Sunscreen

There’s really no excuse for getting sunburnt in this day and age. Still, many of us get caught out. Knowing what we now know of the consequences, if you’re like me, you’ll feel sick dread the following day. The feeling of guilt intensifies when it’s one of your children.

It’s taken me nearly a year to own up but last summer we went to watch a pre-season rugby game at Lowe Walker Park. The day was overcast, threatening rain so we stocked up on umbrellas and jackets. But, before the first quarter the sun came out with a vengeance. There was absolutely no shade where we sat on the grass verge and, even if we packed up and left, by the time we got to the car in the far distance, we’d be fried. Instead I watched the kids frolic on the hillside as the sun beat down and hoped, by some miracle, its lethal rays wouldn’t find their way to my children’s fair skin.

By that evening it was glaringly evident that they did.

Besides the fact my back was, what once would have been, an impressive shade of fluorescent pink – a talking point of some marvel at the barbecue that night, my biggest disgrace came as the evening wore on and large red raccoon rings began to manifest around Master Five’s eyes. These would go on to blister, thereby increasing my shame.

It turned out I wasn’t the only one who was caught out that day. A friend who’d been sitting along the hillside from us later stated her mortification about the rings, and subsequent blisters, that formed under her baby daughter’s eyes. She went into hiding for several days after that. At least she had the excuse of being a Pom, I told her, and considered applying concealer before Master Five headed off for school.

Although the responsibility of an infant’s sun protection, lies on the caregiver, I couldn’t help but wonder if the girls walking around selling candy floss that day, would’ve been better off selling sunscreen.

I would’ve paid a small fortune.

Nevertheless, whilst nappies, dummies and spew cloths are now a thing of the past in my ‘bag of tricks’, I’ve replaced them with that one essential item – sunscreen. 

Stranger Danger

We had a lovely holiday down at the Mount (Maunganui) last week but, as a result, I’ve been on the back foot all week. And so, being behind on the news, it was mildly disconcerting to finally sit down with a stack of papers to read and find out there is a potential child predator in our midst.

Because that morning, as usual, Master Six had raced off ahead to school while I drove the twins to kindy, at which point, we usually pass and beep. But that morning we didn’t pass him. Of course he was all right – he’d just sprinted to school – but it did play on my mind, especially after coming home and reading the newspapers.

The following morning a hurried version of the stranger-danger talk ensued before Master Six left.

“But a stranger might get him,” whimpered Miss Four, having overheard the conversation.

While it was nice to know she cared, I simultaneously realised she’d got the wrong end of the stick. Despite trying my best to give a more age-appropriate version of the discussion on the way to kindy, it proved fruitless.

“What kind of legs does a stranger have?” asked Miss Four.

“And what kind of head does a stranger have?” chimed in Master Four.

When we pulled up and they piled out of the car it soon became clear what they’d conjured up in their little heads.

“Guess what,” they called out to their mates as they arrived with their parents. “There’s a monster in Whangarei.”

By the time we reached the gates a rumour was in full swirl which, like most gossip, had been blown out of epic proportions.

“Mum,” I heard one child say. “There’s a monster down the road.”

“Um, I think you might need to have the stranger-danger talk to the kids today,” I told the teacher. “I’ve obviously done a terrible job of it.”

She agreed that indeed I probably had and I left with the rumour mill in full circulation.

I was dreading what I’d walk back into at pick-up time, but it turned out the monster story was long-forgotten and the children had moved on, distracted with preparations for today’s Santa parade.

I’m thinking I’ll need to give the stranger danger talk another shot – this time with a little more effort put into convincing them that not all strangers are baddies (“Mum, why did you talk to that stranger?!”), or monsters with square heads for that matter. But, I’ll probably wait until after they’ve met the man in the red suit today – lest there be any confusion.

We wouldn’t want a rumour starting up about poor Santa now would we?

Fire Safety

Maybe in hindsight it wasn’t such a good idea hiding the lighter behind the fire flue out of the reach of children.

I thought I’d been murdered when it exploded sending pieces (and my dinner) flying across the room.

Home alone for the day I’d lit the fire and just sat down in front of the tele on Saturday with a lazy dinner for one (oven fries) when there was an almighty bang. Ears ringing I gingerly got up and started picking through the remnants of what once appeared to be a lighter, strewn across the lounge and into the nearby dining room.

It was then I became worried as to the whereabouts of the lighter fluid. Still half expecting an explosion I re-familiarised myself with the fire hydrant and stood there, finger on the trigger, waiting.

