Rocks

I’ve been in veterinary medicine since I was 15 years old. 

I started as a kennel girl. I walked dogs, fed them, cleaned their cages, washed their bowls and their blankets. I restrained for blood draws, nail trims, vaccines, and exams.

I was bitten by a cat for the first time when I was 17. My hand swelled. She was a calico; go figure. 

The next time I was bitten, I was 20 and it was a cage aggressive Maltese named Popcorn. Adorable.  

I went to Purdue for a BS in Veterinary Technology. My education is equivalent to that of an RN. Good luck explaining that to literally anyone. 

I draw blood, induce and monitor anesthesia, place catheters, calculate drug dosages and fluid rates, take histories on sick appointments, draw up vaccines for puppy appointments, and counsel clients on end of life decisions. I cuddle puppies and kittens, sure, but also 80 lb scared German shepherds who lunge when you open the door. I am scratched and kicked and bruised and peed on and covered in hair and smell like dogs. I feel out where you fall on the invisible Pet Owner Spectrum and do my best to accommodate what your pet medically needs and what you can financially afford….or, more accurately, what you are willing to do. 

There’s more, but it doesn’t matter. 

Each snarky comment, each complaint about cost, each “well can’t you just ask the doctor” or “do you know who I am”, each ounce of perceived animal suffering is like a rock that gets strapped to my back. Some rocks are small, more like pebbles, and at first I didn’t really notice the weight and took it in stride. But some rocks are boulders and now, after my entire working life, I feel like I can barely move from the weight of all the rocks. I feel like my back will break every few days; sometimes over a euthanasia, sometimes over broken limbs, sometimes over a client’s words, sometimes when dogs are so scared they’re unmanageable. I cry when you cry, when you can’t (or won’t, won’t is sometimes the worst) pay for care your pet needs, when you won’t listen, when you refuse to see, when you pretend to care. “You can’t save them all” is getting harder and harder to live by. 

I never used to cry. 

Motherhood

Motherhood is lying in bed while holding your newborn and hoping his eyes will close so you can take a nap at 10 am.

Motherhood is lowering your personal hygiene, housekeeping, and sleep quality standards.

Motherhood is usually having a boob out.

Motherhood is you and your child being covered in crusty milk and baby vomit. Someone’s always got it in their hair. Or down their back. Or out their nose. 

Motherhood is helping your 3 year old with his socks while breastfeeding your infant because “Socks are hard, Mom.”

Motherhood is getting used to your new body. 

Motherhood is making jet packs and building rocket ships.

Motherhood is laughing deliriously with your husband over something only minutely funny because you’re both sleep deprived.

Motherhood is watching your 3 year old talk to and love on your baby.

Motherhood is finally getting him to sleep while lying on your chest and then realizing you have to pee. 

Motherhood is crying on the couch because he’s crying...again. 

Motherhood is waking up in a panic in the middle of the night because you don’t know where your kids are. 

Motherhood is hoping you get to dry your hair today.

Motherhood is doing it all again tomorrow.

Socks are hard, and so is this.

To my Brando

To my Brando:

There has been a subtle shift (or maybe not so subtle to you) in our marriage since February. I was the boss. I took care of the finances, scheduled appointments, dealt with insurance as needed, had our meals  planned out(more or less), and generally made shit run smoothly because that's just my personality. I took charge and you let me. 

But when our world came crashing down and I broke into a million tiny pieces, you glued me back together. You cooked, cleaned, and took care of our child. You fed me, made me shower, and held my while I cried. You quelled my overwhelming sadness and let me grieve. You took care of bills that I couldn't make myself even acknowledge. You called the insurance company. You made grocery lists and shopping trips. You changed diapers and gave baths and YOU made shit run smoothly; you did this all while you tried to grieve, too. 

Although I've picked up some of my slack, for some reason I still can't decide on something as simple as what to have for supper. We need a new car? You do the research on what's best for us. The barn roof gets obliterated? You deal with the aftermath. You still hold my hand and listen to me on my bad days, even though you've had a bad day, too. 

What I'm trying to say is thank you. I can't imagine having to go through any of this without you. Thank you for being my partner and my best friend. I see everything you do for us, and I love you even more for it. 

Gag, right?

And now as I sit on the couch writing this, you're dancing to Pony by Ginuine. 

Thanks for being you. 

Election Results

I hadn't posted in a while because I had run out of things to say. Now I've got plenty. 

