Barnmaven

Grounding

I never sleep well on Sunday nights.  The person I am on the weekends and when I'm at home is who I really am.  Shedding that costume when I leave work is effortless.  Putting it back on Monday morning is like trying to squeeze into a dress that just doesn't fit quite right.  Its not painful or even uncomfortable, but you know that it just isn't "you."

I hauled my three pasture guests up to Michelle's on Saturday.  They're going on 12 acres of grass for the summer, which will be great for them.  All three are looking shiny and healthy and happy.  Such nice girls, really, and I look forward to going over and working with them some in the coming months.

I brought my boys back home, and good gracious does it feel nice to have them back.  I missed their faces, missed watching Bugs stick his head over the fence in order to provoke T-Bone and laugh at him when he gets in trouble for barking at the horses. 

Sunday was a gorgeous day, and I took full advantage to gain traction on the many projects that need doing in the yard and pasture.  I cut down and cut up one of the three junk trees, mowed, watered, and got about 3/4 of the chicken run fence done.  I let Bugs and Zenon into the "free" area between the barn and the front lot so they could "mow the grass" for me, and after I wore myself out physically, I took a break, took off my shoes and sat down in the grass with my horses and just hung out with them for a bit. 

I was reading some stuff lately about a thing called "earthing."  The theory, confirmed by research, is that human beings carry a positive charge.  Just walking barefoot for 20 or 30 minutes a day produces physiological changes in our bodies and connective tissue.  Earthing proponents claim that it reduces pain, helps us to fight off the effects of aging, and promotes a better spiritual connectedness to our environment and to other people. 

All I know is that the simple act of sitting barefoot on the ground, listening the the rythym of grass chewed and tails swishing gave me a small piece of time in which I felt truly at peace and and really at home in my own skin.  I needed it.  We all do, need to have time where we can relax and just be.

Work and life and troubles are always there waiting for my attention.  That doesn't mean I have to focus on them 24/7.

 

No quarter

I may or may not have had a wee lil' bit of wine this evening.

This perhaps does not bode well as a prelude to a blog post, but I have it on good authority that you haven't filled your bucket list until you've written a blog post after one (mebbe two) too many glasses of cheap chardonnay.

You know, I write here about my personal life, and people are nice enough to stop by and comment here and there, and there are some folks who come by and almost never comment but stop every day or so and give my words a gander.  And that's so incredibly nice.  It feels good.  We all like to have someone pay attention to us.  Sometimes I think that blogging is my way of garnering a "hey girl" and a shoulder pat from time to time when my real-time life seems slow on handing out such badges.  And blogging keeps me from focusing my efforts on any sort of real adult writing effort, because everyone who has ever wanted to write "for real" but wasn't sure how, likely shares the same fear I carry that I'm not really as good a writer as I want to be and I lack the time/energy/resources to really focus myself on becoming as good a writer as I want to be.  This is my little outlet, this small wee blog toddling along in the margins of the world wide web.  It gives me the illusion that I'm doing something worthwhile with my words, but the reality is that it just allows me to piss away time better spent doing other things.  There are stalls to be cleaned, lawn to be mowed, dishes to be washed and floors to be scrubbed.  So instead of going to bed at 9:30 when I actually should, I go to bed at 11 so I can do the chores and still have time to see what's happening on the damn internet.

Some people who are better writers than I, and some who are both marginally worse and sometimes (I know, this is not nice) terribly worse, these people have found a way to make an actual living blogging.  They heavily pursue ad networks, they run giveaways and contests, they write more sponsored posts than original content, they bend whichever way the internet winds do bloweth, because at heart they all want to be the next Heather Armstrong or Jessica Gottlieb or Penelope Trunk.  And before there were such things as sponsored posts and giveaways and ad networks, those bloggers were out there creating the path that eventually made it possible for them and for others to make a crapload of money by putting their words up on the web. And others came along and saw the way the wind was blowing and took note.  The path to the Emerald City was glowing golden before them, and they hesitated not a moment before they embarked on their merry way to internet riches and fame (hopefully).

Hey, there's nothing wrong with having a goal, folks. 

But success inevitably breeds contempt.  And I have written before my feelings on the value of criticism and the necessity for strength in ones own beliefs and opinions as a precursor for successfuly surviving the inevitable negativity that presenting ones' life and opinions in a massively open and public forum will inevitably engender.

