Look what we got…
A Grandson. Sweet. I told his birth story in the last blog. Here he is one week old. “He is growing up too fast,” says his mother. And you know what? I do believe he is getting dimples! He hasn’t smiled yet, but certain facial movements show the shadow of a dimple.
I have finally grown into being a Grandma. Baby D is my second grandson, the other, my first-born daughter’s son, is 3 years old. When he was born the idea of being called Grandma sounded to me like I had entered a slippery slope of old age. A Grandmother is much much older than me, I thought. I considered having Grandson Number One call me “The Grand Dame.” Kirk Russell said when Kate Hudson’s son was born that he would have the child call him “Mr. President.” “Well,” he said, “A child will call you whatever you choose won’t he?”
It turned out that Grandson Number One didn’t like calling me Grandma anymore than I liked being called one. (You know the old joke, “I don’t mind being a Grandma, but I don’t like the idea of sleeping with a Grandpa.) Grandson Number One simply would not say Grandma. At first we tried Jo—my nickname as a kid, but that didn’t work either. Since Grandson Number One knew the alphabet we tried J.O. And that worked. I’m J.O.
Now, though, being a grandma sounds good. The elder. The wise one. I loved my Grandma.
Daughter Number One says that families come in all sorts. The one Baby D was born into consists of a mother, a Grandfather, a Grandmother, and in the immediate vicinity, an Aunt, an Uncle and a cousin. Distances away are various aunts and second cousins, and I get lost on the twice removed and all that.
Here at the house Peaches, our pink party poodle for peace, is the official ear-licker, diaper checker. Bear, Daughter D’s Newfoundland dog (we learned recently that Newfoundland’s, are natural baby sitters) is the guardian, standing between the baby and Hope, Daughter D’s kitten. The other critters are Zoom Zoom, our cat, and Daughter D has two ferrets. Outside are four horses, Velvet and Sierra, my horses and Dante and Sweetums Daughter D’s horses. Let’s see, there is Orville and Wilber the free-range goats—except when grain is forthcoming from the garage, they get ushered, sometimes happily lured with grain, other times grumbly hauled into a dog kennel. We have three chickens, Mille Fleur and the Dixie chicks, and four Ducks. I guess that is everybody.
We had five ducks until 5 days ago. This is the puckery part. The day after Baby D came home Baby Duck was killed by a raccoon. There in broad daylight the raccoon was sitting in a tree with poor Baby Duck lie dead at the bottom. I was so sad I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so if any of you called that day and I didn’t answer that was why.
Baby Duck was our favorite, a big white duck, once a little yellow baby duckling. She was a miracle duck until the day that raccoon got her, and all last summer she laid an egg a day. Over a year ago she was chased by the neighbor dog, and unbeknown to us was caught by the leg in our cable railing until nightfall. She was rolled in the mud which gave her an eye infection and the leg was damaged. I took her to the Vet who cleaned her eye and it was there I learned how to give a duck a pill. The Vet assistant demonstrated by snatching the in-house cat from its nap on the couch, straddled the cat--that holds the wings down if the cat happens to be a duck, and keeps you from getting beat up. You open the mouth, uh beak, and drop a pill down the throat. The demo cat, gave the assistant a dirty look, shook itself, and crawled back up on the couch from which it had been abducted.
Baby Duck lived in our laundry room for about six weeks unable to walk on two legs, and getting physical therapy—that was one of us holding her on two feet—and giving antibiotics via the cat demo routine. And then miracle, one day she stood on two legs! Ta Da! We eventually turned her loose with the other ducks, where she has happily resided until last Wednesday.
Back to happy. Yesterday at the Pediatrician’s office I read Parenting magazines to Daughter D while she fed Baby D. The article that sticks with me was "How to Raise a Happy Child."
They said that joy can be taught. It is more a positive outlook on life, and I figured we could all use some of that right now. While we want our children to be joyful, we grown-ups are fed a constant diet of negativity. (My take on a bail-out would be to forgive us our mortgage payments. Then I would support the airlines by taking more trips, I would support hotels by staying in them, I would support resorts by cavorting there and giving them big tips. Wow, world-wide travel that sounds good. Saving the mustangs that sounds good too.)
Okay, back to earth. Let’s grow up happy. It isn’t the things we have that make us happy, but the gratitude we have with the things in life that are free. Sunsets, beautiful days, grandsons, children, horses that whinny when they see us, tuna fish sandwiches. (Oprah had the idea with her gratitude journal.) We aren’t perfect at everything—get a grip. If we fail we will learn. We understand we will do it better later. Listen. Validate feelings. (Flush, eat cookies and milk, say please and thank you—this is from Robert Fulghum’s book, All I really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.)
Regarding my book, It’s Hard To Stay On A Horse While You’re Unconscious, the focus of my website, http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/ , and the impetus for this blog, I’m finding that the people who like it the most are not horse people, but people who like memoirs. They say, “Gosh I didn’t know that about horses. And I stirred up a little controversy with my talk about God and evolution. For me, with a degree in Biology, not to mention evolution would be like asking an archaeologist not to mention bones.
