Send 5c stamps! Urgent!

I read this article tonight and am still in shock.  Cost of postage stamps to rise.

Sixty cents.  Oh help me.  On 28 June, we will pay a crazy 5 more cents for postage on a standard letter.  It's no major assault on the purse, it's just that I will now need to add crazy little 5 cent stamps to all my current 55 cent stamps in order not to embarrass myself.

And I am still recovering from the last postage increase from 50 cents to 55 cents.  (When was that? A few weeks ago?  Seems like it.)  The first I knew of the previous postage increase was when my good friend Hippomanic Jen was bemoaning the fact that postage had gone up and she hadn't known about it!  I was even more behind the times than she was - her post was the only alert I received regarding the increase.

It bothered me at the time because I had just bought about a hundred 50 cent stamps.  I had to go and buy a LOT of crazy 5 cent stamps to make up the extra postage.

I have now finally used up all my 50c + 5c stamps, but in the intervening time I made the following surprise findings in a desk-drawer-cleanout:

   (1) Quite Ancient "Regular" stamps at the very outdated price of 45 cents.  These have until recently required two 5 cent stamps to make up postage on a standard letter, and from 28 June will require three 5 cent stamps.  (Forget higher denominations of stamp - who wants leftover 5c, 10c, and 20c stamps?  In this house, we go with the 5s.)

   (2) Not-quite-so-old "Christmas" stamps at the discount price of 45 cents.   These require similar 5-cent treatment: 

   (3)  Quite Ancient "Christmas" stamps at the extremely outdated and discounted price of 40 cents, currently requiring three 5 cent stamps, and from 28 June will require four crazy 5 cent stamps.

Now I hear of another postal increase.

It's not the increase that's bothering me, for what's 60 cents?  It's the fact that I seem to be perpetually swimming in a sea of under-priced stamps and a depressingly unequal number of crazy little 5 cent stamps floating around trying to make everything alright again.

Sigh.  I am tempted to save my 40 and 45 cent stamps for a little longer.  The way things are going here, postage will soon be 80 cents, then 90 cents.

The other option is to request emergency supplies of 5 cent stamps.  Lots of them.

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Acknowledgments:

Artwork for 60c stamp from here.

Artwork for 55c stamp from here.

Artwork for 50c stamp from here.

Artwork for 45c stamp from here.

Artwork for 40c stamp from here.

Artwork for 5c stamp from some forgotten dark corner over there.

Writer's Workshop: the loudest aspect of increasing your family size

I'm jumping in with a Writer's Workshop post this week.  Finally I've got some inspiration! 

Prompt number 2: Relay an entertaining conversation ... you recently had with someone.

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Two was a great number of children to have.  We loved the days with us and Nat and Anna-Lucia.  This does not mean that we wanted to stop at two children however; it turned out that loving those days made us yearn for Baby Number Three.

There's a bit to consider when you're adding to your brood.  We'd thought it through a lot and decided that Baby Number Three would certainly be very much loved and would change our dynamic in many good ways. 

Sure the idea of three children when I was just coping with two got me thinking about how I would manage.  But whenever anyone said to me, "Wow - three kids!  You're brave!" (because people DO say that!) I always replied with a big grin and a breezy, "Yeah, I'm gonna need a LOT of prayer!"

So I was tossing this idea around with my good friend, Hippomanic Jen.

"You see Jen, having three children will take us from 'just manageable' to 'crazy raucous loud'.  I can just imagine days when people see me with my three kids and think, 'Wow, what a riot.  I'm not sure I want to invite them over to our house anymore."

Jen replied, "Oh no, I think three would be a lovely number of children for you."  And then she went on to say some lovely things about my children which made me blush with pride.  They also made me hope she never pops in during arsenic hour when all three of them are crying and demanding my attention.

I told her about an idea I'd had.  "Sometimes I wonder if I should have a little supper with you and all my other good friends before we try for Number Three.  You know - discuss things, and then pray about it.  And when that's done, we'd feel really secure and peaceful and confident to go ahead and try for another baby."

"That's a lovely idea," she replied.  "Although, as we all left your house after the prayer evening, we'd know what you'd be doing ..." she continued with a wicked giggle.

I laughed and vaguely agreed, then I continued on my original train of thought without much warning to Jen.

"I mean, of course I know that we would be all loud and raucous, and as I said, nobody will want to have us over to dinner anymore... Jen?  What?  WHAT?"

I've rarely seen her so paralytic with laughter.

