Fixed throat or fixed truck. LUCK pls.
It's winter here, though the only discontent I have is in my throat.
It rains quite a bit and is pushing this lawn's growth to the unmanageable stage. The old mower won't start and I STILL can't get the lawndudes to ring me/message me back. I suppose that's a certain level of discontent, but the neighbour cats think it's friggin' sweet playing in a jungle. I happen to agree, even if wife and I like catching them and turning them loose in the outback.
My throat is full of gross things right now. Though I'm not actually retarded, wifeage looks at me as if I am when I choke on just about everything. EVERYTHING. Yikes.
I choke on stuff. I snore. And I've got a gag reflex that would get me kicked out of Pr0nstar School faster'n you can say "Holy Galloping Crotchrot Ron Jeremy!"
I'm only recently learning that this may or may not have something to do with the GINORMIHUGE tonsils I have living in the back of my mouth. I've always had them and they've always been an issue. Anybody that's ever buckled my helmet for me at Grey Company knows that I can't have stuff touching my throat or I start making Bill The Cat noises.
It's only this week that my doctor-in-law finally looked in there, in a healthy and non-coldy mouth, and said, "Yeah, them suckers're huge, go see this guy."
I'm stoked that something might get fixed in my face that causes me such grief.
I mean really, I started writing this post 20 minutes ago, when I was first choking on leftover sausage roll and after a SKYPE convo with my BFF and a phone convo with my Sparkymate who wants to help me fix my burnt truck, I'm still clearing my throat like a pothead.
DISAPPOINT.
That said, BFF wants me and smallsprogs to go down to Waroona so our wives can be awesome friends and girls while he and I stand in the shed drinking beer and being awesome friends and girls too. He wears my size cocktail dress, you see.
Totally kidding. You know that though right?
Yeah, he's a size smaller. Bitch.
Sparkymate is too efficient, he tells me, and has run out of jobs for the day, so he's ready to load up in his 4WD, drive down to South Jesus, and help me rewire my burnt truck.
How'd I burn the truck? A story that will have to wait.
Smooches.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Why I’m Sleepy
Been a while since I've just sat down and blogged a bit. The mood may or may not strike me during my week, but these days it really sucks to think that the urge to find a way, ANY way, to sleep, is one of the main motivating factors in my day.
See, my poor wifeage has a weird-connective-tissue-rare thingie as well as other odd stuff-and-things in her bones and all, and they sometimes (almost all the time) cause her some pain. This pain is usually only handled by something that's either illegal or should be. And it knocks her out. Such to the point that she's not able to pull her creaking and hurting body out of a nice bed in the middle of the night and make a bottle for our boy. Plus, it appears that the li'l bugger's gone and went Lactose Intolerant.
FUN. Breastmilk and standard formula both make him cry and wiggle and hurt, and since we don't like that shit around these parts, we try to keep him healthy but unhurty and the Lactose-Free formula is all there is.
All Mothers Should Get Their Own Day... I Mean MONTH
Personally, the "Y" chromosome in me now has a whole different opinion on women who do all the feeding during these, the early months. The inner Man in me reckons all you chicks should get presents on your offsprings' birthdays and a friggin' CAR when they turn 18, they should get a pat on the ass and a "go get 'em Tiger" while you shove 'em out the door.
The Sensative New-Age Guy in me reckons that Wifeage had to get fat, not drink or have any fun and have somebody do interpretative dance on her bladder and spine for months.
MONTHS. Friggin' holyhell MONTHS.
Months of All The Time, mind you. No breaks. No days off. Constant.
So, we had a talk and it was decided that I'd be the one to get up at night with the rugrat. I wear it as a badge of honour, not only so that I can look my incredible li'l Love Muffin in the eye and feel like I'm doing anything even remotely CLOSE to "my part in all this" (aside from the fun bits, BOY were they fun), but also for the bonding that takes place in the middle of the night.
Infant cries out, though really he just grunts a lot and nomnoms on his own hand usually, but he's quite noisy about it, so I wake. He's seeking not only comfort and solace from the cold, dark night but something to fill his empty tummy. I heat up a pre-made bottle (wife does this out of some misplaced sense of obligation, whereas she should really be waiting for a footrub while I do it) and cuddle my little guy. He snuggles in, roots around and...
comes up with a mouthful of chest hair.
BOY does he get pissed too. I've learned to either wear a shirt or just lay him in bed with me and cuddle him sideways. If he gets dug in, your nipples can really pay the price.
But yeah, I love the idea that he'll always know, even on a primal biological level, that daddy isn't somebody that just went out and killed mammoths. I like that idea.