Just like here at home, though, no one ever listens to me.

I follow the drama and while at times it provides a respite from the actual serious drama of the minutiae of raising two very special people and trying to make sure every hungry animal on this small farm is fed  before it starts feeding on the other animals on this small farm, sometimes it just makes me want to put my face in my hands and weep.

This fall we will vote for the next President.  And while for most of us there is a clear distinction and a clear choice, I think we all know that the reality is we are choosing someone who, for us, is the lesser of evils, because our two-party system does not afford us the ability to effect real change by voting for this presidential candidate or that or by supporting this senator or that congressman.  We all must realize, deep down, that our government is a vast wasteland and our country is in terrible crisis. 

In our own cities and suburbs, in our country, around the world, there are men, women and children who are coping with violence, with hunger, with poverty.  We have more able-bodied people than we have jobs.  We have an environment in flux, whether you believe it is caused by humans or by a natural shift in the earth's weather patterns is irrelevant, because there are whole regions and millions of creatures who will be required to undergo significant change - perhaps even die out as a species - because they environment they have adapted to live in is disappearing.  It doesn't really matter WHY the problem exists, it only matters that it does exist and that it will affect us, affect our children and our childrens' children.

This world is painfully full of parents who are struggling financially, emotionally, phsyically.  Parents trying to raise a family on too little income, or parents trying to get services for kids who have needs beyond what most insurance companies and school systems can meet, parents trying hard to take an active role in their children's lives but who are struggling just to pay the bills and God knows its hard to find time to help with homework when you've worked all day and had a long commute, and then you've had to make dinner and do baths and do homework and yet you still feel like shit because you should have also gone to the PTO meeting like the rest of the parents who ARENT single or who have spouses who work locally.

And yet, the drama on this internet, it carries on.  It supplants our very real and personal dramas, it tries to distract us from the deeper thing.  We bloggers, we open our veins and bleed our lives out here for all and sundry to read.  We relate truths or we invent truths, we have terrible problems which always result higher pageviews whether that was the intent or not.  And yes, some bloggers invent drama just to create pageviews.  I look for the good in people but we all know that this happens.  And there are people who have bullshit meters or who don't buy into the fairy glitter of A list blogging, and they have the need to vent their spleens, and from time to time there is an event where the Ghostbusters accidentally cross the streams and the internet explodes.  

Don't cross the streams.

Why?

It would be bad.

Thank you, Egon.

(And thank you Ghostbusters)

We need our entertainment.  We love our celebrities and we love to hate them.  We need sports and violence and for HBO and network TV to come up with the next hottest show because Oh My God if we don't have the distraction we won't be able to cope with our scary and difficult lives.  We don't want to think about the million ways that humanity is suffering, because we can't do that 24/7 and still function in our lives.  We need the drama like we need our oxycontin and our crack.

I am not taking sides.  Or maybe I am taking both sides. I just don't get the need for the posturing.

And it all just makes me feel so jaded and cynical and tired.

I don't FUCKING CARE about your drama.  I don't care. 

You all make me so fucking exhausted sometimes.

 

 

If you've read this and you have no clue what I'm talking about, GOOD FOR YOU.  The internet has not yet had its way with your innocence and beauty and I respect you so much for being innocent and pure that I want to kiss you on your face and throw rose petals at your feet, because you're still pure and you represent what we all were before Eve ate the apple.  Don't you ever EVER change.

 

 

 

More cuteness than you can possibly handle

Michelle let Buck cover one mare this year, and she decided to drop her baby in the wee dark hours of Tuesday morning, after Monday night's thunderstorms had used up all their rage.

As soon as we could stuff dinner in our faces and get the animals stuffed full of dinner, we climbed in the truck and went to pay a visit to the shiny new filly, who has yet to be named.

Begging your pardon for the cruddy cell phone photo quality, meet the cutest damned thing EVER:

Look at that sweet little star on her face...and her dorsal stripe!  I'm guessing she'll be a buttermilk buckskin or a very light gray/silver grulla. 

Dinner!  Or Breakfast!  Or something!

 

Proud mama.

