tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80575099266043039612024-03-05T04:35:04.684-07:00Dal, Hel & BelFinding the Right PerspectiveHelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.comBlogger375125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-14126012460647026042013-03-24T05:09:00.003-07:002013-03-24T05:09:42.703-07:00Happy Pills generally save me at least once every dayIt's hot. It's eleven in the evening and I am wide awake.<br />
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Two nights in a row now. I haven't been able to go to sleep. I've been suffering from complete exhaustion for the past four weeks and now I can't sleep?! Stupid hormones.<br />
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I'm on the cusp of depression. I take my pill every day and I know it keeps me from falling off the edge. But I'm right there. Right on the edge. Not caring about my appearance. Not caring about the state of the house. Doing the bare minimum to get by. Dallas says I have an excuse. I'm pregnant. But I think the excuse just enables me. Am I being too hard on myself? Should I just let all these things slide? Give myself a break. Or does giving myself a break just mean I'll be teetering on the edge for longer?<br />
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I'm not unhappy. I just don't have it in me to care about things like appearances and dinner and getting out of the house. For me, not caring about those things brings me closer to a black hole that I try to stay away from at all costs.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-88042988624093907372012-12-01T05:58:00.003-07:002012-12-01T05:58:56.124-07:00MidsomerFrom the moment we married, Dal and I have been watching Detective Barnaby in Midsomer Murders. We love the ambling easy going pace that the show offers. Detective Barnaby is always cheeky and a gets a bit cranky when others aren't keeping up with him.<br />
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I fondly remember watching the show on ABC once or twice a week when I was pregnant with Isabel. I could never make through an entire episode and would fall asleep usually as Barnaby discovered the second murder.<br />
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This evening we started watching the thirteenth season on dvd. I love having the rush of feelings that strong memories invoke. Barnaby will always hold a special place in my heart because it has always meant that Dallas and I have stopped life for a while to just sit, relax (maybe sleep) and just BE. Always with Barnaby and his sidekick.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-5540210412055649492012-11-30T06:42:00.001-07:002012-11-30T06:42:35.960-07:00A Gumtree Christmas<div style="text-align: center;">
Like it? It took a few false starts, but I think I eventually got it right. What do you think?</div>
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While sweltering in the 35 degree 90% humidity, I have thought hanging snowflakes and decorating the house like it's winter may be a little ridiculous. So I wracked my brains wondering how to make our home a more summery Christmas. Of course using Gumtree sticks to make a Christmas tree is a perfect answer. After trialling yarn and and various wire techniques I ended up twisting a piece of wire around each individual stick and making a hook on one side and a loop on the other. It was then just a matter of hooking each stick to each other.</div>
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Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-23457149647209844592012-09-26T04:04:00.001-07:002012-09-26T04:04:44.731-07:00For Gran DennyGran Denny,<br />
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I was going through some boxes yesterday and found the thank you card you gave Dal and I. I remembered you mentioned that you wanted to see pictures on my blog and I thought I MUST get on to that!! Here's an update of our little family.<br />
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We are back in Sydney near Campbelltown, so if you are ever back in Sydney, let us know so we can have a catch up. with love, Hel<br />
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<br />Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-55771869404047703352012-08-29T06:00:00.000-07:002012-08-29T06:00:33.727-07:00Mz Pezzi or DebbieThings have taken a turn for the worse emotionally.<br />
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I'm having a "me" party and it's ranks up there with the worst party ever.<br />
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Here's hoping tomorrow will give me a better outlook on life.<br />
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Maybe our financial situation will look better. Maybe I'll look better. and maybe William will sleep better.<br />
<br />Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-28947143953348569622012-06-18T21:42:00.002-07:002012-06-18T21:42:44.170-07:00William Thomas (The Goose)I have <b>four</b> unfinished posts from October last year claiming that I was back in the blogging game. The first one is actually not too bad. It's the story of Williams birth, so I've decided to give it to you now. I couldn't let so much writing just go to waste.<br />
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I love Williams birth story. I love everything about William. He has me wrapped around his little finger. But this isn't a post about how wonderful William is... this is a post about how he came in to this world. Here it is.<br />
