I've been waiting anxiously for about a month now for my mare Genevieve to foal. I was told when I got her she was due end of April. If your calendar reads same as mine, it's now almost the end of May. Doesn't matter that she's a seasoned ol 'timer, I'm a nervous Nellie new Mom.
When I called Roy, he said, wellllll, maybe she was bred the following heat cycle instead of the first heat after the foal heat (huh?). Plus some foals just take longer to cook than others.
Not helping.
But good news. When I did my fourth check of the day on her a couple days ago, I noticed she was bagging up. For you city slickers out there (and you know who you are), that means her udder is getting bigger as it's starting to fill with milk. A soft sign that foaling will happen soon (my book says a few days to six weeks to foaling, so we're really starting to narrow things down here).
So yes, between PTO meetings and baking for the bake sale, I'm checking udders.
Another sign of impending delivery would be elongation of the vulva, but to quote Igor of Young Frankenstein, "I'm not going to be the first..."
Guess I'll have to just be content with apprehensively checking Gen repeatedly throughout the day till the foal is done "cooking". Maybe some LaMaze breathing would help (for me).
Wonder if I could get my hands on What to Expect When Your Mare is Expecting. Anyone have an old copy I could borrow?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Another Shoebox Funeral ....
Sigh.....
Lost a little loved pet this weekend. Our Daisy.
We learned last week she had cancer. I had taken her into the vet(I saw the staff tittering behind their hands when they saw I had brought a guinea pig in. I was probably the only person in their collective living memory to have taken a guinea pig to their office). But the vet actually did a thorough and professional examination and pronounced that Daisy likely had cancer. I felt about four years old instead of (mumble, mumble) as the tears welled up in my eyes when the vet handed over her death sentence.
But we brought her home and turned her cage into a luxury suite with every ammenity a small rodent could wish for. When it was clear she was living her last moments, we all surrounded her, pet her, cried our tears onto her.
We got a shoebox just the right size, from our avavlanche of shoeboxes that we keep in the attic for school dioramas and the funerals of small pets. We gently placed her in, atop a bedding of soft-as-a-cloud tissue, and put in a few of her favorite things: some hay, a couple yogurt treats, a few grapes. Some of the kids put poems, drawings, cards alongside her as well. One wrote:
I only hope she lives on in heaven. May God bless her soul. From death comes life. Amen.
(I know this all seems overly dramatic, but we're a dramatic-type family).
We buried her out by the old wishing well. In truth, we've buried a number of small pets around this well. To the point that I have to silently pray we don't dig up any previous remains when we start a new hole. It's getting to the point of grisly. Perhaps I should contact Stephen King to see if he'd be interested in doing a book-turned film of little zombie hamsters and toads digging their way out of their graves by moonlight and descending upon our house en masse as we sleep.
Probably not a whole lot of fear factor there, I guess.
Anyway, she was buried, and prayed over, and her name was carved into the well post alongside all the cherished pets of our past.
James painted me a picture of her (above, right) which I will eventually, if my procrastinatory ways don't get the better of me, frame and hang. In the meanwhile, I will try to comfort the children when they miss the way she unabashedly begged for produce and squealed for attention. I will pull them close and impart my words of wisdom that it's better to have loved and lost than....
"Hey, stop texting, I'm trying to comfort you."
"... than to have ....Mister, get off that bike and get over here this instant. I was saying, it's better to ...."
"Put that popcorn back right now, we are not snacking, we are grieving..."
Oh forget it ....
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Where do the Amish go....?
Question: Where do the Amish go for relaxation?
Answer: Apparently, to my place.
Driving home from some errands this morning I saw an Amish horse and buggy hitched up to my fence and a small herd of Amish parents and children in my lower field. I knew today was a holly-Holy-day for them (Ascension Day), but the sight took me aback. My neighbor Henry and I had talked a couple years ago about the kids coming over to use our pond whenever they wanted to go fishing or skating. But this was not just the kids, but a couple dozen be-bonneted and be-hatted folks picnicking and fishing.
