Dragons' Nest

As my mind and body fall away into sleep or drift into wakefulness, my movements are slow. I am blurred about the edges. I claw my way, sloth-like from one state to the next. DK, on the other hand, flops about abruptly like a catfish in air.

Early yesterday morning, I awoke to sudden searing pain as DK's foot slammed down on my breast. I gasped and threw off the offending limb as we both found sleep again, but it was enough to make me think that the time had come once more to attempt to establish a few ground rules for the instruction of visitors to my sacred nesting place.

Here's what I have so far:-

Rules for Guests to my Bed

• This is a queen-sized bed and I am the Queen. Please note that it is not queen+princess-sized. Although the King may be permitted a royal visit from time to time, there are limits to the treatment I will endure from interlopers.


• Warning: If you sleep with your head on one side of the bed, while your body does some kind of weird contortion under the blankets and lies on the other, you may be sat or knelt on. That's not a threat; I'm just telling it like it is.


• Warning: The next time I feel your foot against the side of my face, I will eat it. And yes, that one is a threat.


• If you choose to impose upon my generous nature and join me in my bed, you are to be accompanied by no more than one plush guinea pig. Please note that live guinea pigs suffer a complete and outright ban after numerous episodes of guinea pig urination followed by equally numerous episodes of unsuccessful stain removal.


• In addition to the plush guinea pig, you may bring with you up to a maximum of two, and only two, plush dragons. That is simply not negotiable, but perhaps you can bring four if Jake and Algernon are feeling lonely and want to be with Ivor and Ruby; five, of course, if you include Cassie, but she's so small, she hardly counts. Five is the absolute limit, although, I would allow six if Emerald wanted to curl up quietly on the end of the bed. That would be okay, but no more than six. That is my final word on the subject, although...



• Earlier in the year, I bought you a beautiful new, extra warm, micro-fibre doona for your bed. I haven't been able to afford a lovely micro-fibre doona for my bed. I chose your comfort over my own, thus we now huddle under a mountain of thin blankets in my bed, while that micro-fibre doona, in its Harry Potter doona cover, decorates your little bed. That's not actually a rule, I just wanted to point that out.


• Finally, my pillow is only big enough for one head (mine in case you were wondering). It may look like there's enough room for your head, but that space is reserved for my imaginary crown. Also, for a beautiful, precious and pure child of the universe, you really do have some seriously stinky morning breath and I don't want to start my day inhaling that.

A sharp glance sideways...

The fire in my eyes will lead me home. Wherever that is. The universe is smiling upon me - or at the very least ignoring me. I am afraid to make a fuss. I am afraid to engage too heartily with the world around me lest it suck me in and hold me there. I am afraid of putting myself in a place from which I am unable to extract myself.

Self-reliance has proved my final crutch. It has sustained me where the family, friends and lovers of my life have failed. Quite sensibly, I have little wish to compromise it.

Besides, I don't like people as a rule. They are difficult and unkind. They dismiss with a sharp glance sideways.

Speaking of Anxiety...

I started out on this journey carrying a crushing burden on my back. Is it really any wonder I fell down? Now it is the minutiae of my day that is the miracle. Others can see no reason to be proud of the ability to make a phone call or ask a question in a shop without self-consciousness or to write a crazy-ass blog for that matter. Others can see no reason to be proud of so mundane a life.

"So what do you do?"

"I survive and thrive and nurture and create. I love and I am loved. I am a boon to the universe."

I'll say that one day, in five, ten or fifteen years, although I may be drunk when I do.

"So what do you do?"

"I am a boon to the universe."

"Ah, fascinating. That's a nice little niche you've found yourself there."

"Oh yes, indeed. The hours are long and the money's not great, but at the end of a long day, there's nothing better than to lay back with a self-satisfied smile and feel oneself supported by countless shining stars and planets."

"Nice work if you can get it."

"Mmmm. What is it you do again? It seems to have slipped my mind entirely. Never mind, I think I need another glass of wine."

I have a petty little soul, but I chip away at it when I can.

Happy comment day to you...

In the merry merry land of tinsenpup, receiving a comment is such an occasion that I decided to base a blog post on it. In truth, I may have based a blog post on it because I have a tendency to ramble on beyond the limits of a comment box, but let's forge on regardless.

Deb, San Diego Momma, asked the tough, but fair, question, 'Can you please tell me how to "defer parental anxiety"?' after I mentioned in another post that I'd done it. That's an excellent question, Deb. To be honest I don't think I've really cracked it yet, as evidenced by the fact that I wrote a blog post explaining why I was anxious and then tried to assert that I wasn't. Clearly I am attempting to delude myself and all of you and for that, I am truly sorry, but I did not have sexual relations with that woman.

