Adrenal Shock is not as fun as it sounds

Well that was fairly unexpected.

I had honestly figured that with the Infliximab/Remicade infusions I am now on that my remaining medications are no longer as effective or important.

Not so much!

I missed my morning dose of steroids. Totally skipped my mind as I walked out the door and went to the hospital and then work.

11am (+2 hours)

Feeling fine. A little tired, but I had just walked 7 miles (to the hospital and then to my office)

12noon (+3 hours)

Totally fine, feeling focused and very productive. The long walks in the morning really pull me out of my 'brain fog'.

1pm (+4 hours)

Mega productive. Brain firing on all cylinders. Also starving, even though I ate lunch. Started to obsess over teriyaki tofu.

2pm (+5 hours)

ate Teriyaki Tofu at desk in shame.

4pm (+7 hours)

I started to get a bit aggressive. Nothing was angering me, I was just irrationally angry. I knew this, but couldn't stop it. Trying to separate myself from 'people' I went to a quiet room to calm down, and passed out on a table for half an hour.

5:30pm (+8.5 hours)

I left work early, just couldn't take it any more. I couldn't focus and was dead tired - assuming it was from my walk earlier in the day.

This is when things really went downhill fast. I called Paul to tell him I was on my way home and we chatted, I felt fine. Until I realized, while talking to him, that I had walked 10 minutes in the wrong direction like I was on auto-pilot. It was one of those times when you think back and wonder how in the world you crossed the street safely as you clearly weren't paying attention to anything you were doing. None the less, I got on the tube and pulled out my book, ready to settle in for the next 45 minute ride.

And then I started to cry.

See, I did not have anything to be crying about. I wasn't in pain. My feelings were just fine. It was like sudden, random, overwhelming depression. And then debilitating nausea. This didn't make any sense. I put my book down and stuck my head between my knees while sitting on the train bench, gripping a nearby pole for support. I ironically looked up to see the TFL Public Service Announcement sign about getting off the tube if you are feeling ill.

Gripping my head in my hands I acutely felt every sway, every bump of the train as it hurtled through the underbelly of London, feeling intense relief when we rushed out of the tunnel and into open air at White City - I debated crawling off the tube to lay on the platform out in the sun - but instead texted Paul to 'please, for the love of God and all that is holy come and get me at the station, something is wrong'.

It is a good thing he did come to pick me up, as when he did I was looking and feeling something like this:

I didn't know if I was going to be sick or fall asleep. I was fighting off my sudden onset narcolepsy as I zombie-lurched home, ready for the sweet release of my couch and the potato pot to curl up with. It was awful. We ate dinner and I passed out at the table, chopsticks in hand. I was so weak that I could barely hold my chopsticks together, resorting to stabbing chunks of broccoli and laying my head down on the table to suck rice off my plate like a fish out of water. It was pathetic.

My family set me up on the couch with a heating pad, an ice pack, a dog to warm my freezing feet, the potato pot (just in case) and a blanket. I couldn't move. I was done. I was going downhill fast. Paul came over to check on me and my wrists were hot and flaring, as were my cheeks and shins. I was confused, talking to nobody and imagining conversations about Lego princess cat molting (to be fair, though, it is quite probable that the twins were actually talking about that). My right eye swelled shut and my face began to droop. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I refused - I didn't want to look like a hypochondriac. 

Things were getting worse and I slipped into a deep coma-like sleep on the couch, certain that I was just reacting to having a cold. Also thinking that maybe I was going to have my period soon? Or this could be a sinus infection? Or maybe I just over-did the walk earlier?

No, no. That wasn't it.

10:30pm (+13.5 hours)

Paul woke me up with a verbal bitch-slap - he was just looking at my med case for the week - I'd completely skipped my morning meds, I'd had no steroids for over 12 hours. 

"You muppet! You don't have the flu! You're in adrenal shock!"

Ohhhhhhhh. 

Well, I guess that made more sense. Another couple of hours and we would have needed an ambulance. I guess I'm more drug-dependent than I thought. 

It could always be worse though, it could have really been the flu.

Even My Bruises Have Bruises

Even My Bruises Have Bruises

Alright, at first I felt badly for poor Kaitie, given our last experience with these bikes where the poor kid went flying off into fences, bushes and trees like some sort of flying squirrel with delusions of grandeur. 

It was all a ruse!

This kid is a relentless dictator! A whip master! A raged-up sled driver - a tireless Viking drum master and a ruthless Catholic, harnessing the power of soul-crushing guilt to drive on her exhausted mother like a lathered horse ready to drop but eager to please.

It didn't help that the entire bike trip was an organisational failure of face-palm lore - given that we had invited Xiaona and Andy to come with us - and they brought Andy's dad along for the ride. Even though they only had two bikes. Alright, fair enough - I'm sure they will figure it out. 

We arrived at Blackforest Park and set up the bikes and bike trailers in the parking lot, the standard ooh's and aah's from passersby and a couple of people snapping photos. Andy and Xiaona unfolded their bicycles (yes, unfolded) and we were ready, walking out bikes through the parking lot and toward the bike trails. Kaitie was nervous, and more or less shouted at me the entire walk across the lot.

"Be careful this time mummy."

"Go slowly this time mummy."

"Don't make me get hurt this time mummy."