It's a lovely sight, really. As I sit at my computer writing, I can look out my window and see a little girl sitting in her Daddy's lap, another Dad helping a few kids with baiting and casting, a granny camped out in a folding chair, wagons, picnic baskets, and a Mom sitting on a cooler doing cross-stitch.
Perhaps I should think about turning my place into an exclusive Amish retreat. I could call it Plain and Fancy. Or Amish at Ease.
Taking suggestions .....
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Switching Genres
I think most people would classify my life as a comedy, simply b/c there is almost always some hair-brained thing goin' on around here that will bring on a case of the chuckles. After last night, however, my life has taken a decided turn from comedy to disaster movie. One of those flicks where everyone is screaming and running in a blind panic.
After getting deluged with rain for the last few days, to the point where I was starting to pair up my animals and get out the lumber, we finally had some drop-dead gorgeous weather. The kind the kids wanted to go out and play in, instead of going on threat of consequences if they didn't get their butts off the couch and get some fresh air, dammit.
So for a few treasured moments I had the house to myself as my young ones frolicked and cavorted outside, riding bikes and scooters, drawing pictures in the driveway, playing a little basketball. I was starting to prepare dinner and review in my head the list of evening's activities, including Karate for Julie, homework and studying with Bella, and taking James to his "job" where he tutors a friend of ours in Russian. Mentally planning what preparations were needed for our trip out of state day after tomorrow for my father-in-law's funeral. Relatively simple, quiet night.
Until all hell broke loose.
Seems Patrick and James were playing outside and started having one of those knuckle-headed Boys Will Be Boys Moments. They HAVE NOT and probably WILL NEVER learn that if one gives tit, the other gives tat and it's done. Even-Steven, game over. No. Tit, tat. Schmit, schmat, and on and on it escalates up the ladder till they've reached the precarious top rung and there's no turning back. And so it went yesterday, and they followed/chased each other inside and fists were flying in my kitchen.
To sweeten the pot, the last few weeks Patrick has been walking around with this broken bat. It's split in half, top to bottom (I don't even want to know how it happened or where it came from). He's been walking around with it like a tot with his Blankie for some indeterminate Testosterone-based reason. So of course, when he took an outraged swing at James' head, bat connected with skull. James of course swung back and I threw myself headfirst into the frey. I broke them apart like a diminutive ref between two prizefighters. As I sent them to their separate corners and tried to process what just happened, I glanced at the floor and saw blood. A good bit.
"Who's bleeding?", I bellowed. Patrick had gone upstairs, but James was in the next room and came back in, bleeding pretty heavily down his ear and face and neck. Blood splatter covered his shirt and shorts. I sat him down and tried to find the wellspring beneath his thick curls. When I finally discovered it I did a silent-film star knuckles-biting gasp and grabbed my keys.
Instead of going to Fred's hospital, which is more than a half hour away, I opted for our little local hospital, which is about a 5 minute drive. I figured I didn't have Fred as leverage anyway since he was right then attending a conference as far away from us he could be and still be in the continental US.
But I should have gone to Christiana.
After James was seen by the triage nurse, we waited over three hours in the waiting room before we were taken back for treatment. Poor James was dizzy and hurt, but at least the bleeding had stopped. After a bit, he lay his head in my lap to rest and I began pulling the strands of blood-soaked hair away so I could get a better look at the incision. The people in the chairs across from us saw his wound and reacted with horror (see silent movie star reference above). Naturally they wanted to know what happened. Now, I'm all for honesty in my kids, but a measure of discretion would be a good thing, too, as I soon learned when my youngest yelled out for all in the lobby to hear, "My brother hit him with a BAT!"
Can you say White Trash? Can you say Reality TV? Not that it mattered, for I soon learned that my daughter had been texting with blinding speed, sending out all the gory, embarassing details for all the world to read about on Facebook. Great.