 

I'ze tired now.  You go 'way so's I can sleep.  ZZZZZZZZZ

Momma is a super sweet, balanced mare who is also stacked like a brick shithouse.  She's my very favorite type of quarter horse - deep in the chest, big in the hip, short back, wide forehead, big eyes, little ears.  Daddy is also the sire of my gelding Bugs, and he is a dark red buckskin.  I'm hoping she gets Buck's size and Momma's personality.  Except that means I'll never convince Michelle to sell her to me.

Baby horses are just about my favorite thing in the spring, closely followed by baby cows, baby ducks, chicks and...pretty much anything that's a baby.  Except maybe baby spiders, I'm pretty sure I don't like those.

On trying to have the right attitude

I am alive again.  Sort of.

My new doc has diagnosed me with low thyroid and last week I started medication.  Whether it was the 80-plus degree weather all weekend or the new medication, my energy kicked back into gear for the first time in a long time.  I did dishes and laundry, cleaned floors, took the dog to the vet,  pulled the mats out of the horse trailer and scrubbed them, bought horse feed, cleaned stalls, groomed horses, took the kids to the circus and had dinner with my parents.

Last night our hot weather broke with a vengeance.  The Eastern Washington sky lit up like a Christmas tree for several hours, with lightning and thunder from all sides.  As the colder air moved in, we also got some seriously heavy winds at the house.  Usually the storms don't bother the kids, but for some reason this one had my son feeling anxious and afraid.  I don't often let the kids sleep in my bed, but if ever a night called for a sleepover with Mom, this did.  The storm kept up well past our bedtime, but even after it finally quieted down enough for us to sleep, the jostling and the Move over!'s meant none of us slept much. 

It made for a tough morning.  Both the kids were downright buggers.  I was really late for work, as a result.   Nobody wanted to take medication, nobody wanted to get dressed, nobody wanted to do much of anything except fight with everyone else and make a lot of racket.  And its hard when you haven't gotten enough sleep to be very cognizant of the fact that my children are not struggling because they want to make my life miserable, my children are struggling because they are exhausted and its even harder for them to cope with life's demands than it is for their mother.

It was easy last weekend to have a good mindset about SG being gone.  I felt good, I was getting things accomplished, the house looked good and I was managing it all without too much struggle.  This morning had me singing a different tune.  This morning I felt resentful and tired and frustrated with being what I've come to think of as a "married single." 

When did I forget all the stuff I learned when I really was a single mom?

I had day after day after day just like this morning without the hope of an end in sight.  It was HARD.  I didn't think for one second I would ever have a partner in my life to share the burden with me.  It was not a truly irrational assumption to make that there aren't many people out there who would be willing to partner up with a middle-aged woman with two high-needs/special-needs children, an aging house, a mountain of debt and more animals than hitched a ride on the ark. 

I read some of my blog posts from those days and I am surprised at how much I was able to put a positive face on things, because I know exactly how tired and hopeless I often felt.

When I met SG I was really hesitant about getting involved with someone.  First of all, I didn't really think I was by any means a "catch" and I wasn't sure he really understood what he was getting into.  Second, I didn't want to burden a partner with issues that had nothing to do with him.  We've had a lot of discussion around what things were mine to deal with and what things were "ours" and that I didn't expect him to feel responsible for things that weren't his responsibility.    But there's never been a moment where he's hesitated to step in and shoulder the load of my kids or my animals or the shitstorm of chores this rural lifestyle requires.  And the more he does that, the more I come to rely on him being here to keeping doing it.

Because he helps so much, the contrast in my life between "together" and "apart" is about as stark as it can possibly be.  I'm not dependent on him to survive, oh hell no.  I've done this before, I'll do it again.  There's a difference between being dependent on someone else and knowing you can depend on them. 

If nothing else, our situation allows me to be grateful for how much of a good partner SG is to me and to realize how generous and loving a man he is.  It also reminds me not to complain to much about having to do the heavy lifting on a temporary basis, because there are millions of moms and dads out there who are doing all this and more and they don't have a partner to help them, ever, or parents who can pitch in like mine do.  They may not have the good fortune of an employer like mine, who not only says they value families, but put their money where their mouth is and don't make a hard situation even harder by punishing me for being late when days like today happen.

So I'll acknowledge that today I am tired and dragging and feeling frustrated as a parent and a partner, but that things could be a hell of a lot worse and I really can't wait until my husband comes home.

 

 

 

Hollwood is grossed out by Kelly Preston's boobs.