A Grandson. Sweet. I told his birth story in the last blog. Here he is one week old. “He is growing up too fast,” says his mother. And you know what? I do believe he is getting dimples! He hasn’t smiled yet, but certain facial movements show the shadow of a dimple.
I have finally grown into being a Grandma. Baby D is my second grandson, the other, my first-born daughter’s son, is 3 years old. When he was born the idea of being called Grandma sounded to me like I had entered a slippery slope of old age. A Grandmother is much much older than me, I thought. I considered having Grandson Number One call me “The Grand Dame.” Kirk Russell said when Kate Hudson’s son was born that he would have the child call him “Mr. President.” “Well,” he said, “A child will call you whatever you choose won’t he?”
It turned out that Grandson Number One didn’t like calling me Grandma anymore than I liked being called one. (You know the old joke, “I don’t mind being a Grandma, but I don’t like the idea of sleeping with a Grandpa.) Grandson Number One simply would not say Grandma. At first we tried Jo—my nickname as a kid, but that didn’t work either. Since Grandson Number One knew the alphabet we tried J.O. And that worked. I’m J.O.
Now, though, being a grandma sounds good. The elder. The wise one. I loved my Grandma.
Daughter Number One says that families come in all sorts. The one Baby D was born into consists of a mother, a Grandfather, a Grandmother, and in the immediate vicinity, an Aunt, an Uncle and a cousin. Distances away are various aunts and second cousins, and I get lost on the twice removed and all that.
Here at the house Peaches, our pink party poodle for peace, is the official ear-licker, diaper checker. Bear, Daughter D’s Newfoundland dog (we learned recently that Newfoundland’s, are natural baby sitters) is the guardian, standing between the baby and Hope, Daughter D’s kitten. The other critters are Zoom Zoom, our cat, and Daughter D has two ferrets. Outside are four horses, Velvet and Sierra, my horses and Dante and Sweetums Daughter D’s horses. Let’s see, there is Orville and Wilber the free-range goats—except when grain is forthcoming from the garage, they get ushered, sometimes happily lured with grain, other times grumbly hauled into a dog kennel. We have three chickens, Mille Fleur and the Dixie chicks, and four Ducks. I guess that is everybody.
We had five ducks until 5 days ago. This is the puckery part. The day after Baby D came home Baby Duck was killed by a raccoon. There in broad daylight the raccoon was sitting in a tree with poor Baby Duck lie dead at the bottom. I was so sad I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so if any of you called that day and I didn’t answer that was why.
Baby Duck was our favorite, a big white duck, once a little yellow baby duckling. She was a miracle duck until the day that raccoon got her, and all last summer she laid an egg a day. Over a year ago she was chased by the neighbor dog, and unbeknown to us was caught by the leg in our cable railing until nightfall. She was rolled in the mud which gave her an eye infection and the leg was damaged. I took her to the Vet who cleaned her eye and it was there I learned how to give a duck a pill. The Vet assistant demonstrated by snatching the in-house cat from its nap on the couch, straddled the cat--that holds the wings down if the cat happens to be a duck, and keeps you from getting beat up. You open the mouth, uh beak, and drop a pill down the throat. The demo cat, gave the assistant a dirty look, shook itself, and crawled back up on the couch from which it had been abducted.
Baby Duck lived in our laundry room for about six weeks unable to walk on two legs, and getting physical therapy—that was one of us holding her on two feet—and giving antibiotics via the cat demo routine. And then miracle, one day she stood on two legs! Ta Da! We eventually turned her loose with the other ducks, where she has happily resided until last Wednesday.
Back to happy. Yesterday at the Pediatrician’s office I read Parenting magazines to Daughter D while she fed Baby D. The article that sticks with me was "How to Raise a Happy Child."
They said that joy can be taught. It is more a positive outlook on life, and I figured we could all use some of that right now. While we want our children to be joyful, we grown-ups are fed a constant diet of negativity. (My take on a bail-out would be to forgive us our mortgage payments. Then I would support the airlines by taking more trips, I would support hotels by staying in them, I would support resorts by cavorting there and giving them big tips. Wow, world-wide travel that sounds good. Saving the mustangs that sounds good too.)
Okay, back to earth. Let’s grow up happy. It isn’t the things we have that make us happy, but the gratitude we have with the things in life that are free. Sunsets, beautiful days, grandsons, children, horses that whinny when they see us, tuna fish sandwiches. (Oprah had the idea with her gratitude journal.) We aren’t perfect at everything—get a grip. If we fail we will learn. We understand we will do it better later. Listen. Validate feelings. (Flush, eat cookies and milk, say please and thank you—this is from Robert Fulghum’s book, All I really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.)
Regarding my book, It’s Hard To Stay On A Horse While You’re Unconscious, the focus of my website, http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/ , and the impetus for this blog, I’m finding that the people who like it the most are not horse people, but people who like memoirs. They say, “Gosh I didn’t know that about horses. And I stirred up a little controversy with my talk about God and evolution. For me, with a degree in Biology, not to mention evolution would be like asking an archaeologist not to mention bones.
