It Can't Be Done

Today is not a good day. If I had a bad habit other than Dr Pepper, I'd be indulging it right now. I've tried to sit down and take a moment, but somehow it's just not suppressing the urge to choke the next stupid person I come across. Every single project I have in the works (the top two being my book and our equine spa) is being delayed by someone else who hasn't done their job. And might I add, just for fun, someone that I paid to do a job. I freely admit that I am an impatient person. If I want something done, I want it done yesterday. But if you advertise yourself as a professional, then I expect a certain level of, I don't know, urgency when it comes to completing a project. You all certainly develop a sense of urgency when you are waiting for your money.
My special cross to bear seems to be dealing with photographers. One photographer, ONE has managed to take quality pictures and deliver what I wanted in a timely fashion out of all the ones I've ever dealt with. And he lives three hours away. He took our wedding pictures, which cost an arm and a leg, but I got the photos I wanted of that day, and seeing as how I don't have a video of it (a whole other story,) my pictures are what I have to remember my wedding. It's been downhill from there.
I've been through several "professionals" since then who can't seem to get an order right to save their lives. One man put half of the pictures he agreed to on a CD and then put the wrong child's name on it. NOT the way to build your business. He also ordered the wrong pictures in the wrong sizes every time I placed an order with him.
Then there was the lady who never seemed to be ready at my appointment time. Look, when you show up with not one but TWO eighteen month old children who are dressed AND happy at the time your appointment is supposed to begin, you should darn well be ready to take their pictures. Putting a freshly ironed smocked dress on a toddler inevitably produces the urge to wallow on the floor like a pig. And as anyone with a toddler knows, you have a very small window of time where they are cooperative and happy. You have to get your pictures quick or be really good at Photoshop.
My proofs always looked terrible. I'm sorry, but there's only so many times you can blame the lab who printed the proofs for the fact that the pictures are too dark. I paid for a package deal with my baby and never got what was promised in the package. Just for fun, the same person has reordered a portrait because she ordered the wrong pose the first time and STILL didn't order what I asked for on the paper I asked for. It's maddening.
And one more thing...don't tell me something can't be done because YOU don't know how to do it. It's a big world out there, and there are still people left in it who are willing to take on a project and work at it until they get it right. "It can't be done" is a load of crap. It's a good thing that our founding fathers didn't have that attitude. Otherwise we'd all still be loyal subjects of the Queen.
Whew! That felt good. Maybe I'm slightly less frustrated than before. Maybe. Lord, put your arm around my shoulders and your hand over my mouth.

What Goes Around Comes Around

I am a big believer in karma. Invariably people get what's coming to them, some of them just have to wait a little longer than others. I also believe that no good deed goes unpunished! While we were at the Mega Race, my husband and I were busy working the Lifewave booth when a lady we didn't know walked up. Kirk was busy, so I said, "How are you?" "Not good, not good at all," she said tearfully. "Do you have some jumper cables?"
I absolutely did, and the reason I did is because last year before Christmas my baby and I were stuck in Tupelo when my car wouldn't start. Not one single person offered assistance to a woman with a baby in a car with the hood raised. Disgusting. Anyway, while I was waiting on my hero, AKA Superhusband, I mentioned on Facebook that all I wanted for Christmas was a set of jumper cables. So naturally, included among my gifts from my dad that year was a roadside assistance kit, complete with a shiny new set of cables. It's ridden around in my car unopened, simply because when you have something like that, you never need it. Leave that sucker at home and I can guarantee you will be sitting on the side of the road.
So I loaned the lady my set of cables, my car, and my husband, because I figured that kind of stuff comes back around. I had no idea what I was getting us into.
As they pull around the building, in a slightly panicky voice this lady mentions that her (small) children are at the hotel and she now has no way to go get them. She explained that the whole mess started when she lost her keys. Apparently forgetting that she was in the murder capital of the southeastern US, this woman walked by herself at least a mile to the Chevrolet dealership. I really wanted to say something to her about her poor decision making, but then I thought, well, if it meant getting back to my kids, I'd have walked past the devil himself. So I couldn't really fault her for that one. But lady, really, next time ask somebody for a ride! Sheesh!
Have I mentioned how hard it is to type with a short person sitting in your lap playing with the mole on your neck? And pushing buttons at random. Oh, and turning your computer off from time to time. Adds a whole new degree of difficulty to my writing career! If only I didn't need to sleep and I could write while my kids were in bed... Anyway, back to my story.
Desperate lady makes it to the Chevy dealership where they sell her a new key for her truck for $60. Because they refuse to give her a ride back to the Fairgrounds (and shame on you guys for that) she walks back. She follows their instructions to put the new key in the ignition without turning the truck on and leave it for an hour. After an hour, her new key is programmed and her battery is dead. So that's when she found me.
In the meantime, someone finds her keys and takes them to the announcer's stand. Excited to have them back, now all she needs is a jump, right? Wrong! After unsuccessfully attempting to jump start her truck with two different vehicles and calling in our buddy who knows about cars, my husband was about at his wits' end. The helpful Chevrolet dealership told her that all they could do for her was call a tow truck. Then our buddy had a thought. "Which key are you using to crank the truck?" "My old one, since we found it." "Try the new one!" You know what happened next. The truck cranked right up and the day was saved!
She was incredibly grateful, and I just have to believe that things like that come back around. I sometimes think about how much fun it would be to have millions of dollars to give away. How cool would it be to change someone's life by paying off their house or bankrolling their dream business? I can't think of anything better. But since I don't have that option at the moment, I have to settle for helping people when the opportunity presents itself. We helped someone, I learned something about cars, and I was once again proud of Superhusband. Maybe it wasn't such a bad week, after all.   

