This morning, as a kitten napped in front of the fire, Evelyn commando crawled over to her, grabbed her by the head and then shoved her in her mouth. When I rescued the kitten, Evelyn rolled over onto her back, looked at me and clapped her hands.

She’s very clever, this baby of mine.

Tomorrow she has bloods to check for markers of a neuromuscular disease. We will hold her flailing body down (again), while the nurses poke her with needles (again) and we try not to take the screaming too much to heart (again). Holding my baby through a blood draw is one of my least favourite things to do, beaten only narrowly by holding my baby during a lumbar puncture and sawing off my own feet without anaesthetic.

But as far as Evelyn goes, she’s doing really well. She tries to eat the kittens, tangles herself up in towels left on the floor, plays peekaboo and claps her hands.

What more could I ask for?

Last week:

She likes to eat her toast reclined sideways in her bouncer, head resting against the edge. She giggles when I kiss her tummy and is so very pleased to see her siblings, especially Amy when she gets home from school.

Two days ago I sat down on my computer chair and leaned backwards, sinking further than normal. Thinking that it felt odd, I got off the chair and looked to see if for some reason, it was bent, or crooked, or somehow or other, new. Not noticing anything, I sat back down, leaned back and suddenly found myself laying flat on my back, legs akimbo, looking at the ceiling.

You know there is something wrong with your chair when your vertical self suddenly becomes horizontal when you least expect it.

Obviously I am okay, except that Amy laughed at me and then wasn’t much help when I had to contort myself into strange positions to get out of my predicament. Now I’ve had to steal my husband’s chair and it feels all wrong. It doesn’t tilt quite the way I like it and I’m left bundled up in the centre of the thing, trying to work out how to type quickly and easily, while also not getting stuck like a large spider in a too small space.

All of this is very First World Problems, which I know and understand, but I’m distracting myself from the week that was, and thus, you get to hear about my computer chair.

Plop. There I was, flat on my back, like I’d had a rug pulled out from under me.

Thursday, in the moments after my grandmother’s funeral, we hurried ourselves off to a Paeds appointment for Evelyn.

The short answer to “What happened, dear Veronica, tell us because we do love your baby so” is – we’re doing more testing.

Digression: Evelyn, when she was a vaguely preterm baby stuck in special care, bled beautifully, provided it was only a heelprick that we needed. Since then, she’s had plenty of cannulas and assorted other needle pokes and I am convinced that my baby does not actually want to part with her blood. And who can blame her really? Having needles poked into you is miserable enough without the blasted nurses then stealing the blood like vampires and taking them away. No. If I was Evelyn, I wouldn’t want to bleed either. But bleed she must and between you and me, Internet, I am dreading the next time we head into the hospital. End digression.

We’re now testing for neuromuscular diseases, because her tongue tremor is uncommon and concerning and Things Need To Be Ruled Out. Evelyn is also going to have another EEG, which is going to be Fantastic Fun when this child does not find things being placed on her head and stuck there with tape at all amusing. Also: Hair.

Needs must and all that, and in the middle of it all, I am stuck sitting on a computer chair that I Do Not Like and this is the end of the world.

Because when you’ve spent too much time reading about Neuromuscular Diseases, then obsessing over your chair just makes more sense than anything else.

Now excuse me. I have to go hug my baby.

When I told Nathan we were getting not one, but two kittens, he was exasperated with me. Grumpy as well. I promised him that he wouldn’t have to clean up any kitten accidents and Amy and I would take care of the kitty litter. He rolled his eyes and refused to talk about kittens anymore. Then our kittens came home and he came to terms with them quite quickly. He’s a giant softy, really, despite his grumbling exterior.

Rosie and Alley have settled in beautifully and Nathan has stopped grumbling about them, which is nice, frankly.

This morning, as Nathan left to take Amy to school, I took Evelyn back to bed. Two minutes later, Nathan was home and worried. He’d seen a little grey kitten dart across the road in front of his car and was Alley inside and safe?