Dear God, I'm Sorry

"The thing is," I said to Hippomanic Jen as she sat in the passenger seat of my car, both of us unready to get out because we were so deep in conversation, "the thing IS ..."

She sat and waited, listening. She's good at that.

My voice dropped to a whisper. "The thing actually is - how am I not going to resent this baby?" Tears poured down my face.

"I mean, " I hurried on, "I know the placenta previa is not the baby's fault, and it's not my fault, and it's not my husband's fault, but ... it's just been so hard.

"I guess my main gripe is with God. Of course I know all the cliches: that He's in it with me and He is keeping us safe and He thinks I'm strong enough to get through this, blah blah, blah. But really?" My voice dropped to a whisper. "Really, if I'm honest, my main question is this. Wouldn't a deity worth his salt have been on duty the night the egg implanted down low? Where was He? On a coffee break? I've read Psalm 121 - 'He who watches over you will not slumber' yeah, I get it. But seriously. He's got his work cut out for Him with the risk to the baby and to me and with me going off the deep end all the time ... if He'd just fixed the Egg Implantation Problem first up, it would be a lot less work all round, especially for Him."

Hippomanic Jen thought, considered her words and took a breath. She started to say something very wise and comforting, but didn't get a chance as my tirade continued.

"I know, I know, He's not in the business of making life cushy for Himself, He's in the business of taking us through times when we can grow and change, yada yada yada. Well, I just don't feel up to it right now. I grew and changed through the bed bugs and the tests to diagnose the high blood pressure and the burglary and the move - oh the jolly move from there to here while pregnant for heaven's sake. Now I've grown and changed enough for a few years. I'm done with it."

Poor Jen sat and thought. I'd run out of complaints, so I allowed her to speak. She did indeed have some very deep and helpful things to say, and I let her. She is the absolute best person to have beside you in a crisis.

Over the next few weeks, I learned more about the peril that Joseph and I were in. I'd been thoroughly frightened by the upsoming caesarean, the probability of bleeding, and the possibility of complications including the slight possibilty that we would lose our capacity to choose whether to have another child or not.

It was stupid. It was childish. It was just about a little girl running blindly from something frightening that she had no control over, and giving herself every freedom to fall apart as much as she needed to. Many emails were sent back and forwards to friends like Jen at 'Buried With Children', who, interestingly, eagerly anticipated and embraced her two caesareans with such joy that I just had to talk about it with her. There were many other friends who sent emails and chatted with me at length.

I needed to do that. It meant that for the final week before Joseph was born, I ceased to be upset and anxious. I actually looked forward to his birth, I even started calling it 'birth', a step I was unwilling to take earlier.

The night before Joseph was born, Mr de Elba and I went out for dinner. Nat and Anna-Lucia were at Grandma's house. We were relaxed and excited. We were ready for this very different birth.

On the morning, we woke up with the alarm clock and kissed in the darkness. We got ready and drove to the hospital, amazed at how different this situation was to Anna-Lucia's birth two years ago. Although I'd bemoaned the necessity for a planned caesarean, claiming it gave too much time to get worried, the planned nature of the thing meant the morning was relaxed, and everyone took their time. Nobody was stressed: not us, not the doctors, not the nurses, not the hospital staff.

The birth was an amazing experience - not one I'd voluntarily go through again, but one that I'd never have experienced at all but for the praevia. At the end, the obstetrician said that there was another complication with the placenta - it was inserted a funny way - and I made a mental note to follow that up and learn more.

It wasn't until just before we left for home that I asked a midwife to find out from my file what this other complication was.

It was a velamentous insertion of the placenta. I did some ressearch while I was waiting for my family to come and pick us up. I only looked at medical sites - I gave the forums and non-professional sites a miss.

What I read shocked me. The blood vessels supplying Joseph all these long months were not in a good position and in addition, they were unprotected and in danger of rupturing. As I learned, "these unprotected vessels may rupture at any time during pregnancy, causing fetal exsanguination and death."

After reading that, I looked at Joseph's little body. So pink, so warm, so alive. And so deeply, wildly LOVED.

Tears pricked my eyes, so I took a box of tissues and went into the bathroom. I cried. I cried hard. I cried long. I cried for every single day he was growing inside me and the blood vessels to my precious son didn't rupture. I cried for every single moment that God was watching over him, protecting him and growing him, 'neither slumbering nor sleeping' on His job. I cried for every time I'd questioned God's wisdom in the care He gave over this pregnancy. I cried for all the women and babies and fathers and siblings whose lives are affected by similar obstetric problems, but who live in countries and conditions where such medical care cannot be given in order to save the lives of mothers like me and babies like Joseph. I cried and I cried and I cried.

