as I put something away, Wriggles will empty an entire box, and at night, all I can do is collapse. The one time I did try to have a proper evening blitz, Mrs Downstairs complained about the noise. Am I just making excuses for what has got out of control?

Ultimately, I know that I will tidy it spick and span by hook or by crook, whether by putting Wriggles in a high sided box or by irritating Mrs Downstairs. I will because it really is a mess. At the moment, the Wriggles friendly bits are not too bad (excepting all toys she has strewn about and untides as i go tidying) but even I won't let it get to the state where it is hazardous for her. But 'my' bits, are a little shameful. So naturally I am here writing about it rather than tidying. I do care. Sort of. But also, quite a lot of me doesn't.

Am I coping? Yes, I would say I am. Coping. That is all. I wouldn't say I am doing much more because clearly, I have things to get on top of before I can rise to the next level of whatever comes after coping. I know that I am not not-coping because not-coping is horrendous. Not-coping means not even noticing mess or not caring about anything. Not-coping means barely being able to move. Not-coping means not speaking to anyone but Wriggles or barely leaving the house. Not-coping means panic attacks and horrible thoughts coming thick and fast. So I am coping. I am able to keep not-coping at bay and get through the day. There is a start, a middle and a finish. Not-coping eclipses all time. My coping might look like someone else's not-coping, but I know for me, that is enough. After a much better time recently, I know I have taken a bit of a stumble suddenly again. But I know also I will pick myself up sooner or later. And that is coping: knowing there is not just a tomorrow but a day after that too.

When people, other than very geuine people close to you who would help in an instant, ask the dreaded "are you coping?" question, I find it a little irritating. Mainly, because exactly what are they going to do if you say no, no I'm not?

Would they for instance, find me a partner?

Would they pay for a cleaner?

Would they give me an extra pair of hands?

Would they find me more hours in the day?

Would they be able to answer the eternal question, of why toddlers empty things?

Would they iron all my fears out straight?

Would they remove my scars of bad memories that don't go away?

Would they teach my daughter to eat?

Would they wave a magic wand?

Would they take some of my tasks off me so I had a little less?

Would they give me just half an hour to help?

No, they would not.

They would look a little bit uneasy, like my Health Visitor, and maybe pat my hand. And then they would go and think thank goodness it's not me.

So I'll just keep on coping until I'm better than just coping. And in the meantime, I might even finish the washing up.

The Good, the Bad and the Health Visitor

First up, excellent news that in a fortnight Wriggles has gained 220g! How this has happened, I have frankly no idea as she has been bypassing all feeds like nobodies business and is only interested in sucking Quavers which are not full of calories. However, I am not questioning this gain but merely proudly putting my little spot around the 2nd centile on the dreaded chart and am prepared to tell any paediatricians to bog off if they think otherwise.

Rather irritatingly, going to baby clinic for these frequent weigh-ins (not by choice but on orders of the hospital) means that I have to see the Health Visitors more often than I would otherwise. I am sure that out there, there are some marvellous health visitors, and although mine is not terrible, she is very good at winding me up. I know she is not trying to, and she has admitted she has little to no knowledge of prematurity or feeding disorders and doesn't really know how to help mothers who struggle with mental health, like PND or anxiety. But each time, her well-meaning but ignorant comments sting and I go home beginning to question again if I am good enough or if making it up as I go along just doesn't cut the mustard.

110

Wriggles has been up to her tricks again and in just over a month has lost 110g.

This is not the best news. She has dropped a centile for both actual and corrected age on the sacred growth chart and although she at least is still on the blasted graph, if she gets a little bit excited or hiccupy, you can see her ribs quite clearly, which I am not particularly enchanted about.

I honestly would not be one of those fretting mothers who anxiously plot each milestone, centimetre and milligramme if it wasn't for being under a handful of consultants and therapists (Wriggles, not me) but to a large extent, I have to do as they advise/say and they say she needs to be going in one direction: up.  The main two problems are a) chronic lung disease, due to extended ventilation and dependence on oxygen. Although she no longer requires help with breathing and can sufficiently oxygenate herself, she still works harder than the average child and thus it impacts on her growth. Apparently it can on energy levels too but no one has told Wriggles this, hence the nickname 'Wriggles'.