So... he eats every 3 hours, or thereabouts, and I don't get much sleep. If I do, it's broken sleep and my dreams haven't been very dreamy for a while. They usually fuel the aspirations of my day, or at least make my writing or creative exploits more interesting.
Infants Take All Your Time... Because They're Awesome
I'm on Baby Leave, from a generous system here in Oz, and I'm not working currently. Which means I've got heaps of time right? I've planned on using this time to:
- Finish Book Number One - Editing and revising is a beeyatch, but I want this sucker perfect before I put it out there in the world.
- Revamp Jex Analytics - I ditched SEO as a bill-payer and am now onto more noble pursuits in the realm of Analytics & Reporting (what I really wanted to do all along, hence the business name). I'm building neat thigns with the Google Analtyics API, which is geekspeak for "I'm going to make it really, really easy for you to know how your website works." STOKED.
- Finish and Launch Page Buoy - Sparked from what originally got me writing a novel, I built a website For Writers, Of Writers, that will help them all hook up with each other and inspire each other to finish their novels in as awesome a fashion as possible.
- Finish and Launch Have a Good Website - A simple look at what you need to do to have a website that works for you or your business, no matter what you do.
- Finish Book Number Two - Halfway through and I'm stalled out. Bleah.
- Start and Finish Book Number Three - The Sequel to Book Number One is just natural. Outlines are great, but it's time to get this sucker fleshy.
- Write more here and in www.juddexley.com - Just because I like to keep in touch, even if some of the f-word people that I am trying to keep in touch with don't really seem to care.
Of these, I've managed to do one of them. ONE. Page Buoy is up and rockin' and it nearly killed me. It most certainly left stacks of dishes in the sink and a wife wondering if I even liked her any more.
I do, so there. In fact, I like her a whole bunch, so the rest of these may just have to wait.
Yet I Still Manage To Go Out and Hurt Myself
All this on top of my already numerous hobbies like swordfighting and showfighting with The Grey Company, playing goalie on a Monday Inline Hockey League, building my own armour, brewing my own beer and hooch, playing with my other 3 yardapes, playing on any of my 6 guitars, or just mucking about on Facebook or the Author's Forums where we all talk about writing and how hard it is...
It's quite a full plate.
Not to mention that we got a new car (well, used, but new to us) when a client traded me a website for a 1993 BMW 520i (I KNOW) which is basically the nicest fkn car I've ever even sat in, my other car leaks from every gasket and seal, including the wind screen, and the truck caught fire.
Yep, melted a bunch of wiring, good times.
Houses Are Hard To "Keep"... Friggin' Things
The lawn is overgrown because the mower is broken and the guy I hired to do it won't return my calls. My garage roof leaks and a bunch of my armour and hockey shit gets wet every time it rains. It's winter here, it rains a lot.
I keep the kids as fed as I can and dream of being able to hook up the dishwasher in the buggery that is our kitchen plumbing, I love the little fish on my desk (thank you again Wifage) and the GI Joes guarding them. I'm active in the Web Industry here in town (now an Australian Web Industry Assocation Committee Member) and I help run Chess Club on Fridays at the kids' school.
I also struggle to keep up with clients that are wondering what they hell they're supposed to do now, as well as the new "fun" projects that I keep coming up with like helping out the Perth Thunder, the Australian Ice Hockey League's newest semi-pro team.
Far out.
To be perfectly honest, I think I wrote that all out just so that I could keep track myself. It's pretty difficult to extricate the ol' cranium via rectum these days, as you can clearly see, this is about the best I got.
Smooches for reading, I hope your toes are warm and curl when you eat yummy cheese and red wine.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.He’s Perfect
When the story is told over the upcoming years, this part may or may not get brought up, so I'm making sure that it gets told now.
You see, I'm such an awesome chef that our baby boy was born at 4:33 PM instead of 8:33 AM. My culinary abilities are why we had to sit, for 7 straight hours, in a waiting area, being told little and enjoying it even less. The day before, Wife and I cruised the aisles of Woolworth's scabgrabbing everything that appealed to wife's happy li'l hormonal heart.
I asked her what she'd like for a "Last Meal" and she told me. So I made it.
Seafood Marinara in White Cream Sauce with Rhubarb and Strawberry Pie.
These are crappy pics from my phone:
The lady at Woolie's was rather proud of her mixture of prawns, mussels, salmon, calamari and snapper. She should be too.
The pie was all me though, and even if my crusts are a bit crusty sometimes, I was DAMN proud.