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There was lots of complaining about pregnancy. And then there was some more complaining. I waited. I went full term. And I got impatient. My OB and I scheduled an induction for 9am Sunday 9th October 2011. I hoped (but didn't hold my breath) that I would go into labour before then.</div>
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My lesson to be learned from this baby is DEFINITELY Patience.</div>
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I really feel as though this isn't a real birth story. Every woman has her own war story. I'll admit that I love to tell my own stories. But this one really should just go: "I hurt. And then I had a baby." There's not much more to it. Really.</div>
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Just to show that I am not in charge of anything, I started going in to labour one hour before the scheduled induction. 8am Sunday morning. I moved around the house, tying up a few loose ends, having breakfast and instructing Grandma on what Isabel should wear to church. I figured if I got to the hospital as close to my appointment time as possible, then things would go a bit smoother. So I wasn't really rushing.</div>
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On the way I told Dal not to worry about my grand gestures of foregoing an epidural.... if these pains were to get any worse, then I wanted (in no uncertain terms) an epidural.</div>
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Dal and I arrived at labour and delivery registration in time for the admitting officer to recognise that I was in significant enough pain for her to be duly worried. A labour and delivery room was already set up for my scheduled induction, so in a small moment of mercy I was able to bypass triage. In the small 45 minutes it took for me to get from my shower at home (when the pains started) to the labour and delivery room the pains had gone from "hmmm.... could this be real labour?" to "holy crap I want to shoot myself in the head... or where-ever it is that will stop the pain."</div>
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The nurses managed to convince me to lay down on the bed long enough for this exchange to go on:</div>
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Nurse1: Ok... let's see how far along you are. What?! She's already an eight!</div>
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Nurse2: Holy cow! Are you serious?!</div>
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Nurse1: You do know, dear, that you didn't have to wait until your appointment time to come in?</div>
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Me: Of course. My contractions didn't start until 8.</div>
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Nurse1: Last night?</div>
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Deadpan Dal (I was having a body twisting contraction): No, this morning.</div>
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Nurse1 looks at the both of us disbelievingly. But the flurry of action that continued in the room took on a bit of a more urgent feel. Repeated pleas to the anesthesiologist to come and give me an epidural were soon answered by a middle-aged man ambling in to my room with his cart of goodies. He looked me in the eyes as he clearly explained the dangers of an epidural. As my body became wracked with another contraction he called for my signature on the paper to say I understood.</div>
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The instructions were clear. I needed to hunch my back long enough for him to get his needle in. Unfortunately, it was physically impossible for me to be hunched while my body prepared itself to push the little man out. When I was giving birth to Isabel I found the most comfortable position for me was on all fours. I put myself in that position. The anesthesiologist explained that he would try a lesser form of pain relief, but I would still need to be curled in the fetal position. It just wasn't working. The news that I wouldn't be able have any pain relief came at the same time I went from just contracting to contracting and feeling the urge to push.</div>
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Not a good time to tell a woman that she's going to have to weather the pain on her own.</div>
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I'm not one to suffer in silence, so there was much yelling and gnashing of teeth. Dallas stayed in his usual position at the top of the bed. I firmly believe that he would love if the hospitals went back to days of yore when the husbands just stayed out of the room, pacing the halls. I love his presence there, but I know he is always uncomfortable. I'd say watching the baby come out is an experience on a par with swimming with the sharks. There is no way in hell he will ever do either.</div>
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Dallas made mention that there was a lot of noise with the last birth too. No more than fifteen minutes of pushing and William Thomas Petersen entered this world. I fell in love immediately. He had hair and was perfectly perfect in every possible way.</div>Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-59035703415150369742012-06-18T21:15:00.000-07:002012-06-18T21:15:43.182-07:00the email beforeHelen sat at her computer, her heart seemingly up near her ears.<br />
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"Is this you?" She read the email again trying to decide if it was a friend trying to be funny or if it really was the love of her life making contact again.<br />