But only because they're full of milk.

Kelly Preston's name has been cropping up this week in articles with her comments about how much she loves breastfeeding her 16 month old son Benjamin.  Most of the articles have simply presented her interview statementswithout much editorializing, but leave it to the Hollywood snarkbags to react with shock and horror.

Bruna Nessif's article yesterday at E! Online suggests Preston should be added to E!s TMI Mom's Club.  Nessif writes, "Preston has been openly expressing how much she still enjoys breastfeeding her - wait for it - 16 month old son Benjamin, who shares a bed with her and hubby John Travolta."

Wait for what, exactly?  I'm not sure which Nessif, who describes herself in her Twitter profile as "surprisingly smart and witty," (really??) feels is more egregious - the fact that the Preston/Travolta family co-sleeps or that Preston's still nursing her kid.

Interestingly, a quick peruse of the comments to the article reassured me that the majority of people who are paying attention to this story fully have Preston's back when it comes to extended nursing.

More than one commenter (by which I mean something like five or six of them) referred to the W.H.O. standard, which recommends women nurse their infants for at least two years. 

The shrinking and highly vocal contingent that still finds nursing repugnant isn't going to go away anytime soon, but they're being met toe to toe consistently and (mostly) calmly by an increasingly educated public.  And for the most part, I like tenor of how people are expressing themselves about this issue.  Not always, but mostly.

The Mommy Psychologist has recently begun a series of postsabout Attachment Parenting.  Like a lot of people, TMP has an inborn resistance to being preached at.  She shares her experience of being sat down and lectured to ad nauseaum by her husband's best friend and his wife on all of the things they MUST do when their baby was born.  Let's be honest, a lot of the Dr. Sears crowd can come across as, well, overzealous. 

There has to be a middle ground between "If you don't cloth diaper, breastfeed for 6 years, feed your child only whole, organic foods, never spank, never CIO and homeschool then you're a terrible parents" and "Breastfeeding is gross, if formula/plastic diapers/spanking/Ferberizing was good enough for me then its good enough for my baby." 

Isn't there?

Personally I don't get the whole visceral reaction to breastfeeding.  Breasts were making food for babies thousands of years before some premodern dude figured out that drawing pictures of them on the cave wall gave him and his buddies a little stiffie.  And it wasn't that many generations ago that most babies in even modern society received their primary nutrition from breastmilk.   Modern technology has brought us a lot of amazing things, but it still hasn't created an equal replacement for that magic liquid mama makes.  

And nursing in public?  For crying out loud, you see more exposed flesh on an Abercrombie & Fitch billboard than you do when a nursing mama pops her little one on for a nice spot of lunch.  I remember being really offended by the people who insisted on glaring at me when I nursed my children.  Hell, its not like I was getting up and squirting them in the eye with my boob juice!

At the same time, those well-meaning but overbearing Boob Nazis need to back off on moms who feed formula.  I don't need a PhD in anything to know that the happiest and healthiest families are those that make informed and educated decisions about what works best for them.  Sometimes nursing doesn't work the way its supposed to.  Sometimes work schedules make it hard and stressful to have a successful go at breastfeeding.  And you know, sometimes formula is just what a particular parent is comfortable with.  Nobody ever learned much of anything from someone who insisted on standing there screaming at them about how wrong they are.    As I said in my comment on The Mommy Psychologist's blog, I don’t think you should have to preach to anyone about something whether it is parenting or religion. If the style of parenting you follow is so amazing and awesome then you shouldn’t have to “convert” anyone.  

About eight years ago I found a small online community of moms where I found I could fit in.  We varied in lots of ways, and not just geographically.  We have members across oceans and continents, we have made a lot of different choices about feeding, vaccinating, diapering, schooling and disciplining our kids.  To this day we are a solid community and we rally round our own when any one of us needs support.  I can't talk about the lovely box I got in the mail after I lost my brother from my moms-in-the-box without starting to tear up. 

The reason - the ONLY reason - that we have stayed together so long and that our little community works for us is that none of insists that OUR way is the ONLY way.  Every bit of advice comes with a disclaimer:  your mileage may vary.  Unless my kid is bleeding to death, these moms are the first place I go to for parenting advice.

