I'm melting!

Oh boy, is it HOT out! Like 90 something degrees. Fahrenheit. At least it's not Celsius! My son was in a parade this morning (he's a Cub Scout) and I trekked to the parade route, scouted out a spot in the shade and parked my ass there for an hour or so, wilting as it got hotter and hotter so I could see my little man wave at me and my hubby throw some candy in my direction, lol. When we got home, I got the bright idea to wash my car, so I stretched my bikini over my 8 1/2 months pregnant butt and soaped up and rinsed the car. It actually was kind of fun and I drenched myself with the hose when I was done. Now I'm sitting in the AC just soaking it up :) I think I'll take a nap.

I know this is a totally boring and random post, but, hey, that's my life ;)

My first kiss

This is an essay I started, but never really finished, therefore it's basically a rough draft, but you'll get the idea....

James

It's always been "James". Never Jimmy or Jim or Jamie. Even at 12, James was "James". It never occured to me for it to be any other way. The first time I laid eyes on him was on the bright orange-yellow schoolbus that took us home from middle school. I was in 8th grade, he was in 7th. I was invited over to his house to ride bikes after school and when I rode up, there he sat......jet black hair, bronzed skin and brooding gray eyes. He was shirtless and wearing cut off jeans. I loved him immediately. I got my very first kiss from him standing under a huge oak tree in my front yard. We had just returned from his 13th birthday party, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt; I was in black parachute pants and a white & pink mesh top, and he had walked me home. Under the stars and with a cool breeze in the night, he kissed me. I'd love to say it was romantic and swept me off my feet, but I thought it was gross and slobbery! The fact that I was taller than him didn't help much, either. We rode our bikes through "the desert", a barren patch of land just outside the housing plat he lived in, and owned by my father. He made me laugh and I thought he was the cutest boy on earth. We spent a glorious 6 weeks "going together" and then we just....weren't. No fights, no publisized breakup, we just gradually stopped calling and seeing each other. A couple years went by and we were now in high school. I was a junior, he a sophmore. Again, we ran into each other on that same school bus. He looked at me with the same eyes and smiled that same mischievieous grin and I was in love again. We had another whirlwind romance, another wonderful 6 weeks together and then I had to move. My parents were divorced and had been battling out custody issues for years. I felt like a human tug-rope. My dad had had me, now it was mom's turn. I was sad to leave James, but somehow knew it wouldn't be the end.

I graduated high school, got married and moved to Alaska. Turns out I married too young and so I came back home in January of 1992. I was staying at my dad's house temporarily until I could get on my feet and get my own place. The phone rang one day and a guy was asking for my sister. I said she wasn't there and he asked "Is this Carey?". I replied that it was and asked to whom was I speaking. He said "It's James!". My heart started beating furiously in my chest and I got all flushed. He suggested I come over to a neighbor's house that evening to play cards. I thought I would die with anitcipation. It had been 5 years since I had last seen him. I was walking over to the neighbor's later and caught someone walking towards me out of the corner of my eye. Tall, about 5'11", dark hair, wickedly handsome. James had grown into a man! He got closer and my knees went weak. I smelled the scent of his cologne: Preferred Stock. 14 years later, I can still smell it. From that point on, we were inseparable & eventually moved in together. That's when my personal heaven turned into a veritable hell. My sweet James was a Jekyll & Hyde. He could charm you one second and rip your heart out the next. I spent the next 7 years allowing him to do both. We married, James went through 2 very difficult brain surgeries, we had a child. I honestly thought I would grow old with "my James". After so many years of emotional, mental, verbal, and physical abuse, I just could take no more. We separated in July of '99 and our divorce was final in March the following year. I'll never forget the date:
3-21-00. Almost as if God was telling me "Ok, Three, Two, One-- GO! It's time to start your new life!"

How do you fit 20 years of love, hate, laughter, tears, passion, lies, deceit, shame, pity, lust, frustrastion and anger into an essay? I don't know how. James will always be a part of me. We share a child together. He is a lost soul, though, and I'm not sure he will ever find happiness. He finds solace in a bottle, comfort in a line or a pill. He's approached me many times about a reconciliation, and- each time- my heart skips a beat, I wonder "Could it happen, could My James still be in there somewhere?"

