We decided that the time had come to have a baby- we’d been married a couple years and were both approaching the age of 30, my personal deadline for having children (Mother had her last at 40 and guess who became the live-in babysitter) Nature wasn’t being very cooperative, though; six months of trying with no results and I was getting a little worried. But God had things under control; on Easter Sunday, Chris accepted Jesus as Savior and five weeks later, I learned I was pregnant. I’ll always remember the day we told Chris’ Mom; we bought some balloons, tied them to a jelly-bean filled baby bottle, and set them on the kitchen counter when we arrived that afternoon. We sat in the living room, chatting with my MIL and biding time until she went to get her next Diet Pep*si. When she finally walked into the kitchen, we waited for the explosion of emotion, but nothing happened; when we couldn’t stand the silence any longer, we looked around the corner to see her sitting on the kitchen floor, the baby bottle cradled in her arms, with tears running down her cheeks.

I touched on the problems we struggled through here; I pretty much had to opt-out of most everything for months, leaving Chris to do the cooking, cleaning, shopping, and caring for Jessica. Being a new Christian, he naturally clung to God, learning to accept the help and friendship offered by members of our church. We both grew a lot through that time.

Finally, the day came; I had quit working six weeks earlier and had been allowed to stop the medication, so I was feeling much better. We overcame our fears, making love for the first time in weeks; I awoke after midnight with steady, but moderate contractions. In the dark, quiet hours, I walked, rocked, and labored alone, waking Chris at 4:30 to tell him it was time to get Jessica ready to go to his Mom’s house.

We arrived at the hospital a little past 5:00 and were settled into a labor room, since both birthing rooms were occupied. After about 20 minutes, I calmly told Chris to get a nurse, because I was feeling the urge to push; being a terrified first-timer, he scurried out on his mission, only to be told it was too soon, I was only dilated 4, there was plenty of time, someone would be there in a while, blah-blah-blah. He relayed the message to me and I, a little less calmly, asserted that he needed to insist on a nurse coming in now; when repeating his request to the attending, with a large sigh she asked how many times I had given birth- when he replied “This is the third”, there was suddenly a flurry of activity. Three nurses and the doctor on duty came flying in and within 10 minutes, Samuel Christopher made his entrance, protesting this early morning wakeup in his deep, loud cry.

The next hour was a little blurry; I remember seeing Chris gingerly holding a swaddled Sam while sitting on the toilet, the only place for him out of the way; the doctor asking me what this big boy’s name was and proclaiming Samuel “an excellent name” (guess what Dr Young’s first name is); listening to the discussion on tying flies while my stitches were being done and the incredulous look on the nurse’s face. I found myself settled in the recovery room, sipping a juice box, with my boy snuggled to my side; that’s when the tears came and my heart was filled with gratitude. I began to quietly sing to him; the only songs I remember were the Carpenters’ Close to You and the Doxology I learned at my grandmother’s church years before:

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him all creatures here below;

Praise Him above ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”

Here we are, eighteen years later, and aside from being completely flummoxed as to how we got old enough to have three adult children, the overcoming emotion is still one of gratitude and pride. Sam is definitely the son of both parents- his father’s looks, outgoing nature, desire to serve; his mother’s love of numbers and words, quirky sense of humor, and enthusiasm in learning new things. He has a zest for adventure, a heart for God, and the desire to see justice done; just look at his motto-

Fight for a just cause

Love your neighbor

Live a good life

A parent couldn’t ask for more.

All right. Enough of this sweetness & light that’s been hanging around here lately; folks are going to begin to think I’m not a real person! High time for good old “Gripe Session”; buckle your seat belts.

+   First of all, getting old bites. Yes, I will admit it- I am middle aged & I feel every one of those 45 years hanging on me. The symphony of crackles, creaks, grinding & groaning first thing in the morning rankles the nerves of everyone present; Poppy has taken to giving me dirty looks for disturbing her royal slumber & stalks off to sulk in the corner. The cold, wet weather has aggravated all the normally moderate aches & pains we live with- between my hands & Chris’ knees, we’re going through a bottle of ibuprofen (100 caps) a week.