Yes, yes she was. Fast asleep on the couch, in fact.

But there was a grey kitten hiding in the hawthorn bushes in the corner of the paddock bordering our property. I followed him outside, and sure enough, there it was. Grey and skinny, the little kitten hid under the bushes, looking terrified. Nathan left, telling me ‘good luck with that.’

Five minutes later, I’d lost the kitten. Tangled in the bushes, I’d heard it dart through the fence, but hadn’t managed to see where it went. I gave up, feeling bad for the poor little thing, but figuring I could leave some food outside and see what happened.

Evelyn was crying and not sleeping when I came back inside, so I spent ten minutes putting her down, then I headed back outside with cat food and the dog, Maisy. You’d think taking a dog on a walk to find a terrified kitten would be a stupid idea. You’d probably be right.

Needless to say, I spent fifteen minutes walking around the hawthorn shaking the kitten food before Maisy got very interested in trail, presumably left by a kitten. She followed it to our chook shed and there it sat, cold and hissing at me. Moving closer, it panicked and tried to get into the roof of the shed, but found itself trapped.

This was, of course, good news for me, as it spat and hissed and freaked out, ten feet from the ground, above a tangle of blackberries. With no where to go, I stood on top of an old nesting box, stripped off my long-sleeved t-shirt and caught the kitten.

It fought. Oh Internet, it was terrified and it fought and hissed and scratched and bit. I had it by the scruff of the neck through my shirt though and a few moments later, it was bundled up tightly and unable to do much except shiver. It was cold and I could feel its ribs.

So, like any normal person, I brought it inside, just as Nathan got home. He hadn’t expected me to be able to catch it, but I am the woman who caught a rabbit with her BARE HANDS and I am amazing.

It’s sitting in a cat carrier in front of the fire now, looking discombobulated. I’m pretty sure it’s not a feral, because it didn’t freak out and hiss the moment it saw me in the hawthorn, and if it was feral, it ought to have been in a den somewhere, not walking through the wet grass and running across roads alone. Also it doesn’t seem nearly freaked enough by the dog to be feral.

I live on a highway and animals get dumped all the time. I think that’s what’s happened here. When I get Amy off the bus tonight I’ll ask the neighbours if anyone is missing a kitten, but if not, it looks like we might have a new family member.

Poor little thing.

My great-grandmother passed away early yesterday morning after a short illness. She will be dearly missed.

Go in peace Nan.

This morning I tried to feed Evelyn. After deciding she didn’t really want any milk, she lay there across my chest, smiling at me with her tongue out, showcasing its twitching and shaking. It’s times like these I wish I had magic video camera eyes. Then I can play these scenes for her Paediatrician, and he can see what I see.

Yesterday I spent an hour trying to video her tongue, while she spent the time trying to grab my face, eat the camera, kick me, or shout. None of these things make videoing a fine tremor easy and I can’t say with any great certainty that I managed it.

I Googled, afterwards, because it’s what you do in this world of instant information. You Google.

Then I stopped Googling, because there is nothing I can find that suggests a tongue tremor in a baby is a good thing. Sure, maybe if she was a perfectly healthy baby and it was our only symptom I wouldn’t worry, but gross motor delays, seizures AND a tongue tremor?

Step away from the Google-machine Veronica. You don’t need to know this stuff yet.

—

I am pacing the floor with Evelyn, because she’s vaguely grumpy and I have things to do that don’t involve her shouting at me. In one hand she has a square of toast, which she waves around like a trophy. I guess it is a trophy, of sorts, considering she stole it from me.

I sway and she smiles at me, before shoving the toast in my mouth, not happy until I nibble a corner off.

“Your turn,” I say, chewing my tiny bit of pre-slobbered toast. She grins and shoves half of it in her own mouth.

My heart sings, because while she missed my mouth three times and her mouth twice, the behaviour right there is age appropriate. She’s showing lovely signs of cognitive normality and it makes me happy every time I see something I don’t have to worry about.

