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Reality Mom - Reality Mom: My New Found Reality
It's after the fact but I waited until after Valentine's Day for a reason. I didn't want to spoil the surprise. Valentine's Day is so over rated really, a boon for florists and candy makers but for the most part just an excuse for those industries to pump up profits. I was looking at roses to send to THE Grandma and noticed that you could give your love a dozen perfect lavender roses for a mere $279.00.
Frick had the right idea. He made his mother a lovely handmade valentine. Once it was finished, he decided that it needed to be preserved for the duration and took it to THE Grandma's house. He remembered that in a hall closet she had several old picture frames. The appropriate frame was selected and, with a little help, the valentine was soon nicely matted and encased in a frame. Then he decided that this work of art should be gift wrapped. No appropriate wrapping paper was immediately available but a gift bag was found and with the addition of some tissue paper, his mother was the recipient of a gift fit for a queen.
Every mother has a least one. That precious gift crafted by small sweaty hands. A true labor of love, complete with eraser marks and misspelled words. I personally own a ceramic cat that looks only slightly like a cat. On the bottom, someone etched their initials. I keep this work of art locked away with my passport and other valuable items. Because it has value beyond monetary worth, like the valentine handmade and carefully wrapped and presented to a little boy’s mother, it came from the heart of a child.
Rarely are we loved as completely as we are loved by our children when they are small. Before they learn that we are only human beings with faults and subject to failure. For the short time that is childhood, parents get to be perfect in the eyes of their children. That complete love is the sweetest gift they give us.
As I explained yesterday, my old Basset hound Keesha and I get along quite well together. She follows me around while the children are at school. We're both overweight, we both snore and we are both fond of an afternoon nap in the sun. I thought that the two of us would waddle into our declining years together.
Then something happened. Keesha was lured away from the yard one warm autumn night by a ne'er do well who no doubt promised her the world but who left her with six squirmy white puppies. When I realized that she had fallen for some smooth talking stray I was of course quite upset. When I saw the puppies I was beyond upset. Prior to this, Keesha has produced three lovely Basset puppies per litter. Adorable little bundles with long ears and soulful eyes. This bunch of miscreants look like exactly what they are: white mongrels with no inherent cute factor that I can tell.
Gertrude, of course fell in love with the little beggars. "Perhaps they are like Dalmations, mom" she offered. "Maybe they will grow spots in a few days and BECOME CUTE." It was a cheerful thought but I knew there was no way these puppies were going to be anything more than average looking dogs.
I was however, very firm with both girls. Cute or not, all six puppies had to find homes somewhere else. There are quite enough dogs at our house. Keesha should have been spayed the second I decided not to breed her anymore. It was irresponsible of me but, having made the mistake, I needed to pull myself together and do the right thing. Find new homes for the pups and have the mother fixed as soon as possible. That being the case, no one was allowed to name the new puppies, or hold them or do anything more than ensure that they were healthy and ready to leave the premises when they were old enough to be weaned.
I've stood firm on the subject. Little Inky (named for his ink black nose) understands that he is going to have to move on in a few weeks. As do his brothers and sisters.
Last night the puppies celebrated their third week on Earth. Tallulah held one of the puppies up for me to inspect. "Look at this one mom. Do you see how scruffy his coat looks?" He
is the runt and he is not as cute as all the others. I feel sorry for him. No one is going to want a dog who looks like this." She held the little dog up to her cheek and smiled sadly at me while the puppy looked at me with big innocent eyes. I knew then what was coming. The question I dreaded...what I was trying to avoid by keeping human and canine children apart.
"Mom, since no one is going to want this one can I keep him?"
Children and puppies (or kittens!) just seem to go together. At our house we are animal lovers. From the time Tallulah was a old enough to express her desire for a pet, she has tried to bring one type of animal or another into our house. Some stayed for a while, others didn't work out as well.
For a time our town was plagued with stray dogs. Gertrude, Tallulah's younger sister has a soft heart for any stray. The instant one steps foot (paw) on our block, the child grasps it to her chest and vows that she will "love" it "forever". Each is given their own unique name and when they move on, they go with a full belly, leaving me with a sad child.
I mention this as a way to explain why there are currently five dogs and three cats residing with us. In fairness, all but the very oldest dog and the very youngest dogs live outdoors. Still, there are a great many dogs and cats depending on the occupants of our house for their daily bowl of kibble.
At the beginning it was not my intention to operate a shelter for stray pets. It just evolved. Each pet came to us with some sad tale.
Take the cats. Chowder came to us because my daughter heard that his previous owner was going to euthanize several kittens unless homes could be found. Tallulah went to work and found homes for as many of the kittens as she could. When only Chowder was left, she brought him to me and announced that the cat was on death row UNLESS I could find it in my heart to open my heart to him and allow her to take him in.
