It’s been a while…

So, it’s been a while. No, I haven’t disappeared off the face of the Earth. Just been a bit busy. Which is probably, in actual fact, the best time to write. Something to actually tell you. But it didn’t work out. Was just too tied up. The truth is, life is always hectic here. There are four children. What else is to be expected? But the last few weeks have been extra special. Firstly, we had three visitors over from Scotland. My parents and the daughter of my very best friend. An adorable girl, who I’d have happily adopted. However, I had to permit her return to her own mother eventually. Although, I did manage to hold onto her for an extra week with the aid of the Volcanic Ash Crisis. A nod and a wink to you Eyjafjallajökull.

On top of that we had a good go at record-breaking. On the second week of, and essentially what should have been the final week of their stay, we went to the doctors a total of five times, plus twice to the hospital.

The second visit to the hospital really took its toll. We were there for over nine hours. Mainly in the waiting room. Our actual time being attended to amounted to around forty minutes. We were finally allowed to leave, and on our return journey home, I swore to my hubby that this time, this is it.

The following week I didn’t go to the doctor at all.

I am a rebel.

The hospital even called to see why I hadn’t made a follow-up appointment. I wanted to say I’d rather rip off my own head, but politely I informed them that all is well, and what on earth is the point when all is well? Honestly, are they touting for business now?

Mind you, they probably have our children on some kind of at risk register by now. I informed our GP on one of our more recent visits, that my son had been up during the night again. This time making himself something to eat. This worries me in case he starts to cook. He has made fried eggs unattended before. A shock to me. Being awoken in the morning by a smiling face, armed with cooked breakfast. Luckily we hadn’t all been crisped in our beds. When you have a son who hasn’t control over his impulses, it’s scary to know he’s up in the middle of the night ‘doing things’.

Before we went into the surgery, I informed Aden, that I had to talk to the doctor about his issues. I expressed that I had no intention of badmouthing him. On the contrary, I would only be honest and that no-one is annoyed with him. Just concerned for his and everyone else’s safety. He needs his medication again. He needs help. We need help. It’s the only way forward. I told him that the best thing to do is to stay quiet. No need to feel defensive. No one is attacking him.

I explained the worry of the situation to the doctor.  I cannot, of course, be expected to watch him 24 hours a day. Then Aden blurted out, that, the only reason he arose in the middle of the night was because he didn’t have any dinner. Gobsmacked I just sat there. Staring. Failing to tell the doctor that he’d had a three-course-lunch at the Sushi lounge. Of adult proportions. Comprising of chicken skewers with salad and hot rice (in a delicious sauce),  followed by sushi. And that he couldn’t eat much of the three types of ice cream dessert, with fresh fruit, biscuits and cream. That Kashi and I had been lumbered.

Then, that very day, after an afternoon out, he’d  demolished a whole pizza for his ‘dinner’.

Mouth open I sat there. Un-defending. I think a slight utterance of “Aden” may have gasped out of my mouth.

No doubt written in permanent marker somewhere next to my name lies the inscription: “This woman does not feed her child”.

The whole situation, of course, is not helped by the fact that he’s the skinniest boy in Germany and I nowadays look like I actually swallowed a child.

So, I managed to stay away from the docs until… today. Ten whole days. Definitely a  record. At least in our family. We’ve had no electrocutions. No rashes, strange or otherwise. No projectile vomit. No halved fingers.  No scratched cornea – through pencil sharpening or fingernails. No splinters under fingernails requiring  surgical removal. No drinking of undelicious liquids. No dares that caused issues to health and no unusual viruses. We have been free.

Until now.

This time I’m here. Yes, it’s me. I’ve been feeling a little unwell since last week. And not from the heady excitement of my possible leisure activities. I think I have been bitten. At least that’s what I thought. Then I thought I’d had a reaction to the bite, so I thinned my skin a little with some steroid cream. But it’s got worse. Lots of little blisters. All trying to swallow themselves up in one another to become one considerable beast. I would have gone to the chemist. But unfortunately, the positioning is rather delicate and I didn’t really intend to reveal myself in the middle of his shop.

The receptionist has dignified me with a female doctor. Few and far between in our practice. So I’ve accepted my appointment and I’m waiting for her.


