Beau was hit by a car Saturday Dec. 16th. We had gone out for Daniel's birthday and came home to find him already passed. He was a good natured, happy dog and we will miss him. You don't realize how much a part of your life they are till they are gone. He used to sit outside the window at night when I was in here on the computer or scrapbooking. He was a big help with my diet as I brought him part of my dinner a lot! He was good with Ann-Marie and just loved being around people.
Someone dumped this cute little puppy right on our doorstep when we lived up on the mountain. Up there, there wasn't much traffic and he was very loved by all the neighbors. We didn't keep him pinned up much and when we did, he was miserable. He was born to hunt and he liked to take off at night and do his thing. During the day, he spent most of his time lounging in the yard. Anyhow when we moved into the duplex, he was miserable to be stuck in a backyard. Then we moved out here and put in an underground fence. It worked for a while, but then he decided it was just worth it to run throught the "shock" and get out to go to the pond or to chase gofers. I am sad to have lost him, but I think I would have been sadder yet to see him locked up day after day and miserable like he was when we were at the duplex. Some dogs are just born to run and with that comes a certain amount of danger or risk. There are certain idiots who drive 90 mph down this road and I hope the bad karma comes back to get them if they in fact ran over our Beau. I'm glad he had 4 happy years with us and we will miss him.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
If you are a MOM,
or even if you have a MOM, you should read this. So touching and so true.
We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that
she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a
survey," she says half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. "I
know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous
vacations."
But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to
decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in
childbirth classes.
I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child-bearing will heal,
but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that
she will forever be vulnerable. I consider warning her that she will never
again read a newspaper without asking, "What if that had been MY child?"
That every plane crash and every house fire will haunt her. That when she
sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be
worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no
matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the
primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of
"Mom!" will cause her to drop a soufflé r her best crystal without a
moment's hesitation.
I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has
invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood.
She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an
important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell.
She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home,
just to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be
routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather
than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right
there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of
independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that
a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.
However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself
constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to
assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she
will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important,
will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give
herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope
for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child
accomplish theirs.
I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become
badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will change,
and not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more
you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never
hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will
fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very
unromantic. I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with
women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk
driving.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child
learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby
who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time. I want
her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.
My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my
eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reached across the
table, squeezed my daughter's hand and offered a silent prayer for her,
and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into
this most wonderful of callings.
Please share this with a Mom that you know or all of your girlfriends who
may someday be Moms.
May you always have in your arms the one who is in your heart!
We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that
she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a
survey," she says half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. "I
know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous
vacations."
But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to
decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in
childbirth classes.
I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child-bearing will heal,
but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that
she will forever be vulnerable. I consider warning her that she will never
again read a newspaper without asking, "What if that had been MY child?"
That every plane crash and every house fire will haunt her. That when she
sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be
worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no
matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the
primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of
"Mom!" will cause her to drop a soufflé r her best crystal without a
moment's hesitation.
I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has
invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood.
She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an
important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell.
She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home,
just to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be
routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather
than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right
there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of
independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that
a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.
However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself
constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to
assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she
will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important,
will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give
herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope
for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child
accomplish theirs.
I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become
badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will change,
and not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more
you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never
hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will
fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very
unromantic. I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with
women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk
driving.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child
learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby
who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time. I want
her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.
My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my
eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reached across the
table, squeezed my daughter's hand and offered a silent prayer for her,
and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into
this most wonderful of callings.
Please share this with a Mom that you know or all of your girlfriends who
may someday be Moms.
May you always have in your arms the one who is in your heart!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Note to Family
type people... I added 3 pics to the end of my snow slide show. They are worth looking at. I also changed the slide show so you can speed it up to get there faster!
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