So wife and I ate, and we ate, and we enjoyed the hell out of a pleasure that can only be described as Not Having Any Kids Around.
We laid in bed and told secrets under the covers about how we're both a bit nervous and hit the lights out to be awoken at 4 (for her) and 6 (for me, since it takes me 8 minutes to get ready). At 4 AM she got up, but then I did too because I was nervous and wanted to have solidarity and all that rot. I put the news on and sipped coffee while she fussed about.
We rolled up to the ward with only 2 other elective C-sections (after 3 of 'em, they make you have one for #4 here) and sat down. Seconds later, our name is called and next thing you know Jo's in those gowns that hang your ass out there for the World and I was a pacing poppa.
A routine question hiccup was all that we needed at that point.
"Have you had anything to eat or drink?" they asked.
Wife answered, "Nope, just a swallow of milk at about 4:15 because of husband's deliciously acidic dinner last night!"
We were both still beaming when nurselady says, "Oh dear, I'll have to check to see if that's okay."
Wife explains to me that the whole No Eating thing is usually for General Anaesthetics and she would just have an epidural, and also it's only so you don't barf in your sleep and then choke on it. No worries.
Well, there were big worries apparently. Some folks are real sticklers sometimes. I usually like to refer to them as "Suckjob Fartfaces".
So we got bumped, not a huge deal. We asked to speak to our doctor when he had a minute so that we could explain that there was REALLY no danger, and we waited. And we got bumped again, for the gal getting a hysterectomy. Nothing to that one, there's no babies even in there! "44 minute op", we were told.
SIX HOURS LATER and we're finally told that there were "complications" in the previous surgery and everything was bumped for the day. Wife started feeling hopeless and I was actually feeling boredom which, if you know me, is a real sign of trouble. It's lucky it almost NEVER happens, because I get up to things.
First, I got up to taking pics:
Then wife got bored as well:
There are more. I'm not posting them because you don't really need to see those big red wee/blood catcher thignos taken from an upside-down angle any more than you need to see an empty hospital corridor.
I snuck off to go to the gift shop in search of something more than just the crap magazine by wife's feet and came back with a surprise.
When you squeeze his left foot, he laughs uncontrollably until you're uncomfortable enough to leave the room. Like me when I'm at dinner at my mother-in-law's after I've told a fart joke.
I also rocked simply because I can. I mean, when you're stuck in a hospital bed with your hugely pregnant wife, she can't eat and hasn't since the night before and it's 2 PM the next day, and your ass feels like it knows those vinyl chairs in the Biblical Sense, what are you gonna do?
That's right.
Then it was GO TIME. Just like that, they came in, wheeled us away, and we were In Action.
Check this: Exact same spot, 4 and a bit years ago.
Same outfit. Same spot. Same pose. Same jackass about to be a daddy again.
Literally within 13 seconds they had him out and on her chest. Uncleaned, unfussed-with, unkempt and perfectly PERFECT. That moment will continue to stand out in our memories.
They didn't need to smack his ass as he did start crying on his own, but by the time he started getting a head of steam up, they lay him on Jo's chest and it was like MAGIC. He settled and breathed deeply of her scent and was the happiest boy in the Universe. So happy and content, in fact, that we actually had to check on him to make sure he was alright.
Of course, he was alright, and that continues to be his favouritest place ever. Doesn't matter what's up, his head on her chest solves everything.
By the time I got a hold of him, he was getting swaddled to keep him warm, but as per our request he was still covered in the waxgook. His swollen little eyes were almost glued shut with the waxgook, and I whispered sweetly to his little face. Jo said something, so I spoke up in my normal voice (which was probably quite boomy in the newborn's face) and he started.
But he didn't start from fright, it was like he'd been reminded of something. He struggled and wiggled his little head (as he's doing now at the very moment I'm typing this) and forced those gooky little eyes open. It was as if he said, "HEY! I know that voice! You're the guy that talked to me all those months!"
The very first thing my son ever laid eyes on was me.
Pretty cool.
******
There were some issues with the giant metal thing they poke in your spine, so we had plenty of time to meet our "new" anesthetist (our original was there so long that he was off shift). He was a nice-looking German/Filipino guy named "Andreas" who looked 8 years younger than me yet was about 8 years older.
It was only later, almost a day later, when we were still completely flummoxed as to what to name this little bundle of Amazing when wife almost-kind-of-jokingly suggested "Andreas", though she followed it with, "the more common form would be 'Andrew'". I was interested, but not terribly moved, as I'd spent the entire drive to the hospital with "Levi" in my head.
