To milk a moment

So I've been over the shopping trauma for days now. But it did feel nice to bask in the righteous indignation shared by some of my friends.

I used to have a pastor who was famous (to me alone?) for his saying: "A pity party of one is really fun... for about a minute."

But this week I am determined to remain positive. Even though we're pretty sure bambino(a) #5 has cracked or somehow dislocated my lowest right rib. Anyone? I am just so not going to the doctor over this. I have an appointment on Monday anyway, and I may or may not bring it up. Depends. It's been four days and I will shriek if a hen's feather or stronger breeze lands in that general vicinity. And don't get me wrong: it's amply cushioned. There's no way it was injured from the outside.

Imagine the guilt I can heap on this baby.

This brings me to a random but almost related story.

Besides breaking my hip (two years ago?) in a spectacularly noneventful way, I have broken other bones. In my years -- more than a decade -- as a dancer (Graceful? Me? Shaddup if you know me in real life.) I am sure I crumbled more than one abused toe. OF MY OWN, people.

En pointe as it were.

But five or so years ago I broke my, um, tailbone in a snapped stirrup leather accident during a (or directly ending) a trail ride. That was fun. Did you know off-road ambulances are five times as expensive as their two-wheel-drive counterparts? And did you know you have to pay full price for both if you are transferred once you leave the wilderness? Seems there ought to be a discount.

ALSO ... if your backwoods ER doctor is an ex-rodeo man with his own story of breaking his coccyx at the tragic seven second mark and then driving 17 hours straight home in his beat-up pickup and forthwith applying to medical school as a cheaper and easier career alternative ... you might not get as much sympathy (or pain medication) as you would have from city doctor. I'm just sayin'.

Anywhat.

I wasn't even recovered from that injury, not even walking without a geriatric tennis-ball-footed assistance device, before my dear friend KL's eldest son, blog name of Headlong, (maybe 11 at the time) ventured this question:

"How do you break a bone when you have all that... padding?"

I'm not really sure, Headlong. Not really sure. And for some reason a Willy Nelson moment is coming over me.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowgirls.

She makes me a proud mommy

That's my girl.

Yesterday she was 10.

And today she's 11.


With her friends...

...and her sisters

... and her horses

She is one outstanding girl on the very brink of growing up.

[I have to use an aside to say why there are never pictures of the girls on horseback. After the big break(s), I just feel better without the camera when they're riding. More able to drop everything and respond. And incidentally, you should click on that post. She was so brave and so little!]

She's sure to rise to great heights.

Because she's always willing to work hard.

And she remembers where she came from.

She makes me so proud to be her mommy.

***

Happy Birthday, Madeleine.

Cowgirl Up

Last year we were full of confidence. We thought speed was the best. After all, why walk when you can gallop? Why ride in the barnyard when the trails beckoned with water hazards and log crossings to boot? Why hold onto the saddle horn at a full run when you weigh a whopping 61 pounds (soaking wet) and your thigh muscles are 40 pounds of that, so you can clearly hang on with your legs alone? You sorta get the picture. We'd barely hold still long enough for photos like this:

This year, although we'd never, ever admit it outside of bedtime tuck-in time whispers, we have lost our edge a little:
That's yesterday. Madeleine spent most of the afternoon sitting beside our friends' horse trailer, feeding graham crackers to her horse, who has spent the last couple of months at a trainer. So we're horse people.

But we're no chickens:



We're cowgirls. And those chickens can eat our dust. Because yesterday Madeleine got back in the saddle.

Of course she has ridden since the big accident, but she hasn't gone near Seven, the horse who threw her after being stung by a hornet as they practiced barrel racing in our back yard.

There's courage. And then there's guts.

Nine months ago, she broke both of her arms in a characteristically dramatic way (how else?). Being the parent of a severely injured daredevil who knows better than you and her team of doctors, now that's not easy. But being 8 and having little to no use of your hands for months, now that's a lot harder.

It takes time to sand off the razor sharp edges of an apparent Evil Kenevel heir. But it can be done. I'm just not sure whether the whole experience bent Maddy's spirit.