+   I have been playing “Clothing Roulette” with my soon-to-be 17 year old son- you know, the one who is normally pretty easy going & malleable. Here’s how you play:

o       Mom does the laundry (drag downstairs, wash, & dry), then asks the boy to fold & put away the clean clothes.

o       The boy heaves enormous sigh of oppression, before stomping upstairs to get a basket, where he is promptly distracted by: (a) cell phone, (b) video game, (c) the patterns on the ceiling over his bed.

o       Mom notices an hour later that the clothes are still in the dryer, & reminds the boy- who is now sitting on the sofa watching TV- that the clothes still need to be folded & put away.

o       The boy rolls his eyes, mutters something resembling “If it bugs you so much, do it yourself”, stomps back upstairs for the basket he forgot earlier, & precedes to roll it down the stairs or drag it behind him- Thump-Thump-Thump

o       Thirty minutes later, Mom walks through the living room to see the empty laundry basket on the sofa & the boy sitting in the recliner, eating an orange & dropping the peel on the floor.

o       In reply to the query “Are the clothes put away yet?” the boy states he was hungry & he’ll do it when he’s done; having been told that he is done & pick up that blasted peel, the boy removes clothes from dryer & drops them on the floor- next to the basket- & begins rolling them in balls & tossing them into the basket, Michael Jordan style.

o       Mom comes back through the living room later & spots the basket of wadded clothing sitting on the sofa, instructs the boy- who is now practicing with his kendo sword right below the ceiling fan- to re-fold the clothes & take them upstairs.... now!

o       Dad now enters the game- he trips over the basket of clothing in the upstairs hallway & calls for the boy to finish what he was told to do

o       The boy deposits the basket of clothes on parents’ bed

o       Mom deposits the basket of clothes in front of boy’s bedroom door

o       The boy moves the basket of clothes back into the hallway to get through the door

o       Dad picks up the basket of clothes & dumps contents on the boy’s bed

o       The boy goes to bed, dropping the folded clothing on the floor

o       The next morning, Mom picks the clothes up off the floor, puts them back on the boy’s bed, & tells the boy to put them away before he leaves for school

o       The boy stashes the clothes on his closet floor, before bolting out the door for Driver’s Ed class

o       Mom goes in search of her socks & sees the clothes on the floor; since she is in her underwear, she can’t charge out the door after the boy, so she puts the clothes back on his bed, murmuring obsenities

o       In the evening, while boy is taking his second shower of the day, Mom flushes the toilet, & when boy leans out the stall door to yell at whoever did it, she grabs his earlobe, frog marches him- starkers & dripping- into his room, & watches while he puts the clothing away.

This game is played roughly once a week- I sincerely hope the boy’s brain cells start sparking again soon.

+   After six years of being clean-shaven, Chris has decided to grow one of those Vandyke beards. I don’t know why; he’s not normally one to follow the crowd (hence, the full head of hair in a community of shaved heads), so part of me is slightly apprehensive & the rest is just plain annoyed. Chris is a natural blond, with nary a grey hair on his head that I’ve been able to spot (blast his 46 year old hide); this new venture is sporting a calico flair- the mustache coming in a dark blond & the beard pure black, with two bright white stripes running down the chin- similar to a skunk’s markings. The current length & texture is that of a cheap nylon nail brush; forget whisker burn- I’m being punctured each evening during his lemon-sucking-lip-pucker jab my direction as he heads to bed. Yep- unfortunately, we are back to “ships passing in the night”- refer to #1 in this post ...*sigh*

+   I had to go back to the doctor on Friday. Not to worry- nothing serious & my foot is still feeling pretty good, all things considered. No, I’ve developed my first ever yeast infection.

In my armpit.