Then she said, "You can call him 'Drew'" and that did it for me. Andrew James Exley gets to be "Drew" or "AJ" or "DJ" or any other variation of coolitudinosity.
Hours old and sleeping happily on mummy. Hairy and still a bit waxygook gross, we couldn't marvel enough at how perfect he was.
I tried to steal the hospital outfit thingie, but after he peed on me I found I didn't want it any more.
That is one good-lookin' boy.
See? Shirtless. Because it got peed on. Turns out that if you button up their li'l nappy and don't point his doodle DOWN, then it shoots wee out the sides. Plus, it's a pretty big doodle *coughlikehisdaddycough* and has some reach.
Auntie Roni actually looked at her child as she requested to hold the baby and said, "Yes, certainly you can hold him, except that my arms don't appear to be letting him go. I want you to hold him, but my arms say different, so too bad!"
First drive home. The sunlight continues to highlight his fairer aspects.
He has a comfy arm, and he uses it quite prolificly to sleep on daddy (no boobs, you see).
Uncle Sam came by after work to have a look at him and poke him in a doctorly way. I think he likes him.
Wrinkly and sleepy and a bit angry at not being fed, but none o fthese things bother Jade when she's busy telling you about Polly and Tim, twin fairies that live in her hands.
Pretty perfect moment.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.To top it all off…
On top of all the latest fun, this is me:
***
On a completely unrelated topic, if I'm ever caught out in the jungle with horrifying razor-toothed jaguars hunting me like prey, I'm going to dip a finger down the ol' poop chute and then wipe it on my neck.
There's something magical about home-made anus cream in that its smell permeates EVERYWHERE and it's impossible to get off. No killer jaguars are getting ME... no sir.
***
On another completely unrelated topic, it's highly entertaining/surreal to be changing a nappy and see, in precise detail, some of the features my son has inherited directly from me.
***
PS - I lied, those two notes above? Yeah, totally related to the topic at smelly, smelly hand.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Well *I* think he’s a big effing deal.
I'm not sure what happened, but somewhere along the line I think I "faded out" of people's conscious thoughts. Out of sight, out of mind, and when you move 10,000 miles away from "home", you are definitely out of sight.
I kept an online presence though, a website that I could keep up with that would keep folks up with me. It started out as www.juddexley.com where I put pictures and videos of my adorable children, but that site has evolved into something that's a bit more Authory since I'm being an author now.
This site, this Judd Hole, was originally my place of refuge, where I could use no "real" names and talk about things as freely as I liked. I could tell stories about work without fear of being "dooced" and I could talk about my life and relationships without worrying about anybody getting the wrong idea. So much of what we tell people these days has to be so fucking sugar-coated and finessed and cut-to-fit that we end up losing the goddam message.
Well this was my place to deliver that message.
Then, I grew up a little. I realised that I can't just have one place where I say "Jade is so cute!" and another where I say "that fucko at my kid's school needs his ass kicked".
Sadly, that "growing up" meant that the posts about asskickings had to go.
But did it?
Well, I wanted a place to talk about writing, and books, and publishing, and e-books, and reviews and all things Writery. Well, my name is my "brand" so it had to be the other place. This, by default, had to be where I could put the videos and the "oh isn't he cute" stuff. My MOM is always cool here, but my dad? Hmmm... my stepmom? My Gramma Genie? My Aunt Becky and my cousin Sarah?
Uffda, now it's getting complicated. Who's reading?!? And even more importantly, what are they thinking when they're reading it!??!
Oh dear. Oh my. Where to from here? Self-censorship for fear of offense?
Um, yeah. Not really my style.
I'm sorry, genuinely sorry, Gramma Genie, that I use language that I'm sure you don't approve of. I really do apologise if some of the things that I say will offend your sensibilities. I trust that you know though, that you raised a good man with a good heart and nothing but the best of intentions. Regardless of the shape they take when exiting my mouth (fingers?), my words are only meant to make the world a better place, as my heart longs for nothing more. You taught me how to be happy in my heart when I was very small, and I've taken that with me.
Mom, Dad, Becky, Sarah and even my misbegotten brother David... you're all welcome to read and interpret and judge me accordingly, though I dearly hope you'll raise questions and approach me if you think anything untoward.
See, the thing is, I'm pretty pissed off right now.
Actually, not pissed off, I'm just fucking hurt.
I don't know what you know about my children, but the fact is that the older two aren't biologically mine. They're mine in their hearts, but I wasn't here when they were babies, and that sucks. I got a chance to make one of my own, from scratch, and I find her pretty damn awesome. As far as we were concerned, she was my only shot at that, so I was pretty pleased.