She called in another male doctor. So he also got a good look.


Again. And in my battle to seek other gainful activities, I have not only lost, but I am also informed: I am too late for the tablets!

Continue reading It’s been a while…


Grey, grey, silver, grey….

My parents have returned to visit and a couple of days ago we took a train expedition together with all of the kids. Which reminded me of an embarrassing moment.

Around five years ago we took the same train journey. As it’s around a three-hour round trip, and as several kids were present, a huge picnic served as an asset. But once all the food was all eaten, we were forced to turn our attention to playing games. Inevitably leading to the well-used favourite, I Spy.

It started off well. I spy something black… That handbag… Yes… Good… Something brown? Mummy’s shoes? Yes. Good! Well done!

Then Joni had another turn.

Something grey? Nana’s trousers? No… The metal part on the chair? No… The bit on the window frame? No… Really, we have two colours here grey and silver, as in this game both are classed as the same. The buckle on the bag? No… The buckle on my belt? No… No, I don’t give up! Mmm…. I know, is it that screw over there? No… We search through and ask on. Could she be colour blind? Are you sure it’s grey? Yes… She’s looking pleased with herself. You’re never gonna get it!!! Mmm… Is it the tiny grey specks on the wall? NO!!! Ok, Ok, we all agree, you’ve beat us. We give up. What is it?

Loud and proud, with pointed finger: ” That woman’s grey moustache!!!”

Waiting time

I’m in the hospital waiting room writing this blog, which is where I seem to spend half of my life these days. In fact, I would argue that I spend more of my life in the company of doctors than I do with my own husband. No, actually, that’s not true. Because, in all honesty, most of my time is spent in waiting rooms. With complete strangers.

So here we are once again sitting and waiting. Waiting and sitting. It has been known for this situation to occur six times in one week. As a constant, I find myself waiting minimally once a week, either at the hospital or at the doctors.

It’s not that we’re a really sick family or something. We’ve had our problems, don’t get me wrong. And I certainly wouldn’t describe us as the fittest family in the world. Additionally, there are a lot of us. But at times I have to say, I feel ridiculous. And sometimes I’m just plain annoyed. But my general feeling is one of despair. I mean, it’s not how you want your life to be, is it? Just sitting there. Waiting. In a room full of strangers. No one communicating with one another. The odd courteous “Good morning” is of course uttered and the odd pleasant “Goodbye”. But essentially we all sit there in silence, thinking our own thoughts. Which in my case is generally, “Get me the bloody hell out of here!”.

Today, in an attempt to spend quality time with my family, I’ve brought my husband along. Well, actually, he also has an appointment. At the dentist. Every time I think of the dentist, (after my initial panic attack and then realisation I’m not the one with the appointment), I calmly remember Lori, and her brief encounter with a desire to be a dentist. It had always been a burning question in me (every time I had to go to the dentist, actually). What kind of person decides to be a dentist? For sure some kind of sadist! At this point, I should actually say that our dentist is really nice, especially when I don’t have to see her. Then my own little daughter comes to me and tells me of her new career choice. Wide eyed: I could finally ask the desired question. Why? She answered without a moment’s hesitation: “Well, I wouldn’t have to study as much as another type of doctor and I could pull peoples teeth out!” I’m a little intimidated by my daughter.

My husband, whose consultation was an hour after Aden’s, has subsequently been through his whole appointment. Including a forty minute round trip, as well as being drilled, and is now back with us for our ‘date’. We are of course still waiting. We have, seen two doctors actually, and are now waiting to see the professor. Should we be nervous? Flattered? Intrigued? I’m none of these. We met him last week and I thought he was an idiot.

At this point I should probably divulge that Aden had an infection, with a very high temperature, some weeks ago. Following that, he apparently started to bleed underneath the skin. One evening he came into the lounge and after no actual injury, had several strange bruises and swellings around his feet and lower legs. The follow-up then being a strange ‘rash’. However, due to the fact that these swellings and bleeds took a new form on a daily basis, he ended up in hospital for a week. They were testing him for a million different causes including TB and heart malfunctions. Since his stay in hospital, he’s attended outpatients at least once a week. He had visited the GP at times as frequently as every second day. Then, we met ‘the professor’ who exclaimed, “Eczema”…The junior doctor looked baffled. She was left, though, with no choice, due to his high standing, but to write-up eczema as a diagnosis. She informed me repeatedly, that on my return to the children’s ward, I should tell the pediatrician to call her. I did so. Our pediatrician phoned and expressed her annoyance at the diagnosis. I too was annoyed, as even I, with my minimal medical knowledge knew that that’s not eczema.