I'm Back!

Holy cow! What a week! I'm pretty sure that I met myself in the highway several times over the last few days. Kirk and I went to work an event in Jackson, which is three hours away, that started in the middle of the week. That's not such a big deal for professional horse trainers and people who don't have kids, or even people with kids who aren't in school yet, but for us it's huge. Leaving my kids at home now (so that they don't miss school) means coordinating a small army of babysitters, in addition to dealing with the fact that I miss them like crazy. Oh, and there's the small matter of paying someone to stay with our kids night and day and take them to school. And pick them up. And do homework, feed them, bathe them, and all that other stuff their dad and I normally take care of. The sitters are always ready to go home when we get back!
The event that we went to is generally the biggest barrel race in our area each year. As luck would have it, nothing went my way this time. One of the horses I pre-entered got hurt, forcing me to scratch her. Then it was either donate the $200 entry fee I'd already paid or take my colt that I knew wasn't ready to go to such a large event. I ended up taking the colt, and now definitely wish I hadn't!
My husband left home Wednesday afternoon, and I stayed home one more night to drive the kids to school on Thursday. I dropped them out and headed for Jackson, watching the clock very carefully so as not to miss my run. Missing my run is one of my worst fears at big shows. I'm not really sure why; it's never happened before, but when I stopped in Starkville and found myself locked in a bathroom stall, it didn't take but a second for me to decide that door was going down. Fortunately, I didn't have to destroy the stall door in order to get out, or slide under the door (eeewwww...) but I would have, in a second. I have been trapped in a bathroom one other time in my life, on my wedding day, and trust me, that door didn't stand a chance.
Anyway, I finally made it to Jackson, unloaded my truck, walked inside to check the draw...and got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. Naturally, because I was three hours from home, it was my daughter's teacher letting me know that she was sick and I needed to come pick her up from school. Somewhere in my subconscious I knew this was going to happen. Planning for all the "what ifs" was my greatest source of anxiety in planning this trip. Maybe it was self-fulfilling prophecy. I don't know. Fortunately, my college age sitter was out of class and could go get her. On a positive note, we already had a new bottle of amoxicillin powder sitting on our kitchen shelf just waiting to be mixed up. Hey, being a vet's kid has to have some advantages. My daughter kept asking her sitter if she had to take "horse medicine" again, so I'd love to know what she told her teacher when she went back to school yesterday.
After I finally got the kids squared away, it was time for me to do what I'd gone there for in the first place: run barrels! My first run was on the more "reliable" of my two young horses. He doesn't have a tremendous amount of "try" about him, but he always turns three barrels and rarely hits one. After listening to me complain (again) about how lazy he was, my husband (who doesn't make barrel runs but has watched a million of them) suggested that perhaps I should get up off my arse and lean forward, his theory being that the horse wasn't running because I wasn't asking him to. Good idea, right? Sure! So on my first run, I leaned forward, sent him in there, and overran the first barrel by a mile! As I was getting it back together leaving the second barrel, I leaned forward, asked him to run...and hung my belt over my saddle horn. I didn't sit down for the third barrel or on the way out, because I couldn't! As I was coming to the gate, I was thinking, "Please, Lord, let this horse stop! I run him without a curb chain and I can't sit down to ask him to stop!" Fortunately, he stopped before he hit the closed gate, even without my help. Not the way I wanted to start things off!
My second run of the weekend was on my young horse who definitely was not ready for an event like this. He is little, quick and catty, and as my husband likes to put it, "If you stub your toe, you will be walking out." He wasn't really sure about this whole program, so he zigged and zagged and finally found his way to the first barrel, but by then he had shaken up his jockey. I pulled a little too hard on the left rein, and being the obedient boy that he is, he turned in front of the second barrel. Just to annoy me, once I turned him around, he went back through and made two awesome turns, as if to say, "See, I can do this if she'll get the heck out of my way!"
The second day of the event wasn't much better! I had a better first barrel on my big horse, then hit the third barrel, which kept me out of the finals. My little horse was totally full of himself after being shut up in a stall all weekend, and decided that just to keep it interesting he would turn in front of the first barrel this time. (I freely admit that he had help from his jockey in making that decision.)
So needless to say, I didn't have the weekend I was hoping for! It's so frustrating when you look forward to something all year, really work at it, and then it blows up in your face. My husband and I were sitting around, discussing what a horrible week it had been and what we could do to fix it, and then it happened. Just like it always does. God brought me back to reality. My friend who has cancer called and let me know that according to her doctor her time is getting short. Really short. And just like that none of the barrel racing stuff really mattered.
I had a rotten week, one that I'd like to forget about. But at least I've got the promise of another one. I always seem to be gently (or not so gently) reminded that I have so much to be thankful for. My husband and my kids are healthy. I'm healthy. I am blessed to be an American. And I still get to participate in a sport that I love. Time to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start over. Again. I got some good advice from a friend this weekend: 'Sometimes stuff just has to work because you decide that you're going to make it work." Duly noted.    