Later, she practices her new skill by sticking a well gummed rusk up my nose, in my eye and finally in my mouth. Her hand-arm control isn’t great, but she knows what she wants to do, and she wants to share.

Happiness is sharing sticky food bits.

—

Amy is sick. So sick that when I suggest she goes back to bed she does so wordlessly, without a fight. Later, she sobs into my arms because despite panadol, this virus she has is miserable and has already knocked me down a few days previously.

I rub her back and Evelyn, who is in bed with us leans forwards to stroke her face and pull her hair, looking worried.

As a distraction, we start reading Harry Potter, something I’d been putting off because I hate reading aloud. We snuggle in and her sobs diminish as she listens to my voice. Four pages in, she is ready for sleep and so I leave her, tucked up with her kitten, her bedroom dark and quiet.

She sleeps for an hour, this child of mine who hasn’t napped since she was nineteen months old, and emerges briefly for water before bursting into tears again.

I tuck her into my bed and I read more, because that’s what you do when your child is unwell. You do things you hate because it helps them feel better. Evelyn kicks in her cot, listening to my voice and I must admit, sick or not, it’s nice being snuggled with my girls on either side of me.

I can forget what I read on Google and my fears for this baby, as we immerse ourselves into the world of Harry Potter.

It’s enough, right now.

This morning, I put Evelyn down for her nap and when, five minutes later, she complained loudly about having to fall asleep, I picked her back up again. I tucked her under my chin and we paced the floor, snuggled together, while I listened to Neil Gaiman talk.

She snuffled my neck and wound her fingers into the tufts of hair behind my ears, tugging gently.

The talk finished and I put Evelyn down, patting her gently. She fell asleep and I was left looking at her. Baby soft cheeks and milky smell and I am so worried about her.

She has no depth perception, you see. She flinches when we walk in front of her, or we wave our arms, or something moves. She can’t judge where that thing she wants to grab is. Every new thing I notice is like a check mark against her; against the possibility of normality.

Last night, I rubbed her tummy while she fell asleep, feeling so lucky to have her. I watched her while she seized and seized and seized, thinking that if we end up having to go to hospital every time she seizes for longer than five minutes, I’m never going to spend any time at home.

Her tongue trembles, and she holds the tip of it arched up to the roof of her mouth. Her gross motor skills aren’t improving. She still has head lag when I pull her to sitting. Her shoulder joints slide around under my hands.

I worry about her, because no one know what is going on.

And yet – when I leave the room, she cries. She is amused by kisses. She watches her siblings avidly. She soaks everything in like a sponge. Her mouth moves in response when I talk to her. Cognitively, she seems very much like an almost nine month old baby, even if physically she can’t master anything she’s meant to be doing.

I like facts. I like to know what is going to happen. I like plans and progress and an idea in my head. I like these things because they give structure to my unbridled imagination that is always darker than my reality is likely to be. Because if someone says unequivocally “Your baby has X” then I know what X means and I can stop waking up at 3am, worried that she is dying.

This is what it means to be waiting and seeing. It means I pace the floor with my baby, listening to Neil Gaiman talk about throwing things to the wind like dandelion seeds, while I try to impress the smell of my child into my brain, just in case.

Because like he says, no one knows what will happen. No one knows where an idea will land.

And sometimes, that is the scariest thing of all.

You’d think that Evelyn being able to catch a kitten would be a sign of her growing mobility. Actually, it’s a sign of the stupidity of kittens when it comes to small children and babies. Alley, the tabby kitten, lies underneath Evelyn’s bouncer, seemingly content in her safety. She might be right for all we know, as Evelyn rolls towards her, chubby fingers grasping for a kitten tail.

With a flick, Alley removes her tail from Evelyn’s grasp, right as Evelyn topples over in the wrong direction, to be distracted by a sock monkey.