This time, however it’s different. The idiot is overruled.

We’ve been moved now. To a ‘waiting corridor’. Strange new experience for me. All the doctors squeeze between us and the stairs directly in front of us. At one point a doctor stops to talk to another patient causing a traffic jam. Continuing her conversation, a second doctor almost becomes a contortionist, forcing herself through, the tiny gap. I am curious. Why are we sitting here?

We’re taken by a nurse into a small cubicle. Aden has to put disposable slippers on. We wait for a little while and then the nurse returns and tells us we are not to talk. She says everyone can hear us. I have no idea why that’s a problem and feel a little agitated. We wait as quietly as possible.

We’re taken into a room. There’s a seat at the front and rows curved around in a semi-circle. Like an amphitheater. Aden is to take centre stage. Our doctor comes forward and I’m given a seat in the first row. There must be at least fifteen white-coated doctors in the room. I’m baffled. Our doctor describes Aden’s previous symptoms and diagnosis’ (omitting the eczema). We’re asked questions. All the doctors circle Aden, pressing a piece of glass randomly against his skin. He looks quite nervous. We’re removed as they discuss his case.

We have a short wait in the main waiting area. Then things start to happen. Apparently, the most inquisitive doctor was the ‘big cheese’. Her influence initiates photos to be taken, more blood tests and the junior doctor finally gaining permission to have a sample operated out of his foot. The request which had been denied last week due to the ill-conceived eczema diagnosis.

Busy, but pleased, the junior doctor contacts the children’s ward. Authority now given to her requests of steroids and further antibiotics. We’re shipped over to the ward on the other side of town.

We wait in a new waiting room. In the meantime my husband has relinquished his date and headed off to the other children, picking up and dropping off. He returns now and we see our pediatrician, who has news for us. Her professor has decided against the expertise of the panel, and, without seeing Aden has alloted a prescription of exactly nothing. No medicine. No more appointments. Just like that.

Gobsmacked. We leave the ward. Six hours after our initial entrance at the dermatology department. Above average time for us. But not a record.

I inform Reini: I am not taking the children to any hospitals anymore. Furthermore, I am going to learn to be a doctor online. He responds evenly, that that won’t be the case in the next few days, when something happens to one of the kids. That I’ll cart them off to the hospital. Quick as a flash. I reluctantly agree…

After all, as I recently informed my mother, (who constantly tells me that you worry about your kids even when they’re adults): A child is for life and not just for Christmas…

Dinner for Six

Is it just me or is the general attitude of staff one of dread when we enter a restaurant of reasonable standard, with our four kids at the end of our arms? Being a foodie, and an optimist, I embark with a spring in my step. Smiling. Fully intent on relishing the meal ahead.
The waitress greets us with a half-smile-half-scowl and leads us to our awkward table tucked away nicely in the corner.
I try to sit quietly. Open the menu inconspicuously. Kashi starts. Pointing randomly at the menu, “I want that one!”, she shrieks.
Sniggers from the table in the corner. “Beer. I don’t think so.” Mistake.
“Beer! I want beer!”, a new addition to her vocabulary.
Gentle “Shhh’s” follow and Aden approaches. Testing the ground for cola based drinks. As if we’d forgotten last time:

In our attempt at being kind, supportive parents, we not only took him to his mini marathon but also gave him cola as an encouragement to ‘keep going’ the full course. Problem being, he kept going. Even two hours after the race had ended. All around the shops. Right through the town. Weaving in and out. Up and down. Bouncing more enthusiastically than the Easter Bunny.
He’s brought down to a grape juice, after attempting to sneak a cola mix from the waitress. Telling her in menu code. But we spot his cheekiness. Do our research. Stop him in his tracks. Empowered.