Between the fire and the last of the sun the room had heated up considerably. How was I to sleep that night knowing there was lighter fluid on the loose in such a hot room? I turned to the every-trusty Google but, apart from a few freaks youtubing themselves blowing up lighters, it wasn’t helpful so I called the Whangarei Fire Station for advice and the man said he’d send someone out.

“Oh it’s really not a big deal, I was just after some reassurance,” I started backing out.

Not long after, the kids came home and at the same time about six firemen descended the r.o.w spilling into neighbour’s properties trying to locate us. What must they be thinking? I wondered. Their new neighbours already setting their house alight.

Some of the men seemed slightly baffled as to why they were there.

“I really just phoned up for advice,” I spluttered.

Luckily one of them stepped forward and seemed to know why they’d been called out. Another used an infrared camera to check the heat radiation before declaring it safe and they began retreating back to the fire engine.

“You were already on duty weren’t you?” I asked their retreating backs.

“No, I was at home having a beer,” smiled one.

“I was at home having a cup of tea,” said another.

I felt like a right twak and almost offered them a beer for their troubles but wondered how they would all fit comfortably in our house, which I’d thought was big until I saw six large firemen in their bulky gear piled into the living area.

Despite feeling like a drama queen, they were good sorts about it and, needless to say, the kids were impressed. It was quite timely actually. Several weeks earlier a volunteer firefighter had come round for an assessment, mostly to show me where to put smoke alarms in our large, multilevel house. He was very efficient and left books, activities and a dvd on fire safety for the kids, which we watched as a family last week. The kids loved it and watched it over and over again all week. That night, after they went to bed, I heard them talking about a fire plan, which we acted out the following morning.

To have real life firefighters in the house, just made their day – that and gobbling up their mum’s scattered oven fries from the floor.

# Fire safety information can be viewed on www.youtube.com/thenzfs

Helicopter Adventure

The kids often comment about the hospital as we drive past each day. Whether it’s Jayla reminiscing about the time she stuck a bead up her nose or, on the rare occasion we glimpse the helicopter landing, we speculate as to how the passengers enter the hospital from the roof.

“Maybe they have a secret tunnel they go down,” I suggested last Wednesday.

“Or maybe they have a slide,” commented a little voice from the back.

Little did I know that I was to experience it first-hand later that day – but not as a patient, thankfully.

You see I was scheduled to interview paramedic Sam Johanson that morning for my Day in the Life of series.

His job was more complicated than I anticipated and, within an hour, I had filled my notebook with screeds of shorthand.

Finally I asked him to describe the sights, sounds and emotions of conducting a rescue from the chopper and he said he could do one better. As they record everything from cameras fitted to their helmets, he could show me video footage of a rescue. We were about to watch this when his phone rang. Hanging up, he asked if I wanted to come to the Bay of Islands.

Any plans I might have had for the afternoon went flying out the window as I boarded the chopper and donned the headgear. I’d been in a helicopter once before for work but it was not as exciting as this. 

Within minutes we were flying over the sparkling Bay of Islands trying to locate an ambulance below at the house of a man having heart problems.

We’d been told it was in a remote settlement, the name of which I’d never heard. Expecting a few rundown shabby houses, I was surprised to find it was quite the opposite. Sam spotted the ambulance and we landed in a reserve surrounded by luxury retirement pads.

“Looks like we might have to hitch a ride back to the ambulance,” Sam said, what I thought was jokingly, as he pulled on his heavy back pack of medical paraphernalia.

We stood on the side of the road for a while in the sweltering sun before we heard the rumbling of a motor.

“Here we go, this’ll be the ambulance.”

But, amusingly, instead a steam roller rounded the bend followed shortly after by a marked 4WD with two young guys wearing high-vis vests, who I assumed were volunteer ambulance crew.

Sam hailed them, ran up and briefed them, before beckoning me to jump in. The two men introduced themselves as they hurriedly cleared the backseat, then did a U-turn and drove like the clappers.

It wasn’t until later when I asked Sam their titles that he confirmed, they were indeed randoms with whom we had hitch-hiked a ride.

We found the entrance to the steep, windy, metal driveway and met the ambulance near the top. We jumped aboard while the helpful strangers were left to reverse back down.

Inside was a man in his early sixties who, as well as being in pain, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in the back of an ambulance.

His wife confirmed that, once we’d driven back down to the helicopter, and the team were checking him out. Sensing he wouldn’t want a pesky journalist hovering around, and spying the needles, I slipped out the front door and tried to distract his upset wife by pin-pointing our whereabouts.

