Tag: My Peaceable Kingdom

Pride Before the Fall

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The day after my last post, Jesse caught the chickens hen pecking a baby quail. We couldn’t find the nest, so my favorite babysitter (who sits no more) and I ran our baby to an emergency pet hospital. The quail stood up in my hands and took one last breath before expiring about a block away from salvation. The vet rep told me I had to keep the babies warm, as in hot, as in over 100 degrees. Oops.

Late late that night, or early early the next morning as I was trying to get things straight for work, I heard a chirp chirp outside my back door. It was my cat “playing” with another baby quail. For four years, I’ve wished that we could have quail in this yard like we had at our last house. Finally I get a nest, and my peaceable kingdom turns into murderous manor.

I held this baby against my bare belly the same way I did my own children when they were born. I drove to the hospital straight away in spite of Jesse’s begging me to stay off the streets. As it turns out, it was 2 a.m. and peak drunk-driving time. To illustrate Jesse’s point, red, white, and blue swirly lights guided my way through the bleak night. This baby made it to the hospital before death.

The hospital would keep the baby until a representative from Forever Wild arrived. If you love desert wildlife, please take the time to check out their organization. I’m so thankful there was a resource for me with Baby Q1 (may she/he rest in peace), and Baby Q2 (may she/he be rehabilitated). Forever Wild has adoptive quail mothers for babies like mine. How cool is that?

I’m not sure what time I got home, but it was time enough to close my eyes before the hens called to let them out of the coop for their morning bug buffet. I came inside to discover both kids sleeping in my bed with their dad. I carefully picked my way through my daughter’s room and crawled into her crowded bed. I found this photo when I downloaded the photos of the quail.

Where to start with this? First, the obvious. What kind of crazy musical beds is this? We slept where we were told when I was growing up. Second, please notice the sheet on the window. The blinds had broken for the third time and the landlord won’t let me throw them out. While the blinds waited for repair, I put up that sheet to prove you can take the girl out of Oklahoma, but she’ll still use sheets as curtains. Third, housecleaning isn’t my forte and I’ve more than passed that on to my daughter. I like how the closet mirror reflects the coordinating insanity on the bookshelf too. This looks like an I Spy riddle. Finally, do I look the least bit comfortable? There is a fist behind my head; my face is in a stuffed animal; I can’t even straighten my legs.

I think Jesse took this photo to prove a point that he’s been trying to drive home for a long time. Ours is not a peaceable kingdom. It is barely managed chaos. So if you want to know what my plans are for the rest of the summer, I suppose I should aim for no more deaths and much more cleaning.

My Peaceable Kingdom

This week, the A&E television network is regaling me with stories to make me so damn glad to be a mom. First was the documentary about mothers killing children, then one about teachers seducing students, and today’s documentary was on a kid accused of killing his mother.

I’m fairly certain that I’m not going to kill my children. If you’ve ever heard them at each other’s throats, you’d understand the qualifier. Even so, it’s still not in me since mostly they are charming, wonderful kids who are a pleasure to parent. I don’t have to worry about the teacher thing just yet since teachers tend to go for the 14 and over crowd. Also, I’m pretty much a hover mom with a solid evil eye. I don’t think my kids would kill me – at least not until they can drive themselves around town or discover the mystery of how beverages get poured into a cup. Like that will ever happen.

I could wind up an A&E investigative report, but I don’t think so. Not if my pets are any indication. They have turned out exceptionally. Boris tops the list of dogs anywhere. I’m not sure we can take credit for how wonderful he is. He may be nothing short of a gift from God. Even so, Jesse has trained Boris well. Boris minds, he is a fierce protector, and nary was there a more loving pet. He even tolerates the cat.

Sister Princess, or “Cessy”, is a solid cat. She allows the children to love her excessively. She is a fierce hunter who nabs the sewer roaches and chases the mice and lizards out of the house. Unfortunately, her predatory behavior extends to the little birdies outside. I don’t like this habit of hers, and I worried about how she would torture the hens. As this photo is my witness, I needn’t have given it a second thought.