It is really unfortunate that articles like Nessif's continue to widen the gulf and misinform people about breastfeeding and attachment parenting in general.  I have faith that the ever-growing public understanding about breastfeeding and its benefits will eventually take over until the squeamish amongst us find something else to freak out about.  I also have faith that we can, as a whole, understand that when it comes to parenting, no one "method" but the one that works for each of us and our families is the "right" one.   There's no need for such polarization amongst parents.  How we feed, sleep, clothe, educate and discipline our children is up to each of us to determine.  Sharing what worked for you is terrific; berating another family because they make different choices than you did is simply asinine.

Rant over.

Carry on.

Sometimes you need to fly

Tonight my husband leaves again.  He will be back in six weeks, give or take. 

We spent the weekend trying to get in as much quality time together as we could as a couple and as a family while still making sure that he wasn't leaving me with a house full of dishes and laundry and a yard that needed more attention than I would be able to provide flying solo for the next month and a half.

I think one of the reasons SG and I click so well is that we share so many traits.  We are absent minded, we are easily distracted.  We always mean well, but we are often clumsy. For example, last week he and Race Car Man managed as a morning project to drop my almost-brand-new laptop on the floor off the breakfast counter.  Its about a three and a half foot drop. 

As you might expect, the laptop did not appreciate this Big Adventure and all of its internals went on permanent strike to protest.

We made three trips to the big box electronics store over the course of the week to drop off the machine, drop off rescue disks, and ultimately to pay to have the hard drive removed and sent off to another location to have its data recovered because it could not be powered up to do the recovery locally.  In the meantime, I've replaced it with something no one but me is allowed to touch, and when I have the time and funds to get the old one repaired, it can become the laptop everyone else gets to use.

Driving back and forth to the big box electronics store involved much negotiating with the Littles.  Two parking lots away, the traveling carnival was in town.   When its 8 pm on a weeknight and a 4:30 alarm clock is staring you in the face, the last thing you want to do is the carnival.  But when you're seven years old and the lights of the ferris wheel fill up the sky, the ONLY thing you want to do is the carnival. We put them off and put them off, but finally yesterday afternoon I agreed to spend a small fortune on ride tickets.

While Amazon Girl and I rode the ferris wheel together, SG took Race Car man to ride the Jet Planes.  When it got to be his turn in line, though, he was too scared to get on.  After Amazon Girl and I got off the ferris wheel, I talked to him about the ride.  I told him his sister would go on it with him if he would feel better.  He thought that might be fine, so we got back in line, but when we got to the man running the ride, we were told that my Amazonian Princess was actually too tall for the ride.  Race Car man would have to go it alone. 

He took a few minutes to think about that.  His desire to ride on the green jet finally overrode his fear and he clambered aboard.

This picture doesn't really do justice to the expression on his face most of the ride.  It was a combination of joy and awe.  He loved every second of it, almost as much as his sister enjoyed the ferris wheel:

Its hard to be unhappy about anything with that kind of joy sitting next to you in a bucket car.

As we were winding down, the little guy decided to spend his last ticket on another ride in the jet plane.  He enjoyed it so much the operator let him stay on and have yet another ride even though he didn't have another ticket.  I hope he knows how much his small act of kindness meant to us.

Sometimes I get my nose out of joint when I hear people talking about kids behaving poorly in public, blaming parents.  I have a tendency to expect people to react negatively when we are having a particularly bad day with anxiety or sensory issues.  But I have to admit -- people are often far more accomodating than I expect them to be.

It was a good way to cap off our Sunday afternoon.  A little sunshine, a little fresh air, some carefree time laughing and soaring through the air -- sometime you just gotta fly.

Curated, whatever that means

It used to be you'd get a request to be syndicated, they'd pay you for your post and feature it.  Now you get "curated" and they feature your post, but you don't get paid for it. 

Mommyblogging ain't what it used to be.  Long drawn out exaggerated sigh.

Still.

BlogHer picked up my post on bloggers and criticism.  I'm flattered, and absolutely convinced that I'm going to generate my first set of hate mail from this one.  Can't wait.

 

Depression is a Motherf'ing Liar, and other stories from the black hole

Depression tells you that you aren't good enough.

It tells you not to pick up the phone and call anyone for help because people don't need to be bothered with your petty problems.