She informed me we were in Parekura Bay and said she had called the ambulance unbeknown to her husband as, like many men, he never would’ve had a bar of it.

The neighbour filled me in on some local information about the place and said the last time a helicopter had landed around those parts was to deliver a spa pool to one of the abodes.

It was hot. Sweat beaded our foreheads. The patient was transferred and it was time to board again.

We rose back into the air leaving the neighbour and a mother with a car full of kids who’d pulled over to watch, gazing up after us. The man’s wife was to make the hour and a quarter journey to Whangarei by car.

We landed on the helipad and the gurney, with the patient was wheeled through a shelter – no tunnels or slides – and into the lift which took us to the emergency department. Sam handed the patient over to a team of doctors and nurses, before doing the relevant paperwork and popping his head round the curtain to bid goodbye to the patient. I wanted to say goodbye too and thank him for letting the pesky journalist tag along throughout his ordeal but decided he’d probably seen enough of me.

Sam had told me that the paramedics sometimes do follow-ups with their patients and I found myself wondering, after, how the man was doing and if his poor wife made it to Whangarei alright.

Later that night as we sat around the dinner table and talked about our days I held the children enthrall as I regaled them with my adventurous high-flying tales. Strangely, nobody wanted to talk about their own day after that – I guess it just didn't compare.

Bead

There’s nothing like a three-year-old sticking a bead up her nose at dinner time and a subsequent whanau trip – minus the hubby who’s away on a dive course for several days - into A & E. 

Missy came out of her room looking guilty as sin and slightly upset as she informed me in a tiny voice there was a ball up her nose.

She was quite happy, if not a little anxious from my reaction as I piled them into the car and drove to the hospital.

I knew this was fairly common practice for infants - her older brother had done it the year before with a small object. It was most out of character but he was in the naughty corner at the time. A friend’s boy had also posted a corn kernel in his twin brother’s ear some month’s ago.

There would be a wait of up to two hours, we were informed upon arrival. The boys lasted half an hour playing with the abacus in the waiting room before they began displaying signs of becoming painful.

Luckily I’d rung the grandparents who swung by on their way out to dinner, scooped up my two ruffian barefoot children and took them out with them. 

The doctor explained that when children have foreign bodies up their noses, around 65 per cent of the time, the “Mother’s Kiss”* will extract it. This is when, blocking the clear nostril, air is blown into the mouth and the object should pop out like a champagne cork. However, several attempts at this were unsuccessful because the air was simply blowing through the hole in the centre of the bead.

Jayla was not having a bar of the doctor coming at her with the narrow, sharp instrument he was holding so, after some umming and ahhing on his part, it was decided to take her home for the night and return at 8am when she would be sedated.

The idea of her sleeping all night with a bead up her nose was unsettling.

“Honestly, I don’t mind pinning her arms down while you remove it,” I said. After-all, it worked with her brother.

But the doctor said it was not their practice to frighten children so, after reassurance that the bead would not be going anywhere, we returned home three hours later.

Obviously I didn’t sleep much. But apart from the whistling sound coming from her room with every exhale, she was fine.

Next morning we arrived - Jayla reluctantly - bang on eight and, this time, saw an ear, nose and throat doctor who said he would have no trouble extracting it without sedation.

He showed us into a room where a solemn young man sat on a bed wearing a monstrous eye patch. Upon sighting this, Jayla backed away in fright - she thought he was a pirate!

She wasn’t letting this doctor near her either so he took us up to another ward. Kicking and screaming, she was swaddled in a sheet and pinned down by two nurses while I held her head and the object was removed in one swift motion by the doctor.

“I told you it wouldn’t hurt,” she had the cheek to say to me as we walked back to the car post-performance.

It’s baffling to us adults why children poke objects in these orifices but I don’t think there’ll be a repeat of it in our family – both Jayla and Cade have learnt their lessons and Jai, having witnessed the drama, certainly won’t be trying it.

Oh and as for the bead? It was purple, for the record, and now takes pride of place taped to a page in her baby book.

* It is recommended the “Mother’s Kiss” be performed under supervision of a medical professional.

Ten things children commonly put in their noses (in no particular order):

1. Crayons
2. Beads
3. French fries
4. Fingers
5. Raisons
6. Spaghetti
7. Tissue
8. Flower petals
9. Small toys – marbles, lego

10. Beans and peas

Choking - The Day It Happened

It was late afternoon and I was giving my eleven month-old first born an early dinner.

I placed a spoonful of puree chicken stir fry in his mouth and proceeded to scoop up the next lot when I heard him gagging.