Equine-itis

This week is a "short" week for us, which as all of my horsey friends know, means that we just drug in from one event on Sunday and now we are unpacking, repacking and heading to another one on Wednesday. Those of you who know me know that I have three children, two of which are already in school. (Yes, I'd love to home school them, but I'm not sure my nerves can take it.) Since this trip begins on Wednesday instead of Friday, I also get to manage a small army of babysitters in order to ensure that my little cherubs don't miss any school. They are hitching a ride with a friend after school on Friday. Lots of moving parts! I have to keep myself from thinking about all the stuff that might happen. Otherwise, I'll call the whole thing off. Just for fun, and as if I need any more stress this weekend, my young horse is getting pressed into service since the one I entered on had to be scratched. Her issues have issues, and the phrase "too much sugar for a dime" keeps coming to mind when I think about how much time, effort, and money it takes to keep her going. Time for her to find a new career, which means I get to run Slim at his first big show. Ever. With music and lights and noise, oh my! I guess he might as well start at the top. Our goal for the weekend is two runs consisting of three turns with a barrel in the middle. Making the short round would be a total bonus. Fingers crossed!
I hope my friends don't mind being called "horsey." I take it as a compliment. I simply use the term to distinguish those of my friends who have the disease from those who don't. "Equine-itis" affects some of us from an early age; others catch it later in life. But it is most definitely an illness. Those of us who have it will spend any amount of money and risk life and limb to care for, exercise, groom, show, and otherwise pamper the horses in our lives. When we think, it's what we think about. When we dream, it's what we dream about. When we set goals, they almost always involve a horse.
If we currently have a competition horse, we constantly think about ways to make him better. This is where the money thing comes in. Maybe he would work better in this bridle. Maybe I wouldn't lose a stirrup so often if I switched to that kind. You know, that saddle would really fit better if I had a different blanket under it. The velcro really is almost worn out on those boots. I've just got to have some new ones, and if I buy another color for the front, well, that means a new set for the back, too. We all know that they have to match. Oh, and spa treatments! They'll tighten up his legs and reduce inflammation and make him feel so much better. I just know that will make him run harder! A horse person can rationalize ANY purchase, for any amount of money. It's a gift. If we are between horses and looking for a ride, we spend hours online watching videos and drooling, wondering if $25,000 really means $25,000, or if there is some wiggle room on that price. I wonder if they would offer a cash discount? Probably. I bet if I pulled that $20,000 in cash out from under my mattress, they'd take that. Oh, wait! There I go dreaming again.
Anyway, for the meager return on my investment and hours of fun with my family, I am willing to do mountains of laundry and pack up this circus again. My Suburban looks like a clown car, anyway. If the shoe fits, cram that sucker on and dance in it!

She's "Funny"

I'm blogging from the road again today, on my trusty iPad. This post will no doubt be filled with typos and misspelled words, as my spellcheck deserts me every time I type on this thing. Remember, you were warned. I am overjoyed that my baby and I survived her first night sleeping away from home without me. My kids stayed at their grandparents' house last night while my husband and I worked at a horse show. My little one and I are pretty tight, what with that whole "only source of food" for awhile there thing we had going on when she was a baby. I like her and she likes me, a  LOT. That makes me really happy, but also makes it difficult to spend time away from her. She's on her way back now, and I'm ready to kiss those chubby little cheeks and smell her sweet baby smell. Not to be confused with her "I just pooped" smell. I could go the rest of my life without experiencing that smell again and die a happy woman.
Speaking of poop, one of the most common subjects in our home since we became parents, who decided that it was "different when it's your child?" I remember being grossed out at the sight of a cousin's child's dirty diaper. She smiled and said, "Oh, it's different when it's your baby." Um, not so much for me! Poop is poop, and vomit is vomit, whether it came out of your child or someone else's. It's disgusting, any way you slice it. I've looked at my beautiful newborns at least a hundred times and wondered how something so awful could come out of something so precious. Sorry, yet-to-be parents. True story.
So back to the whole Southern women and kids thing... I thought of something my mother used to say that struck me as really odd now that I am a parent. When describing a mutual friend she often said, "And you know she's real funny about who she lets keep her kids." The way she said it always made that sound like a bad thing. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that part of your job as a mother? Shouldn't we all be "funny" about who we let look after our children? I think that if parents were more selective about who they left their kids with, there would be fewer tragedies in this world. Abusive alcoholic boyfriend, anyone? Sounds like fantastic babysitter material to me!
I've lost count of the number of times the parent of a young teenage daughter have said to me, "Now so-and-so babysits! Call her this summer, she needs to earn some extra money." Nothing personal, folks, but if you expect me to leave my kids alone with your daughter, she need to be old enough to drive. And make wise decisions, and have eyes in the back of her head, and be able to cook - oh wait, that's me! Anyway, you're asking me to trust your kid with three of the most precious people in the world to me. Three precious people that I gave up my figure, my sanity, and countless hours of sound sleep for. That's a lot of responsibility. I don't take it lightly, and she shouldn't either. So please don't be offended if I don't call. It's nothing personal. I guess I'm just "funny" about who I let keep my kids.