Yes, you read that correctly; apparently, the cortisone shot I had last month (also a first) suppressed my immune system enough for the ever-present fungus to blossom into full smelly, itchy, burning glory under both arms. Two weeks of no shaving or deodorant, & daily doses of Lama*sil- same stuff they use for j*ck-itch. Boy, am I a class act or what?

Well, that’s it for now; I have to put in some hours at my desk, preparing year-end reports & hopefully rack up some overtime hours; Chris has been put on 4-day weeks for the next month unless enough people leave (always a possibility on short hours) or bookings pick-up. The timing could not have been worse- we are scheduled to go on vacation in March & I’ve already purchased the non-refundable tickets; unless the tax return arrives promptly, we may be camping out in Washington, DC for Spring Break. Now that would be an adventure.

Sam taught me to put in videos; this is his XMA Club performance at the Night Rally last week (he's the blondie in all black- my own little Chuck N*orris)

Sorry I haven’t been around for a few days; we had a bit of a family crisis, which left me singularly unmotivated to do much beyond the very basics of personal hygiene & household maintenance.

Our senior feline, Daisy, has been in a slow decline for a number of months; most of it can be attributed to advancing age, as she is at least 13 years old. She has been losing weight, even though her appetite is still good & her activity level is virtually nonexistent, & it has become difficult for her to groom herself completely, due to a loss of flexibility. Lately, I’ve noticed a marked increase in her water consumption; she began to have trouble keeping her food down, & was miscalculating when using the litter box, which is quite out of character. Friday morning, I found that Daisy had been violently ill, leaving huge puddles of food & water several places downstairs, & wouldn’t come out of her basket even for a tuna treat (one of the few things that makes her come running.) I made an appointment with the vet & prepared myself for the worst.

Daisy is the only one of my cats with a deep & life-long aversion to the pet carrier; when she casts a baleful glance at the younger ones playing in the crate (keeping herself at a discreet distance & leaving a clear path to the staircase) I swear she shakes her head & clicks her tongue in dismay over the younger generation. So I knew it was pretty serious when she only put on a token protest when I popped her into the carrier; the drive over was equally subdued, with only a couple of whines & whimpers, though she did piddle inside from nervousness. By the time we were settled into an examining room, she was hyperventilating & spontaneously releasing around 37 pounds of fur. Between the technician & myself, we got her calmed down enough to take her weight, pulse, & temperature.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I love our vet; she is one of those naturally perky people, with a deep love of animals & a quirky sense of humor. She could see right away that I was probably in more distress than my cat, so first thing she did was give me a hug, assuring me it would be all right. She thoroughly examined Daisy, alternately soothing her, peppering me with questions, & scolding me for waiting so long to bring her to the office (in my defense, I hesitate to take Daisy in because she gets so upset leaving the house, I feel it causes her unjustifiable stress) A light-hearted moment came while the doctor was palpitating Daisy’s abdomen, checking for any growths; evidently, Daisy’s nervousness made her a bit gassy- as the vet pushed & pressed, we were treated to an intestinal rendition of the “1812 Overture”, complete with performances from both ends & vocal accompaniment. We humans were reduced to a case of the giggles, while Daisy looked on in queenly disgust; I could almost hear her saying “We are not amused!”

The verdict was not as dire as I feared; she was obviously dehydrated, had picked up an intestinal parasite, & had developed a bladder infection. The doctor kept her overnight to load her with fluids & antibiotics,  & ordered complete blood workup; when we picked up Saturday morning, we learned that Daisy has diabetes & will need to have twice daily insulin injections. Chris gave me a bit of a questioning look when we were told about the shots & the change to really expensive diabetic cat food (which all the cats will have to eat), but I just shrugged & said, “Welcome to the wonderful world of Geriatric Pet Care!” Daisy is already a fairly high maintenance cat; besides administering daily antihistamines (for her allergies & to avoid developing asthma), vitamins/hairball treatments, & brushing her twice a day (since she can’t reach all the spots anymore), we have to deal with the feline version of toilet paper stuck to her foot by washing the clumping litter from her paws & rubbing them with Bag Balm to counteract the extreme drying clay causes to the pads. What are a couple of injections, everyday, for the rest of her life? This is what we signed up for when we brought her home all those years ago- to give her the best quality of life we can & care for her when she can’t care for herself.