It tells you that no matter how much the people in your life tell you that they love you, no matter how much fun your friends might seem to have when they are with you, no matter how many times you've been a loyal and loving wife, daughter, sister, friend, mother, it tells you that you are a piece of shit loser who sucks and no one has ever loved you, no one loves you now, and no one will ever love you again.

When the man you love is telling you how beautiful he finds you, it whispers in your ear that you are hideously fat and ugly and that everyone agrees with its assessment.

When your children wrap their arms around your neck and breathe their stinky morning breath into your nose and say, "I love you sooooooo much, Mommy!" Depression counters with the fact that you are a Horrible Parent.

When someone at work compliments you or congratulates you on a success or thanks you for your hard work, Depression slaps you in the face and says, "Wait until they figure out what a terrible person you are.  They'll fire your ass."

When you dare to believe that you made the right decision to end a marriage that was sucking you dry and filling every day of your existence with anger, paranoia, dread, hopelessness and fear, Depression reminds you that you didn't try hard enough and you should have stayed longer and if only you'd been a better lover and a more giving, patient, caring, loving person you would have been enough for him.

When the sun is shining and your horse is waiting for you to come and share some precious hours in the arena or on the trail or just hanging out feeding him carrots and brushing his coat, Depression is of the opinion that you should close the shades, turn off the phone, get on the computer and stay inside all day.

When you think that maybe organizing your kitchen cupboards would be a good way to start feeling better about your house and your self, Depression tells you there's no point, everything's a mess anyway and your house will never be clean enough to pass muster so why bother?

When you begin to get frustrated with your annual winter weight gain and you set up a plan to start exercising more and eating better, Depression calls you a Fat Pig and says you're going to be fat and ugly no matter what, so maybe you should just eat another Ding Dong.

.....

Depression distorts your truth.   Even when you know that its a temporary phenomenon, even when you know all the things that you can do to make it a little less suffocating, Depression works hard to make you fail. 

It has been months now that the good days have been too outnumbered by the bad, and this needs to stop.  Depression needs to shut its lying whore mouth and crawl back into the bottomless depths. 

Because my real truth speaks to me a little more loudly this day.  Because I'm a competitive sort of bitch and no asshole named Depression is going to beat ME.  Because my family needs me more than you need me.  Because my mother told me to pick the very best one and YOU ARE NOT IT.

The first one

It was a blue Chevy truck, standard cab.   It had cloth seats with a woven pattern that looked just like the blanket I put under my western saddle.  At 12 I was tall enough to easily reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel at the same time, but not strong enough to pick up and throw a bale of hay.  Dad took me out into our pasture and taught me how to go and stop and turn, and then when we helped various neighhbors with hay, I got to drive the truck while my brother had to help stack it. 

By the time I was 13 and 14 dad would sometimes let me drive the truck on the roads.   Most of our side roads didn't even have stripes on them, they were gravel and tar, compacted into hard shell by the combined weight of cars and trucks and tractors.  At least three or four of the roads on the island started out paved but ended as dirt shortly after you lefour main thruway.  Seven miles of island  to explore.  Seven miles of dirt roads and blackberry bushes and back pastures in my dad's big Chevy truck.

My dream car has never been a flashy convertible or a muscle-bound GTO or a shiny red minivan.  My dream car has always been a truck of my own.

My ex had one, briefly, a truck he couldn't afford for a job he couldn't keep.  It wasn't mine, and it wasn't much use.  It was shiny and had leather seats and a cover on the back and a carpeted bed so that you couldn't put much of anything in it.  It wasn't a truck in the sense of really being a truck.  It was a showpiece.  It could tow a trailer but I couldn't afford the kind of horse trailer that would do justice to a truck like that. I had a love/hate relationship with it.  It was fun to drive, but it was never going to be what I wanted and needed it to be.  It taunted me from the driveway every time I had to have someone deliver hay to me.  You ca-an't have me!  You ca-an't use me! 

Shut up, Useless, I would fire back.

In this life, a girl needs a truck of her own.  A truck that can haul hay and kids and fence posts, pull a horse trailer or a flatbed trailer.  A truck both useful and tough.  Pretty is as pretty does; this farm girl believes that there's nothing more useless than a truck that is so pretty and expensive that you can't do anything to it or with it.  Trucks are for working.

This -- THIS -- is a TRUCK.

MY truck.

She's old, she's tough, and she's perfect for me.