Bless Your Heart

Why don't we just say what we mean and mean what we say? Because that would be far too simple and make all of our lives less complicated. Growing up in the South, you learn the importance of outward appearances very early. You also learn how to fake it, and I'm not talking about anything remotely related to the bedroom here, girls. You may be dying on the inside, but the first time you meet that low down cheating ass POS that you used to date's girlfriend, you are going to be dressed to the nines, have your hair done, your makeup on, stand up just a bit straighter, and smile that pageant smile. She'll share some insignificant detail, you'll smile at him, and say, "How nice." Here's a well-known Southern secret. "How nice" is code for screw you. But we'd never be so rude as to say such a thing.
Southern ladies bless a lot of hearts. This one is tricky. It can be sincere, especially when it comes from a little old church lady. When she blesses your heart, it means that she's sorry to hear that your mother's in the hospital. When a member of the younger generation uses it, it can mean something totally different. For example: "John was in a car wreck today." "Oh really? Well bless his heart!" What she really wanted to say was, "Well, if he hadn't been headed to the other side of town to see that tramp he left my best friend and her kids for, maybe that wouldn't have happened." But she didn't. She just said, "Bless his heart!" Then she and her friend shared that Southern look that says it all. Southern ladies are talented. We can speak volumes with just our eyebrows. They teach us that in Kindergarten.
Girls raised in the South are taught that you take care of your own family first, but whenever the opportunity presents itself to take care of someone else's family, you better do that, too. We lead the way in hurricane donations, clothing drives, and food pantries. I've lost count of the number of times in my life I've said to someone, "And if we can do ANYTHING for you, just let us know." So let's be honest about something here. At least some of those times, I was really thinking, "But please don't ask! I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest just trying to keep my own kids dressed and fed. At the end of the day, I collapse into my bed, then lie awake thinking about all of the stuff I didn't get done today but should have. I really do feel badly for you, but if this request involves something other than a meat and cheese tray or a small donation, please keep it to yourself!" But we'd never say that, would we ladies? Nope! We'd smile, stay up half the night whipping up that casserole she loves so much, hire a babysitter, and deliver a full three course meal (ready to serve, of course) precisely at supper time the next night. Oh, and threaten to kill anyone in our family who had the nerve to complain that they were being neglected because we were busy taking care of someone else's family. It's just the way we do things down here.
It's kind of the unwritten rule of the Southern family: as long as you are content to eat "it" politely with a knife and fork, everything's a-okay. When you start trying to kick over the traces, you will find yourself politely tossed out on your arse. It's so much nicer when everyone just agrees with one another and pretends to get along. That Scarlett O'Hara thing,where she smiles and acts sickeningly polite to the women she despises was taken straight from a Southern lady's handbook.
It really is all about appearances, and I'll probably get thrown out of the DAR or something for this one, but I'm about to debunk another great Southern myth. The great big dresses, complete with petticoats, that you see in every Civil War movie? Total BS. I've lived here all my life. You're telling me that these girls lived in houses with no air conditioning during a Mississippi summer and wore those getups? No wonder they got the "vapors" and passed out. They were HOT. But again, let's pretend that life in the South is graceful and beautiful. Not 103 degrees in the shade and full of mosquitoes. That sounds much less romantic.
Yes, Southern ladies are a different breed. Little girls learn early that they should smile when they want to cry and stuff it when they want to complain. One should look and act like a lady at all times, but be ready to work like a man should the need arise. We are strong, we are proud, and we are tough. We are also resourceful, devious, and conniving. Don't mess with a Southern woman's husband or her children. Or the heart getting blessed might just be your own.