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She was cautiously excited. Since David had abruptly left the relationship more than a year ago, Helen had secretly held hope that he would realize the error of his ways and beg to be taken back. The email didn't really hold much by way of begging, or anything for that matter, but it was a step in the right direction.<br />
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Helen typed in a response, erased it and typed in a reworded email. She didn't want to appear desperate so she erased the second letter. Finally she clicked "send" on her one word response.<br />
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"Yes".<br />
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Helen pushed the email and any thoughts about it to the back of her mind. It was most likely a prank.<br />
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Life pushed on. Helen wore several hats during the course of each day. Nanny in the morning. Pizza wench in the evenings. If she was feeling energetic, Helen walked through the snow to the local gym for an hour of elliptical bliss. She would wind down from the day by watching television and playing around on the computer.<br />
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Not long after the mysterious email, Helen received another email. It didn't send her heart to her ears, instead it made her smile. "Wienerhead McGee" certainly deserved more than a one word response so she playfully typed one in and pressed send. If things didn't work out with her ex then maybe Wienerhead would be a fun diversion.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-79523979534731924332012-06-13T11:16:00.001-07:002012-06-13T13:52:03.892-07:00It all started with .... an email?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"so, australia to canada huh? are you trying to hit all the former</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">british colonies before you die? having lived in the u.s., i know what</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">living under the thumb of the british is all about. always making me</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">worship king george, and buy their stupid tea at jacked up prices.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">it's ludicrous."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">January 31st, 2005. A small email popped up in my Linkup inbox. My profile told all and sundry that I was from Australia but visiting Canada at the time and that I liked movies with interesting endings. The stars and planets aligned and Wienerhead McGee saw my profile and picture. Not being all that interested because I was in a different country (he generally stayed with the local girls) he kept it casual and brief.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Although I wasn't interested in his profile, I couldn't help but reply with an equally trite email. He had made me smile... and he seemed to be 2000 times more intelligent than the other guys with whom I had had the pleasure of corresponding (we will ignore the fact that his handle was Wienderhead McGee).</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"I enjoy living under the thumb of the british. Although I haven't yet<br />experienced it, i'd say it's better than living under the oppression<br />of the self glorified rule of the american government!<br /><br />Tea is overrated anyway......<br /><br />I'll have to watch those other movies you just suggested..... I'm<br />always up for a good guessing movie.....<br /><br />King George is hot."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">While so many more important things were taking place in the world, this small collision in cyberspace, although seemingly small and insignificant, became one of the most pivotal moments in my life.</span>Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-30730880369570124802011-09-14T13:23:00.001-07:002011-09-14T13:23:13.536-07:00I always pay for my sleepThis morning the kitten and Isabel woke me up especially early.<br />
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Oh, I didn't tell you about the kitten. Long story short: Found an abandoned 4 week old kitten, took it home because I couldn't bear to worry about it for the rest of my life. Am trying to resist the urge to keep her and have someone come and take her to a new home. I haven't really advertised her yet....<br />
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So Isabel wakes up and upon doing so, wakes the kitten up. The kitten mews constantly until I get her some milk. So when Isabel wakes up these days, it means I am well and truly up myself. The usual routine is Isabel up, Kitten up, Kitten mews, I stumble out of bed, I make milk for kitten while Isabel dances around me asking what I want to play, Isabel and I play Isabel's new board game over and over while the kitten eats.<br />
<br />
If I'm lucky, I'll make it to 9am before I drag myself back to bed, trying to think of a way to keep Isabel occupied while I attempt a bit more sleep.<br />
<br />
This morning, though, I couldn't even make it to 8 o'clock. 7.30 came around and Isabel seemed content to sit and eat her breakfast while she watched tv and I slyly slipped out of the tv room and lay on my bed. I literally passed out.<br />
<br />