Small moments in my day. A sleepy teasing kitten and a grappling baby who desires more than she can have.

I rescue the baby and snuggle behind her ears, breathing in soft milky smell. Babies are delicious. She clamours in my ears, simultaneously wanting all my attention, but also wanting to get down and eat the cat.

I’m an obliging mother. I put her next to the kitten, who submits to the ear grabbing and head chewing.

Before I know it, the kitten is asleep and the baby is distracted again, grumpily rolling herself in a new direction, intent upon destruction; a book abandoned upon the floor.

My son has gone out with his Daddy, my big girl is at school and my baby is asleep. I’ve just written three articles for The Shake, edited some others, eaten four chocolate biscuits and made a poached egg. My kitchen is semi-tidy, the cat litter is scooped and I’ve had a cup of tea. I watered the greenhouse and strung new lines for the beans. I snipped away the dying pumpkins, infected with plague, and I’ve eaten all the red cherry tomatoes, feeling vaguely guilty that I wasn’t saving them for everyone else.

I didn’t realise how stressed I was until I spent some time in silence, without anyone shouting at me. Isaac shouts because he is FOUR and FOUR YEAR OLDS have trouble with voice modulation. Amy shouts because her classroom is loud and it turns into a habit, trying to be louder than everything else. Evelyn shouts because she is frustrated to be almost nine months old with no body control. And Nathan and I shout because we’re dramatic, and even though our shouting often ends in laughter, it’s still loud.

So. Silence.

SIIIIILENCE.

It’s nice. Not that it’s actually silent, of course. The kittens are playing and I can hear the scritch scritch scritch of kitten paws through the house. Evelyn sighs occasionally, and there is music quietly running in the background, making sure it’s not so silent that the sound of my fingers on the keys will wake her up.

I’ve been annoyed at the Internet, frankly. The list of blogs I enjoy reading is steadily shrinking, as blogs I enjoy fall off the radar and stop updating and good blogs are failing to pop up in their place. Maybe I’m a snob, but frankly, when I click on a blog and there are eight typos in the first two paragraphs, I’m going to spend the next few days shitty about it. Because REALLY? THAT’S THE STANDARD I’M MEANT TO ASPIRE TO?

Sorry Internet, but I just can’t do it. I’m aspiring to be something better than pretty and whimsical. I want to read writing, and reality, and truth-telling, not housewives with nothing better to do than post photos of themselves wearing whimsical tutus and stupid looking flowers in their hair.

I just want more from you. Is that too much to ask?

Partly, this is Zoey and Kate’s fault.  They made me Editor at The Shake and now I can’t read anything without my Editor cap on, quietly picking up the run-on sentences needing commas and finding myself lying in a pool of blood when there’s a loose/lose error and someone’s fucked up there/their/they’re. I mean JESUS PEOPLE, READ YOUR SHIT BACK. It’s like you ENJOY watching me stab out my own eyes.

Their fault.

You can blame them.

Now my baby has woken up. I was stabbing my keys too hard.

I blame you.

“Hang on, what are you doing? That feels weird…”

“Oh. I see. You need a mother? Well I don’t have any milk…”

“…You’re a bit pushy aren’t you?”

“I suppose I can be your foster mother.”

“No one told me you had a sister. Sniff….. Fine. Whatever.”

If I was any kind of popular blogger, I’d be doing something called vagueblogging today. It would be all woe is me, I’m all sad, things are hard, love me please. But I’m a crappy blogger and I hate vagueblogging and vaguebooking and any kind of vagueness that doesn’t come with an excuse of I was awake all night with my baby/kitten/goat/lover.

(That’s a goat, OR a lover, not a goat lover, because that’s illegal.)

It’s my grandmother’s birthday today and I am all woe is me, sadness and dark. She would have been 68, except fuck cancer. Fuck cancer, man. Cancer is a bastard thing, tearing families apart and leaving wounds in its wake.

Cancer.

Fuck cancer.