Mirena

I'm writing this blog about my experiences with the birth control product called Mirena.
It's a plastic IUD that needs to be inserted by a Doctor. Apparently it's more suitable to women who have had babies, which I assume has something to do with a stretchy cervix.
I had mine inserted at about the beginning of 2011. It hurt. I remember squeezing the nurses hand and feeling like I might cry, I was a bit shocked by the pain.
That was the worst of it though. From then on I didn't know it was there. My periods reduced to almost nothing, about 2 days spotting once a month. Amazing, considering since the age of 12 my periods have been violent and bloody 5 day affairs.
The only negative I noticed was sudden flushes of anger, which I can honestly say I had never felt before. I wasn't sure it was related to the Mirena, I actually thought it was more due to parenting 2 children and a severe lack of sleep. I have also gained about 15 kilo since it was inserted, but there are numerous factors that I can attribute this to, mainly my liking of wine and chocolate.
I had almost forgotten about it. They can stay in you for up to 5 years, but late last year my friend decided to have hers removed. We discussed the pro's and con's and for the first time I thought hard about what I had inside my body.
This is what happened. I had it removed by a GP, easy. 24 hours later I'm at the beginning of a monster period, that lasts for about 10 days. I'm surprised I don't pass out from blood loss. There are clots of it, gushes of it, several pairs of underwear thrown away.
I start to keep track, moods, bleeding, ovulating, chocolate binges. This was 6 months ago. I'm back to 4 weekly cycles (Before children I got my period every 4 weeks on a Thursday. It was like clockwork. I knew I was pregnant by about 3.30 on a Thursday before the lines on a test would have been able to tell me). I feel more in control of myself now I know what sort of hormone surges I'm experiencing - in case you're interested I'm particularly irritable during both ovulation and pre period days.
The shittest thing now is my periods. They are FULL ON. The last one lasted 8 days, with 5 days of heavy bleeding. I feel depleted, wounded and gross. In some part, I blame the Mirena. Was my uterus wall just storing up blood & lining all the time it was in me? Or is this my bodies response to not doing things naturally - panic bleeding?
I have searched online for other peoples experiences. It seems a lot of women feel a great deal better after the removal of their Mirena, but I'm not finding any follow up as to how their bodies are coping in the months after it is out. So this is my contribution. Bloody and seeking vengeance.

Sex Ed

Since my eldest child has turned 8 we have hit a new learning curve.
He asks questions about everything. He talks incessantly about footy. He stays up later, uses his manners particularly well.
He and I have watched the first four Harry Potter films and are reading the Philosophers Stone together at night. That is awesome.
Recently he announced at the dinner table that his friend Brad (not his real name) had been watching youtube on his Dad's computer and he saw a video of 2 girls licking a guys doodle (I'm quoting here). There was an awkward pause then Josh hurriedly got up to clear the table and I managed to squeak - Oh. Goodness. That's a bit gross. He agreed with me and no more was said (until later that night when I nearly wet my pants laughing).
So when he innocently asked me in the kitchen recently 'Mum - how do babies get in Mum's tummies?' - I thought, yep, let's do this.
I looked at him carefully and asked 'Are you sure you want to know?'
He replied 'Um...Yes....'
This is what I said
"So a man puts his penis inside the ladies vagina, some stuff called sperm comes out of the penis and meets up with a teeny tiny egg from the woman. Together that makes a little baby, that takes 9 months to grow & then comes out the Mums vagina as a lovely baby."
 I used to hate using the 'correct' terms for our 'rudeparts' but I must admit I'm growing quite fond of saying things to my children such as 'No vaginas without knickers at the table please' and 'No fiddling with penises in front of Mums thank you'. So much more effective than 'willy' or 'fanny' (yuck!).
He looks appalled.
I say "So what do you reckon?' and he says "That is the most disgusting thing ever."
I snort laugh but I am pretty pleased with myself - no awkwardness, just basic and accurate information retelling.
"you might change your mind about that one day" I say
"Yuck Mum! No Way!" he says
I can't help myself. "Well how do you reckon you were made then pal?"
He looks disgusted. Shakes his head and walks away. I wonder whether I should follow up with him, ask him if he has any questions.
5 minutes later he is back in the kitchen. 'I'm hungry' he says. 'Mum did you know West Coast Eagles won their first premiership in 1992?'
And we are all a little bit wiser, but still footy mad.