Sadly, the answer is no. Sometimes love is not enough. Sometimes the pain outweighs anything and the risk for more is simply too great a gamble to play with one's heart.

How much is that puppy in the window?

Those of you who know me, know how passionate I am about dogs, breeding, training, etc. Here's an essay I wrote about pet shop puppies....


What could be more adorable than walking through the mall and coming across a pair of warm, chocolate eyes and the wiggly bottom of a Beagle puppy in the pet store window? The employees are more than happy to let you hold the puppy and inform you that they accept credit cards and monthly payment plans. They don’t ask any questions, they don’t care if you have a fence or if your last dog was dumped at the pound because it no longer matched your home’s décor. What they won’t tell you is where that puppy came from and how much it will likely cost you in the coming years in veterinary bills for illnesses and hereditary diseases.
Most pet stores purchase their puppies from what the USDA and AKC term “commercial” or “high volume” breeders. Responsible, ethical breeders call them “puppy mills”. They are run by people who view puppies as a cash crop and cut every possible corner in order to increase their profit margin. Most puppy mills are located in the Midwest states of Kansas, Missouri and Iowa, although the Amish farmers of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania are definitely cashing in on this huge money-making opportunity. The largest puppy mill in the nation is known as the Hunte Corporation and they are located in Missouri.

Every week, pet stores receive faxes from their chosen puppy mills that tell what this week’s “specials” are (older or sickly puppies that are sold at a discount) and which breeds are available for delivery. Puppy mills are a veritable buffet of puppies, with one mill often breeding hundreds of dogs in dozens of breeds. There is no regard for the well-being or socialization of the puppies or the breeding stock. These poor animals are nothing more than “livestock” to those that run the puppy mill industry. The dogs are often kept in rabbit-hutch type caging, stacked in rows on top of each other, with the feces and urine of the dogs on the highest level dropping down onto the dogs and puppies below. Their coats are often matted to the skin with open wounds, festering sores and maggots on the breeding animals. Many go blind or lose parts of ears from injuries sustained in fights from the stress of being cramped into such close quarters, day in and day out. They usually receive no veterinary care, no vaccinations, no worming, inadequate food & water and no love. They never see the sunlight and they never step foot on grass. The mothers are usually bred from the time they are 6 or 7 months old until they are “bred out” at which time they are shot, euthanized, dropped at the pound, or -if they are exceptionally lucky-- given to purebred rescue groups to be rehomed. Puppy mill dogs and puppies are housed in converted barns, silos and outbuildings with no air conditioning to protect them from the sweltering heat of summer, nor any heat to comfort them in the chill of the harsh Midwest winters. Many puppies and dogs die from exposure every year. Those that survive are “lucky” enough to be weaned at 4-5 weeks of age so that they can be packed into the shipping vans and reach the pet stores by the time they are 6-7 weeks old. Since they are born in cages and never have any chance to run around on grass or any surface other than chicken wire, they are often very, very difficult- if not impossible- to housetrain. Dogs naturally eliminate away from their eating and sleeping areas. When raised in the confinement of a puppy mill cage, they never learn to eliminate in an appropriate area so they “learn” to just go wherever and whenever. A responsible breeder, in stark contrast, provides their puppies with comfy sleeping areas, stimulating play areas, quiet eating areas and clean elimination areas, so they are usually quite easy to housebreak.

A trademark of a puppy mill puppy is “alternative” registration, although AKC registration is still quite common among them. “Alternative” registries include APR, API, CKC, NKC and others. The “papers” they provide aren’t worth the ink that’s dried on them. ANYONE can get papers on a pure or mixed bred dog from any of these registries as long as they are willing to pay the $10 or $15 registration fee. At least the AKC requires proof of parentage, although there have been many cases of falsified AKC papers on pet shop puppies. I’ll never forget the time I worked at Dayton Emergency Veterinary Hospital and a client brought their “Pomeranian” in for treatment. This dog was about 30-35 pounds and stood about 16-18” tall. When questioned about the breed, the owners insisted it was an AKC registered Pomeranian and they had purchased it at a certain local pet store. It was blatantly obvious that this dog was a mixed breed. What is even more frustrating is that pet stores often charge MORE for a sickly, possibly mixed bred, and definitely pet quality puppy than a reputable breeder would charge for a Champion bred show quality puppy!