The guilt is strong in that one. I promised, over and over, that she would be just fine. She might even have fun. Maybe, just maybe, she might even like bike riding. Maybe. 

Have you ever had a three year old give you the side-eye? It's a bit disturbing, although nobody else saw it. 

We got to the busy cafe by the entrance of the park and Paul suggested that we all get on our bikes. I requested that we go a bit farther along so we'd have a bit less of an audience but they had already taken off - he and Lochie already off in the distance like smug, graceful swans. Again.

The crowd loved our bikes and watched Lochie and Paul pedaling away into the forest, then turning expectantly toward Kaitie and I - me looking determined and her looking dubious. 

As usual. 

We had a quick debate as to who should get on their bike first, which ended with me pretending to get on my bike while she got on slowly and yelled at me to get going but go slowly. I pleaded with her to lower her voice for the sake of the chuckling crowd - my pleas fell on deaf ears. She was on. I was kind of on, and almost ready to go. She became aggressive - "Go mummy!" she shouted, "But be careful this time!" - cue roars of laughter from the crowded cafe. "Hurry up mummy, we have to go get Daddy and Lochie!"

"I know, I know Kaitie! Okay, we're going to go now. Are you ready? One, Two..."

"Just go mummy! You're so slow!"

What the hell? I looked around to the laughter from the cafe. "Three?"

"JUST GO MUMMY!"

"Oh my God fine!" I yelled back as I stood up on the pedals and we shot forward to Kaitie's screams of "slow dowwwwwwwn mummy!" Roars of laughter behind us - I wasn't slowing down for anything, we needed to get the hell away from that cafe.

After a bit of initial screaming and shouting, Kaitie's sounds turned from terrified barks of "slow down" to squeals of glee and instructions to 'go faster'. Thrilled with the turnaround in her feelings toward bike riding and visions of our 'summer of camping and biking' making a triumphant comeback I obliged, whizzing her past trees and mud puddles, over streams and catching up to the group.

I even managed to take pictures with my phone without riding us both into a tree, so I was well impressed with my mad bike riding skills. We caught up to Paul and he reported that Kaitie was pedaling away behind me, having a great time and full of smiles. Until he tried to pass us - prompting the rage monkey behind me to screech in fury - she wanted to be the leader .Still feeling horribly guilty from our last bike riding debacle I obliged, pulling ahead to lead the pack through the forest. "Faster, faster!" she shouted - so pleased that she was having fun that I pushed harder and harder, despite the screaming protests from my legs and the fact that I had just had an infusion yesterday- pumping my heart this hard was probably not the best course of action.

Paul came up close, advising that I slow down and reminding me of my health - maybe we should take a break? 

"No breaks!" came the dictator from behind. "No stopping! Go mummy go!" I shot Paul an apologetic smile as we again pulled ahead, nearly running over a dog and plowing through a mud puddle. She was having fun - we had to keep going. I shouted back to see how everyone was doing - nobody needed a break so we just kept at it. 

My thighs were burning. Spasms shot through my bum cheeks as I pedaled away, so pleased that Kaitie was having a good time and that above all I was able to do this - taking it easy was for sissies. 

Kaitie laughed from behind, encouraging me to go faster and faster. We came to a hill and I tried to shift gears, but I'm not very good at that either. I also thought momentarily that perhaps I should have Paul do some work on my brakes as I plowed forward up the hill, legs screaming in protest. I shouted back for Kaitie to pedal harder, I needed all the help I could get. She shouted back, telling me that she was holding her brake.

What?!

She released the brake and we shot up the hill, me standing in my seat to leverage my pushes as much as I could. My legs hurt so badly - my lungs were tight and my right eye started to twitch. Maybe I should slow down after all...

"Go faster mummy!"

I pushed harder, determined to make it up the hill - I could hear the pants of the group behind me - I couldn't do it. I had to stop. Thankfully, Kaitie was distracted by some ducks and wanted to stop (whew!) so we pulled over to the side to let the group past. I needed a minute, and a moment of privacy to clear out my nose and throat in the most unladylike of fashions - "just keep going" I told them. But no, they all stopped. I had so much phlegm in my nose and mouth that I could barely speak, I needed to clear this out. I had no tissues with me. It was going to be gross and manly - I needed them to keep going.

But no. Andy and his father whipped out their professional grade cameras, taking pictures of us, and the surroundings. I was sick, they wall wanted me in the lead so they could keep an eye on me. Kaitie wanted to go. Despite my protests, without actually explaining to them what I needed to do they wouldn't leave. Nobody would leave. Off we went again, pushing as hard as I could to try to get a good lead so I could grossly clear my throat without anyone seeing but we were now going downhill -  I had minimal brakes and we were now really picking up speed. I risked a quick look behind me and saw that I had a little bit of distance between us and the rest of the group - it was now or never. 

I've never been able to spit. Given that it is a rather un-ladylike thing to do this inability has never much bothered me, but I was desperate and, as Paul had taught me, I built it up and spit it out away from me as discreetly as possible.

I had spit directly into the wind and to the side. I could see it fly out in slow motion, whipping out behind me and past my line of vision until I heard a scream from behind - Kaitie had something in her eye.

Oh God no.

I truly am the worst mother ever.

I've got my penance though - I woke up this morning with legs so sore I can barely move. Even my bruises have bruises.