I am dangerously unqualified to give parenting advice to anybody, except maybe that woman from DK's old playgroup who used to bounce tennis balls off her two-year-old's head for fun. I will, however, list a few of the things I've tried in order to counter the constant, cloying grip of anxiety that began shortly after DK's conception.

1. Pretend you have no children (hard drugs, alcohol or a blow to the head may help). This is, perhaps, not very practical or responsible. Instead:
2. Close your eyes and think really hard about sparkly fairies, unicorns and rainbows. Then:
3. Stand in front of the mirror each morning and say, 'I am a GREAT parent.' It won't reduce anxiety or, in fact, make you a great parent, but if your children watch often enough, they might start to believe it. They might also start to believe that you are mentally unstable. Which brings us to:
4. Sit in the foetal position and rock backwards and forwards muttering to yourself. You wouldn't think so, but this is strangely comforting. Finally:
5. Concentrate on the positives. In my case, I would remind myself that DK must be developing quite exceptional hand eye co-ordination playing Zelda. As musing pointed out, she is also improving her reading skills and extending her vocabulary while pursuing something she loves and is interested in, which is, of course, the absolute best way to learn. Navigating her way around Hyrule Kingdom has taught her to read a map better than I can and on top of all that, she seems to be indulging a healthy love of animals.

Interestingly, much of her Zelda play at present seems to involve collecting stray cats. She keeps some of them in an empty house, while others follow her about, mewing. She bathes them by picking each of them up in turn and jumping into a pool, chanting, 'Have a wash, Kitty, have a wash'.

She has, apparently, finished the 'cat hunt minigame', but just likes playing with the kitties. That's nice, isn't it? So let's focus on that and ignore the fact that she also likes to go through the game wantonly smashing furniture and windows and that she may well be shaping up to be the crazy cat lady of the Zelda world.

So there you go. After eight years of constant anxiety, that's all I've got. Let me know if you come up with anything better. Surely it shouldn't be too hard?

I Believe...

Suspension of disbelief is a marvellous thing. For instance, in spite of a complete absence of evidence, it allows you to believe that I'm a real person rather than a mutant guinea pig whose sole purpose for being is to write self-indulgent blog posts about her piggy little butt. Or is it the other way around? Never mind. That's beside the point.

Seven-year-old, DK, has finally decided that she shares my childhood love for the works of Beatrix Potter who wrote and illustrated a series of very British little books about animals and apparently bore a striking resemblance to Renée Zellweger. Her books feature naturalistic, but highly anthropomorphised renderings of her animal protagonists and therefore rely heavily on the reader's ability to suspend disbelief. I am, it seems, entirely comfortable with Mrs. Tiggywinkle, the hedgehog, wearing an apron and doing laundry. It is something of a stretch to see her cheerfully ironing and starching away without complaint or any evidence of payment, but I'm there anyway; loyal to Potter all the way.

But sometimes something happens that stretches one's ability to suspend disbelief until it snaps like a desiccated rubber band and generally, it's not the rabbit in the little blue coat that causes this fatal schism, but something much more subtle.

Several years ago, I watched a movie called The Mummy. Although I was a bit of an Egyptology geek at the time, I was perfectly comfortable with the vengeful mummy; the killer sand; the swarming, flesh-eating scarabs; the immortality curse; Brendan Fraser doing drama. It was all fine. It was, after all, just a bit of fun - it wasn't supposed to be Citizen Kane. I was suspending all over the place; a paragon of belief.

Until the film introduced an element that I simply could not abide. The thing that snapped the rubber band for me was the fact that the Egyptian Book of the Dead was depicted as an ancient, but neatly bound and modern-style book, rather than as a papyrus scroll or wall painting. For me, it was the vaguely historical foundations that underlay the fantastical elements of the movie that gave it just enough credibility for me to suspend disbelief. It was a case of the mundane lending weight to the ridiculous. When it showed disrespect for those foundations, The Mummy earned my contempt for all time.

Which brings us back to Beatrix Potter. Beatrix, Beatrix, Beatrix, this time you've gone a step beyond a step too far. Take a close look at this picture:


Now ask yourself what that owl is using to hold the plate and spoon? His foot is on the chair. His wing is folded at his side. Oh well, I guess it must be his hands. Yes, you heard me, his HANDS!

Really, I'm 100% fine with the owl sitting at his table eating wild honey with a spoon, but it is a clear breach of our unspoken contract with Ms. Potter for her to be giving the owl little owl-hands as if our belief has given her a mandate to redesign the critters of the world instead of just having them wear little blue coats and do laundry.

