William Thomas (The Goose)

I have four 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.

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.

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.

My lesson to be learned from this baby is DEFINITELY Patience.

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.

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.

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.

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."

The nurses managed to convince me to lay down on the bed long enough for this exchange to go on:

Nurse1:  Ok... let's see how far along you are.  What?!  She's already an eight!

Nurse2:  Holy cow!  Are you serious?!

Nurse1:  You do know, dear, that you didn't have to wait until your appointment time to come in?

Me:  Of course.  My contractions didn't start until 8.

Nurse1:  Last night?

Deadpan Dal (I was having a body twisting contraction):  No, this morning.

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.

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.

Not a good time to tell a woman that she's going to have to weather the pain on her own.

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.

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.

the email before

Helen sat at her computer, her heart seemingly up near her ears.

"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.

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.

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.

"Yes".

Helen pushed the email and any thoughts about it to the back of her mind.  It was most likely a prank.


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.

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.

It all started with .... an email?

"so, australia to canada huh? are you trying to hit all the former
british colonies before you die? having lived in the u.s., i know what
living under the thumb of the british is all about. always making me
worship king george, and buy their stupid tea at jacked up prices.
it's ludicrous."




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.


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).




"I enjoy living under the thumb of the british. Although I haven't yet
experienced it, i'd say it's better than living under the oppression
of the self glorified rule of the american government!

Tea is overrated anyway......

I'll have to watch those other movies you just suggested..... I'm
always up for a good guessing movie.....

King George is hot."


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.

I always pay for my sleep

This morning the kitten and Isabel woke me up especially early.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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?!

"Look Mummy!  My pyjamas have pockets!"

"Oh that's fun, how did you make your pockets?"

"I found some scissors!  I love my pockets!!"

GAH!  I HATE scissors.  Actually, I'm glad that she didn't cut the kitten up.

Fitting In

Dal 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.

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.

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.

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.

My 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:

"We should have takeout tonight".

Tick Tock

Isabel usually wakes up between 6am and 7am each morning.

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.

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.

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.

Boys spit

Last night as we ate our ice cream, Isabel and I were having a little chat.

I said "You know, Isabel, that when you were smaller you didn't like ice cream.  You used to spit it out."

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.

Finally I was able to interpret what she was trying to tell me.

"Wait, are you saying that you used to be a boy?"

"Yes.  And boys spit."

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.

I'm not sure how she came to this conclusion because I am constantly telling her to STOP SPITTING!

Sleep

I live for sleep.  I am certain I could sleep 20 hours in the day and still be tired after waking up.

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.

"Mummy, where's the wipes?"
"What do you need wipes for, Isabel?"
"To wipe the bed."

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.

"Forget the wipes, I'm going back to sleep.  Get a towel and sit on it".

A while later I get a hand slapped right by my head.
"Time to wake up mummy"
"NO!  You kept waking me up.  Give me 20 more minutes"
"Mummy it's 7 o'clock.  Time to wake up."

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.

"See.  7 o'clock.  Get up".

Doidy - At my sister's request

It IS a fairly dormant blog isn't it?

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.

My youngest sister told me today that it was time to hear a Doidy story.

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.

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:

We did not find results for: kuumba made uhiuhhuihu. Try the suggestions below or type a new query above

I'm impressed she typed an actual word.  Poor Google couldn't even think of suggestions for her Google search.

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.

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.

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.

Trunked

I'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.

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I prepared LQ for what was happening next as we drove home from a family get together.

"When we get home, it's books and bed time, LQ"

"No.... I watch daddy play racing Mario"

"No, LQ.  It is time for bed when we get home."

"No.... I watch daddy play racing Mario"

[repeat at least 5 times]

finally I change the pace -

"LQ!  You will be going to bed when we get home.  I'm the Mummy and I say so!"

"No!  I LQ and I play with daddy"

"LQ... Mummy trumps LQ.  Every time."

"No I trunk Mummy!"

Dal:  "I'll trunk your faces"  - End of conversation.


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We sit on the floor.  We are playing guess the shape with dinosaurs.  I pause for dramatics.  "hmmmm...."

LQ, the computer whiz, questions me.  "Are you loading?"


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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.

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!"

Warning: May inhibit blogging

I love my antidepressants.  They have done wonders for me.

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.

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.

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.

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:

We found out we are having a boy.
I was lucky enough to have to do a driving exam to get my Arizona licence.  I passed with flying colours.
LQ has turned into a bandit.  She insists that all bandits are good.
I celebrated my 30th birthday.  In Tombstone.  Watching street shootout re-enactments.
LQ refers to her stuffed toys as "the guys" or "my guys".  "Put boots on the guys, mummy"

I hope your June is a good one.

Newsy news news news

I'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.

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.  As a disclaimer:  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).

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.

"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.

We find out in two weeks what the sex of the baby is.  Want to place bets?  The odds are good.

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.

Meanwhile...

.... back in Hobart my brothers are inventing new dance techniques.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Rancing".

Cranky

My 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.

"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.

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.

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!).

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).

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, my newest follower suggested something similar while commenting on one of my old posts.

I'm just hoping that it doesn't end up being the crankiest love story ever told.