 

Brighter days

Its almost seven a.m. and I need to get up and get moving.  The farrier's coming in two hours and then the vet, and if the girls get the all clear, I can get them vaccinated and wormed.  The oldest of my guest horses is the slowest gaining weight.  Getting her teeth floated helped, but I'm hoping that once I can worm her we'll turn the final corner and start seeing some roundness to her.

I've been sitting in bed watching Gizmo chew on Roscoe's ears.  He does this weird thing where he'll start chewing on the end of one long floppy ear, and then he gradually pulls it all the way in so he's got a mouthful of ear which he masticates with eyes half closed, clearly enjoying it.  After chewing blissfully for a few seconds he spits it out and starts all over again.  By the time he's done (or I speak sharply at him to stop), Roscoe's ear is absolustely soggy with Chihuahua saliva.  He patiently lies there the whole time Gizzy's chewing on him.  I can't tell if he really likes it or simply tolerates it.  Dogs are simply unknowable at times.

SG comes home today.

Yes, it was a surprise.  He picked up a cold that turned into a bronchial infection the last week or more of the job he was working.  He'd been to the doctor and gotten antibiotics and such, but as he was packing to head to the next job, he still wasn't feeling right.  He went back to the doctor and his blood pressure was really high, which is worrisome.  But the doctor wasn't comfortable with him driving 2500 miles to work six twelve hour days a week for several weeks, so we talked it over and he made the decision to come home.  Fortunately he may still be able to go to the next job on a delayed basis, so if he gets the all-clear from his doctor here, it won't be a complete wash.  He'll get the work AND I get a conjugal visit.  We all win!

I've been on vacation most of the week with the kids on spring break.  I've managed to do at least a few of the tasks I was hoping to accomplish, which means my house and yard have begun to approach "acceptable" status.  They'd look even better, but I wisely chose to use as many days as possible this week to ride Bugs.

Its hard to put into words just how satisfying its been to ride him.  He is progressing so nicely right now.  Mentally he's become a more reliable and mature fellow.  Physically he is beginning to understand and respond to my requests to collect and round his back.  As he begins to collect and round for longer and longer segments, the pleasure of being the person on his back becomes indescribable.  There is something intensely pleasurable about riding a horse who is completely collected.  His face is at the vertical, he's flexed at the poll and his neck is nicely arched.  His feet are underneath him and the action at his knees and hocks becomes more obvious.  If  you're watching him from the ground you can hardly take your eyes from him because he just looks so great, and if you're lucky enough to be riding him, you can't keep the grin off your face because you know he feels and looks spectacular.  My cheeks are actually sore from the grinning this week. 

We also worked on some trail obstacles in preparation for our riding clinic tomorrow.  Michelle dragged out some old tractor tires and we took the black plastic from her garden and made a "black hole of death" obstacle.  Bugs negotiates the tires quite well, and even when he's stepped on the side of a tire and it flipped up and banged him in the hocks he did not get perturbed.  I can run him through them on the ground or on his back and he's a tire-crossing demon.  The black tarp of death is an entirely different matter.  He's pretty sure its going to kill him.  We made great progress with it, and yesterday I had him standing on the tarp while I flipped and rattled the edges of it.  He didn't like it much, but he stayed put. 

To have a good trail horse, you've got to get two things to happen.  You have to get your horse to trust you enough that he believes you will never ask him to do something that will get him killed.  He is a prey animal, and as such is highly reactive to unfamiliar stimuli.  Things that flutter or move can be terrifying.  Water looks like its a huge hole he could fall into.   A level headed horse who doesn't spook easily is wonderful to have, but more often than not a horse is not born that way, you need to help him learn to be that way. 

It is also a lot of fun to torture your horse when you think he's being unreasonably sensitive. 

Chicks arrived this week.  I've got three silver-laced Wyandottes, one Rhode Island Red, and four tiny little yellow banties.  Four layers and four pets. They're so cute and fluffy, we love to hold them and listen to them chirp.  If you hold one long enough it will fall asleep on your hand, and its almost unbearably cute.  They are doing much to satisfy my baby cravings.

Happy Easter to all of you who celebrate it this weekend, happy Spring and happy Eoster to those of you who don't.  Spring reminds me that life is a continual opportunity for renewal and redemption.  This week has certainly felt that way.