Now, I just need to perfect my technique for giving a cat a pill- I have to dose Daisy for the parasite with 3 halves of a bright yellow tablet, once now & again in two weeks. I’ve exhausted my camouflage tricks- she won’t touch the wet food loaded with crushed pill, & sticking it inside a tuna treat or some ground ham was a dismal failure- she just ate around the tablet. I have resorted to the direct method- mummy wrapping her in a towel, prying open her jaws with one hand, & shoving the pill down her gullet gently encouraging her to swallow it with the other; the end result is yellow goo smeared all over & multiple puncture marks on my index finger. Note to self: wear gardening gloves next time- Daisy’s teeth are in surprisingly good condition for her age.

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this, but we have a bird.   

Actually, we had two birds… and a miniature hamster.

Yes, I know- a recipe for disaster; it was not my decision. Chris had the bright idea to surprise me for our anniversary (the 15^th, I think) with a pair of peach-faced lovebirds. A friend of a co-worker raised them and had a surplus that he couldn’t sell; my master scavenger saw flashing “FREE” signs, rounded up a cage, and TA-DA, we own some birds. They arrived right on the very tiny tail of the hamster, Mr. Nibbles, bequeathed to Sam by my in-laws- they didn’t think he would survive the move to Oregon from Southern California in a van with 3 kids, a dog, 2 cats, & a dwarf rabbit named Barfy. Go figure.    

Now, I like birds in theory; I like to watch them through the window, listen to them tweet & twitter in the trees when I take a walk. But birds at home… with cats in residence… I’m not enamored of the idea.   When I asked Chris why birds, he reminded me of a conversation we had sometime in the previous 5 years, in which I mentioned that I thought lovebirds were pretty. Oooookay. Somehow, his mind translated my admiration into a desire to possess said animals; somewhat of a leap in logic, but a sweet gesture nonetheless. In true meg fashion, I headed off to the library to read up on the life & care of lovebirds; did you know that lovebirds are small parrots & they can live up twenty years! OY! That’s a long time to run interference between members of the fur & feather camps; but what’s done is done.

The new residents were christened Beatrice & Benedict (after the quarrelling lovers in “Much Ado About Nothing”); fortunately, I found that their vocalizations- while somewhat loud first thing in the morning- were not unpleasant (though their penchant for flinging seeds is rather annoying). Providentially, the cats showed little or no interest in the birds: Daisy patently ignores the cage; Poppy watches me refill the food & water, will occasionally leap to the top of the cage to gain a better vantage point to the backyard, but scurries off at the first sign of squawking (Pops has taken a vow of silence & is disturbed by sudden, loud noises); only Dahlia has shown cat-like curiosity, but as she suffers from Feline ADD & severe coordination impairment, I think the interest is strictly token.

These are not tamed birds, raised to be handled by humans; Benedict eventually- after much coaxing- would sit on my finger while in the cage, but Beatrice would just scream & fly at my face if I tried to approach her. The first winter we had them, our “love” birds began to lay eggs in their nesting box.   We were excited over the first two eggs (“this will be so cool”), had a few concerns about the next four eggs (“I hope we can find homes for them”), and began to panic when the count reached twelve eggs (“OMG, what are we going to do?”) I believe now that our Benedict was really a “Benedica” & the two of them were combining their efforts just to drive me crazy. We started to remove the eggs from the box after nearly a month & finally had to remove the box altogether.