My Friend Dom

When I was at Uni, maybe 14 years ago, my friend Liza introduced me to a guy she had met at Uni House called Dom. He had been cooking his fish fingers in the shared kitchen and offered to share his long neck of VB with her for dinner.
It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship for our little crowd of ladies and this wonderful man called Dom. He had seriously good op shop style, mostly dressed up with thongs, he wore black rectangular glasses and his eyes twinkled when he looked at you. He was a skinny but very handsome man. Women fell in love with him, easily, but so did men and that was his thing. He loved all of us, but only bedded the men ;)

One night after too many wines and a serious heartbreak (mine) Dom and I slow danced, repeatedly, to Ben Harper 'Another Lonely Day'. He was so comforting, so kind. He made me feel valued, and beautiful. That's not easy to do! But he did it every time I was near him, just because of how he treated me and how he looked at me. Always with love and kindness.
Once we went to a 'Stretch and Strength' class together and toward the end we made eye contact. Bad idea. My nostrils were flaring, my shoulders shaking, tears pouring down my face as I try desperately not to burst out laughing. He had this wonderful cheekiness about him, that was so infectious.
My favourite Dom memory, is a written one, an email I had written to him lamenting my recent weight gain. His was a short reply, but perfect. 'Oh darls, me too - don't worry - I can't even find my penis at the moment'. Oh I loved him for those words.
Last week I was scrolling through Facebook and I saw that several people had posted on his wall. Time slowed down as I read message after message of condolence, RIP, Can't Believe It. Dom had died, suddenly, whilst out for dinner with friends. He was about 37.
The outpouring of grief on facebook has been remarkable. It turns out, unsurprisingly, that Dom was loved by everyone who knew him. There is so much love on his wall it is overwhelming.
I can't write on his wall to join in on the collective grief. Part of me wants to, I want to shout out - I LOVED HIM TOO! But I can't. Instead I wrote his family a card, telling them some funny stories of Dom & I and offering my condolences. It will never be enough. The world is a little less light without Dom in it. I can't bear to imagine how they must feel. But I'm sure they must be comforted in some ways, by all this love that their Dom created. I was so lucky to call him a friend. I will never forget him.

Ms Clare Remembers

I'm 13, it's a sunny Christmas morning and my Dad dies, exhausted and consumed by a cancer that was strong enough to steal this mans life, his future.
I try to forget him, to let him go. It's too much, too hard to remember the good times, so instead my teenage angst and terrible grief leave me with only the sickness, the sadness, the dead father. It hurts, mostly in my heart but often in my head.
But this isn't about losing him, it's about finding him again.
So years later I'm an adult and I'm staring at my now grown brother up brother across the dinner table.
He says - Can you not be so creepy?
I say - Sorry, it's just - do you know who you look like?
And he smiles and says - Well I have been told I resemble a fuller faced Eddie Vedder
And I say - What? No, oh, well, maybe, sort of....No, I mean, you look like Dad.
He looks a bit surprised, then smiles, proud, says - Well that's good.
And I can see that my Dad lives on, here in the face of his son.
Later that year my first child is born. The moment I meet him, I know him. I recognise him. He is of me and I am of him. For the first time in a long time, I feel my Dad, alive, in me, in my child.

Finally, my daughter. This little, amazing girl, who shrieks with joy when she sees her Dad, who welcomes him home each day by barreling into his legs and throwing her arms around him. So I remember what it is, for a girl to love her Dad. She looks at him like he is the best man alive, her strong, funny Dad. And he gathers her up, holds her close and loves her because, for him, she is the best little girl in the world. And I remember. That was me. How lucky I was to be so loved. How wonderful now, to bear witness to it all again.

How good it is, to remember.

(This was a spoken word piece I did last night at Wild Words, an open mike night for writers. It got a wonderful response from the crowd and I am still walking on air a day later! I felt very nervous to read it, for it's truth and it's emotion, but, I'll be honest, I totally nailed it ;))

C.A.M.P.I.N.G

We went camping over Easter. It was excellent, but it did get me thinking.

C - Stands for Crapping. I will not poo with my companions 10 metres away. No way. I will hold that   shit in.

A - Stands for Alcohol. 10.30am - anyone want a beer? Sure. Love one. Cheers.

M - Music. Don't. Not your doof doof, not fucking Redgum, please not Chisel. Just listen to the birds. Seriously. Just birds. Try it.