The next thing I was aware of was Isabel's excited voice piercing through my coma-like state of mind. I looked at the clock. It was 9 o'clock. I couldn't believe it.... I got a good amount of sleep without Isabel interrupting. Panic set in. What had she been doing all that time?!<br />
<br />
"Look Mummy! My pyjamas have pockets!"<br />
<br />
"Oh that's fun, how did you make your pockets?"<br />
<br />
"I found some scissors! I love my pockets!!"<br />
<br />
GAH! I HATE scissors. Actually, I'm glad that she didn't cut the kitten up.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-28197186958750711672011-08-27T22:11:00.000-07:002011-08-27T22:11:11.390-07:00Fitting InDal and I were lucky enough to have an executive suite experience at a Diamondback's home game tonight. The perks?.... no obnoxious fans sitting around us (they were all in the plebes seats); free quality food; air-conditioning; and the most important thing to an 8 month pregnant woman..... a private toilet.<br />
<br />
But before I knew about our own "special" bathroom, I figured I would take advantage of the ladies toilets that we walked past as we entered the park. I walked in and took the nearest stall to the door (no time to look for the "best" toilet - and don't say you don't know what I'm talking about... you know you look for the best toilet). Unfortunately the Chase Field architects didn't factor in eight month pregnant women coming to the game. They crammed as many stalls into the available space as they could.<br />
<br />
Have you ever seen an overly pregnant woman try to suck her gut in? There's not much change in inches between "relaxed" and "sucked in". The stall door scraped my belly as I tried to close it. I was a little concerned that I wouldn't be able to get back out. It didn't turn out as badly as I thought. But you can imagine my relief when I found out I had my own private toilet.... with enough space for ten of me.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking of getting Dal to take a photo of me tomorrow - the only one you'll get of me for this pregnancy. I guess it's just not as exciting the second time around. For pregnancy photos please see my Facebook albums of when I was pregnant with Isabel.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-31717286525949661292011-08-23T22:11:00.000-07:002011-08-23T22:11:46.499-07:00My kind of "Love Language"Those people who invented the whole love language thing... I think they missed at least one language. What makes my heart pitter patter is the dulcet sounds of this sentence spoken by the sweet love of my life:<br />
<br />
"We should have takeout tonight".Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-44305695132918242092011-08-10T15:20:00.000-07:002011-08-10T15:20:33.031-07:00Tick TockIsabel usually wakes up between 6am and 7am each morning.<br />
<br />
I have told her that I wont play with her or do anything with her until 7am. That is the earliest I can function and that seems to make sense to her.<br />
<br />
Recently, though, she has not been happy to just watch tv or play on the computer while she waits. She sits in between Dal and I and tries to wake me by chattering away or just breathing heavily in my face.<br />
<br />
This morning wins the prize. She draped herself over my body looking at my bedside table where the little alarm clock sits. Right in my ear she rhythmically chimed over and over "TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK." Unfortunately we weren't even close to 7 o'clock.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-7849641052846601512011-08-04T08:14:00.000-07:002011-08-04T08:14:08.056-07:00Boys spitLast night as we ate our ice cream, Isabel and I were having a little chat.<br />
<br />
I said "You know, Isabel, that when you were smaller you didn't like ice cream. You used to spit it out."<br />
<br />
Of course she didn't believe me. She had a bit of a chuckle and then proceeded to talk some nonsense about ice cream, boys, girls and spitting.<br />
<br />
Finally I was able to interpret what she was trying to tell me.<br />
<br />
"Wait, are you saying that you used to be a boy?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. And boys spit."<br />
<br />
It all came together. Apparently Isabel was a boy when she was younger. I guess she deduced this by hearing me tell her that she used to spit stuff out. But now she's older, she's turned into a girl and doesn't spit anymore.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how she came to this conclusion because I am constantly telling her to STOP SPITTING!Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-16721261391886308412011-08-02T23:43:00.000-07:002011-08-02T23:43:07.628-07:00SleepI live for sleep. I am certain I could sleep 20 hours in the day and still be tired after waking up.<br />
<br />
That is why I need my morning naps. As mentioned previously, Isabel likes to sit on my bed playing on my laptop while I have a nap. This morning didn't go so well. I gave her a muesli bar to eat while I napped. I while later I heard her rustling in our bathroom.<br />
<br />
"Mummy, where's the wipes?"<br />
"What do you need wipes for, Isabel?"<br />
"To wipe the bed."<br />
<br />
Alarms bells start clanging in my head. I look over to Dal's side of the bed and find what can only be chewed up and spat out chocolate chip muesli bar.<br />
<br />
"Forget the wipes, I'm going back to sleep. Get a towel and sit on it".<br />
<br />
A while later I get a hand slapped right by my head.<br />
"Time to wake up mummy"<br />
"NO! You kept waking me up. Give me 20 more minutes"<br />
"Mummy it's 7 o'clock. Time to wake up."<br />
<br />