This election has been a disaster, with two candidates so vastly different that we have been split in two separate camps; families and friendships have suffered over these two clowns.  No perfect candidate, and the two we were left with had plenty of flaws for the other side to scavenge from the depths of the internet and bring to light with a sneer.  I didn't hear one positive thing from either of their constantly yapping mouths, or the mimicking mouths of their supporters (myself included), regarding the opponent.  If you supported either of them, you were a killer, a rapist, a bigot, a liar. 

Hate has run rampant through our amber waves of grain. 

And now, the election is over. We have our new president. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health...for at least the next 4 years. 

And we are again in two vastly different camps: Despair and Exultation. We have responded with gloating, fear, hate, and threats of immigration. We have completely lost our shit, America. 

Instead of running amok with hate and despair in our hearts, dear ones, I challenge us to radiate love and if not acceptance, than respect and tolerance. Love thy neighbor. Make the best of the hand we've been dealt. 

Be the change you want to see. 

To my Daisy

I miss you. So much. 

I miss every holiday at your house. Everyone together, you fussing over the food and tightly wound. 

I miss spending the night on Christmas Eve with all my cousins. There were snores emitting from every room, and I couldn't sleep. You let me sleep on the floor in your room, but Grandpa's snores were far worse than those outside the door. Yet, I stayed in the room with you.  

I miss your lemon cookies and your laugh. 

I miss our time together. We had barn kittens and books and reading trees, and we were happy. I miss throwing rocks at "those nasty blackbirds" who stole the others' nests. Not that we ever scared them off. 

I miss you tucking your permed hair into a blue bandana while you worked outside. 

I miss high school, running back the lane to your house with Roy. I miss you giving him water out of your best glass pie dish. 

I miss raspberry tea with you and Grandpa. 

I miss you telling me: "A face without freckles is like a night without stars."

I miss you because now you stare at me with polite interest. You don't recognize your Sammy Jo. 

I love you, Daisy. 

Love

I'm still struggling with the mom thing.  

I read a lot. I read how these fictional moms make their kids organic dinosaur pancakes. How they adore spending their lives at home, raising their children with their prams and playdates and yoga classes and shit. How they gather all their strength from and identify with Being a Mom. 

I see my friends. I see how they stay home with their kids, how they work a different shift so their kids aren't in daycare, how they work part-time in order to spend more time with their children. I see how great they are as mothers, how they radiate love for their children, and how they and their children are thriving because of their propensity for motherhood.

And I do not see any of those things in myself, no matter how hard I try.

I often wonder what is wrong with me. Why don't I relish being a mother, why don't I radiate love and patience? I keep B up at night, going over and over why, exactly, he doesn't think I'm the World's Okayest Mom. I wonder why don't I make pancakes and do crafts and buy organic and work part time and do play dates and nurture the shit out of my child. And I finally put my finger on it last night. 

I am my father.

I show my love by working. By being gone 12 hours, 4 days a week, and feeling enormously guilty for it. By putting part of my pay into G's college fund. By budgeting and saving and buying groceries and the things we need and want. By getting up early even when I am oh so tired. By commuting to a better job in all kinds of weather, because I love my son.

I show my love by researching sunscreen, daycare, hospitals, shoes, food, baby gates, car seats, strollers, baby carriers, breastfeeding, baby food, preschools, high school graduation rates, 529s, and life insurance. Because I love my son.

I show my love by being the disciplinarian, because I don't want my kid to be a dick. 

I show my love by not constricting B and I to traditional domestic roles. I could easily clean or do laundry while he mows or splits wood, but instead I am sweating right by his side. We both clean, we both work outside the home, and we both do "manual labor". I want my son to see the value of a partnership, and respect his future partner as an equal. I want him to understand how hard I work for him. This, my friend, is perhaps the most important of ways I show my love.

So, while I am not nurturing, and soft, and loving, and maternal, and patient, and kind....while I am not MY mother...I show my love by making sure my son is happy, and healthy, and fed, and smart. 

I show my love by the behind the scenes things I do for my son. 

And that, friends, is okay.

Hungover

After a short hiatus, it's back to the real world tomorrow for the Haygoods. I sank into a depression this weekend due to my vacation hangover, ready to be safely nestled in our corner of the Midwest yet unwilling to return as a productive member of society.

I don't want to adult anymore. I want to sit in my kid's tent and eat popcorn and hide from The Real World of Work and Responsibilities. I've tearfully pitched several plans of escape that include shiny new identities and mansions purchased from our illegal gambling spree and/ or the profits from our drug cartel, but he denies them all with a sigh and shake of his head. 

I have been told that I am being dramatic. 

As I lay on the floor pondering the meaning of life and wallowing in self pity and the dregs of my vacation hangover, I firmly disagree.