I cried as I thought back to that day a few short weeks ago as I sat in the car with Hippomanic Jen, asking "How am I not going to resent this baby?"

And as I looked once again into Joseph's tiny, perfect face, I wondered how I was not going to spoil this baby rotten.

I still don't know why these problems should occur in the first place, but given that they do, I am overwhelmed by the knowledge that God was protecting us every step of the way, whether I was raging against Him and His judgment, or not.

Dear God, I'm Sorry.

Happy Birthday Hip-Jen!

For yesterday, 27 March,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

to my very good friend, Hippomanic Jen!

She befriended me in college, kept in touch after that, continued being a great friend, and then she helped me clean out under the deck after that ghastly bed-bug scandal. She then spent a whole day with me getting my house ready for Open Homes recently. This gal is great.

I would like to post a photo of my very good friend here. I have a lovely one of her and her Beloved, who like his wife, is the salt of the earth. He is very lovely bloke all round.

However I notice that Hippomanic Jen's Beloved's image hasn't made it into her own blog yet. This makes me think that perhaps he (or she) doesn't want it to go international yet. I will therefore approach the publication of his image with sensitivity, discretion and Photoshop. And as you know, my Photoshop Skillz are rough as guts.

So here is my lovely friend with her Beloved who bears a resemblance to the handsome Nicolas Cage:

Happy Birthday, my dear friend. I hope you had a lovely day! I'll see more of you soon!

Kum Ba Ya and Twigs in your Bed

I'm not really into camping.

Sorry, I pronounced that wrong. I meant to pronounce it, "I hate camping."

Mr de Elba would love it if I liked camping, but I don't. In a few weeks he and five friends are going on a canoeing-camping weekend, and I am glad because perhaps this means I won't have to endure the experience myself any time soon.

Three months after Mr de E and I were married, we went on a church camp which involved tents. It was a disaster.

I have to say that the company was great, because our good friend Hippomanic Jen was with us and she reads this blog. (The company actually was great!) But not even good company could make me stop wishing I was at home in the snuggly bed that the Good Lord provided for me.

The trouble started on the first night. We all arrived at the campsite after dinnertime and had to put tents up in the dark. Jen had been promised by the pastor's wife that she could share a tent with their daughter. Unfortunately, the daughter didn't share such generous leanings and loudly refused to be a part of any such sharing arrangement.

I could feel Jen's complete mortification through the darkness - misplaced trust, accommodation rejection and the strong possibility of a night under the stars.

Of course Mr de Elba and I offered that she could share with us. Our tent was another generous loan from the pastor's wife, thankfully not rescinded.

Our dear friend had to accept our offer (what choice did she have?) despite being deeply horrified at the thought of sharing a tent with a newly-married couple. She didn't need to be horrified: we were most certainly NOT planning on "getting up to anything" in a tent - by a lake - hidden only by thin canvas - surrounded by church people. We had been on a Beach Mission two weeks after our wedding, and already had enough material to write a book entitled "The Perils of Making Love on an Air Mattress."

On the first night, the sleep was uncomfortable and patchy. On the second night it was painful and awkward, owing to the fact that Mr de Elba didn't apply sunscreen before going windsurfing that day and got sunburnt.

Often, the only saving grace on a Bad Weekend Away is the food, but when you're camping in tents, this is one of the most disappointing parts of the experience.

The plan was to have bacon and eggs cooked leisurely over a fire for Sunday morning breakfast, smoke curling up towards the branches above, the pleasant aroma of the meal wafting through the campsite.

The reality, of course, was to wake on Sunday morning and realise that the two bags of ice in the Esky had melted, and raw eggs and bacon were floating randomly through the morass.

Mr de E, Hippomanic Jen and I had cereal instead. We dragged our sorry selves home, and I (at least) silently whispered, "Let's never do that again."

I guess Mr de Elba either didn't say the same thing, or he's forgotten ...

The Best and The Worst of The Deck Cleanout

I can't stop thanking Jen for helping me with my horrible under-deck cleanout yesterday. She says that she feels a bit bad - she had too much fun to be thanked all that much. But she still deserves The Thanking and so The Thanking she will get.

The best part of the day ... was the lunch. I won a $30 voucher for The Pancake Manor in the kindy Mothers Day raffle (the most rewarding kindy involvement I've had all year!) We set a time to break for lunch, and worked like crazy until then. Then we went and had savoury crepes for lunch and shared a Macadamia Shortstack for dessert. Wonderful!