While we were waiting, the kids were getting antsy, so I told them they could go outside to walk around. It's a very rural area. The hospital has a hitching post for God's sake. I'm not kidding. So I thought it would do them some good to get some sunshine. But at one point when I was trying to get a visual on my youngest, I couldn't spot him anywhwere. I told my daughters to sit with James and I ran outside, calling his name, looking in my car and behind the pine trees. He was nowhere. So I ran back inside and over to the window where the clerk or nurse had checked us in and very calmly said,
"I CAN'T FIND MY SON!!!!!!!"
To which she replied
(and here I pause for effect)
"Oh, wow, I don't know what to tell ya' "
I was speechless in dismay for almost a full heartbeat and then sedately asked her if perhaps she couldn't
CALL A SECURITY OFFICER!
Luckily my brain's editing faculties were in full working order or it might have been neccessary to clean up that quote.
But just then Daniel walked in. I checked myself from throttling him (we were, after all, in the presence of medical and law professionals) and asked him where the bleep he had gone off to.
"Well, you told me I could go for a walk, so I walked around the building".
I wasn't kidding when I said it's a small, rural hospital.
So glad he stopped to consider my SANITY before he decided to walk around the building.
Anyway, crisis resolved, we went back to waiting. Fianlly, to relieve our boredom I think, they called us back to an exam room, just for kicks. There we waited some more, with my natives growing more and more restless (and hungry and thirsty) by the second. Just for consistency's sake they decided which chair was the Good Spot, started calling it, then fighting over it.
At long last they started an examination and began sending James off for x-rays and CT scans. It all took a while, but at least things were finally getting accomplished. More than six hours from when we walked in, we walked out of the ER. James had a large head laceration with 15 staples holding it together, and a Retaliation Fracture of the 3rd metacarpal of his right hand. His head was bandeaged up like a mummy and he was sporting a splint and sling on his arm.
I drove the kids to the McDonald's drive-thru for burgers (they were open -- there is a God in Heaven) and then finally home.
It was just before midnight.
After I put the kids to bed I promptly went into the game room and unplugged the X-Box and set it by the steps to take up later and secure away under lock and key. When Patrick saw it this morning, he asked why it was out there. I replied, in a simple and understated way, "Because of last night".
"But WHHHHHHHYYYYYYYY?!"
This time, I was speechless for more than a heartbeat.
After getting deluged with rain for the last few days, to the point where I was starting to pair up my animals and get out the lumber, we finally had some drop-dead gorgeous weather. The kind the kids wanted to go out and play in, instead of going on threat of consequences if they didn't get their butts off the couch and get some fresh air, dammit.
So for a few treasured moments I had the house to myself as my young ones frolicked and cavorted outside, riding bikes and scooters, drawing pictures in the driveway, playing a little basketball. I was starting to prepare dinner and review in my head the list of evening's activities, including Karate for Julie, homework and studying with Bella, and taking James to his "job" where he tutors a friend of ours in Russian. Mentally planning what preparations were needed for our trip out of state day after tomorrow for my father-in-law's funeral. Relatively simple, quiet night.
Until all hell broke loose.
Seems Patrick and James were playing outside and started having one of those knuckle-headed Boys Will Be Boys Moments. They HAVE NOT and probably WILL NEVER learn that if one gives tit, the other gives tat and it's done. Even-Steven, game over. No. Tit, tat. Schmit, schmat, and on and on it escalates up the ladder till they've reached the precarious top rung and there's no turning back. And so it went yesterday, and they followed/chased each other inside and fists were flying in my kitchen.
To sweeten the pot, the last few weeks Patrick has been walking around with this broken bat. It's split in half, top to bottom (I don't even want to know how it happened or where it came from). He's been walking around with it like a tot with his Blankie for some indeterminate Testosterone-based reason. So of course, when he took an outraged swing at James' head, bat connected with skull. James of course swung back and I threw myself headfirst into the frey. I broke them apart like a diminutive ref between two prizefighters. As I sent them to their separate corners and tried to process what just happened, I glanced at the floor and saw blood. A good bit.