The Relay

If a little competition is good for the soul, the souls of my children should be exceptionally well off by now. They fight over everything, from who brushes their teeth first to who gets in the bathtub first. Apparently bathtub seating position is vital, as the one who sits closest to the faucet wins. I'm not really sure what the rules are, or what the advantage is, but I do know how you win. That must be worth something.
Last night, my children were blindsided by the cruel blow of an empty toothpaste tube when they got upstairs. Squeeze it from the top means nothing to these people. Their dad asked one of them to come downstairs and get a new tube. After much bumping, banging, and jostling for position, (think Randy and Ralphie in "A Christmas Story") they made it downstairs. The child who arrived first was smiling, the loser I mean the child who finished second (switching to sarcastic font: because we're all winners) was crying. The instant that tube of toothpaste touched my child's hand the whining started.
Child 1: I'm carrying it upstairs.
Child 2: (Wailing) NO FAIR! I NEVER GET TO DO ANYTHING!
Child 1: Okay, well, then you're going to carry it halfway up and then give it to me!
Me: (Silently) What is this? The freaking Olympic torch relay? It's a tube of toothpaste! Can this get any more ridiculous?
Child 2: No, I'm not giving it to you! I'm carrying it all the way up the stairs. Dad said!
Dad: (Channeling his fantastic, always patient mother) Wait, wait. I'll fix this. You come get a roll of toilet paper and you can carry that upstairs.
Problem solved. Perhaps there is something wrong with me, because my first impulse was to look at the wailing child and say, "Get over it. You can do it next time." But no, Superman finds a way to save the day. And that's why they love him! Okay, fine. It's why I love him, too. He's a fixer. I am more of a "suck it up, Buttercup" kind of girl. I suppose we compliment each other.

The Riding Lesson

It gives me great pleasure to inform everyone that I am still using my treadmill at least five days a week. I'm telling you this not because you care, but again because it makes me accountable to someone. I don't know that I've lost a pound, but my thighs are definitely a little smaller and my butt is firmer. You're just going to have to take my word for it on that one. I'm not about to go around saying, "Feel my butt!" like one of the surgical residents I met in vet school. He was from Spain, and apparently they take that whole "Latin lover" thing way too seriously over there. He was just sure that all of us ladies were dying of love for him, meanwhile he was sleeping with another exercise-crazed resident like himself. He told us all about her how amazing her butt was, too. Add to that the fact that he called me "Blondie" for an entire six week surgical rotation and I'm pretty sure he broke about every rule in the handbook regarding sexual harassment. I did learn a lot about self control, however. Every time he called me Blondie, I had to suppress the urge to call him Unibrow. That probably wouldn't have been good for my average in surgery. As it was, I refused to buy into an Internet pyramid scheme and he was pretty well done with me. He did stick it to me on my grade, however. Such a charming person to have come across. I hope his butt gets a pimple on it.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to teach two delightful little girls a riding lesson. (And no, I'm not talking about my kids!) One was here visiting from Texas. Her mom grew up here. The irony of a Texas kid taking horseback riding lessons in Mississippi tickles me every time. I guess those of us who don't live there automatically assume that if you live in Texas you are a cowboy. Hey, you Texans put that image out there. If it makes you feel any better, lots of people I know, including myself, secretly wish we lived there, too!

My girls were perfectly content playing the computer, so I let them know I was going to teach a lesson and headed to the arena. Naturally, before my students had made a lap in the arena, my kids decided they wanted to come, too. Not wishing to cause myself unnecessary grief, I had told them these kids were coming, but I left out one vitally important bit of information: the fact that the students were going to ride their ponies.
As soon as the Ranger topped the hill, one of them became indignant.
Child 2: "They're riding our ponies?"
Dad: "Well, yeah. What did you think they were going to ride?"
Child 2: "Well, I don't know, but if that girl kills my pony, I'm never going to let her ride him again!"
Pondering what she had just said for a moment, she finished with, "Well, I guess if she did that, he'd be dead. Hmmpf."
Child 1: "It's okay if they ride our ponies. They live in town. They don't have ponies of their own to ride at home."
Dad: "And, their mom is helping pay your entry fees for the next barrel race, so put a lid on it!"
Ah, yes, life lessons at the age of six. Maybe the little suckers DO realize how lucky they are. But I doubt it.
Just remember, if you loan out your pony and someone kills it, don't ever let them ride it again. :)

She pooped!