I am an irritable sort of drug addict

I have come to develop an extreme appreciation for drug addiction. Like a stranger boldly and confidently standing up a midst a circle of cheap plastic chairs and bland coffee within a church basement declaring themselves a sex-addict or an alcoholic, I am a drug addict.

And my life couldn't be better for it.

My chemotherapy has now finished, after 13 rather grueling but rewarding months, and I have entered onto the maintenance stage of Infliximab infusions – now only every eight weeks. Coming up to the seventh week I was feeling alright, starting to sleep more and do less, while pain in my bones and joints again started to rear. My thoughts became again cloudy and unfocused. My dreams became again more vivid and by about the middle of the seventh week I was going downhill fast. At times I needed to lay down as it felt as though my heartbeat was shaking my body.

I just had to make it to Friday. 

See, having spent over a year coming regularly to these infusion clinics, as well as the medical drama I've been through over the past 3 years I have an extreme appreciation for the NHS and the people that make up this incredible system - and I get irrationally upset when people knock it, or are disrespectful to the nurses and doctors that take such great care of us. I was doing pretty good, people would often just soften with a bit of kindness and understanding, until I met...

The grumpy old Irish man

Sat directly across from me at my last infusion was the nastiest, rudest, grumpiest old man I'd yet ever encountered. Everything was wrong. He was so angry that he paced the halls with his cane, berating anyone that would listen. The nurses were idiots. The doctors were hiding from him. The bathroom light was too dim. He didn't see any justification for giving them a urine sample so he wasn't going to.

Even better was that his conspiracy theorist tinfoil hat was positioned firmly atop his head - he wouldn't give them a nose-swab because then they would have his DNA. He wasn't going to blindly follow their instructions 'like a brainless amoeba'. He wanted his infusion and he wanted it NOW - they didn't need to take bloods first, he felt fine.

The other patients in the room and I shared 'looks' and shot nurses quiet expressions of support and solidarity against his rants. He was like the elephant in the room - nobody really had the guts to say anything directly to him for fear he would turn his rantings our way, so we did our best to ignore him - hoping that at least he would soon fall asleep or something.

My infusion was hooked up and, after the pain I had been in all week gearing up for this, I was feeling particularly euphoric and grateful ( I had, like a drug addict, practically run to the infusion clinic slapping the vein in my arm shouting 'fill 'er up!'). I was ready. I was happy. I was tied to a chair across from a ranting old man. It was going to be a good day.

This euphoria, however, produced a boldness I don't normally possess. 

The grumpy old man started to berate two poor nurses, there to take more bloods from him. The lab had requested a second sample. He wasn't having it. He demanded to know why, what were the results of the first test, why would he have to give it again, why do they need to stick him again, this is inhuman treatment, on and on and on. With uncharacteristic boldness I shouted to him from across the way "Oh my god just give them your arm, it's not their fault and I'm trying to read over here!"

That shocked him into a rare moment of silence, the nurse seized the opportunity and stabbed, getting the blood she needed and hurried out of the room while he spluttered and stifled his rage at not having been able to produce a coherent response.

All was quiet for awhile, whereas the other patients snuck me hurried thumbs up and smiles of support while the grumpy old man wasn't looking. All was quiet, until a junior doctor came to do a final once-over of the grumpy old man before starting his infusion - and the infusion was running late. The junior doctor pulled the curtain closed around the grumpy old man and this irate pensioner let loose a barrage of abuse and bizarre arguments. He demanded to know what happened to the first blood test - the doctor didn't know there had been two. Oh dear God, that really set off the old man. Ranting about how computer systems should work, the doctor explained to him that the first sample had possibly resulted in an error (at which point he then listed off a number of common reasons for needing to take a second sample - the grumpy old man accused him of 'making up words'.)

The grumpy old man was refusing to be checked over until he 'knew the results of his first blood test' - that the doctor didn't have. Because the doctor was an idiot, apparently. The doctor explained that he couldn't start his infusion until this examination was done - and him having to chase a phantom, meaningless blood test was just going to delay this further - but the old man still wasn't having it.

It was around this time, at the goading of the other patients also tied to their chairs, that I more or less heckled an old man.

It started mildly enough - with me calling across the room and through the curtain:

"Sir, he's not making it up. Problems with blood tests do happen, and it's not anyone's fault. The blood probably did hemolyze, which is just random."

Okay, that wasn't so bad. Shocked silence from both the doctor and grumpy old man from across the curtain, as the old man considered the input and the doctor waited with baited breath for his response. 

"Well, okay. I guess that can happen." came from the old man. He wasn't letting it go, though. He wanted a report showing that this had happened. BEFORE the doctor was going to touch him. The doctor explained that he could get a nurse to do this for him, after the examination. The old man exploded again - that doctor was 'good for nothing' and he wasn't going to rely on 'some idiot nurse' to find that out. How could this doctor come to him so unprepared that this information wasn't in his file?

I got a bit bolder.

"Sir, it's not THIS doctor's job to chase your paperwork. He's just here to listen to your lungs and give your infusion the green light."

More silence from across the curtain. 