Some people may argue that it is much simpler to go to the pet shop and pick out a puppy from the many offered breeds than it would be to look through the paper or call the local kennel club for breeder referrals and go out looking at individual litters of puppies from responsible breeders. What these same people don’t realize is that taking just a little time to educate yourself on the breed that suits you (not the one you think is *cutest*) will be priceless. Not only will your puppy not be an impulse purchase, but you will be purchasing your puppy from a breeder who will often have not only the mother, but also the father on site. You can see the parents, interact with them and the litter. You can get an idea of what the puppy will look like as an adult and an idea as to its future temperament. Responsible breeders are available 24 hours a day for the rest of your puppy’s life for advice and guidance. They CARE where their puppies go and are eager to help you on your puppy-parenting journey. A responsible breeder will only offer 1 or 2 breeds of dogs, and only produces 1 or 2 litters per year. The puppies from a responsible breeder are socialized from birth and are often very easy to housebreak-- a stark contrast from a pet store puppy. They also will take the puppy back if you ever need to rehome the dog, or they will help you find an appropriate home for it-- ANYTIME during the life of the puppy. Responsible breeders do the appropriate health clearances on their breeding stock to help ensure that their puppies do not inherit any genetic diseases such as hip dysplasia, juvenile cataracts, deafness, luxating patella’s, open fontanels, etc. that many, many pet store puppies end up with because puppy millers do NOT health test their breeding stock.

So- just how much IS that puppy in the window? Is it worth the years of pain and suffering that its mother & father endured? Or the years of pain and suffering the pups may endure and the hundreds or thousands of dollars in veterinary bills that the owner may aquire due to preventable genetic and/or health problems? How do you put a price on that? Do you REALLY want to pay $800-$1000 for an APR registered Beagle puppy when you can have a healthy, well-adjusted, socialized, Champion bred, AKC registered puppy from a reputable breeder for $300 or $400?

PLEASE do not buy puppies from pet stores. When there is no more demand, the suffering of the thousands of breeding animals and puppies in commercial kennels will finally stop. Until then, their agony continues.

Grab a box of tissues.

Gairab
It only took about 15 seconds, but the whole scene played in slow motion as I watched. Down, up, down, up, down, up and finally, mercifully, down again. My heart and mind were screaming as I delicately ran across the railroad trestle towards my horse- even though no sound came out of my mouth. He was twisted, broken. Legs in positions that nature never intended. I sat down next to his head and gently stroked his head and neck. It was then that I looked up at my friend Gwen and choked out a cry "I've killed my horse!". I looked down at Gairab, my beloved 19 year old Arabian. He had been a gift to myself when my ex-husband finally left and the abuse had stopped.

No more would I stand in his stall and cry into his mane while he consoled me just through his mere presence. No more would I stroke his velvety soft muzzle as I leaned my head against his and stand eye to eye, breath matching breath. No more lazy summer afternoons when I would doze on his back while he grazed in the pasture. Never again would I fall off his back and have him come running back to get me......all because of a stupid mistake, because he fell through a railroad trestle on an unfamiliar trail. I had dismounted to see if it was safe to cross, Gairab was closer behind than I anticipated and he spooked when we got close to the trestle and he started running across it.....but never made it to the other side....

Now Gairab lay still in the chilly February air. He strained his eyes to get a glimpse of me, so I moved closer to him, closer to his line of sight. I don't know exactly when I started crying, but the tears were blurring my vision as I very, very gently lifted his head to remove the metal bit from his mouth. There was a light pink froth slowly forming and even though he had to be in the most unthinkable pain, I had to alleviate some of it, I had to redeem myself in some way. So I removed his bit. Such a tiny gesture with the grandest of meaning.