I have mentioned before that I stumbled into motherhood with no idea that so many bodily functions (wait, make that other people's) bodily functions were involved in the job. There's just no such thing as TMI when you are a mom. Kids show up at all hours of the day and night with vomit, snot, and poop spewing from both ends and mom has to clean it up. Oh, and pretend that she doesn't mind. Personally I am a sympathetic puker, and I make no bones about the fact that cleaning up vomit disgusts me. It's not the visual aspect of the job, it's the fact that I don't do well with smells. The worst part of my veterinary school education? Necropsy! I spent a month with Vick's salve under my nose trying not to lose my lunch on some animal carcass. I didn't find pathology nearly as exciting as my instructor, who (thanks to my husband who had to share a locker room with him) I now know was going "commando" under those white coveralls. Yep, nothing between him and us ladies but some thin white cotton. I kinda wish I had stood further away. We did have an incredibly eager resident who seemed to take great joy in anything dead. Once he leaned over my shoulder and exclaimed, "Check out this intestinal ballooning!" The pathology professor walked over, looked briefly at the area in question, and without cracking a smile replied, "Yes, doctor. We call that a fart." Dr. Reid didn't find that nearly as funny as the rest of us did.
Oddly enough, the most difficult part of adjusting to school has involved the digestive tract of my children. At the end of last year, we actually took the smaller of the twins to her pediatrician because she was pale, tired, and just didn't seem to be thriving. After copious amounts of drama, bloodwork, and x-rays, we received the monumental diagnosis of: constipation. Yep, turns out she was full of poop and it was making her sick. Apparently my child was so terrified of being left alone in the restroom, she rushed to the point that she didn't take time to take care of business. A few doses of Miralax and the problem took care of itself to the point that for awhile we were dealing with the other extreme. Sometimes you just can't win.
Last night my firstborn reported that she had a bellyache. A further conversation revealed that she hadn't pooped since school started. On Tuesday. After a valiant effort before bed, she still hadn't gotten any relief by this morning. She sat on the toilet in my bathroom for four forevers, and then it was time to make a decision. Only a mother gets this one: Do you send a "sick" kid to school, knowing there is a very good possibility that they are going to call you in 20 minutes to come get her? At our house this morning, the answer was "yes." So I went ahead with getting her ready for school, all the while thinking "if they call me, I'm so telling them to send her to the bathroom and then waiting an hour before I go get her!"
Fortunately for her (and me) she took care of her little issue at school. I know this because during a conversation with her teacher today she told me the following story. After the second time my child complained that her belly hurt, Ms. Purvis sent her to the restroom. Because she had been gone for quite awhile, her sister was dispatched to check on her. After a few minutes, my child runs back to her classroom, throws open the door, and announces with great drama and several hand gestures, "Don't worry, Ms. Purvis! It's okay! She got a little bit of it out!" "She did? Oh, well thank you for letting me know." Ms. Purvis admitted that it took everything she had to keep it under control.
Awesome. Poor baby, I thought. She's going to be mortified that her sister told the class she pooped. Wrong! About that time, the sick child shows up, throws the door open again, and yells, "Ms. Purivs, it's okay! I DID IT! I feel better now." Yep. Nothing like sharing your good news with the class.
Her dad was relieved to hear that everything was back to normal, as he and I had already decided that if she didn't go at school we were spiking her drink with Miralax. Hey, becoming a parent leads to all sorts of conversations you never envisioned yourself having with that guy you married.
For those of you who aren't parents yet, just keep this story in mind. One day you, too, may be lucky enough to have the opportunity to send the love of your life a text that says, "SHE POOPED!" and get one back that says, "Hooray!" What can I say? It's a glamourous life we lead.

I could FEEL the fun!

My twin girls hit a a major milestone this week, and I don't just mean starting the first grade. They loped the barrel pattern! For those of my non-horsey friends, this means that they went faster than a trot (jog) but not quite a full gallop (run.) Their dad and I sometimes lose sight of how little they really are, and I try to remind myself that when I was their age, I had thrown a leg over exactly one horse in my life. In my bathing suit, with two other people. My cousin had a horse, and the week I spent in the "country" every summer was the thing I looked forward to like nothing else. My kids live the life I always wanted, and most of the time I'm pretty sure they have no idea how lucky they are.
After my daughter finished her first "run," her dad congratulated her and then said, "Was that fun?" "Oh, yes! Daddy, I could feel the fun!" I hope that she always feels that way about something in her life. Hearing her say that also made me think of something else.
I have mentioned my love for the Olympic Games. I will watch an American participate in underwater basket weaving if they decide to make that an Olympic sport. The athletes inspire me like no one else. But I wonder: how long has it been since they could "feel the fun?" I would love to know how many of them are there competing because they fell in love with a sport as a very young child and still love that sport as an "adult." I put the world adult in quotes because let's face it, the gymnasts and some swimmers are definitely NOT adults. The amount of pressure these kids are under is absolutely unbelievable.
In a pre-Olympics interview, Gabby Douglas' sister shared a story about the time Gabby decided to quit gymnastics. Her sister basically jerked a knot in her and reminded her of the sacrifices her entire family had made in order for her to pursue "her" dream of winning a gold medal. Her mother shared her shock and disappointment at hearing the news that her daughter wanted to quit after all she (the mother) had been through. How many athletes are in a similar situation, with not only their own expectations to live up to, but the expectations of  their family, their community, and their entire country as well?
Gabby came under fire for her inability to deliver individual event medals after winning the team and all-around gold medals. As if that weren't enough, the media also decided to criticize everything from her hair to her mother's bankruptcy. I don't think the average person can begin to imagine working toward something for your entire (albeit short) life, putting your heart and soul into a goal, and actually achieving that goal. Most of us will never experience that kind of high, and we definitely can't understand the crash that is sure to follow.
Gabby got her gold medal. She had the adoration of the world for a brief, shining moment. She was one of the lucky ones. Far outnumbering the Gabbys were the athletes who worked just as hard, made just as many sacrifices, and were unable to deliver the performance of a lifetime when it mattered most. There were underdogs who came up just short, runners who hurt themselves leaving the blocks, and even worse, favorites who didn't deliver. I daresay that more people remember the American gymnast who was favored to win the vaulting competition because she landed her final vault on her rear end than remember that she delivered a spectacular vault to help her team win a gold medal.
Can you imagine working so hard for something and blowing your one and only opportunity at 16? Or even worse, being remembered for something that went horribly wrong at the Olympics for the rest of your life? What must it be like to have all that hope and expectation turn into a lifetime of disappointment? I can't begin to imagine.
All of us have those monumental moments in our lives, even if they aren't necessarily athletic events. Either we deliver the goods or we land on our butts. What separates us from one another is what we do next. We can get up, dust ourselves off, and move on to the next phase of our lives, or we can sit around and wallow in our disappointment and grief. I've tried it both ways, and I have to say that growing up in the horse industry has taught me that when you fall off, you get back on. You may be scared to death, but if you don't try again, you will spend the rest of your life wondering if you could have.
Yesterday marked another milestone. My daughter fell off her pony for the first time. She "cowgirled" just a little too much when she asked him to lope off and lost her stirrup. She got overbalanced and I guess she thought she was a bareback rider. For some reason, she reached out and grabbed the fence. Her pony headed in the opposite direction and quickly separated her from her saddle! Seeing her flying through the air, my heart was in my throat. I managed to keep my emotions under control, because I have learned that if I panic the kids will, too. Before I got to her, she stood up, dusted herself off, and without a single tear took off toward her pony. He was parked next to her sister, who was sitting on his buddy. After I made sure she was okay, I couldn't have been more proud of her. My hope is that when she gets bucked off in her life, literally and figuratively, she will always get back on.
I hope the Olympians who experienced more heartbreak than joy this week will do the same. The people who love and support you still love and support you. The people who were proud of you before are still proud of you now. Whether you are going home with a gold medal around your neck or a suitcase full of shattered dreams, I hope that you found joy in the journey and will continue to be proud of who you are and what you have accomplished. Just remember that the people who are criticizing you are doing it from their couch. Congratulations on a dream fulfilled just by becoming an Olympic athlete!     

