The Little Red-Haired Girl

Tonight, while out doing my chores (and truth be told, petting horses and daydreaming... ), I was doing some reminiscing and thought of a story to share... just a tiny tidbit of Pintabian horse history.

Back in the mid-1990's, my sister Rosalie (that's her in the photo, holding the foal) and I traveled with some friends to a horse fair in the big city to help promote Pintabian horses. It was a first... and it was a BLAST.

We were so busy, with tending horses and tending booths and taking in the sights and yakking until we lost our voices, that I remember very little about the trip... it was overwhelming to the senses.

There is one memory of the trip I recall vividly, however... and that is our encounter with the little red-haired girl.

One of the big events of this horse fair was a "Parade of Breeds"; and since we were there promoting a brand-new breed, this showcase was a Very. Big. Deal. We had a beautiful mare and foal to show off, and when the mare was led into the coliseum, we turned her foal loose. The foal knew, somehow, that she was in the spotlight, and acted accordingly. She went racing around that arena as if doing a victory lap, and the crowd went wild.

Needless to say, on the way back to the barns, we were absolutely jubilant. People kept stopping us, asking if they could pet the horses, raving about how beautiful they were... and we were happy to oblige. One of those people, however, did not ask... at least, not out loud.

A little red-haired girl just stood there, quietly, her eyes begging us to stop and let her touch the foal.

She was maybe five or six years old... and pretty unkempt. There was not a parent or guardian of any sort, anywhere around; this little girl seemed all alone in the world. We attempted to speak with her, but she would have none of it... all she wanted was to touch that baby horse. We stopped there, right in the midst of the main drag, horses and people milling around, and watched as joy brightened that little girl's face just as surely as dawn brightens the eastern sky. The foal nuzzled the girl, ever so gently, and the girl practically nuzzled her right back. I think we all had tears in our eyes, watching the scene unfold.

All these years later, I can't remember just how we parted ways... if a frazzled young mother caught up to the girl, if she wandered off, or maybe we were entertaining an angel unaware. In any case, I often think of that little girl and wonder if she ever thinks of that day, or if it had any impact on her life.

It certainly had an impact on mine.

Confession

Father, forgive me... I used Your name in vain today. 


I'm really sorry for that.


Not that there is any good excuse, but I do have one... in case You would like to hear it.


It was hot, and I was picking up a load of square hay bales (aka "idiot cubes") from the field and loading them into the truck.  I was topping off the load.... and since You created me to be short, I had to lift the bales to my chest, then heave them up over my head.  As it was hot, I was tired, sweaty and in a hurry, and so ignored my self-imposed protocol of always turning a bale over before picking it up. 


On what would prove to be the last bale of that particular load, I threw it up over my head... then looked square into the eyes of one of these as it dangled before my face:

And then I used Your name in vain.  Really loudly.  

I'm sure You (and all my neighbors) probably heard it, so I just wanted to say sorry.

I promise to follow the rules and turn the bales over before picking them up, from now on.  

Over and out.

Emma

Things were not going well.

Migraines, mud, misunderstandings and mishaps, poor hay-making weather, projects piling up; they were all getting me down.  I worked non-stop, it seemed, and tried to keep a positive attitude... but it felt as if I would never get caught up, never feel better, as if I were caught in a really bad day that kept repeating.

One day, while ruminating on all that... stuff... I walked into our machine shed while looking for some nails to repair a fence.  Again.  In doing so, I was startled by flapping wings as a white bird flew up right before me.  When my breath came back, I could not help but look in amazement at the creature which had shown up in my grungy old shop:  a pure white dove.

At first I thought it probably an albino barn pigeon... an oddity, but somehow more likely.  We have a few pigeons that hang around, eating spilled grain, creating a mess of feathers and excrement in the storage shed.  But this was no common pigeon... she was beautiful.  Pure white, docile... I could get within a few feet of her, and her calm demeanor was somehow so peaceful.  Regal.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed she wore a leg band, and realized she was a domestic dove.  Most likely she was released at a wedding or some such event, and for whatever reason ended up on my farm.  I wondered about how to go about capturing her and returning her to her owner, but somehow that didn't seem quite right.  She was a free bird, here by choice, and it blessed me.  I dubbed her Emma, short for Emmanuel, which means "God with us"... and considered her a good omen of peace, happiness and prosperity for our farm.