In actual fact it is 10.30 in the morning. I point that out to her. That doesn't deter her. Isabel grabs my bedside clock and winds the clock back to three.<br />
<br />
"See. 7 o'clock. Get up".Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-20018054512510052912011-08-01T21:26:00.000-07:002011-08-01T21:26:12.679-07:00Doidy - At my sister's requestIt IS a fairly dormant blog isn't it?<br />
<br />
Back when Isabel was learning sounds that didn't mean anything she would repeat over and over "doi, doi, doi, doi". My sisters thought it hilarious and began to call her Doidy. I am certain that Isabel will have the same relationship with that nickname that I did with "Chark" (my dad's pet name for me). A love/hate relationship.<br />
<br />
My youngest sister told me today that it was time to hear a Doidy story.<br />
<br />
There is plenty that happens each day and that little girl makes me laugh at least three or four times a day. There are just as many times, if not more, that I can't imagine ever being obeyed by this cheeky little thing. I use the old counting to three trick, but most of the time I get to three and she is still doing what she shouldn't be doing. It's only when I begin stalking over to her with a threatening stare that she moves her little butt. I'm not sure what I'll do if I ever actually get to her. I think she knows that and is only pandering to my silly counting and stalking.<br />
<br />
Isabel loves to play games on my laptop. My 7 month pregnant body appreciates this particularly when it starts to flag in the afternoons. Isabel perches herself beside me on my bed with the laptop on her lap while I snooze. She likes to copy my touch typing skills, but of course ends up with nonsense lines of letters. I woke up the other afternoon in time to see this:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, 'bitstream vera sans', clean, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">We did not find results for: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, 'bitstream vera sans', clean, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><strong style="font-style: normal; font-weight: bold;">kuumba made uhiuhhuihu</strong></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, 'bitstream vera sans', clean, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">. Try the suggestions below or type a new query above</span><br />
<br />
I'm impressed she typed an actual word. Poor Google couldn't even think of suggestions for her Google search.<br />
<br />
Isabel likes to lick her feet. She likes to lick my arms. She also enjoys eating her shirts. She knows every one of those things creeps me out, but she continues to do it.<br />
<br />
I have taken some movies of Isabel that I intend to post here. But I need to get some batteries for the camera .... now that I've typed that, I am certain I can just hook it up to the computer and recharge the battery. I'll get back to you on that one. Stay tuned.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking lately of a few different posts that I could put up... so I feel like I'm getting some sort of blog mojo back. But I'm not promising anything at the moment. You'll only be disappointed.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-54332074074317657542011-06-25T23:35:00.000-07:002011-06-25T23:35:14.128-07:00TrunkedI'm finally able to do it! I finally have stories to tell you the stupid things my child says. And then you can tell me how NOT cute it is. Then I'll argue until I'm blue in the face that it was in fact the cutest thing you could have ever seen.<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I prepared LQ for what was happening next as we drove home from a family get together.<br />
<br />
"When we get home, it's books and bed time, LQ"<br />
<br />
"No.... I watch daddy play racing Mario"<br />
<br />
"No, LQ. It is time for bed when we get home."<br />
<br />
"No.... I watch daddy play racing Mario"<br />
<br />
[repeat at least 5 times]<br />
<br />
finally I change the pace -<br />
<br />
"LQ! You will be going to bed when we get home. I'm the Mummy and I say so!"<br />
<br />
"No! I LQ and I play with daddy"<br />
<br />
"LQ... Mummy trumps LQ. Every time."<br />
<br />
"No I trunk Mummy!"<br />
<br />
Dal: "I'll trunk your faces" - End of conversation.<br />
<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
We sit on the floor. We are playing guess the shape with dinosaurs. I pause for dramatics. "hmmmm...."<br />
<br />
LQ, the computer whiz, questions me. "Are you loading?"<br />
<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
A favourite game at the moment is "wake the baby". LQ and I poke and prod my tummy in an effort to get Little Bob Jnr to move around. LQ puts her mouth up to my tummy and yells "WAKE UP BABY!!" I am thinking this may not be a good tradition to continue for much longer.<br />
<br />
LQ is very aware of the baby and is very willing to talk about him to anyone who asks. We asked her how the baby gets out of mummy's tummy. She just shrugged. We told her how he will come out and she laughed hysterically and said "No! THAT is SILLY!"Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-28125926268035022362011-06-04T23:11:00.000-07:002011-06-04T23:11:00.672-07:00Warning: May inhibit bloggingI love my antidepressants. They have done wonders for me.<br />
<br />
But like every drug, they do have some side effects. The side effect that I've noticed the most is the lack of desire to blog.<br />
<br />