Another child rode Seven in the barrel races yesterday, took third place. So we know Maddy's competitive spirit is alive and well: she made sure everyone knew it was her horse, and that boy? He didn't know how to lean into it, or Seven would've taken him in first place. "Easy."

Speaking of hard, I thought it was hard watching her ride other (completely bomb-proof, swayback, never-going-fast) ponies at riding lessons the past season. But encouraging her to get back on Seven --even for a little walk around the rodeo grounds -- and watching her brave little 9-year-old self gut it out, now that was darn near impossible. Bock-bock-bock--bb-aah-ck.

This is how I know I am in no way prepared to be as brave as I need to be. I am sure I have the courage to put my baby back on the literal and figurative horse. And I'm sure I can hold her hand until she gallops away and denies that she ever wanted my support.

But this:

Now that I don't have the stomach for. In this rodeo arena I am the weak-kneed, lily-livered pansy who will lock her children up after wrapping them in cotton batting. Oh, please, someone stop this wagon train before my daughter gets old enough to want to sit IN THE LAP of a 16-year-old cowboy between youth rodeo events.


Oh. My. Word.

The best thing I can say about that photo is that it took my mind off the possibility of the girls getting hurt (in a horseback riding accident) ever again.


We know both of these kids: They are strong, awesome teenagers who respect adults and get good grades and treat animals and small children with care. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with them. I'm just sayin'. I knew that boy (manchild bullrider) when his favorite toy was a plunger. He preferred it to a stick pony. I know this sounds odd.

And I'm not afraid to tell that girl about that particular phase of his childhood if it will stop the public (or private) display of affection before, say, age 24.


Does everything have to go so fast?

Danger Girls

Pull up a chair; I have more confessions to make. Many, many blogs' worth.





So I must tell you from behind the veil of blogdom: I lied in my daughters' baby books. Well, in the books of girls one through three. I didn't make a book for Laura yet. The first step to telling the truth could begin with her book. Or maybe not, depending on my good intentions versus the mommy guilt.





You see, our oldest daughter's first word was "danger." Could be on account of us saying it to her about ten thousand times a day from the moment she could first scoot toward a fireplace, rabid dog or television remote. "Danger!" To her it was exciting, and that excitement was evident in the breathy way her little 9-month-old self said it when confronted with the church staircase. "Danger! Quick, let me get to it before Mommy notices! She's pregnant... it should be hard for her to catch up." Heh heh heh.





Of course in the "first word" line of her baby book I wrote ... "Mama."





Hey! Don't judge me until you've chased a dangergirl who refuses to call you by name, you with another Mommy disser on the way who's only too ready to aid and abet the firstborn sassbucket.


I entered this state of mommyhood completely unprepared for the depth and breadth of the danger, and the sass, for that matter. As a child I was every parent's dream girl. (Did I mention my mom is technologically unable to go on the Internet to refute me? Hah! Let me revise history with abandon.) I was unfailingly respectful and downright terrified to get in trouble. I rode horses, but that was dressage, which everyone knows is never dangerous, for crying out loud. My tiny daughters race barrels, chase calves and bend poles all in an attempt to go faster than the 50-pound kid on the horse coming up next. I was a dancer with multiple broken toes, but I didn't laugh at the pain, as my daughters do. They do gymnastics, a sport famous for flipping athletes on their heads with only two inches of foam in between my babies' brains and the gym floor.

So far, my girls appear to own the "no fear" franchise. After bravely facing broken arms and worse, they do not inspire me. Not one bit.


Now, Madeleine's first word was "danger," and her sisters are following suit. Sarah's first word was "Dada" (I wrote "Mama" in the book, you know it), and while the EGE's no danger boy, it's his family genes that gave it to my girls. His sister is a river-rafting, bungee-jumping danger girl all grown up by virtue of now being a mommy herself. I can't wait until her son starts asking to snowboard. Heh heh.