The grumpy old man then ranted about how long it was taking to just get his infusion started,the longer it took to start the longer he would be stuck in this hell-hole. The doctor was well annoyed now, telling the man that the only barrier to him starting the infusion was, in fact, him and this ridiculously circular conversation. If he could just check him over they could get started. The man ranted some more at the doctor being an 'unprepared idiot of incredible proportions'.

I got much more bold.

"Hey! Grumpy! Just let him check you over so he can leave and help someone else!"

More shocked silence. Then the grumpy old man said "Fine, let's just get this farce over with." and we assumed from the sounds and descriptions that the exam had started - though the grumpy old man wasn't going to let this be easy either. The doctor asked him to take deep breaths, and the old man shouted "How?!" The doctor explained again, just breathe deeply. "HOW?!" came from the old man - he was determined to be ornery. The doctor asked him to clarify, what did he mean by 'how'? The old man shouted "How do you want me to breathe? In through my nose? Out through my mouth? How do you want me to breathe deeply?" The doctor told him to breathe deeply any way he wanted, it didn't matter - to which the old man lost it ranting about how the doctor is completely useless and probably isn't even a real doctor.

Even the rest of the peanut gallery was ready to jump in there as I shouted:

"Oh my God! Just stop talking and breathe deeply! In and out, in and out! You've been doing it for years!"

Silence again from across the curtain, save the sound of deep, angry breaths. 

The examination was finished and the doctor declared him healthy enough to start the infusion. The old man exploded at him again, he could have told the doctor this, he didn't need blood tests and an exam to tell him that he felt fine.

"Dude! If any of us were 'fine' then none of us would be here!"

We heard the doctor finally break into a stifled chuckle as he pulled the curtain back around, freeing himself and revealing a very angry looking old man, white knuckling his cane like he wanted to hit the doctor. Or us. Before I could open my mouth to apologize for the heckling the until then silent patient next to me looked straight at the doctor, smiled and shouted 'RUN!"

The funniest part? Seeing that poor junior doctor take that cue and bolt out of there.

The old man glared at each of us in turn, a seething troll sat in his lounger, red in the face from unspent rage.

"Oh relax" said another patient a few seats down "we're all miserable. Stop making it worse."

All was again right with the world as I sat back to enjoy my book. And my wonderful, wonderful drugs.

An Unholy English Breakfast

Never, Ever Again

Oh man. There's nothing like breaking a bathroom and nearly soiling yourself in a church.

So after toddler Kung Fu (as you do) yesterday, we went to a nearby diner for Saturday brunch before the girls' ballet class - held at a local church. I had the 'sensible' vegetarian breakfast- scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns and a veggie burger patty while the girls had an omelette and pancakes, rather harmless. Paul had the 'meat feast' of veritable 'death on a plate' - eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes and some other kind of meat. His was so large and so over the top that he hung his head in shame as he handed the waitress back his plate with a full, untouched sausage still remaining explaining that although he tried, he just couldn't do it.

I looked at him, wide eyed with concern for both his stomach and his heart. He said he was fine, but suggested a brisk walk before ballet to burn some of it off, as we still had 45 minutes to kill. Fine - that sounded good and off we went.

We wandered down the high street and followed the signs to a local flea market on that day - only to find the saddest flea market of all time hidden in a run-down community center just off the high street parking lot. It was one of those moments where you realize how badly you don't want to be there the very moment you walk in.

An elderly man looked eagerly at us from his haggard table with a small box of change. It would cost us a pound to enter the market. It was too late to back out, that would have been rude - so we fished around in our pockets to produce a rare pound (who carries change around now?), paid the man and stepped inside. 

Inside was the saddest flea market of despair. A total of eight tables and we were the only customers. They looked at us with eager anticipation, proudly displaying their wares. We gathered the kids close and put on awkward smiles, shuffling in a nervous quad formation down the first 'aisle', politely feigning interest at homemade knitting (was that a pashmina with one sleeve or trousers for a war-vet?) and snarling at the girls not to touch anything. We passed a table full of toys not even our children wanted. 1/2 price puzzles with only 1/2 pieces. Children's cassette tapes of Christian nursery songs. Books with human bite-marks on the edges. We passed that table with wide smiles and forced 'ooh's' - as we moved on the woman looked ready to burst into tears. At the next table the man stood up to greet us - oh God no. The awkward level had reached an penultimate high. 

We continued around the flea market of despair when I was accosted by what seemed to be the market manager - an elderly woman looking for a chat. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Were we from around here? Did we live nearby? Did we like anything we saw? She then went on to tell me that the woman who sells honey and chocolate isn't here today, she usually draws in a pretty big crowd. We should definitely come again next week.

Definitely.

We finally escaped, cheeks sore from humored grinning and eyes wide from the awkward ordeal. Even the kids were speechless. Until we got outside and saw an old woman on a red mobility scooter, speeding down the parking lot toward the market with fierce determination. 

Oh, she was ready. We could hear her engine maxed out from the other end of the parking lot. neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Recovering from the flea-market fiasco, we took a short detour through the woodlands to circle back around to the high street, our car and the church hosting ballet class. I commented to Paul that my stomach wasn't feeling particularly well. The girls picked daisies and dandelions. I commented to Paul that I was having a bit of chest pain. He didn't seem overly concerned as I'm not generally the healthiest of people and my body tends to do random things just to make life interesting. We continued to walk as a charming family, hand in hand down the woodland.