I'm still here! Today was my twins' first day of first grade. To say that this week has been busy is an understatement! More to come ASAP!

A Mistake of Olympic Proportions

Since I was a very small child, I have been completely enamored with the Olympic Games. They are proof positive that I will watch athletes from the USA compete in any sport. That's right...anything! Over the years I've cheered for gymnasts, swimmers, skiers, skeet shooters, ice skaters, equestrians, curlers, table tennis players and everything in between. I vividly remember Mary Lou Retton's gold medal smile, Greg Louganis hitting his head on the diving board, and Flo Jo's fingernails. I remember Janet Evans, Picabo Street, and Nancy Kerrigan. I was thrilled when I heard that rodeo would be included, even if it was a demonstration sport in Calgary. Since I've obviously chosen to pursue something they don't often give Olympic medals for, I think winning a gold medal barrel racing would have to be the highlight of someone's life.
So as is my custom, I have watched every moment of the London games that I possibly could. I heard something really disturbing this morning. A seventeen year old girl from China brought honor and glory to her country by winning a gold medal in the diving competition. After her medal-winning performance, her father informed her (and the rest of the world) that her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. And oh, by the way, both of her grandparents had died over a year ago. He deliberately kept these bits of life-altering news from his daughter so as not to interfere with her training for the Olympics. My question for him is this: is that gold medal going to offer her comfort when she tries to deal with the loss of her mother in the future? Is it going to be there for her when she is angry and bitter over the loss of her grandparents? Will it in any way help her deal with the regret she will have over not spending a year of life with her sick mother? All I can say is that I hope they have some excellent mental health professionals in China, because this woman's going to need one!
For as long as there have been writers, people have been advising them to "write about what you know." So here goes. I'm going to write about what I know on this subject, in the hope that someone reads this and it makes a difference in their life. I know about pain, anger, bitterness, and regret. I know what it's like to have someone fill you in on the details of the most pivotal moment in your own life. I understand how easy it is to let a season of mourning become a lifetime of mourning.
Allow me to explain. My mother lost her battle with cancer when I was a freshman in college. I wasn't at her bedside when she died, and it is my life's biggest regret. It wasn't that I didn't wish to be there. Someone made the choice to keep me away by not letting me know the time had come. Was it my mother? My father? My parents together? I'll never know for sure. But the fact is that I was two hours away, blissfully unaware that the most important person in my life, the foundation of my heart and soul, was leaving this life and moving into the next. By the time I got to my parents' home, my mother's body and even her hospital bed were gone. Did my mother think she was sparing me the agony of watching a parent die? Perhaps. As a parent myself now, I am intimately acquainted with a mother's desire to protect her children, to shield them from the horrible things in this world whenever you can.
At the time I had no idea what an enormous impact the events of that day were going to have on my life.
It's been said millions of times that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Personally, I feel like I should be the Incredible Hulk by now. I allowed myself to be sidetracked by grief, anger, and bitterness for so many years. Not being there to say what I needed to say to my mom is the biggest regret of my life. What were her last moments like? What were her last thoughts about? I don't know. I let the feeling of having unfinished business eat me alive for a very, very long time. As a veteran of the experience, I can tell you that angry at the world is no way to go through this life. Bitterness and regret can suck all the joy out of a person, and I allowed that to happen to me for far too long.
I hope that an Olympic gold medal is worth the repercussions that are coming to this Chinese father and daughter. My heart truly goes out to her. To not have a say in such major events in your own life is an overwhelming experience. Pastor Joel Osteen says that we have to be careful not to let a season of mourning turn into a lifetime of mourning. I hope she figures that one out more quickly than I did.
Parents, the fact is this: life isn't fair. It's full of horrible, painful experiences and disappointments. Nothing's "fair"; not everyone gets to play. Everyone doesn't deserve a trophy. The other team doesn't always follow the rules, and the officials don't always make the right call. They give ONE gold medal in an event. There are no do-overs. Pain and disappointment are inevitable. Our choices make the difference, so long as they are our choices. Heartfelt prayers for that young woman and her family. 