Grace's first word was "baba." As in "bottle," which she pointed out in the possession of another baby. And then she demanded a "baba" of her own. Of course she was exclusively breastfed and had the precocious ability to drive me up the wall very early in her life. So in her case, the whole first word thing is dangerous to my mental health and mommy identity. Now that she's 4, and Gracie's baby book says (you guessed it) her first word was "Mama," she is unheathily obsessed with Laura's nursing schedule.

Maybe I should have told the truth. Would white-out redeem this situation?

Is there any way to turn back the danger (and for that matter, sass) clock? Experienced mommies, please reply.

NaBloPoMo

I don't know what this is. I read about "NaBloPoMo" on a good blog KL sent to me (MistyWagner.blogspot.com... Rainy Day in May) and I had some fun guessing what this strange word might stand for. I could ASK, but that would be too direct. So I gather that there is a challenge to write a letter every day this month. And because I firmly believe that the art of letter writing is endangered, I am so excited. I am so *there.*

I think I will try to write a letter each day that I wish I had written during some other time in my life. Who knows if this is in the spirit of the challenge. I just wanna see if I can do it. And maybe if my kids and the dinner bell allow I will try to look up the NaBlo etc. thing later.

December 11, 1998
Dear Madeleine,
Hello.
I said that word over and over again to you during your first moments in the world, your first precious minutes breathing air. You are our first child and we will share a bevy of firsts, so let me be the first to tell you how desperately I love you already. Mommy and Daddy love you, not the least reason being because we waited so long for you. But now that you're here it's all about you. We loved the idea of you and now we're in love with you. Your ten tiny toes and your smooshed nose and your head full of hair and ideas. Thank you for making us parents.
Hello.
Love,
Mommy

Ouch

So today's pictures (did I mention how astonished I am that I am able to upload pictures without tech support?) actually relate to the subject matter.

Madeleine, our oldest and most horse-obsessed daughter, has two broken arms. Two casts. Twice the bragging rights, as our EMT neighbor put it. This is not exactly a comforting thought for a parent, but it has cheered up the 8-year-old. My dad asked if M was "milking it," and I have to say, no, she's a complete pill. Her first question of the doctor was how "they" take casts off. The doctor thought she was showing interest in medical procedure, but of course it's been too long since he was parenting a wily daredevil. I think, so far, she's afraid to consider sawing or cutting. But she has been talking a lot about atrophy, and whether she can shrink her arms enough to simply slip the casts off like gloves.

At school they are making paper mache puppets. M had to wear unwieldy plastic gloves and her perfectionist nature was not pleased with the results or the process. She swindled the PE teacher into letting her play and of course, off-balance, bloodied her elbow and knee on the first day back to school. Bathing (a daily necessity for even the smallest and stinkiest members of our mini farm) requires extreme flexibility and strength of Biblical proportions, as she has to hold both her arms above her head for the nearly the entire process. Wardrobe is a consideration, as well. We are all learning patience, or trying to.

So today I am thinking about the price of passion. Do we get back on the horse? And I know it could have been a bike, or a tree, or gymnastics, or any number of household mishaps. Another mom at school told of how her child broke an arm falling off the kitchen counter.

I may not have detailed here the fact that I myself have been horse crazy most of my life. I never sustained any injuries as a child, however; I was very cautious. Even in jumping I didn't take risks, didn't push myself or the horse. But this last spring I was trail riding with friends when I got dumped twice in 15 minutes (bad stirrup leathers: never take a new-to-you saddle on Man From Snowy River ride). The first fall ended in concussion. The second ended in a broken tailbone and a 4x4 ambulance ride.

So now it's my baby hurting and hurt. Ryan would like to discuss whether we need to have horses. I would like to consider whether we need to have risks, need to leave the house at all. Gracie (the baby) was wounded by the neighbor's banty rooster just two weeks ago. Sarah loses her glasses or her balance just about every day while cruising the property. Our friends' son was hit by a car while leaving middle school football practice. It took him months to recover, to get back to playing sports, and just last week he broke another boy's collarbone in a legitimate tackle. This parenting/protecting thing turns out to be pretty complicated.