A rider came by and I cried out "Do you have a gun?!", he rode off to get help. I'm not sure how long I lay there on Gairab's neck, stroking him, making sure he didn't try and get up again and hurt himself even more.....watching the rocks below us turn crimson with his blood. My stomach turned as I looked at the mutilated body of my beautiful, elegant, noble horse. One rear leg was broken in multiple places and hung down between the railroad ties, the other rear leg laid out useless behind him. A front hoof was caught in the railroad track and bent his front leg at a sickening angle. Pieces of skin and hair clung to the railroad ties behind him like a grisly Hansel and Gretel trail, bearing witness to the horror he had just endured. I sobbed until my lungs hurt. Then I laid on his neck again. Breathing him in, his sweet horsey smell mixed with sweat and blood. I knew I would never see him stand again, I would never lay in the sun in his pasture while he grazed around me...and my heart couldn't bear it. I started to sob again.

A man came and gently started to try and pull me off of Gairab so they could "take care" of him. I screamed and held tight. My Gairab. I couldn't let him leave this world so brutally!
My mind wandered back to only days before when we were riding in the woods and came across a small herd of deer, as we so often did. Off we went to chase them across the meadows, then stop and sit and just.....exist. Together.

I was being pulled away again, this time with more force. I felt like a child being wrenched from its mother and I watched in horror as his life kept dripping out of him and into the water below. I was bundled into a car and driven back to the barn. The car had stopped and there it was. The gunshot. Then another. My Gairab was gone. And so was a piece of my soul.

A blanket of yellow roses covered his grave. Now, every Feb 20th I put a yellow rose on the trestle where he died, ask for forgiveness, and pray that he is in a better place. I sit and remember the horror of that day in 2000 and I sob again; after 4 years you think the pain will subside. It doesn't. It will never be erased from my memory and I will never forget my faithful Gairab.

We will meet again and as the old Bedouin proverb says

"My treasures do not chink or glitter; they gleam in the sun and neigh in the night".

Good night, sweet Gairab.

But seriously....

OK, up to now my blog has been just random humorous stuff going on....but I thought I'd post a few of the essays I've written over the past couple years. I'll warn ya, all of them are pretty depressing/sad/emotional. Hey--- I can't make ya laugh ALL the time :)

This first one is called "The Inspiration of Gavin" and I wrote it about my son.

The Inspiration of Gavin

In his eyes I see the future. The first time I beheld him, he was wet and bloody; his head misshappen, blue eyes just slits as they tried to adjust to the brightness of life outside the womb. His maiden cry sounded like a goat and he had a line of soft hair from the nape of his neck down to the middle of his back. He's six years old now and still has that "monkey hair", as I lovingly call it. I was never sure I wanted to be a mother. I've never particularly liked children and I've always been extremely selfish and self-centered. Where would a child fit into my life, I wondered. By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I decided I most definitely DID want to be a mom- not just "have a baby", as so many women do, but I truly wanted to mother a child. My husband had just endured 2 extensive brain surgeries over the past year and he was a year sober- our relationship had never been better. To celebrate his new life, we created one. Gavin Tyler Hudson made his debut into this world at 8:39am on a Saturday morning in early April of 1998. My life has never been the same.

In his eyes I see the person that I can be. I've suffered from clinical depression for years, and have always seen myself as 'broken'. Naturally, I expected to suffer some degree of post-partum depression. I was wrong. There was never a twinge of regret, never a moment I thought "uh-oh, what have I done?". Gavin has enabled me to see that I am a worthy, whole, wonderful, unique person- not in spite of my mental illnesses, but because of them. The first time he smiled at me, he was a month old and it was Mother's Day. Those blue eyes already turning grey, framed by the outrageously long, black lashes; his button nose and ending with his pink, gummy grin. The Hope Diamond couldn't have compared to his tiny little newborn smile, the sweet baby lotion and milk smell of his body, the scent of the back of his neck after he awakens from a nap a little sweaty. When he wrapped his tiny hand around my finger, he also wrapped it around my heart. I have never loved anyone the way I love Gavin. I've struggled with relationships my whole life. I've never had a normal, lasting relationship of any kind: not with my mother or father or various step-parents, boyfriends and husbands. For once, I felt unconditional love and devotion for another human and from another human. I have blossomed.