Cessy likes to lay outside, even on the hottest of Tucson summer days. This patch of cool dirt used to be a wildflower garden. The hens have some sort of agreement with the cat, apparently, that they share. Five of our six hens are in this photo with Cessy. Big Momma, our white hen, was hanging around at my foot wondering what sort of goody I had for her. The hens are well reared too, though the Krause-Brashears have more to do with that than I do. Proof at the least that I’m an adequate foster mom. On the other hand, we only got two eggs today. Poor hot birdies. I didn’t lecture them as yesterday we got five.

And when did Arts and Entertainment turn into “Real Life. Drama.” with this cruel programming at a time when they know we are trapped inside our homes with our summer crazed kiddos? That’s corporate sustainability! They are attempting to inspire us to provide them with more salacious stories. They’ll get none here. Ours is a peaceable kingdom.

Bock Bock Chicken Licken

The Krause/Brashears have moved to Amherst leaving their flock of six with the Ballengers. The first thing you need to know about this family is that they have some major cool going on. Betsy, as you will remember, treated me to a glass of wine on her birthday. Chris is a musician as is their daughter Hollis. Their son, Luca, increased my son’s hep factor by making it okay to say “dude” in a context that didn’t include cattle. Their flock is no less cool.

Introductions
All the hens came with names, which we will honor, but Sailor Moon will just have to be Big Momma to me. She is soft and lovely and at the top of the pecking order near as I can tell. Don’t think that the bantams can’t rise up against the bigger hens. Fireball or Flower, I’m still getting to know those two, hen pecked Daisy over some watermelon today. The other members of the flock are Persephone and Buttercup.

Sweet Digs
Jesse and the kiddos worked together to build an awesome coop with two roosts, four nests, and a slanted roof that will shed rain water onto our water hungry citrus tree. You’ll notice the tin can flowers made with Anna then given to and stolen from Molly. Also, there’s a 1919 license plate over the door. I expect we will continue to decorate and modify our coop. For now, the chicks dig it.

Our Pets Make us Breakfast
The chickens aren’t always in their coop. They like to free range, just like the rest of us. I so appreciate their work de-bugging the backyard. On the other hand, their first day out they ate our prized black Russian tomato that George and I have been carefully tending. It was our only one and there are no flowers promising any future blacks. Even so, I love these ladies. They have produced well for us – especially considering how our family, and Parrish in particular, loves to snuggle. Our first egg was this green one.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a better tasting egg than the ones coming from our flock. Yum, yum, yumm-o! Thanks to the Krause/Brashear family.

Been Sick

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The shortish story…

Apparently, I let myself get sick. Then I refused to admit I was sick. After weeks of such nonsense, I agreed to go to see my primary care physician. She should be called something else because none of those descriptors fit – not primary, not care, not physician. I’d change her identification to Dr. “I don’t care I just want you out of here” or “I hate my life M.D.”

My chest x-ray was hazy so I was sent to the ER where the nurses repeatedly asked what interaction I had with the homeless population. About the third time I replied, “Have you been in your waiting room?” The nurse tells me that sometimes a security guard with a dog will come and shoo the indigent away.

When the triage nurse called my name, Jesse and I began lumbering toward her careful to avoid the drunk and detoxing. She greeted us with her outstretched arm holding a mask. Dr. Cancerscare’s warning call that we were on our way carried the threat that I had TB. A cursory glance at the chest x-ray indicated that the apexes of my lungs were clear. So, NOT TB! But no one looked at my x-rays (apparently, not even my PCP). They just operated on the cancer/TB idea because it’s more fun that way. Besides, who ever heard of the flu turning into pneumonia? That never happens. I got a mask because the hospital didn’t want me to offend the homeless population in the waiting room with Rebecca germs. Apparently, that’s a one-way homeless-to-Rebecca privilege. Jesse requested a mask for himself on principle.

Eventually, Doogie Houser partially slid my x-ray out of it’s envelope took off his mask and said, “This isn’t TB.” He wrote a prescription for antibiotics and kicked us out. I was instructed to re-contact my PCP.

And so I made the attempt, but the doctor didn’t want to see me. “I was there on Thursday. I have pneumonia.”

“Still, you are a new patient. We can’t accommodate new patients until April.”

“But I have pneumonia now. The hospital told me to follow up with your office.”

“And we can see you in April.”

“But I was admitted to the ER under Dr.’s name.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I need follow-up for PNEUMONIA!”