This was a fairly common occurrence so I calmly stood up and patted his back. However, the coughing continued.

Slightly alarmed I scooped him out of the high chair and began back blows, like we’d been taught at antenatal classes. The gagging continued.

It was at this stage the plan I’d mentally rehearsed, should this nightmare ever occur, kicked into action. I raced downstairs with my now convulsing baby in my arms. But when I reached the door he stopped.

Thank god, I breathed, false alarm. But then I saw his face.

My baby was completely blue and limp.

Screaming ‘Help’, I sprinted next door with Cadeyn now unconscious.

My neighbour came running out to meet me on the drive and grabbed him from me.

“Call 111,” I shrieked to the others who had emerged.

They ducked back inside while, for a second or two, I watched my neighbour frantically patting Cadeyn’s back.

At this point I asked myself, do I stand here watching helplessly and leave the one chance I have at saving my son’s life in someone else’s hands, in which case, if it didn’t work I’d never forgive myself for not trying harder? Or do I give it all I’ve got?

I grabbed my son back – his limp body feeling heavy in my arms - and started pelting the heel of my hand between his shoulder blades, but to no avail.

I remember thinking then: “Oh my god, I’ve lost my baby two weeks before his first birthday”.

“It’s too late,” I cried to the neighbour who seemed to be talking so calmly on the phone.

As I ran with him over to the porch I tried to recall the sternum compressions we’d been taught at antenatal classes. Was it two fingers or three now that he was no longer a new born?

I lay him on his back intending to unconfidently carry this out but then saw his face.

That was when I lost it and, in one last-ditch effort, began mouth-to-mouth.

“Jodi, he’s breathing,” my neighbour put her hand on my arm and stopped me.

Somewhere along the line, perhaps due to the relaxed throat muscles, the unknown food item had dislodged and he’d started breathing again. My boy’s completely blue and swollen body was now erratically taking in air.

I picked his heavy body up in my arms and held him close to me as tears rolled down both our cheeks.

We sat like this on the porch in the sweltering March sun for I don’t know how long – his little body convulsing with his sobs and the effort to breathe.

Finally the ambulance arrived, guided by the neighbours’ kids, and by this stage I was in a daze. We carried out the procedures in a strangely calm way, before they transported me and Cadeyn – with tubes attached to his body and an oxygen mask over his face - to the hospital.

But on the way in he started to close his eyes again.

“He looks like he’s about to have a sleep,” commented the ambulance officer.

“Well he shouldn’t,” I replied, instantly alarmed. “He’s only recently woken up.”

The adrenaline kicked in all over again and she was straight on her feet making adjustments to a machine while I urged Cadeyn to wake.

But then he opened his eyes, smiled weakly at me and said “mama” in a soft voice and it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

By the time we got to the hospital, where his father was waiting, he was back to his old self. It was only after, I realised his dad had been due to come home while it was unfolding, but had worked slightly late that evening. This was a blessing as I wouldn’t have wished the sight he would have seen upon anyone.

I learnt some valuable lessons that day – one: do a first aid refresher course, and two: you and your children are not invincible. As parents we can get complacent and take things for granted but it can happen to anyone at anytime.

For information on courses such as Choking and CPR, visit www.stjohn.org.nz or phone 0800 ST JOHN (0800 785646).

Vaccines

The mere mention of needles has me running for the hills. So when it was time for my first-born’s six-week immunisations I cowardly arranged for my husband to take an hour off work as my replacement.

In hindsight I should’ve just taken a cement pill and hardened up for, not long after they’d left, I received a phone call from the doctor’s surgery basically implying I get my butt up there as my baby needed me.

They’d taken the car so, with trepidation, I raced up there breaking a PB (personal best) to be met by the sound of my baby’s screams ricocheting out the surgery and down the strand. 

It’s fair to say, at that moment, I felt like the worst mother in the world. The accusing looks I received as everyone in the waiting room turned unanimously to look at the negligent parental unit who’d left their baby to howl down the house for the last 15 minutes only verified this.

Now, many needles later, I have hardened up so, after calling the 0800 number to clarify a few concerns, I booked the twins in to have their free meningococcal vaccines.

It’s been hard to miss the publicity around this. Besides the media and a letter in the mail there was also a mobile clinic in the mall during the school holidays which, once Master Five cottoned onto, literally gave a wide berth.

“Sorry,” I called over my shoulder to the approaching nurse as I chased my son. “He’s not having a bar of it today.”

“That’s alright,” she smiled. “The schools are running free programmes.” (In other words “They’ll get you at school little man hehehe.”)