There's been a few things happen in the past month that were worthy of blogging. To be honest, "back in the day" I didn't really need anything to write about. There were posts about LQ sitting in a box for heavens sakes. But now even when big events like finding out the sex of my child happen, I can't seem to find the energy or desire to write about it.<br />
<br />
I am certain that once the pregnancy, the new babyness and the need for anti-depressants have passed, there will come a time when I feel the need to write more than once a month.<br />
<br />
But for now I hope you can ride on through this slump with me and meet me on the other side. As an update to my life:<br />
<br />
We found out we are having a boy.<br />
I was lucky enough to have to do a driving exam to get my Arizona licence. I passed with flying colours.<br />
LQ has turned into a bandit. She insists that all bandits are good.<br />
I celebrated my 30th birthday. In Tombstone. Watching street shootout re-enactments.<br />
LQ refers to her stuffed toys as "the guys" or "my guys". "Put boots on the guys, mummy"<br />
<br />
I hope your June is a good one.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-10350376594415120532011-05-09T17:26:00.000-07:002011-05-09T17:26:09.717-07:00Newsy news news newsI've made the title of this post sound like I've actually got exciting news to tell. Not really. Just a whole bunch of little things (maybe not even a whole bunch) to catch up on the three weeks I've not written anything.<br />
<br />
First things first. You can stop worrying about crazy Hel. Crazy Hel went and got some drugs that turned her into "content with life" Hel. My OB gave me a prescription for anti-depressants. I sat on that prescription for three weeks, in the hopes that my good mood was here to stay. As it turned out, it was not, so I filled that prescription and to cut a long story short, LQ is no longer at risk of being blamed for spots on the floor that don't actually exist, among other things. Sure there are spots on the floor now, because "content with life" Hel is also "Don't Mop the Floors" Hel. <i><b>As a disclaimer:</b> I am completely aware of the risks of taking anti-depressants while pregnant, but as I have assured both Grandmothers of the fetus there was much reflection, praying and pondering on the matter and the pros outweighed the cons by a million miles. The decision was not made lightly (although I speak light of the matter now)</i>.<br />
<br />
Speaking of "don't mop the floors" Hel. She comes in other varieties of "I don't do any housework" Hel. Last night Dal tentatively brought up the possibility of having a cleaning day next Saturday. I honestly thought he couldn't see the inch thick grunge that had built up behind the toilet. Not to worry. It will build up again after our spring clean.<br />
<br />
"Creative" Hel has reared her wonderful head again, but "Procrastination" Hel keeps pushing her down. LQ just recently had her fourth birthday party. I had wonderful, wonderful visions of many happy children being wowed by the awesomeness of LQ's Cowgirl party, but most of those visions never came to fruition. I'm glad I had the foresight to order some party crap before it was too late. It didn't turn out too badly. I forgot to play some games I had organised to have and forgot to put out the "Wagon Wheels" (look it up yourself -Arnotts Wagon Wheels) that Mum had sent especially from Australia. But because of my super drugs, I laughed about it instead of crying for three days and wondering if my child would be scarred for the rest of her life.<br />
<br />
We find out in two weeks what the sex of the baby is. Want to place bets? The odds are good.<br />
<br />
Well, I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. It's time for "I don't make dinner" Hel to get to work. I'm thinking of making mashed potatoes for LQ and calling it a night.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5705483380/" title="DSC_0094 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0094" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2431/5705483380_aa61b5ec41.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5704917467/" title="DSC_0096 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0096" height="500" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3361/5704917467_d17656b8d8.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5705484246/" title="DSC_0097 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0097" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2300/5705484246_72fea594a2.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5705484446/" title="DSC_0098 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0098" height="333" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2667/5705484446_d472e068be.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5704918611/" title="DSC_0106 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0106" height="500" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2746/5704918611_47c3e6900e.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5704919505/" title="DSC_0141 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0141" height="333" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3010/5704919505_443f650e54.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-80513508780327529332011-04-22T20:43:00.001-07:002011-04-22T20:48:46.404-07:00Meanwhile....... back in Hobart my brothers are inventing new dance techniques. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Rancing".<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/fXvOwvFlR8c?rel=0" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe>Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-90744376524653816872011-04-19T15:32:00.000-07:002011-04-19T15:32:59.375-07:00CrankyMy friend wrote to me after reading my last post. She only reads my blog when she gets bored at work, so I know she truly does love me.<br />