P - Park, as in Nature Park. Don't leave your fucking toilet paper around. It disgusts me. Burn that shit up. Or drip dry.

I - Itchy. Inebriated. Irritable. Me at about 3.30pm after having my first beer for breakfast.

N - Nap time. Camping is exhausting.

G - Get me home. I'm tired, I'm hot, I'm hungover and I really need to do a poo.

Can't wait to do it all again soon.

She Is Three

She is 3 and if she wants to blow bubbles in her drink, you better believe that's what she'll do.
If you try and prevent her, from achieving these bubbles, she will have her vengeance.
She is 3 and taking her to a pub, with your mother in law, for a relaxing drink....is foolish.
You can ask her politely to 'please stop blowing bubbles with your straw, darling.'
She will look you in the eyes and tell you - No.
You can remove the straw, which will ensure all other diners having a 'relaxing' drink at the pub are informed as to this travesty. You then give her the straw back, under strict instruction there is to be no more bubbles blown.
She starts blowing bubbles, again, louder this time.
'Darling - what did we just talk about? Aren't you going to drink like a Big Girl?'
No.
I like blowing bubbles.
'Nobody here likes it darling. Daddy doesn't, Granny doesn't, Mum really doesn't and I'd like you to stop or I will have to take your drink away.'
No.
I like to consider myself a person of considerable strength of will and it prides me that my daughter has inherited similar tendencies. So you understand, I had to take the drink away.
You will of course know, that this resulted, in some distress.
She cries. Repeatedly shouts, MY DRINK, MY DRINK. GIVE ME MY DRINK BACK. Repeatedly.
We grownups try to continue our relaxing drink. It's not really that relaxing. People are staring.
She climbs atop the table, screeching now, a desperate individual. Her Dad reaches out to get her from one side, I come in from the other and we have her arms....but not her legs.

Granny's glass of reisling gets kicked to the ground. It explodes on impact, soaking Grannys lovely shoes and scattering glass all around us. We are in a warzone and it is time to evacuate.
Eyes in front, screaming child over the shoulder, quick apology to staff member who currently despises me and my gorgeous family, back to the car.
She recovers, refuses to discuss the incident (never mind an apology) and Mum drinks a bottle of wine easily that evening. No problem.
I've never been loved more by anyone than this daughter of mine. Actually nobody has ever even liked me this this much. She is amazing. Just probably good to know for future reference that if she wants to blow bubbles, let her blow them. She is after all, only 3.

Wax off

Recently I paid a young Irish lady $55 to put burning hot wax on my vagina, then rip it off with some strips of linen.

I took 2 nurofen plus an hour before my appointmentt and was feeling pleasantly fuzzy as I lay back on her table.

Then she slathered boiling hot lava on my labia and the pleasant feeling vanished. 

She relentlessly applies the hot lava wax, then rips it off. Several times the wax hasn’t fully set and I’m terrified she’s about to tear a piece of my vulva off.

It hurts. Oh it hurts. I want to scream out but strangely I’m sort of embarrassed, like I deserve this pain for having such a hairy bush. 

I think the worst of it is over, after a terrible 15 minutes. I swear to myself NEVER again, then to my own surprise, when she asks in her pleasant Irish lilt if I would ‘like my bum done’ I say ‘yes please’.

Yes please? No, god, no. It’s too late. I have to lift my legs up and wrap my arms around them. My whole body is shuddering with the effort in keeping them raised.

Then she liberally applies more burning hot lava to and around my asshole and I’m clenching my fists and making strange gasping sounds, and it’s entirely possible she thinks I may be about to come.

I’m not.

All finished doll, she tells me kindly, pointing out the lotion and some hygiene wipes for my use. I smile weakly and as she leaves the room I look at myself in the mirror and wonder why did I just let this happen?

I pay my $55 and limp out of there, go to the toilet and my wee sprays out in 16 different directions. So far, this is not so great.

After a few days the red dots subside and I look less like I have some contagious disease. I feel lighter and fresher. It’s quite pleasant. But dammit my hairless vagina, sorry vulva, looks so vulnerable. Not like a proud and strong woman at all, more like a timid child. I decide the next $55 I have lying around will be spent on a full body massage or possibly a nice bottle of gin and I will never, I repeat NEVER, undergo such an outrageous procedure again.
The End.