The twins, however, were the opposite. “Who wants to go first?” the nurse asked.

“Me!” they both exclaimed, curious to know what was in the little tray she carried.

I’d explained to them it would just be a small prick which would help stop them getting sick and then we could go get a lollypop.

Jai hopped up on my knee first. “Ow!” he looked accusingly at the nurse. “You hurt me!”

That was it.

Jayla was much the same but with a bit of a whimper (or was that from me?) and it was all forgotten as they focused on their prize – the lollypops.

After much ado over their plasters and lollypops - the nurse had long been forgiven - we were on our way.

That’s two down, just one more – the hypochondriac – to go. But then maybe that’s not going to be such a drama after-all.

Upon picking up big bro and their lollypops being flamboyantly thrust in his face, (painstakingly saved specifically for this reason, I might add) he suddenly changed his mind.

“Mum, when do I get to have my injection?” he whined all the way home.

Kutus

“Nits are doing the rounds once more. Please check your child’s hair,” read the sign at kindy the other day.

This was followed by a newsletter of similar nature from the school.

Right, time to kick into high-alert again.

A year or two ago when nits were prevalent when my oldest was at pre-school I thought we’d have nothing to worry about. I’d managed to escape head lice throughout my childhood so we were invincible right?

Nup.

I began to notice a lot of head scratching going on with Master then-four and put on my glasses to inspect. Was I imaging it or was his hair alive?

I got mum to take a look – she’s a teacher and an expert at spotting them.

She confirmed my fears and provided me with a school print out on how to handle the situation. Then I popped up to the shop to buy the required paraphernalia.

Upon telling the lady in the pharmacy my plight she immediately began scratching her head. (By the way, are you feeling itchy?)

I arrived back with a couple of combs and both non-chemical and insecticide treatments, and we got to work.

There was definitely an awful lot of activity going on in there and I soon became the pro nit-picker.

Myths abound as to whether head lice can swim, fly or jump. Supposedly they can’t but I’d like to know how they disappeared off the comb so quickly.

“You’d better check the twins’ hair too,” mum said.

Surely not - they were only babies! But I checked nonetheless and was shocked to find several lurking.

“Gosh, I’m beginning to feel quite itchy,” I commented to mum who replied that it was probably just psychological.

That night, exhausted after shampooing and combing the kids’ hair and changing all the bedding and towels, I was about to fall into bed when I thought I’d run the comb through my own hair.

Horror of all horrors - I discovered a giant KUTU!

How could this be? Not only was I a hygiene freak but I washed my hair every night. Actually, come to think of it, head lice thrive in clean hair so they would have been loving it. That did it. Not keen to prolong the contact, a mad frenzy of eradication ensued.

I jumped back in the shower, this time applying the treatment to my own hair. The next morning I got out the hair straighteners to fry any remaining, plus their eggs. Then I purchased hair dye, just in case everything else hadn’t worked. (I’ve since learnt while researching for this story that all these methods combined are not recommended).

That first night was the worst. I felt like they’d ruined my life and lay awake stressing … and itching.

According to the instructions we were to wait several days before re-treating to give the eggs time to hatch. That was the hardest part. I have trouble killing even an ant but this was kutu central and I couldn’t wait to get rid of them.

Despite not being able to see how we would ever get on top of them, within a couple of nightmarish weeks we were.

In the following months the childrens’ heads were religiously sprayed with diluted tea tree oil before leaving the house and checked literally with a fine tooth comb when they returned.

No nits have dared come near our hair again and they’ll rue the day they do.

(P.S. Are you scratching yet?)

# Notify your child’s school or pre-school if head lice are found. Some provide information and natural treatments.

Fact Box:

# Headlice is a common problem around the world. They are small flat insects about two-three millimeters long that breed all year round;

# Their colour ranges from beige to grey but they may darken as they feed;

# Headlice cannot jump, fly or swim and remain on the head after swimming, bathing or showering;

# Female lice lay about seven – ten eggs each night while the person is still. Eggs are firmly glued to the hair and laid close to the scalp. Hair grows about one centremeter a month. Therefore any eggs found more than one centremeter from the scalp will have hatched and died;

# The eggs (nits) are small and hard like a grain of salt and are typically cream/brown or grey in colour. After hatching the nits (empty egg cases) are white;

# Eggs hatch in nine days and a louse will live for up to 40 days but only up to two days off the human body. Headlice found off the head are usually sick, old or injured and do not lay eggs;

# Common places they are found are around the hairline at the back of the neck, behind the ears and on the crown.