"Who's bleeding?", I bellowed. Patrick had gone upstairs, but James was in the next room and came back in, bleeding pretty heavily down his ear and face and neck. Blood splatter covered his shirt and shorts. I sat him down and tried to find the wellspring beneath his thick curls. When I finally discovered it I did a silent-film star knuckles-biting gasp and grabbed my keys.
Instead of going to Fred's hospital, which is more than a half hour away, I opted for our little local hospital, which is about a 5 minute drive. I figured I didn't have Fred as leverage anyway since he was right then attending a conference as far away from us he could be and still be in the continental US.
But I should have gone to Christiana.
After James was seen by the triage nurse, we waited over three hours in the waiting room before we were taken back for treatment. Poor James was dizzy and hurt, but at least the bleeding had stopped. After a bit, he lay his head in my lap to rest and I began pulling the strands of blood-soaked hair away so I could get a better look at the incision. The people in the chairs across from us saw his wound and reacted with horror (see silent movie star reference above). Naturally they wanted to know what happened. Now, I'm all for honesty in my kids, but a measure of discretion would be a good thing, too, as I soon learned when my youngest yelled out for all in the lobby to hear, "My brother hit him with a BAT!"
Can you say White Trash? Can you say Reality TV? Not that it mattered, for I soon learned that my daughter had been texting with blinding speed, sending out all the gory, embarassing details for all the world to read about on Facebook. Great.
While we were waiting, the kids were getting antsy, so I told them they could go outside to walk around. It's a very rural area. The hospital has a hitching post for God's sake. I'm not kidding. So I thought it would do them some good to get some sunshine. But at one point when I was trying to get a visual on my youngest, I couldn't spot him anywhwere. I told my daughters to sit with James and I ran outside, calling his name, looking in my car and behind the pine trees. He was nowhere. So I ran back inside and over to the window where the clerk or nurse had checked us in and very calmly said,
"I CAN'T FIND MY SON!!!!!!!"
To which she replied
(and here I pause for effect)
"Oh, wow, I don't know what to tell ya' "
I was speechless in dismay for almost a full heartbeat and then sedately asked her if perhaps she couldn't
CALL A SECURITY OFFICER!
Luckily my brain's editing faculties were in full working order or it might have been neccessary to clean up that quote.
But just then Daniel walked in. I checked myself from throttling him (we were, after all, in the presence of medical and law professionals) and asked him where the bleep he had gone off to.
"Well, you told me I could go for a walk, so I walked around the building".
I wasn't kidding when I said it's a small, rural hospital.
So glad he stopped to consider my SANITY before he decided to walk around the building.
Anyway, crisis resolved, we went back to waiting. Fianlly, to relieve our boredom I think, they called us back to an exam room, just for kicks. There we waited some more, with my natives growing more and more restless (and hungry and thirsty) by the second. Just for consistency's sake they decided which chair was the Good Spot, started calling it, then fighting over it.
At long last they started an examination and began sending James off for x-rays and CT scans. It all took a while, but at least things were finally getting accomplished. More than six hours from when we walked in, we walked out of the ER. James had a large head laceration with 15 staples holding it together, and a Retaliation Fracture of the 3rd metacarpal of his right hand. His head was bandeaged up like a mummy and he was sporting a splint and sling on his arm.
I drove the kids to the McDonald's drive-thru for burgers (they were open -- there is a God in Heaven) and then finally home.
It was just before midnight.
After I put the kids to bed I promptly went into the game room and unplugged the X-Box and set it by the steps to take up later and secure away under lock and key. When Patrick saw it this morning, he asked why it was out there. I replied, in a simple and understated way, "Because of last night".