In his eyes I see his father. His father before life and bad choices molded him into the bitter, sad, and hopeless person he is today. I see in Gavin a chance for James to be reborn and to live a life that we both wish we had lived: loved by our parents, accepted by our peers, successful in love and life. In Gavin, I see who his father could have been. When he wakes me in the morning, coming into my room, and softly stroking my face and saying quietly "Good morning, Angel Mommy", I melt. I feel supreme happiness, yet a twinge of sadness at the same time. I think this is the potential James had, this is who James would have been. I vow that Gavin will not suffer the hardships that have made James's life misery. When Gavin is hunkered down by his bicycle, "working" on it with his toy tools, concentrating intently- his little tongue stuck out to the right of his mouth and subconsciously licking the corner over and over, I see James at 13- feverishly working on his dad's old car, tongue doing the same thing. I watch them simultaneously-- Gavin through a 32-year-old mother's eyes and James through a 13-year-old girl's eyes. James has been recreated.

Seeing life through a child's eyes is refreshing. At 27, after 2 divorces and another soon-to-fail marriage, I was jaded. Until there was Gavin. Laying on a blanket in the sun in the warm spring breeze, he would marvel at a cloud or a flower or a bird. As he got older, I'd take him to parks, fairs, and museums just to watch his reactions as he would see a duck or an otter or a clown for the first time. I was relishing being able to witness the birth of a human mind. His innocent, contagious laughter tickled my heart and brought sunlight into my soul. He restored life to a hopeless and sad person- me. I've never depended on Gavin for my happiness, and don't plan to live my life over again through my son, but he has changed my life profoundly- I have evolved from flighty to sagacious. He is his own distinctive, magnificent soul. I never could have comprehended the impact he would have on me. At 32, I have finally decided to go back to college, and I am fighting my many disabilities so that I can be a person that Gavin will be proud to call Mom. I'm tired of "just scraping by" and really want to provide a better life for both of us. So, for myself- with the inspiration of Gavin- I am becoming a better person.

And now, at six, Gavin has grown so much. His blue eyes turned to dark brown (but he's kept those gorgeous, model-long lashes!), his blonde hair now a sandy brown. He doesn't smile ALL the time anymore. Being six, he has his moments of impetuousness, furrowing his brow and frowning and declaring "That's not fair!" when I won't let him play video games for hours on end or buy yet another toy-of-the-moment. This is usually accompanied by a foot stomp and crossing of the arms.Then I tell him I love him and he runs to me, laughing. When he hugs me, his head rests on my belly button. Right where his life began. Right where my life began. And I thank him.

I'd be irritable, too!

Today I had my first of many "fetal non-stress tests", more commonly known as an "NST".
Basically, since my first born son had a condition called IUGR (a fancy acronym for "you've got a small baby in there"), they are monitoring me closely with this pregnancy. Um, I don't need an MD behind my name to tell you that THIS baby is NOT small....not small at all. But, I figure I'll humor my doctor and come in twice a week for these tests.....what do I have to complain about? I get to lay on a comfy table, in the air conditioning, prop my feet up and read, daydream or doze uninterrupted for 20-30 minutes or more! Besides, my insurance company has pissed me off, and anything I can do to stick it to them royally is A-OK in my book....and these NST's ain't cheap, baby! $150 a pop and I get 2 a week!
OK, so today was my first NST. Gavin's out of school so he came with me and kindly read me Dr. Suess's Green Eggs & Ham while I was laying there. " I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am. I will not eat them in a box, I will not eat them with a fox, I will not eat them here nor there, I will not eat them anywhere."
Gavin thought it was really cool when he got to hear the baby's heartbeat when they strapped me onto the machine, and all the aquatic "whooshing" sounds of little man doing backflips in my belly (of course, he thought it was MUCH cooler when he found a Gameboy game cartridge under the chair that someone had dropped....). Remember when you were a kid and you'd swim to one side of the pool, flip around real quick and push off the side of the pool- HARD- and swim back to the other side, and repeat it, again and again and again? Well, that's what this baby does. Only in my abdomen. And occasionally, he pushes off of my lungs, bladder or other vital organs, instead of "just" my uterus. And people wonder why I'm getting spayed! HA!
Back to the NST. They hook me up to a machine that records contractions and the baby's heartrate. I have to hold a little thing that resembles a penlight and push it every time the baby moves....this way they can see of the baby is getting "stressed" when moving. (Hey! What about ME??!!) All of this is recorded on a long strip of paper that resembles a lie-detector test thingy (I SWEAR, that is the technical term for it!).
The more a baby moves, the less time you have to spend hooked up to the machine because they can see right away whether "the heartrate is nice and strong and baby is tolerating life in the uterus ok."
So, since I have an amatuer gymnist in there (that, or Rosemary's baby-- I'm still not sure which), my test only lasted about 10 or 15 minutes today. The doctor comes in, looks at the little printout and says "Ooooohhhhh, very active baby!"
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
Then....."and I see your uterus is irritable."
"Well, I'm pretty irritable myself these days...." I replied....not sure how I should respond to the observation that my baby's temporary housing is 'irritable'.
The doctor kind of laughs and explains that actually my uterus just doesn't like being pregnant (well, at least we have ONE thing in common!) and that it's already (or *still*, as I believe) trying to put this baby out on the mean streets so it can go back to room-mate free living.
For the 2nd, or 15th time (can't remember!) this pregnancy I'm told to "take it really easy and drink LOTS of water!"
Alright, can do.
Do the dishes? Sorry, Doug, gotta TAKE IT EASY-- Doctor's orders.
Vacuum? Sorry, Doug, gotta TAKE IT EASY-- Doctor's orders.
Laundry? Ditto.