<br />
"I can see the crazy factor rising a little Helgs!" End quote. Yep... she calls me Helgs (a friend from almost ten years ago now) and yep, what she said kind of describes my life perfectly. Dal will attest to that. I am certain if he wasn't so nice he'd have disappeared some months ago now.<br />
<br />
I am all sorts of crazy, but mostly I feel just cranky. And so when I think that it is time I really should update my blog, all I can think of is cranky things to talk about. For example I would really like to complain about birthdays or tell you of my eternal hatred for my hairdresser or vent about the seemingly lack of discipline that occurs in Primary every week (let me clarify - the Presidency is wonderful... it's the teachers that seem to be scared to tell their class to "shoosh!"). I really don't want to write all that stuff down because I don't want to seem stuck in the mire, although I am. And I don't want to seem petty, although I am. And worst of all, I don't want someone to be offended by my crankiness, although I'm sure my hormones have already offended more people in my life than I care to think about.<br />
<br />
I skyped with my mum for over an hour yesterday... mostly complaining. Then I made her cry. I guess I just had too many stupid/petty problems for one person to handle. Actually... she cried because she's got a husband who is just as much a nut job as me. Thankfully he can't get pregnant... so we are all safe from that beast (hi Dad!).<br />
<br />
I think, though, that if I did start writing all my thoughts, all that would end up happening is a full public meltdown a la Charlie Sheen style (maybe not so drastic, but it wouldn't be pretty).<br />
<br />
So instead of documenting my mental decline, I thought I'd finally share with you the story of how Dal and I met. I think I've given you bits and pieces here and there, but never the full story. I think this is a good idea because so many of the famous bloggers have already done it and I am all about riding a fad until it's been flogged to death. Also, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/03509169727773615479">my newest follower</a> suggested something similar while commenting on one of my old posts.<br />
<br />
I'm just hoping that it doesn't end up being the crankiest love story ever told.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-34954540858090147762011-04-18T13:47:00.000-07:002011-04-18T13:47:58.362-07:00Mottled MondayJust a few bits and pieces.<br />
<br />
For three days straight now, I have asked LQ what she wants for lunch. For three straight days she has had a clear idea of what she wants. For three straight days I have given her EXACTLY what she has requested. For three straight days she has seen what I had for lunch and proceeded to whine that THAT is what she really wanted. It's enough to drive me INSANE!<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">--------------------------------------------------------------------------</div><br />
Friday was a rough day. It was the end of a long week of LQ being sick and the truck not starting - in other words I was stuck at home ALL week aside from the time I tried to walk in 90 degree temperatures to my mother-in-law's home (that's another story). I was desperate. Back to Friday. I'm not above saying I had a meltdown. The truck actually started, got me all excited and then quit working. I felt my chest constricting, I couldn't breathe properly, my mind got muddled and I started pacing the kitchen. I sent a message to Dal about feeling trapped. He called me up and I immediately collapsed into a sobbing mess. LQ thought I was sad because she had eaten frosting with two spoons without my knowledge that morning. Poor kid. A nap was in order. It wasn't until MUCH later in the day I ventured outside again. There on my doorstep, poorly hidden under the doormat, was a package. For me. From a friend who knows.<br />
<br />
Opening any package is fun for me. It breaks up the day. But this package was filled with amazing goodness and a whole heap of love. I took this picture after I had already eaten half the block of chocolate and LQ had taken a packet of double coated Tim Tams into her room.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5632649332/" title="DSC_0001 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0001" height="500" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5188/5632649332_2ecb046ca6.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><br />
A thank you just doesn't seem enough for the lifesaving properties that this package had. I actually cried when I pulled the drinks out of the box.<br />
<br />
I have been gorging on chocolate the entire weekend. SO much better than drugs! <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">----------------------------------------------------------</div><br />