The worst part of the day ... was the dump. We had spent hours making piles of Things No Longer Needed to take to the dump. I thought hard about what to send to the dump. I hate to throw things out, but I can and will do it. And the things that went were things I have hung onto for years, hoping against hope that one day they will be used and re-loved and cherished again. But alas, they haven't. The only purpose they serve is to junk up my house.

Everyone will tell you that these things must GO. If it hasn't been used in three years, if it hasn't been used since long before the move from our old flat to our current house, if all it ever does is collect dust, then it must GO. Right? [Uncertain pause.] Right!!

There were speech pathology resources that -seriously- nobody will use again (they haven't been used in the last three years, all therapists tend to make their own stuff, and all these things do is junk up my place), piles of papers, old shoes and slippers that were too old to be saleable by charity shops and mountains of cardboard from old boxes.

We physically threw the lot into the Giant Pit of Filthy Oozing Stench. It was tremendously enjoyable for Jen, whose junk it wasn't. "Whee! What a wonderful feeling!" she shouted while flinging piles of Things No Longer Needed into the pit.

"Oh dear," I'd say, ruefully surveying well-used brightly coloured speech pathology word cards atop Filthy Oozing Stench. "Everybody else's junk is so yucky and mine is so pretty!"

"Whee!" said Jen as another box of things went into the pit.

I winced. It was one Giant Pit of Filthy Oozing Stench, now topped with my old ugg boots. Too old to be saleable, too worn-out to continue wearing, but certainly not in the category of Filthy Oozing Stench. Pretty awful to see the things you once held dear re-classified as Filthy Oozing Stench.

The job was finished way too quickly. There it all lay, just out of reach. No going back. I took one last look before I turned back to the car, hoping I'd done the right thing.

Then I saw it. In the piles of old papers I'd deemed no longer needed, there had been an old Pay Slip from work.

Bother!

My father had always instilled in me a fear of allowing papers with any identifying information go to the dump without being torn into a million pieces. Heaven forbid someone should get hold of your name! Or your address! Or -horror of horrors- your Employee Number! And all of these things were on the Pay Slip which had fallen face-up out of reach, grinning at me, mocking me.

"PAY ADVICE!" it loudly proclaimed to the whole world, strongly suggesting that confidential information lay unconfidentially a few metres away.

"You've thrown things out that shouldn't be thrown out!" it hissed accusingly at me.

"Look over there," it suggested, indicating a second Pay Slip also mockingly lying face up a short distance away.

I felt gutted. I had been proud of myself - I'd thrown away areas of clutter that should have been thrown away ages ago. I had not wasted hours sifting meticulously through things but instead been ruthless and consigned it all to the dump. And now I was beginning to think that some of my stuff was too pretty, some too pre-loved and some too confidential to be thrown out!

Jen and I stood there wondering what to do. If we - okay, if I crawled into the Pit of Filthy Oozing Stench, I'd be sure to be noticed and get in trouble. (This is of course apart from the other obvious reason why I'd not be looking forward to a crawl through a Pit of Filthy Oozing Stench.)

I grabbed a rusty piece of an old bicycle that was near enough to reach, and threw it at the page, hoping it would turn upside down and disappear into the Filthy Oozing Stench. Instead it moved into a position where it was more visible. "What will I do?" I moaned to Jen.

"Maybe we could get a stick" - we found one - "and stab it" - she gave it a few savage pokes - "and bring it out that way."

And that's what my wonderful friend did. First one Pay Slip and the the other. Brilliant! We returned home, shredded the Pay Slips, and I privately vowed never to go back to the dump.

It's too traumatic.

A mammoth effort

Greater love hath no woman than this - that she lay down a Day Off for a friend

and assist in turning THIS ...

...into THIS...

by helping me through such ghastly intermediate steps as THIS:

What a huge job! I have been avoiding looking at the mess under our deck post-bedbug catastrophe, but with the help of my good friend Jen, I have managed to sort out the rubbish (taken to the tip) from the items for charity (in the boot of the car) from the things to keep (slowly making their way/s back to where they belong.)

It was sad picking through some very water-damaged books to see what could be salvaged. Some were so damaged that I had to throw them away despite loving them so much. I'll be on the lookout for replacements for these:

And I won't be looking for replacements for a few others, which I decided on reflection wouldn't matter much if they were to disappear from my collection.

Pixellated to protect their identity.

I feel good about that. I think that in the next few days, I'll be doing some of the other things I've been putting off.