"But WHHHHHHHYYYYYYYY?!"
This time, I was speechless for more than a heartbeat.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
An angel flies in ....
...an old soul flies out.
My baby sister had her first baby on Sunday. A beautiful and healthy little boy, and we are all rejoicing in this new life added to our family.
Sadly, a week and a day later, Fred's Dad passed away.
Evan, we all love you and can't wait to watch you grow.
Henry, Dad, Pop, Pop-Pop, we will all miss you. Thanks for bringing my husband into this world. Without you, there are so many wonderful people that would not be here today. Godspeed as you join you wife and daughters.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Welcome Baby Evan!
I'm an aunt! Well, I'm an aunt for about the 16th time, but still, I'm an aunt!
My baby sister Veronica had her 1st baby on Sunday. He was born by c-section, but mother and baby are both doing well.
Now, what do I like better, Aunt Anne or Auntie Annie?
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Good Spot
In this household, there are many things the kids feel are worthy of fighting for. I'm not talking valiant, virtuous issues such as honoring the family name, defending the home from would-be intruders, or joining up with the military to fight for our country. I'm talking about who gets control of the remote. Who gets to use the bathroom first. How long of a turn they get on X-Box.
But my favorite of these spats is when they fight over The Good Spot. This, of course, refers to the favored spot on the sofa. The part with the extended seat so they can pretty much watch TV from a completely reclined position, as if watching TV sitting upright is just too physically taxing an activity to be endured.
Last night I had to stop making dinner, quickly don my black and white striped shirt, throw a whistle around my neck, and stride confidently into the family room to settle a heated debate over who had rightfully laid claim to The Good Spot. If I gave them each a flag with their name and crest emblazoned on it, there would be flags staked all over the GD house laying claim to various fixtures and spots. This particular debate ended up escalating into a full-on brawl, despite my best skills as seasoned referee. There were slippers being hurled through the air, whole pieces of furniture being relocated, and name-calling that would make a pirate blush.
When a peaceful resolution continued to elude us, I finally tore off my ref shirt and changed into my Mean Mom uniform. Eyes ablaze with a look they didn't want to mess with, I yelled out, "That's enough! No more TV for any of you the REST OF THE NIGHT!" They shut up then. They could tell by looking at me that it was drop it then and there or listen to me lecture (ie, rant and rave) till the sun came up. Or the cows came home. And we don't have any cows.
I remember when the term The Good Spot conjured images that involved pleasurable activities that would, um, make a pirate blush. Now it has taken on a whole new meaning.
Not at all pleasurable.
But my favorite of these spats is when they fight over The Good Spot. This, of course, refers to the favored spot on the sofa. The part with the extended seat so they can pretty much watch TV from a completely reclined position, as if watching TV sitting upright is just too physically taxing an activity to be endured.
Last night I had to stop making dinner, quickly don my black and white striped shirt, throw a whistle around my neck, and stride confidently into the family room to settle a heated debate over who had rightfully laid claim to The Good Spot. If I gave them each a flag with their name and crest emblazoned on it, there would be flags staked all over the GD house laying claim to various fixtures and spots. This particular debate ended up escalating into a full-on brawl, despite my best skills as seasoned referee. There were slippers being hurled through the air, whole pieces of furniture being relocated, and name-calling that would make a pirate blush.
When a peaceful resolution continued to elude us, I finally tore off my ref shirt and changed into my Mean Mom uniform. Eyes ablaze with a look they didn't want to mess with, I yelled out, "That's enough! No more TV for any of you the REST OF THE NIGHT!" They shut up then. They could tell by looking at me that it was drop it then and there or listen to me lecture (ie, rant and rave) till the sun came up. Or the cows came home. And we don't have any cows.
I remember when the term The Good Spot conjured images that involved pleasurable activities that would, um, make a pirate blush. Now it has taken on a whole new meaning.
Not at all pleasurable.
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