We turn our attentions to Lori. She is still sitting with tears in her eyes. Distressed that shark soup is openly available on the menu. Unaware of our up-and-coming discussion about joining Greenpeace, we greet her brightly.
We have no problem with her becoming vegetarian at this very moment. We do laugh a little. She doesn’t like any vegetables. She’ll eat them anyway, even if she doesn’t like any of them. Remember this moment, I say to myself.
What’s that? “Why don’t we pray for chickens?”

The restaurant busies. There are even some childless people at tables near to us now.

“You’re welcome to pray for chickens…”

“Not all sharks are on the verge of extinction. Tuna…?”

“Greenpeace? Oh… ask your father…”

“I need to go to the toilet.” It’s the third time and the waitress has only just brought the drinks. It requires meandering through the whole restaurant. Three year old and attendee. And the craze catches on. One after the other taking little trips. Then returning. And topping themselves up with little sips.

“So you’re sure you want the beef noodle dish? You wouldn’t like the kid’s meal? It’s really quite a lot of food. Maybe the beef is too chewy for you. What about the chicken? Would you like to try a mix of different little starters? You could share them with your sister. No, I shouldn’t choose, you’re the one who has to eat it. You want the beef? Even though it’s chewy? It’s really a lot, you’re sure you can eat it all? You’re really hungry? Ok.”

“You want vegetable soup? But it contains vegetables. You’ll eat it even if you don’t like it? Ok.”


“No, no beer. “

“Sit properly on the chair.”

“You can’t possibly need to go on the toilet again!”

” No, not all sharks are on the verge of extinction. No, I don’t know which ones are not. No, I’d have to look that up.”

“Can you please sit properly? Get your shoes off the chair.”

” Just take your shoes off. That way you won’t damage the chair.”

“Did she actually manage to pee again?”

“You could have put her shoes back on. No wonder she has cold feet. Taking her to the toilet like that.”

“Can’t you just use your pull-up?”

Shortly before the arrival of her food, Lori contemplates her new-found vegetarianism. She will try to “keep it up” for as long as possible, but doesn’t know how long that will be really, as she loves the taste of meat.


Aden’s beef noodles arrive. Of course he doesn’t like them. Too chewy. He tries to ingratiate himself with Joni. Eye on her chicken. She’s possessive over her meal. But only at first. By the end she’s keen on his assistance.
Lori finishes her soup, with no single complaint. Even the wobbly mushroom.
I have a chicken dish. Delicious. Beautifully presented in a basket made from dough. The dough is the only thing Kashi really likes. Though she’s sampled her way through. Mostly with an “Urr” or a “Yuck”, followed by removal of the despised article and disposal in some unlucky corner. I try to be on the ball and clear up as she goes along. More dough is requested and as it’s dry, I carefully place a few strands on her skirt. Her plate is full of undesirables. And to be honest, I’m just pleased that she’s eating something.

She chooses to enlighten me,”Mama, my skirt is all dirty now and it’s all your own fault.”

But Lori has the last word. Tired and cuddly, she snuggles up to me like a cat. I go in for head to head contact, lapping up my daughters affections and stroking her soft hair. “Mum, let’s just hope that neither of us has head lice.”

Dear Husband, an answer…..

Ecstatic, this morning about my new-found ability to unleash the wave of thoughts slamming around in my head. My husband, pragmatic as ever informs me I should have a topic. As most blogs he knows are centred around a particular theme. I have to admit to not having any particular subject in mind. Moreover a forum, to allow my emotions and creativity to run wild, to help me find humour in my existence, and to fulfil me with a sense of purpose.
I confess at this point, after my initial excitement, I am quite nervous. Unlike writing in my diary, people may actually choose to read this. A little scary. Opening my heart to such scrutiny.
But where there’s a will, there’s also a way.

Dinosaur or not….

Ok so now I really feel like a dinosaur. What am I to do here? Am I even typing in the correct box? Perhaps I should feel proud that I’m able to type anything at all, considering how confused I feel at the moment. I guess I should look for some kind of tutorial. There seem to be so many things to click on!
Apart from confused, I feel kind of excited. Contact with the outside world. Therapy. A focus. Hello world!

Quest for humour in my existence

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