Is it just me or does this seem a little obsessive?

We have a longstanding rule in the tinsenpup household. Actually, we have several, including:

• No tattoos until you are nine and a half
• No leaving home...ever... and
• No drinking maple syrup from the bottle - always use a cup

Our big rule, however, states that there shall be no recreational screen time until after 4pm. 4pm is about the time my brain begins to melt and run out through my ears, so this rule works out well for everyone.

Nevertheless, such is the force of DK's passion for the various console games that constitute her primary hobby, that it is still an occasional source of tension. Lately, large chunks of days spent at home have been filled with longing, complete with jubilant countdown, for that magical time when the real fun can begin. A realisation that 4pm has arrived or is eminent while we are out can result in tears and accusations.

She has also developed coping strategies to get her through the long gameless day. One of them involves toting this hefty tome about with her.

Isn't it great to see children reading?...Yes, that's right...Well done to the games geek playing 'World of Warcraft' in the back row. That would, indeed, be the collector's edition of the 'Official Game Guide' to 'The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess'.

I have seen this level of engagement in her before, so I am deferring parental anxiety as much as possible for now. If anything, I have to admire her passion. Hopefully life will return to a healthy balance once more when the electronic sheen wears off her most recent slew of extravagant gifts from good ol' Uncle Wes.

In the meantime, she is quite pleased with herself, having found a loophole that will allow her to use her beloved Wii whenever she likes.

A Visitor's Guide to the Borough

Today I would like to take you on a tour of my suburb. I hesitate to name it, with libel laws being what they are, but some of you may recognise it. Let's call it the Borough.

For the purposes of your visit, the Borough is best thought of as a third world suburb or 'developing suburb', as they are euphemistically known. I'm not exactly sure what the Borough is developing. Endemic obesity, high crime rates and universal child neglect would be possibilities had they not all been achieved some time ago. The Borough may perhaps be more aptly described as a 'devolving' suburb.

Either way, don't drink the water, at least not at my place where rusty pipes have rendered it an unappetising shade of urine. Some visitors to the Borough's sunny shores choose to risk tap water. If you join them, don't expect to make it through the airport metal detector on departure, although peeing shotgun pellets can be an asset in the Borough

If you require medical attention (even if only for an ass cyst), call for a medivac. I have only seen a Borough doctor once and that was because I had gastro and didn't think I'd be able to make it further without 'incident'. Cultural differences between the Borough and the civilised world might explain why the doctor didn't feel the need to actually share his diagnosis with me, the patient; tried to inject me with something without telling me what it was (cyanide? truth serum? air?) and seemed to think that the best way to listen to my heart was by placing the diaphragm of the stethoscope quite precisely on top of my left nipple. Hmmm, you wouldn't think that that (admittedly small) lump of flesh would aid in the conduction of sound from heart to stethoscope, would you? Still, what do we know? The Borough doctors have got it covered.

The Borough restaurants are a multi-cultural melting pot of the world's cuisines. Or at least that part of the world that brought us chicken nuggets and the Happy Meal.

If you park your car on the street, it will be vandalised. Like me, you will be forced to drive about with something incomprehensible spray-painted on the side of your car in Borough-ese until you find a solvent strong enough to get it off. Thankfully, it transpires that the most effective solvent is Borough tap water.

The Tinsen-mobile

Finally, please note that Borough parks have been established as refuges for local junkies, dealers, deviants and skateboarders, in spite of the fact that none of these is rare or endangered in any way. Do not be misled by the vandalised playground equipment. It is not there for the benefit of your children. The playhouse, for instance, is an exclusive club for underage drinkers; not so exclusive, however that they will not offer your four-year-old a cigarette should she drop in.

Parents of early readers should particularly avoid the magic tunnel in all its graffitied glory. Allowing your child to run the gauntlet of the tunnel is a worthwhile experience only if you foresee for them a career composing epic rhyming poetry about trucks and punts.

Thank you for joining us today. Please watch your step as you jostle for the exit. Refreshments are being served in the foyer and no, that's not a jug of apple juice beside the chicken nuggets.

Spot the tap water

My Imaginary Butt Cancer

I told this story to my sister the other day. She thought it amusing enough to share with her husband who in turn thought it amusing enough to make a running gag of it when they next visited. The story's not really that funny, but given that the sanctity of my butt has already been violated (yeah, I know how that sounds), I figured I might as well share (or over share) with the world.