My left arm started to ache and I felt an overwhelming need to use the washroom. I told Paul that we needed to hurry back to the Church as I had to use the bathroom. He picked up the pace a bit. I started to speed-walk, dragging the twins behind me as I clenched my bum cheeks, shouting back to Paul that we needed to move, I was about to have 'an incident'. He saw the desperation on my face and told me to leave the twins and run - they would meet me at the church. 

And so I did.

I couldn't run though, the bouncing pressure was making things worse. I had to maintain level pressure on my bowels so I speed walked with the grace of a drunk giraffe, keeping my hips steady but my legs flailing about in front of me like loose noodles trying to get myself there as quickly as possible whilst not working my tensed stomach muscles. A bout of debilitating pain stabbed me in the stomach and I doubled over, gripping a street sign for support. I had to keep going - I had to get to that bathroom. 

I'd by then broken out into a cold sweat, tears of pain and desperation pouring down my face as I lurched with extreme vigor around the corner and down the street. I could see the church. I was only minutes away. Another stab of pain and I nearly doubled over, forcing myself to keep walking. Oh God, it was happening now. There would be no stopping this freight train of horror bubbling within my lower intestine. Oh God no - I wasn't going to make it. I considered making a break for our car so I could squat down behind it in the bushes and die.

No. No. I could make it. It was just a little bit farther. I clenched harder, growing an inch in height as I speed-waddled like a penguin with my legs pressed together with blind desperation to get to the church bathroom. There was some kind of Caribbean congregation function going on inside - the lone crying white woman bursting in through the doors and shouting 'where's the bathroom!?' turned a lot of heads. They pointed me upstairs, my having brought their singing to a sudden halt. I couldn't do stairs in this state so i turned and ran back out the doors - determined to make it next door to the church hall where ballet was held instead.

Oh God, I wasn't going to make it. I considered the large rubbish bin in the corner of the courtyard as something to climb into and let loose. The community hall glass doors were in sight - I could see the disabled bathroom door from where I stood panicking. It was happening. I couldn't stop it. I made a final waddled rush of desperation, bursting through the doors and pushing a man out of the way to get to the washroom. I was so close... sweet, sweet relief was nearly upon me. My knees were pressed together and I was hyperventilating from the effort and stress. I slammed the door closed, turned the lock and the entire handle exploded in my hand - I was stood holding the remnants of the door handle in utter shock, I just couldn't deal with this. 

I threw the door handle bits on the floor with my backpack and made for the toilet, frantically pawing at the toilet dispenser and not quite believing that it could possibly be empty in a situation such as this, but it was. There was nothing to wipe down the seat of this disgusting public toilet - I had no choice. This was happening and it was happening now. In a final act of desperation I sat down, trying not to think of the hepatitis surely coating the toilet seat as I did. 

And so I sat there - sweating profusely from the mere effort of getting here, wondering what I was going to do about the lack of toilet paper and how I was going to get out of the bathroom now that I had essentially locked myself in - but resigning myself to just deal with it later. 

Until I heard the twins and Paul knocking on the door. They all needed to pee quite badly, could I please hurry?

Um... Mummy's going to need a minute.

Compared to what we ate at breakfast I have no idea how this happened to me instead of Paul. I just cannot comprehend my luck. English breakfast?

Never. Ever. Again.

Cable Zombies No More

Cable Zombies no more!

Television has hit such an incredible low in the United Kingdom that there is now a popular television show about people watching television shows. Cameras are placed throughout a family’s home and their reactions while watching television are recorded, for us to watch on television. I came across this one evening while ‘channel surfing’ like a slack-jawed cable monkey, staring blankly at the screen having completely lowered my expectations of what satisfactory entertainment might be. After watching other families on their couches stare at the screen like zombies I turned to look at my own family – also staring at the screen like zombies. 

Not a coherent thought running through their heads.

We would go to a friend’s home, nearly anyone’s home, for a visit or a meal and the television remained on the entire time, like there had to be a constant distraction or background noise. It was hard to pull away from that screen – even though we were there to enjoy each other’s company, not watch whatever was on the TV at the time. I would find myself talking to a friend, my head slowly and involuntarily turning toward the television. My eyes would dart toward the screen and then back to my friend as though trying to hide an insulting yawn. The conversation would become difficult to follow as there was too much pull toward the screen – fascinating and engaging conversation would quickly descend into guttural grunts of acknowledgement until all was silent, everyone staring at the screen without thought watching weird and useless shows about cake decorating with melodramatic family feuds.

When did this happen? And how was this okay?

Over the next few days I observed more. The shows that my three year olds were watching seemed alright – I like a bit of Scooby Doo and Spiderman myself. But the commercials? I feared they would give my kids epilepsy or perhaps ADHD. The commercials would suddenly come on louder, brighter, faster and in-your-face. My kids started asking me for sugar coated chocolate funball puffs at the supermarket, not because of the taste or superior nutritional value but because they liked the kangaroo on the box. Commercials would come on during chidlren’s shows about betting agencies, online bingo and personal injury lawyers. They wanted me to spend my hard earned money on cheap plastic toys that would be played with once and forgotten about. Then came the kicker – they wanted me to buy them a game where you take a wiener dog for a walk, squeeze its leash and it craps on your coffee table.