Road Trip

Anyone who has known me for any period of time knows how much I put into my horses. They've gotten pushed down the priority list a bit since I became a mom, but in case you were wondering if I've crossed the line, I have proof. I spent the majority of my day last Thursday driving. Not for work, not for a barrel race, not to visit a long lost friend. Nope, I spent all day driving, a six plus hour round trip, to buy...wait for it...horse feed! For those of my non-horsey friends, yes, there are places closer to my house that sell feed. Just not the kind I want.
I have said before that I am committed to my barrel racing, and maybe after this I should be committed. I have a horse with a weight problem. He definitely looks more like a team roping horse than a barrel horse. OK, fine. He looks like he ate a team roping horse on the way to the barrel race. Not surprisingly, he doesn't have a whole lot of killer instinct when it comes time to run. If he could talk, I'm sure he'd say something like, "Look, they give money and prizes for placing in the 4D, too. Can't we just lope through the pattern and be done? I'd much rather do that. Then I won't have to get all sweaty and I won't be sore the next day. It's a win-win for everyone." He reminds me of the big, burly high school football player that everyone on the other team is scared of until they figure out that he doesn't have any heart.
My husband and I argue constantly over my horses' body condition. He wants them to be pleasantly plump, to which my response is, "Have you ever seen a fat sprinter? This is a race. He's supposed to look like a racehorse!" Right now he looks like a racehorse with a beer gut. We've cut his feed. We've moved him to smaller area with less grass and ridden him harder. He hasn't lost an ounce. So we decided to try a brand of horse feed we'd heard about that is supposed to change the way he digests his food, pull weight off of his belly, and add muscle to his topline.
Sounds great, right? Costs about the same as what we are feeding now. Everybody wins! Except for the fact that you can't get it where we live. There isn't a single dealer in the whole state of Mississippi that carries this feed. Oh well, never mind, right? Wrong! Giving up just isn't our style. We have now become the only Total Equine dealer in the state of MS! However, since I didn't wish to purchase and unload four pallets of horse feed, I decided that a few bags to start us off might be a good idea. So I had to drive to the feed mill to get it...in Demopolis, Alabama.
I have to confess that a small part of me enjoyed six hours in the car alone. I got to listen to any radio station I wanted, I kept the temperature where I wanted it, and even got to have a few adult phone conversations without someone yelling, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Who is that? Why are you talking to her?" But it was a long way over there and back. Fortunately, there were a few highlights along the way. I saw an older gentleman who just couldn't wait the approximately 50 yards to the nearest gas station to relieve himself. Yep, didn't even walk over to the edge of the forest, just pulled over, stepped in front of his Lincoln and let 'er go. Nice.
By far the most interesting thing I saw on my trip was a guy in Livingston, Alabama. He was working the front door of the Burger King I stopped at. I have to say that he gets the prize for the strangest hitchhiker I've ever seen. This dude was dressed in a full monk's habit, complete with a rosary and a Bible. Oh, and a NASCAR cap. I'm fairly certain he saw me trip over the curb while I was taking all this in. I mean, I'm no religious scholar, but I'm pretty freaking sure those two things don't go together. He obviously hadn't taken a vow of silence, since he asked me for a ride. Is it rude to look at someone in a monk's habit and say, "You have serial killer written all over you, Buddy?" I guess it probably is, but I wasn't taking any chances. I was more than a little happy that he was gone when I came out of the bathroom.
Just to top off my trip with a bit of irony, I listened to the Dave Ramsey radio show while I was driving. I wonder what he'd say about a six hour round trip to buy horse feed? Probably nothing nice. Anyway, hopefully Chubby will slim down on his new cushy diet. If it works for him, I'm gonna start eating it, too.