Besides, bottoms really do carry an intrinsic humour (for some of us at least). Admittedly, my seven-year-old rolls her eyes at my bottom jokes. Perhaps I too will outgrow them one day. We can only hope...

A few months ago, with a mounting list of minor ailments and neglected health checks in tow, I dragged myself along to the doctor, simultaneously howling in protest while delivering a stern internal lecture on the importance of self-care.

The event that finally forced the visit had been the discovery of a hard tumour-like lump at the top of my butt-crack. When I first noticed it, I thought it was a pimple or a puss-filled ingrown hair (mmm...puss), but months later, when it was still there and, if anything, bigger, I began to entertain the notion that it might represent something more serious. I'm not fatalistic as a rule, but having practiced more than my share of self-destructive behaviour in the past, it seems only fair and logical that eventually, it should come back and bite me in the ass, so to speak.

My grandmother died horribly from bowel cancer when I was only a little older than DK, so I understand, better than most, the gravity of fatal affairs of the ass. Having said that, there was a perverse part of me that was delighted by the idea of my inevitable health crisis being a squamous cell carcinoma of the ass crack. I usually try to pretend that I don't know that perverse part, but it seldom works.

So I trooped along to the doctor with a written list of complaints, the exploration of which mostly involved cold, cold metal being inserted into various orifices. By the time we finally got to the ass cancer, the idea of flashing my butt really didn't seem that much of a big deal. The doctor poked about down there with a heavily latexed finger for a minute or two, then said, "Yes, it's quite big, isn't it?" I'm not entirely sure what she was referring to, but let's just say it was the tumour-like lump. "Mmmm", I agreed casually, although until that moment, I had thought it was quite small.

She finished her prodding, flicked her gloves into the biohazard bin and as I re-adjusted my clothing, explained rather anti-climactically that what I had there was a something-or-other cyst. Since it probably wasn't going to prove fatal, I didn't see the point in actually remembering the diagnosis.

She said something about the cyst forming around a hair and explained that they tend to arise in places where friction might be an issue. She used hand gestures to explain this and then indicated that my butt crack might be a place that sees a fair bit of friction, not to mention hair. I was too relieved to bother taking offense. "Yes, yes," I agreed enthusiastically, "friction and hair. Yes..."

The cyst might go away, it might stay or it might get infected and have to be surgically removed. And of course, until the other day, I hadn't told the story, because, well, a hairy ass cyst is just embarrassing, as opposed to butt cancer, which would have the definite makings of a funny story. Yes, sometimes even I wonder about myself.

You didn't seriously think I'd consider (for more than 10 or 15 minutes) posting a photo of my bare ass on the Internet, did you? Here's an unrelated photo of some plump, ripe, firm, barely blemished (but slightly hairy) fruit instead.

The Secret of my Success

Remember when a successful outcome to sex involved you and your partner lying spread-eagled, naked and inter-twined on the bed, unable to meet each others' eye? Well I do, but those days seem behind us. My body clock is officially driving the bus now. That panting, puffing and pleasure is all well and good, but right now, it's all about the money-shot.

On the recent occasion of our first concerted, co-ordinated attempt at procreation, my strong, silent type says, "I love you so much." He speaks so little, that typically, the words he does part with resonate within me and carry an intrinsic weight that allows them to sustain or admonish me through quieter times. This night, however, my mind silences the usually automatic response. Instead, I think, "Yeah, yeah, just get your pants off." Where has this come from? I bury my shock under genuine physical longing, for in this moment, for whatever reason, this is all that matters.

In truth, I don't think he would mind my callous longing. He is the man of action, after all. It is me who reveres words. I think he speaks my language for a moment as a concession, because he knows that I am about to speak his.

So was our love-making successful? I really don't know. I'll be forced into agnosticism on this for a week yet. I wait with hope that is becoming dangerously like faith. There is reading of the signs and an interpreting of portents. I feel I am at the mercy of random and ambiguous physical machinations.

I don't get this invested in anything; anything but the precious child I hold already in my hand; the dear girl that so very nearly got away. Surely had she never existed, there would have been an unexplainable hole left by her absence. Yet here I am, yearning desperately for the, as yet imaginary, one in the bush (excuse the pun) and invested far beyond what I can afford to lose.

I feel a need that I cannot fully justify rationally. I believe that all things considered, I am an excellent parent, but even to me this seems like folly. There are, however, only so many conflicting emotions I can sustain within this mind. Ultimately, I know that this is not the right time as surely as I know that there will never be a better one.

DK's first portrait - 4 weeks post bliss

Viable embryo - Threatened miscarriage - Beloved child