I did go in for follow-up with one of Dr.’s colleagues who gave me a relationship appointment for March and a referral to an ear doctor, which never materialized.

My friend betts brought this for me when she heard I was sick. How sweet is that? That drink is the yummiest yum ever – candied ginger, lemon juice, and honey. It made me feel better, but didn’t cure my pneumonia.

My step-father called in a personal favor with the head of pulmonary care at the University Medical Center. Ahhh… real health care. I think the good doctor is operating on the theory that I had the flu, then while in compromised health I contracted cocci, and that came with a complication of pneumonia and pleurisy. How unfortunate is that? Cocci and pleurisy without so much as a kiss. Unfortunately, insurance gave me trouble with the tests so the good doctor saw that I was admitted to the hospital.

I don’t remember much about the hospital because I was sedated after a series of nurses attempted with a series of blown and elusive veins to put in an IV. Since I’m terrified of needles, I had a mini-breakdown in hour two of this process. I do remember receiving a wellness blessing with rancid ointment from my priest, protesting a TB test, more needles, having to pee after my CT scan, and begging to be released.

And after two hours haggling with the insurance company over what meds they will allow, we decided upon a cocktail of drugs that the insurance company is willing to gamble I won’t have an allergic reaction to, though I have previously. I’m not taking the pain meds but I am on two antibiotics that have only caused a minor rash and nausea. That’s where things stand until early March when I see the good doctor and the evil doctor for follow-up.

So, that’s where I’ve been.

Be Gone Bunnies

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Being a mom seems so easy, so natural, so effortless for some women. When it comes to feeding, clothing, roofing, and educating my children, I certainly meet the world’s minimum daily recommended allowance. Beyond that, I struggle, I obsess, I cringe. Tucson is a hard place to live for the mother of a kid with a dust allergy. I’m sure this is hard on my son too, but this is my blog. If Parrish wants to post about the cough that keeps him up all night when I don’t manage a thorough dusting, he has his own blog.

Today I learned that along with being slow to care about the PLUs on produce and not playing Baby Einstein to the zygotes I gestated, my dust bunny ranch is ruining my kids. I don’t know why I bothered to breast feed when I was just forcing fire retardants down those innocent, vulnerable baby throats.

Apparently, those dark dwelling dust bunnies have their own culture, whole lives built up around a sedentary lifestyle and, oddly enough, disco. I should have known by the way they swirl around my broom. Some people think of dust bunnies as pets, but dust bunnies have a darker side. They don’t merely reproduce. They mutate – first as hibernating bears and then as devils. I believe it. Dust bunnies are evil!

American Standard, who would like to sell you air quality products, conducted a 20 city census. Check out their Dust Bunny Barometer to see how concerned you should be about your domestic neglect and its possible poisoning of your babies.

If I were a better mom, I would eradicate dust bunnies in the home. Dust bunny removal requires a specialist, I’ve decided. A Hoover engineer well versed in the use of one of those dust sucky things. This ain’t no DIY project. I should probably be able to round up the bunnies and combine them with dryer lint to knit reusable grocery sacks, but I’m not that mom. I’m the mom that waits for snotty noses and lethargy before moving aside heavy furniture.

(Art stolen from MYRANT. That’s my new vision of a dust bunny full of crap that could irritate your kids’ respiratory system at the least and give them cancer at the worst.)

Toilet Surfing White Lab Rats

The other night, I snuggled between the sheets to watch season 3 disk 3 of Six Feet Under and enjoy the ice cream sandwich I repeatedly denied to my kids. While savoring the moment, my cat stretched her tiny body out and farted. More than any other member of my family, including the dog and the guinea, that cat has the must putrid, wretched flatulence. I wanted to kick her, but Jesse is in Mexico and she’s the only security I have against toilet surfing white lab rats.

Oh, and I’m not even joking about toilet surfing white lab rats (story two). I am blessed to live in that one, small, midtown area plagued by toilet surfing white lab rats (story three!). I’m to understand these couldn’t possibly be coming from the university labs across the street. Well, maybe, but they still have to explain the toxic spill sewer roaches with super creepy powers from which my cat also protects me (along with lizards and other wee beasties that make the mistake of movement).