Dal and I have been spending our weekends looking at real estate recently and we've just put offers on a few homes. One lender owned and the other a short sale, so don't expect anymore information for quite some time, but that's some exciting news from our grownup lives. On a related note: Can I just tell you how cranky it makes me feel when I walk into a home someone has said that is recently renovated and it is glaringly obvious that they've done everything cheaply and poorly. Why bother doing it at all? Poorly renovated homes just means more work for the next sap who wants to renovate. Can you tell I've been scarred by my recent renovation project?Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-7921687218392181122011-04-10T22:26:00.000-07:002011-04-10T22:26:43.499-07:00Entitled: An ObsessionHello my friends. First I want to thank you for the love you gave me on my "Mostly" post. Since getting it out on my blog and talking to my Obstetrician, I have been feeling a lot better. But that's a different post.<br />
<br />
This one is about my dearest LQ.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure I could love this girl any more than I do. I am certain she has reached her cuteness peak. Everything she does has me giggling to myself or laughing out loud. She shakes her little booty at me, she shimmies across the floor. She sings constantly to me, Dal or herself. She says things like "Daddy, you sick! Take a nap!" and "mmmm b'donalds (McDonalds), deyishous!". She is good a fake laughing when we are laughing at something she does and most importantly of all when I'm cranky or just generally not in a good mood she will say "Happy face Mummy! Show me your happy face". Let me tell you about that happy face. Not once have I ever said that to her.... that's all LQ.<br />
<br />
There's one thing that hasn't changed as LQ has grown into the beautiful little girl that she is. Her love for puzzles. It started well before she turned two and her love has not waned. To show you how much she loves puzzles, I took a picture of all the puzzles that she owns and as a comparison you can see in one of the pictures her small drawer filled with her dress up costumes. There's no contest... that girl could do puzzles all day if I'd sit with her.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5601824974/" title="Puzzles by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="Puzzles" height="333" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5306/5601824974_d085ece03c.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5601824784/" title="DSC_0013 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0013" height="333" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5026/5601824784_d10278955f.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dal-hel-bel/5601239157/" title="DSC_0011 by Helen_Petersen, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0011" height="333" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5143/5601239157_ca7e84e9ac.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-25535824073547400392011-04-04T18:34:00.000-07:002011-04-04T18:34:33.606-07:00Entitled: A Love LetterThe 30 minutes before you arrive home is always the longest part of the day.<br />
<br />
I hear your noisy truck (we need to get that fixed) come around the corner and pull in to the driveway.<br />
<br />
I stand up a little straighter.<br />
<br />
In the few minutes that it takes for you to get to the door (the bin needs to be taken out) I am frozen. I am unsure as to what to do with myself while I wait.<br />
<br />
The sucking and whooshing sound that the opening of the door makes will forever make my heart beat a little faster, help my body relax and inject just that bit more energy that I've been craving all day.<br />
<br />
That door opening is a sign for LQ, too. Her little body leaps from whatever position she is in. She flies to the door. "DADDY"! <br />
<br />
Her excitement is just a snippet of how I feel about your homecoming, but I play it cool.<br />
<br />
LQ gets cuddles and I get the same sort of kiss I got from you when we were dating. <br />
<br />
I know you love me.<br />
<br />
I hope that you know how much I love you. I hope that the waiting dinner shows that I love you. I hope that the made bed shows that I love you. I hope that my face shows how much I love you. <br />
<br />
I hope my entire life shows that I love you beyond any words on a silly blog post could ever convey and how much I love having you all to myself each evening (usually).Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-22680192376986301652011-03-29T23:33:00.000-07:002011-03-29T23:33:23.107-07:00MostlyI mostly stay at home.<br />
<br />
I am mostly tired.<br />
<br />
I am mostly cranky.<br />
<br />
I am mostly hungry.<br />
<br />
I mostly don't make dinner.<br />
<br />
I am mostly sick.<br />
<br />
I mostly feel lonely.<br />
<br />
I am mostly depressed. Prenatal depression bites.<br />
<br />
I mostly cry at night.<br />
<br />
I mostly let LQ eat what she wants. Cold hot dogs anyone?<br />
<br />
I mostly let myself eat what I want.<br />
<br />
I mostly wish someone else could magically save me from myself.<br />
<br />
I mostly know that that's not going to happen.<br />
<br />
Most of all, I <b>do not</b> want any advice. I just mostly need a hug.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057509926604303961.post-1999456768259439312011-03-24T18:13:00.000-07:002011-03-24T18:13:26.636-07:00Life isn't always roses and sweet teaOf course after I sing LQ's praises for the other day, I wake up today from my nap to find pee puddles right by the toilet and LQ asking for wipes because she had poo poo bottom.<br />
<br />
I finally found the wet underpants, but am still puzzled as to where (if there were any) the "poo poos" have disappeared to. I suggest no one visit my home until I work that one out.Helhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12024471761531493995noreply@blogger.com2