Girls, we have a 14 year old shih-tsu. Just show him the leash and he’ll get so excited he’ll crap all over our coffee table. Play with that instead.

That was it. We were cutting the cable.

I put my husband in charge of this, which I probably shouldn’t have. Where we should have saved a small fortune by cutting out cable we only saved a fraction as he’d instead been sold an upgrade on our internet speed.

Head-desk.

We kept Netflix, but now had no cable at all – and it has been this way since mid-February. It honestly has been a wonderful experience.

At first we emerged, blurry eyed and hapless, wandering about the house looking for things to do. In the evenings after dinner we would sit on the couch and just silently look at each other, unsure of what to do or say. We honestly didn’t know what to do with ourselves, and for the first week or so found ourselves all going to bed around 9:30pm, having found nothing else to do.

We wondered aloud at what might be on the news, what shows we were missing and what might be happening. But then we started to realize that we didn’t, and shouldn’t, care. Why would I waste hours of my life that I can never get back watching other people live their lives? Why would I waste my time watching the news when I had read it all online throughout the day previously? What could I instead do with the hours I would have dedicated to starting blankly at a television screen?

Well.

I finished writing my Masters Dissertation. I read many books and wrote one. I called friends and family on the phone. Learned to play the piano. I played board games with my husband, we made a puzzle. Sounds dull, but we drank wine together with the radio on, sat around the kitchen table with our puzzle – chatting and laughing. We connected. We read books with the kids. We played ponies. Organized things. Cleaned things. Baked things. Planned things. But most of all we talked, and not about TV shows.

All of us. We chatted about our days, our thoughts, our feelings, the news. We were no longer having our opinions and experiences fed to us through television, we were talking and our evenings became worthwhile, something to look forward to instead of just coming home to crash on the couch, turn on the TV and accept whatever was available.

We still have Netflix, but with this we actively choose what we want to watch, and when, together. We currently have one series that my husband and I watch together every couple of evenings and the kids have free reign of kids’ shows without epilepsy inducing commercials. I recently read a note that said:

Live your life so that you don’t need a vacation from it

And we have. I look forward to my evenings while coming home from work because it will be engaging. It will be stimulating and it will be productive. It will be intentional. My evenings are no longer an escape from life – it’s what I work so hard for.

We are slack-jawed cable zombies no more.

That was a totally normal family walk. Well, except for the part with the poop.

Every weekend on at least one day at around 7:30 am I wake up, turn over to my husband and say in my brightest, most cheerful voice: "where do you want to go for a country walk today?"

He's not divorced me yet, so I'm taking this as him being on board.

The hiking backpacks were packed. The kids were dressed and ready in their sneakers, the dog had his cute little coat on and I'd raided the kitchen for anything that could pass as a picnic lunch - a hastily made tofu chao mein. The coordinates were in the sat-nav and we were ready to go - to Cow Roast, England (yes, really) the starting village for our brisk 5 mile morning hike.

It started out fine, as it always does, with a lovely walk along the Grand Union Canal - walking past canal houseboats and along the charming green waters and locks. We'd been passed by a couple of cyclists and some smug runners, stepping patiently to the side and continuing on our way. A few minutes later the same smug runners came back toward us - on a circular route this seemed strange - maybe they had left something in their car .

We should have paid more attention.

In another ten minutes we came to a bend in the path, the thin strip of land between the waters of the canal and the thorn bushes on the other side had been flooded out - now a path of squelching mud and deep puddles dotted with bits of dry (ish) grass. Thus began the hop and dance among the mud and along the canal, understanding now why the runners had wisely turned back to smugly run along the motorway instead. 

There are only so many times you can say "it looks like it gets better around this bend" until you just give up hope, each pick up a child and slog straight through the puddles, stagnant muddy water submerging our white sneakers up past our socks. It didn't matter, our shoes were already well past the point of salvation and it surely had to get better at some point. It would just be better to continue on than to head back. And so we did.

We sludged through the 'path' of mud and water for another mile and a half, carrying the children and gripping tree branches for support where we could, the girls begging for a picnic break despite our assurances that a mud-hole was not an appropriate place to put down the picnic blanket. 

Having completely missed the turnoff for the route we were on we ended up in a random farmer's field with distant cows and some sort of prison tree planting work crew off in the distance, a perfect place for a picnic! We unpacked the blanket, ate our chao mein noodles and then sat back to enjoy the lovely view. 

"Mummy, I have to pee."

"Mummy me too."

We turned around, sat on the blanket, to look for a concealing bush when instead we found Kaitie, standing beside the picnic blanket (and the back of her father's head) completely naked from the bottom down. We hadn't realized how serious her need to pee was and both scrambled to get up from the blanket - dead leg! We both had dead leg! Pins and needles shot through my legs as I struggled to my knees, Paul having resorted to rolling around on the picnic blanket yowling and cheering me on. I was shaking with laughter and trying valiantly to get to my feet when Paul shouted "hurry! Her hips are wiggling!"