Then we went for another, against some odds and without any solid reasoning beyond we "just felt it was right". There was some minor and very subtle opposition from just about every member of wife's family (except for Nic!) and my family was ambivalent as always (except for Granbo!).
It now seems like only a month or two ago that we announced we were pregnant, and then that he was a boy! It was all so exciting that I've lost track of a lot of the details, but I know that the folks that had anything to say about the excitement are/were the same ones that are saying anything now.
And now that he's born and here and awesome and chewing on my shirt right now looking for a boob, not very many people are saying much.
So we didn't do the whole come-see-the-fluidretainy-tired-and-blergh lady in hospital. We asked that everybody stay the eff away for a few days while me positively mooned over our new baby boy. I sent out texts, emails and updated Facebook. I felt like I put enough word out there, and some folks have been positively amazing.
But then the feelings start to trickle in.
Like how I feel about the fact that my wife called her mum out about how she acted like an absolute twat at Christmas (which was at our house) and how her mum then ceased all contact with us and her grandchildren. The kids used to go stay there at least once a month or so, and it's been 5 months since they've seen any of them. We've only just found out recently that Jo's mum is claiming WE'RE the ones that have kept the children from her. Yadda yadda, bullshit ensues... and cleanup is about as fun as you think it would be.
Not that we're counting the "congrats" or anything, but Jo's family has been remarkably slow and unexpected in this. Slow in that her next-youngest brother could barely be bothered staying in the hospital room and ended up acting like a 10-year old and her youngest brother only made mention of the new baby in some convoluted Facebook message with no mention of "congratulations". Unexpected in that her sister and brother-in-law (the dry and sardonic doctor) have been WONDERFUL. Seriously, vunderbar, and we've loved it. Nic, sis-in-law, as always, has been awesome.
But yeah, less than excited greetings and thus far, NOBODY has brought a gift of any kind for him. I'm not going to be silly about this, and yes I recognise that his cousins brought a lovely attitude and home-made cards (which meant huge things to us), but isn't it customary to visit somebody in the hospital with a teddy bear or a flower or a balloon?
We didn't get one fucking balloon.
That said, my mother, whom I have called "Mombo" and the kids "Granbo" for as long as I can remember, cleverly shipped a package from the US weeks in advance, so that it got here about 2 days after young Andrew was born. Well... Hell Fucking Yeah. Way to go Granbo! A hand-written (caligraphy) card and a hand-knitted baby blanket. What a fkn legend my mom is.
Know what else we got? A hand-made quilt, complete with a poem about stars and stripes and the southern cross and it was FUCKING LOVELY. This was before he was even born. A few days later, we got another little patterned blankie and some bibs and a hand-made card with little stick figure drawings of all of the Exley family.
Guess who all this was from... that's right. Sandra, from Grey Company.
Yes, the sweet little gal from my medieval nerd re-enactment troupe. She's basically outshone every single member of me and Jo's families, with the exception of my mother.
WOW.
My father apparently didn't receive the emails where I announced his name (which was late, mind you, because it took a day or so) and his only email talked more about he and my stepmom's upcoming camping plans than about my new baby boy. My brother emailed me and left a comment here, mentioning something about how we need to catch up via email because "it's cheap" but made NO MENTION of my new baby boy. His wife is on my Facebook and said NOTHING about the baby until she chimed in on my "No Way I'm Circumcising My Boy" thread with, quite simply, "please get it done". Nothing else. No congrats. NOTHING.
I've been to my medieval swordfighting nerd outings and to a couple of webnerd industry meetings, and at each I was roundly given handshakes and "congratulations". Chrissakes, the gal at the school canteen where I used to volunteer gave me a hug and asked me all about how we came up with his name.
I guess I'm left wondering what the fuck happened. I think he's a big fucking deal, and I've all but quit work for the next few months just to enjoy him and learn him and help wife bring him into this wonderful world.
I guess I just wonder what he means to everybody else. Because I have the feeling that this kid is going to be bigger than anything else I've done (with the possible exception of his more-in-your-face older sister) and I wonder if I've made such a forgettable mark in people's lives that they'd treat this as if it's my favourite footy team winning the Grand Final.
Not looking for anything by writing this, other than catharsis that is, but I'm just genuinely perplexed by the majority of reactions to something that I have found veritably life-changingly profoundly fucking HUGE.
His name is Andrew James Exley. He's small and curly and farts and looks like his mother in the eyes and me around the mouth and we both think he's the most beautiful thing we've ever done together.
I think he's worth a bit of a fuss.