Look at me, I'm Baby D.
First born daughter's son.
And since this site circles around horses, I have to include one. Here is a picture of my mustang Sierra.
I have to hand it to you guys who found my blog. And I have to hand it to you guys who read it. There are a zillion blogs out there.
I wasn’t into blogging until I started this one. Now that I have followers I have to check them out. Some are absolutely beautiful, Boho girl--an astounding site. Her photos are incredible, and the story about her adopting a baby, I’m wiped out. I spent hours trying to respond to her, ended up signing up on myspace.com. Got hooked into writing a profile, and can you believe they wanted my age?
I tried saying I was born in 1909, their earliest listed date, but they said to enter an age between 13 and 100. I would have put 39 but my daughter said I couldn’t, that’s how old she is.
The day is almost over and what did I accomplish? A warm chair and frazzled eyeballs. Those missing spaces after paragraphs in the last blog bugged me, but the site refused to enter them although I tried at least 600 times.
I let the horses out a few minutes ago—that’s something accomplished. Since I’m not exercising them, they need to do it themselves. Sierra and Velvet like to frolic around the house, up the drive, into the forest, over the retaining wall. We had to fence in the house and the deck so I could have some ornamental plants. A couple of summers ago the goats ate the fig tree down to a nubbin. Last summer a visitor commented on how beautiful it was, and offered to lend them a goat.
The horses are free-range for only an hour or so. Having grown up on this property, they stay around the house, and when I call them they run to get their grain. That is one thing they are respectful of, me walking with a grain bucket. I learned a trick from Monty Roberts, point to them and they keep their distance. Both of them kicked up their heels in rebellion when I first enforced the rule—they were kids then—now they walk calmly over to the fence and receive their grain like ladies.
The trouble is they are so accustomed to this property, and anything new is as though stalked by a mountain lion.
Monday Baby D was one month old.
We took him out to dinner to celebrate.
And him being particular about food, he brought his own—that is discreetly nursing under the table in the restaurant booth. Did you know that breastfeeding actually makes breast tissue younger? We learned that from a lactation consultant. When the mother is older, she said, sometimes it takes a bit longer to get started, but one started there is no difference, and the cells of the breast actually change to the younger version of themselves. Those changed cells are now one reason researchers believe that mothers who have breastfed have fewer incidents of breast cancer.
While I am on the subject of health, I am a champion of using hormone replacement therapy that does not involve a horse. Premarin is made from mare’s urine. Doctors routinely prescribe it, unless the woman requests otherwise. It is not necessary for the health of women and it is a cruel horrible practice for horses. Mares are kept perpetually pregnant, tied, standing on cement (that kills their legs) and with a catheter for the duration of their pregnancy. (Yipes.) The foals are throw-away-babies. Unless someone adopts them they are often destroyed. Hormone replacement therapy can be produced from Wild Yam or cholesterol, same hormones, work as well, and it does not torture an animal to do it.
I want to keep this site positive, but this is information is important to the health and welfare of women and horses. I love them both. I see that now Oprah has the courage and knowledge to encourage Individual specific hormone therapy. Yea, a new day—maybe flowers are blooming after all.
For information on my book It's Hard To Stay On A Horse While You're Unconscious, see http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/
I wasn’t into blogging until I started this one. Now that I have followers I have to check them out. Some are absolutely beautiful, Boho girl--an astounding site. Her photos are incredible, and the story about her adopting a baby, I’m wiped out. I spent hours trying to respond to her, ended up signing up on myspace.com. Got hooked into writing a profile, and can you believe they wanted my age?
I tried saying I was born in 1909, their earliest listed date, but they said to enter an age between 13 and 100. I would have put 39 but my daughter said I couldn’t, that’s how old she is.
The day is almost over and what did I accomplish? A warm chair and frazzled eyeballs. Those missing spaces after paragraphs in the last blog bugged me, but the site refused to enter them although I tried at least 600 times.
I let the horses out a few minutes ago—that’s something accomplished. Since I’m not exercising them, they need to do it themselves. Sierra and Velvet like to frolic around the house, up the drive, into the forest, over the retaining wall. We had to fence in the house and the deck so I could have some ornamental plants. A couple of summers ago the goats ate the fig tree down to a nubbin. Last summer a visitor commented on how beautiful it was, and offered to lend them a goat.
The horses are free-range for only an hour or so. Having grown up on this property, they stay around the house, and when I call them they run to get their grain. That is one thing they are respectful of, me walking with a grain bucket. I learned a trick from Monty Roberts, point to them and they keep their distance. Both of them kicked up their heels in rebellion when I first enforced the rule—they were kids then—now they walk calmly over to the fence and receive their grain like ladies.
The trouble is they are so accustomed to this property, and anything new is as though stalked by a mountain lion.
Monday Baby D was one month old.
We took him out to dinner to celebrate.
And him being particular about food, he brought his own—that is discreetly nursing under the table in the restaurant booth. Did you know that breastfeeding actually makes breast tissue younger? We learned that from a lactation consultant. When the mother is older, she said, sometimes it takes a bit longer to get started, but one started there is no difference, and the cells of the breast actually change to the younger version of themselves. Those changed cells are now one reason researchers believe that mothers who have breastfed have fewer incidents of breast cancer.
While I am on the subject of health, I am a champion of using hormone replacement therapy that does not involve a horse. Premarin is made from mare’s urine. Doctors routinely prescribe it, unless the woman requests otherwise. It is not necessary for the health of women and it is a cruel horrible practice for horses. Mares are kept perpetually pregnant, tied, standing on cement (that kills their legs) and with a catheter for the duration of their pregnancy. (Yipes.) The foals are throw-away-babies. Unless someone adopts them they are often destroyed. Hormone replacement therapy can be produced from Wild Yam or cholesterol, same hormones, work as well, and it does not torture an animal to do it.
I want to keep this site positive, but this is information is important to the health and welfare of women and horses. I love them both. I see that now Oprah has the courage and knowledge to encourage Individual specific hormone therapy. Yea, a new day—maybe flowers are blooming after all.
For information on my book It's Hard To Stay On A Horse While You're Unconscious, see http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/