He was right, Kaitie's knees were crossed and the pee-dance had started, there was no turning back. I had to get to her before she wet her pants and shoes for the remaining duration of the hike -  and also before she got the blanket. Paul cheering me on from his own dead-leg struggles on the ground I lunged for Kaitie, scooping her up in my arms from behind and gripping her by the calves I pulled her up to my chest, barely able to stand and she peed - a powerful arc of yellow spraying out and into the field like a fire hose, barely turning her in time to miss the blanket and her sister. I was laughing hard from the pins and needles numbing my legs and from having barely missed Paul with the pee-cannon, my thighs shaking from the squat position I was in. Kaitie's stream sputtered to a finish and feeling immensely relieved I made to put her down when she shouted "no wait, I have to poop!"

Wait, what?!

"No Kaitie no! You can't poop in a field! Wait until we get back to the village! Or something! Paul! Help!" She wasn't having it, she said it was coming out right then. I couldn't do it, I was laughing so hard I was near to wetting my own pants. Paul had recovered and ran to the rescue, snatching Kaitie from my arms and holding her 'in position'. I was positively howling with laughter on the sidelines as Kaitie asked Paul if he had a bag - like for Huar Huar's poop. I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe as I guided Paul in teaching a girl 'how to poop in the woods (he was holding her far too close to the ground) when Lochie chimed in with "Mummy I'm going to pee my pants."

What is with these kids! Do they not feel the urge of bodily functions before it hits crisis point? Do they wait until the most inopportune moment to need us? 

I left Paul bent over in the field holding a straining three year old and yelling "this isn't funny!" as I wiped tears from my eyes and darted over to Lochlynn, ripping down her pants and gripping her by the back of her calves - I would at least keep this one away from the field and headed for the cliff overlooking the trail to the canal. Off she went with a powerful foamy spray - I had to lift her continuously higher to avoid the spray hitting her pants and shoes, bum high up in the air just as a large family passed by on a canal boat, looking up at the hills to see me holding a half naked toddler up like Baby Simba and shooting urine directly toward them, Paul yelling "it's a big one!" in the distance behind me. Shocked faces looked back up at me as I stared back at them, mouth agape and all words having escaped me.

Lochie finished and I ran her back over to the blanket, leaving her to deal with her own pants as I was now laughing so hard that my bladder had hit its own critical level. Paul's did too, as he left Kaitie mid-strain and ran for the bushes to relieve himself, me right behind him shouting "what is wrong with our family?" and him nearly peeing on our boundary-challenged dog. Everyone having relieved themselves Paul picked up Kaitie's poop in a wet-wipe, placed it inconspicuously in the bushes, wrapped the wet-wipe in a bag, just like one of huar-huar's, and put it in the backpack, as you do.

The four of us gathered back around the blanket and just kind of looked at each other, unsure of how a family hike and picnic had descended into urine-shooting chaos quite so quickly, but all now feeling full, relieved and ready to get on with our hike toward the prison gang up ahead.

And really, really hoping that they didn't see the whole thing.

Family Bikes and Flying Toddlers

So this year is the ‘year of the bikes with camping’. We’re ready for a cross-over of adventure. The only problem? Our kids are only three years old, and can barely ride their bikes. Too big for the old double bike trailer, too slow on training wheels. Something had to be done.

A bit of googling and the recommendation of a good friend and we had ordered trailer bars off the internet (what could go wrong?). Other than a bit of actual child endangerment, multiple injuries and near-divorce we’ve found that these things are actually pretty great. You simply hook your toddler’s bike up to your bike and tow them along. Perfectly safe and looks very cool. Actually, you look like a pretty awesome parent riding around with your kid gleefully riding along behind you – until you turn a corner along the gate of the busy playground and plow your toddler face-first right into the fence. Cue screaming child and every single person in the park turning to stare, judging you on the cool contraption that just nearly murdered your own child. 

I ran over to pick her up, brush her off and have a laugh with my screaming kiddo as falling isn’t that big of a deal (although I admit that being mashed into a fence on your bike by your oblivious mother is probably a little bit different) as my husband and other child turned back gracefully and came back with admonishments of ‘you need to turn wide, like you’re pulling a trailer.’ 

Thanks, tips.

Okay, brush it off. Walk it off. We’re good. I talked Kaitie into getting back onto her bike, though she looked dubious. I promised to go slowly and to stay away from fences. She climbed back on – at which point we then had to have a talk about keeping her hands off the brakes while we are moving. More promises from mum to go slowly and stay away from fences. 

Off we went, following my husband and Lochie until a sudden scream was heard from behind and a dragging sound. We looked back to see the toddler bike twisted onto the ground and Kaitie sticking out of a large bush a couple of feet away. Had she jumped? Flown? Leapt off like a deluded superhero? More well-intended comments from my husband of ‘turn wide’ (we were on a straight path) and ‘tell her not to use her brake’. I wasn’t sure that her touching the brake could to that but hey, what did I know?

I fished the poor kid out of the bush, lovingly picked brambles out of her hair and bribed her back onto her bike with promises of watching a Disney movie when we got home. She looked at the bike with great mistrust. She wanted more. We were in a crowded park and everyone had just seen my child fly off this contraption face first into inanimate objects twice now – I needed her to get back on the bike and show everyone what a good parent I was, I had very few bargaining chips here. I conceded, and whispered that if she got back on the bike and rode home she could have an ice-lolly while watching a Disney movie. She could even eat her ice-lolly on the new couch. 