Hmmmm......this doesn't seem so bad after all.....

ABC's & 123's

What on EARTH are they teaching in elementary schools these days?!?!? Last week my 7 year old son, Gavin, came home from school. He's in 1st grade. He had a crudely folded piece of paper in his folder with a cute little pencil drawing of a kitty cat on it. I thought "Awwww! His first love note!"
I proceeded to open the note and Gavin tried to grab it from me. I thought he was just embarrassed because it was from a GIRL, so I got it back and opened it up. What I read left me speechless. And that is a feat in itself. Scrawled in a child's sloppy handwriting, but clear as day:
"Do you want to have sex with me? ________ yes or no"

WTF???? Rewind! I had to read it a couple of times for it to sink in. Gavin just stood there looking at me. I asked him who had written the letter. A little girl named Lauren had given it to him. The same girl he had been complaining about all school year long for "being mean" to him. Uh-huh. Looks like she wanted to make up for it now. I asked Gavin if he knew what it meant and he got really embarrassed. He obviously doesn't really know what it means, but he knows it has something to do with kissing and stuff. I had him point her out in his class picture and I have to admit, she's a looker-- one of those little girls who is obviously going to be model gorgeous with no effort at all. (Way to GO, Gavin! JUST KIDDING!)

Well, pardon me, but I don't want my 7 year old to even be thinking about STUFF! As old as I am, I CAN remember being in 1st grade, and I can assure you that the word "sex" never crossed my mind. In fact, I don't think anything worse than holding hands with a boy ever occured to me until 5th or 6th grade.

The next day, I took Gavin to school and gave the note to his teacher and said who it was from. She happened to be standing in the hall with one of the other 1st grade teachers. They both opened it and read it and-- I kid you not-- said "Considering who wrote it, it doesn't surprise me one bit!"

Pardon me?! Doesn't surprise you? They proceeded to tell me that this angelic looking little creature was really satan in disguise. She had been in more trouble than just about any other kid in class but her parents were insistent that the teachers were just "picking on her" and "singling her out" and that "she's s good little girl." Um, yea...if she keeps this pace up, she's going to be one VERY popular little girl with a couple of kids by the time she graduates!

This little incident was only the most recent in a string of fun little lessons my child has learned. The week prior to the sex note incident, we were all sitting at the dinner table and Gavin announced "Did you know Michael Jackson spent 5 days in jail and he's GAY?"

Does anyone know the Heimlich!?!?!?

When I finally managed to swallow my food, I said "OK, first of all, I don't think he spent 5 days in jail, and even if he did, it has nothing to do with being gay! He's in court right now and is on trial for doing inappropriate things with little boys, but he's not been found guilty and he hasn't gone to jail. Oh, and do you even know what 'gay' means?"

Gavin says "yea, it's when a boy kisses another boy."

Oh boy :(

Thank GOD Friday was the last day of school for Gavin....at least until July 19th when he will be starting at the NEW elementary school I enrolled him in. I sure hope the kids are a bit more innocent there!