Shortly thereafter, Benedict began plucking out his/her feathers. We tried everything- changed the diet, changed locations, less noise, more noise, new toys, no toys- we even moved Beatrice to another cage on the advise of the bird psychologist (yes, you read that correctly- what we do for our animals!) Nothing helped; eventually he/she was bald from neck to knees. When Benedict died last year (heart failure, we believe), the only feathers still in possession were on the head & wings, with one lone tail that came out just a couple of days before.   

Now, I’m about to dispel a myth: a lovebird does not necessarily die after losing their companion; but it will become a bit quiet & moody.   Beatrice has never been a particularly pleasant bird, but now she is just plain paranoid; the slightest noise or movement will cause her to squawk & fly around her cage. About 3 months ago, Beatrice began feather picking; so far it is not too noticeable, beyond the excess number of feathers floating around the cage. But last week, as I was replacing her millet seed branch, I noticed a bare patch under her wing; it appeared (in the split second I saw it as she flew at my face) to have an open sore, so I called our vet & made an appointment. 

[Let me interject that I simply adore our vet; she is equal parts dedicated professional, animal enthusiast, & twisted humorist. We began seeing her after we got the birds, since she was the only one in town that would see “exotics”. I filled out a questionnaire, listing all our animals, & the doctor noted that I hadn’t listed names for the birds or hamster. I told her we couldn’t decide what to call them yet; she suggested “Breakfast, Brunch, & Appetizer”- my kind of gal!]   

After questioning us about changes in her routine, diet, etc, the vet prescribed a topical ointment & an oral antibiotic, both to be administered twice a day for three weeks.   Since Chris has an affinity with this bird, he took on the duties of dosing her. This…hen…has a wicked bite, but Chris sports the thickest skin I’ve ever seen. Seriously, he can cut himself 1/16^th of an inch deep & not bleed (though Beatrice once bit the end of his finger & punctured through his fingernail) But since he’s going to be in Florida for the next couple of weeks, the job is left to me & Sam. Oh, this is going to be fun!

I know it sounds like a version of the old joke, “How many people does it take to screw in a light bulb?”   but it really does take both of us to treat this bird. To be brutally honest- she scares me! So here is our process:

1. Trap the bird with a thick hand towel- 5 minutes   
2. Pass said hand towel bundle back & forth “You hold her!” “No, I did it last time”- 2 minutes
3. Loser of #2 discussion carefully maneuvers squirming, screaming bird so everything but left wing is secured in the towel- 3 minutes
4. Second person gently holds flapping wing & applies ointment to sore with cotton swab- 30 seconds
5. Second person goes to medicine closet for another cotton swab when bird turns around in her skin & bites it in half- 1 minute
6. Repeat step #4 & #5 as needed
7. Rearrange bird in hand towel until only head is exposed- 1 ½ minutes  
8. Retrieve bird from curtain rod after she escapes hand towel- 6 minutes
9. Repeat steps #7 & #8 as required
10. Second person gently grasps struggling bird’s head to administer ½ c.c. of antibiotic- 45 seconds
11. Second person goes to medicine closet for a bandage to cover puncture wound on finger- 1 ½ minutes  
12. Repeat Step #10
13. Refill syringe with another ½ c.c. of antibiotic when head jerks to the side- 30 seconds  
14. Repeat Step #10
15. Release bird back into cage

This is so pathetic- it takes two full-sized humans 15 to 25 minutes to treat a 2-ounce bird with a dab of ointment & a drop of medicine. It’s going to be a long two weeks.  

 Since no one seems to want to play my guessing game, I suppose I will have to reveal my new activity. Then again, maybe I'll just give a couple more clues. Let's see, what were the clues I gave? Oh, yes:

1. A pair of women's gloves

2. A fundraiser tea party

3. Index cards filled with notes

4. Christopher Augustine Buckely Sr (google me)

So here are a couple of BIG hints

1890's Period Costumes

Look at the "Yuki Adventures" Category entries

I promise, I will tell all next week; but if you guess it first, I'll send you something sweet!