That got her on, though she remained dubious. We did well, feeling a bit of success while riding along behind my husband and Lochie until we had to go through another gate and wham! Mashed toddler again! I was going slowly and carefully through the gate – as straight as possible. How in the world was this happening!? We just needed to get home – we were just a street or so away. No more bribery, I resorted to straight up threats and she got back on the devil-bike, I had convinced her that if she just gripped the handlebars and held on for dear life she would be just fine – and she was, all the way home.

This led me to assume that the problem wasn’t me, it was fences and gates. And also maybe bushes. Surely if we just went somewhere more open it would be fine. 

My husband wasn’t sure. He wanted to go back to the same nearby park the next day to do some more ‘test runs’, as maybe it was a problem with the bike or the bar. Nope, no way was I going back to the same park to publicly endanger and injure my child again. We would have to, at the very least, go somewhere nobody knew us. Another town, maybe? Something more open, without fences and gates? So we drove around for two hours on the nicest day of the year so far trying to find a wide open field with a bike path – which did not exist. We pulled over by a park bench to both google Middlesex Bike Trails on our phones for somewhere to try, oblivious to the two teenagers making out on the bench beside our car. The twins piped up from the back seat with a running commentary of what the teenagers were doing with and to each other until it became so awkward and bizarre that we quickly put the first link’s coordinates into the GPS and peeled away – my husband shouting “Awkward!” out the window to the now very explicit teens on the bench as we did.

We ended up in a lovely woodland full of bike trails and people out enjoying the spring day with their own bikes, dogs, buggies and scooters. They all stared and even some took pictures as we set up our matching tandem bike trailers – eager to see how these worked. 

I prayed there would be no fences.

A particularly wonderful thing about toddlers is their ability to completely forget the events of the day before – a great benefit at the moment as both excitedly climbed onto their bikes – ready for a ride. We were off and the crowd was impressed. Oohs and aahs were abundant as we rode out of the parking lot, down the path and into the woods… and into a tree.

What the hell was with this thing? And why weren’t Paul and Lochie having the same kind of trouble? This was supposed to be the ‘summer of biking and camping’ – how could it be going so horribly wrong already? There were Paul and Lochie cycling away like a couple of graceful swans, hair blowing in the wind and looking like they were in a commercial for family holidays and here was me, unwrapping Kaitie from a tree and brushing mud off her jeans. I stood the bikes back up, assuring passersby that we were fine and that Kaitie wasn’t really begging to go home, she’s a real kidder that one. I looked at the bar. It seemed fine. It was a bar, what could really go wrong as long as it was still straight? Her bike seemed a bit twisted but I just gave it a good pull and it straightened out alright. Now to get her back on…

This time wasn’t so bad, her helmet and vest had taken the brunt of the tree impact and she was ready to try again, given that I promised to go very, very slowly. And so I did, nearly so slow that it was difficult to keep the bike upright, but she was happy and seemed to finally be enjoying herself. I sped up, just a little, anxious to catch up to Paul and Lochie, as well as to get this bike ride properly underway. And so we went, passing impressed looking other cyclists and walking families until out of nowhere there was another screech from behind and a dragging sound – the bike was on the ground again behind me and Katie was lying on the ground, traumatized. I was starting to get really upset at this point. I was sick, and was finally feeling well enough to do something fun with the family and it was just turning into a spectacle of being a horrible, abusive mother. My face flushed with shame as I again ran back to collect my crying toddler, with Paul and Lochie gracefully turning back to ‘help’. He assured me that it wasn’t my fault, something was probably wrong with the bike. We tried switching kids but Lochie shook her head – no way was she getting on mum’s deathtrap bike. Kaitie had nearly perfected the tuck and roll maneuver – it would probably be best for her to just stick with it, but this time I would go in front so Paul could possibly see what the problem was. 

A bit more cuddles and assurances (straight up lies) and Kaitie was back on her bike and ready to go, slowly. Off we went, in a straight line very slowly. We came to a place where the path veered dangerously close to the river (of course!) and I told Kaitie to hang on tight as I slowly and carefully rode along the path until more screams were heard from behind – Paul yelling for me to stop and Kaitie yelling not so much for me but this time at me as she rolled along the path and toward the river, stopping just before going over the short bank, only to be accosted by an over-excited and soaking wet Labrador Retriever. I again leapt off the bike and ran to Kaitie’s aid, though she made it very clear that she wanted Daddy, not Mummy. Mummy was far too dangerous. 

Heartbroken I turned away to collect the bikes when Paul came to my side, assuring again that it wasn’t my fault – he could see that the bar was twisted. I exploded (steroids didn’t help the instant rage) and vented to the world that I knew it wasn’t my fault, I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong but poor Kaitie kept flying off that thing and getting hurt. I was feeling like the absolute worst mother in the world as what I had originally intended as a charming family bike adventure had become Kaitie’s experience as a crash test dummy. In public. 

We decided to remove the bars and let the girls ride back themselves, which they didn’t as they were now too terrified of their own bikes as well, given the scene that Lochie had just witnessed. We were about half way back to the car when Paul looked quizzically at Kaitie’s bike and the bar hitch on the front. He turned to me and said: “You know what? I think I know what the problem is. I think the hitch is on crooked, and I didn’t tighten it enough. No wonder it kept dumping her over.”

It wasn’t my fault after all.

It was his.