A week later, Duchess arrived. At only 11 ounces, she was tiny and fluffly and purred like a finely tuned motor when she snuggled into my arms. Once again I heard a sad story that involved certain feline death. UNLESS I was willing to stand up and be the defender of cats I was born to become.
I mention this as a way to explain why there are currently five dogs and three cats residing with us. In fairness, all but the very oldest dog and the very youngest dogs live outdoors. Still, there are a great many dogs and cats depending on the occupants of our house for their daily bowl of kibble.
At the beginning it was not my intention to operate a shelter for stray pets. It just evolved. Each pet came to us with some sad tale.
Take the cats. Chowder came to us because my daughter heard that his previous owner was going to euthanize several kittens unless homes could be found. Tallulah went to work and found homes for as many of the kittens as she could. When only Chowder was left, she brought him to me and announced that the cat was on death row UNLESS I could find it in my heart to open my heart to him and allow her to take him in. A week later, Duchess arrived. At only 11 ounces, she was tiny and fluffy and purred like a motor when she snuggled into my arms. Once again I heard a sad story that involved certain feline death. UNLESS I was willing to stand up and be the defender of cats I was born to become.
Eventually Duchess and Chowder became the proud parents of three tiny adorable kittens. Fortunately, two of them found homes with nice older ladies who love cats.
Each of my dogs has come to me with an equally said tale to share with me. Either the cruelty of other humans or the look of pleading in my daughter’s eyes has brought four dogs into my life. Keesha, the basset hound, is my old girl. Over weight and asthmatic, she plods along beside me in the garden and around the house. When I sit to drink my cup of tea, she curls at my feet and snores loudly until I move again. Her idea of exercise is to wag her tail a wee bit more quickly when I mention her name and the word “cookie” in the same sentence. In short, she is my canine doppelganger. I was happy having my “old girl” hang around with me when the children were at school.
I've been gone for a while. And though I've been trying to get myself together to come back, it's been difficult. The story of where I have been is long and tiresome and I won't bore my readers with all the minute details.
Let it be enough to say that I lost someone very dear to me. Not my The Grandmama, my dear mother is still with us, thankfully. The person I lost was a dear aunt who left us after a lingering illness. Her passing though has changed things somewhat. I suddenly realized that after countless years of feeling like a child, I am indeed not a child. My cousins and I are the adults, we have children of our own. And the adults, the people I look to for guidance and support are old people. And they are fragile. And one day soon, they will be gone
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September 23rd 2009 18:20
A friend of mine posted a two sentence status up date the struck terror in my soul. Quite simply it said, "Muh is missing. It is going to be a long night." Instantly I knew that she was in a huge amount of trouble. Long wasn't the correct word to describe the night that she had in front of her. Unless the "muh" was located, my friend was looking at a night she would consider among the worse of her lifetime.
For those who haven't already figured it out, "Muh" is the name her three year old son has given to his favorite sleeping companion, a stuffed sheep. When Tallulah and Gertrude were small, I called their special sleep toys "Wubbie
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There is an ad on the television that depicts adults in various stages of discomfort, frantically searching for the "necessary room". Obviously none of these people are parents of small children. Because every parent worth their salt knows the location of every bathroom within a 50 mile radius of their home. If they regularly venture further from home than 50 miles, they are aware of every possible place to make a quick pit stop.
I didn't realize the importance of knowing where the bathroom was in every location I visited until I had a child and that child began to be potty trained. Then and only then do you really begin to understand about the urgent nature of nature
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If you're not a mom, you may wonder at that title. You may wonder because of course, moms are no less likely to get sick than the rest of the population.
The problem is that we CAN'T be sick. We just don't have time.
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Everyone had something to do today. Tallulah went shopping with a friend, Gertrude went swimming with some friends at the lake and my husband went back to work after two weeks vacation. (Yes, there was a choir of angels singing when his car left the drive this morning.)
By noon everyone was out of the house except for the dogs and I was met with blissful silence. I made myself a cup of tea and curled up with a book. Not once in three hours did anyone come to my bedroom door to ask if they could have a soda, ice cream or to complain that her sister was hogging the remote, the Wii or that her sister had eaten the last bit of ice cream
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Tomorrow is the 4th of July and like many families in the United States, my family will be celebrating by having a cook out, going to a parade and ending the day by watching a fireworks display. Since it is the 4th, there are some things that just have to be part of the day, according to my children.
There must be pancakes for breakfast. I don't know when this started. But for some reason known only to the children in our family, there must be pancakes for holiday breakfast. If for some reason we have spent the night at Grandmama's house, the pancakes must be chocolate chip
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Do you know the old woman who lived in a shoe? The one who whipped her children soundly and sent them to bed after a dinner of broth and no bread? Some days, that is exactly the way that I feel.
I've been writing this blog for a few weeks and I think I should introduce everyone in my little band of hostages to fate
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