Emma took up residence above some old wooden grain bins in the shed, and just hung around for awhile. I would set out extra grain especially for her, and she would clean it up once I was out of sight.  Every time I saw her, it was such a lift to my spirits; her exquisite beauty, the pure white of her feathers, the peaceful aura which surrounded her and her unlikely presence seemed somehow supernatural.

Emma is gone now.  Maybe she just flew off course, needed a rest stop and we offered her the food and shelter she needed; or maybe she was here for a higher purpose.  At first I was so disappointed to realize she had moved on, but now have adopted the attitude that having her here, if only for a little while, was one of those little blessings in life that one must appreciate in the moment and later remember fondly. I'm so glad I made no attempt to capture, cage or return Emma to some owner, contrary to her free will. Doing so would have served no purpose, and somehow diminished the experience.

As it is, the little white free bird is, indeed, free.  Interestingly enough, the migraines have also subsided, the weather improved, the mishaps and misunderstandings and projects not quite so overwhelming, and my mood improved.

Thanks, Emma.

"You're on your own, kid..."

Its been awhile since my last post... mostly just because springtime on the farm is busy.  I'm bottle feeding a dozen calves, keeping fences up... and the yard mowed... and the barn clean...and hay put up... and weeds pulled or killed... and foaling out mares.  And it seems that when it all gets done I'm fairly exhausted and left without the energy or creativity to write about the experience, and its time to start over anyway... but that is life on a farm and the life I chose.

The foaling part is the biggest deal for me; I rearrange my stalls to allow for a large foaling pen in the barn, have my vet kit ready, and check the mare every two hours around the clock as she approaches parturition. It can be exhausting, but I really wouldn't have it any other way.  While a barn camera which would allow me to check on the mare from the house is a nice thought, it somehow cannot replace my 2AM walks to the barn, pausing to breathe in the mellow air of a balmy spring night, looking at the stars and wondering whats beyond them.

When the big moment arrives and the mare stretches out in the straw to push her baby into the world, I do my best to be there.  That is the moment of truth, when a year (or fifteen, if truth be told) of preparation and planning and dreaming and hard work come together and that new foal draws its first breath.  While its icing on the cake if the foal happens to be a color and pattern I've hoped for... the real satisfaction comes in seeing the straight legs, long arched and refined neck, the laid-back shoulder, the long hip and level croup, the short back, the large eye and exquisite head, the breed-type and refinement and athleticism and the disposition I've bred for and come to expect over the years.  Regardless of the color or sex, it seems that each time I dry off and imprint a new foal, tears of joy and thanksgiving roll down my face.  I will never get over the delight in helping these foals into the world, in being the first to caress their delicate muzzles, in witnessing them take their first clumsy steps and first vital gulps of colostrum.  I imprint, or bond with, them all at birth... after that, while they belong to their mommas for a few months, they are in my own pocket for life.  That's due in small part to the process... and in large part to the breed I've chosen.  The experience makes all the blood, sweat, tears, and cost worthwhile.

Yesterday was a beautiful day, of the sort that have been somewhat rare this year with all the rain we've received.  It was the perfect sort of day to turn a new, week-old foal and her momma in with the herd for the first time.  The rest of my family had been gone for a few days, and while I normally wait until someone is here with me to do any major rearranging of herd dynamics, just in case something were to go awry... turning out a new baby is usually no big deal, and I was looking forward to watching her stretch her legs and discover the new world.

Um.... yeah.

Upon releasing said mare and baby into the pasture, it was a pastoral scene for about thirty seconds... and then hell broke loose.

Creedence, our herd sire, was very happy to see Momma, so to speak, and said so in a loud, trumpeting manner.  Daddy's exuberant  greeting scared the living daylights out of Baby.  Baby fled for the hills... in the process, going through a fence and into another pasture occupied by two mares who would have been more than happy to claim her as their own.  Their misguided affections spooked Baby further... and so imagine my horror as she ran/tumbled/scrambled/rolled down the hill...

into the lake.

Now, my pasture is surrounded on three sides by this little lake, and while I always foal the mares in the barn rather than the pasture to avoid a newborn falling into it during its first awkward attempts to stand... the lake has otherwise never been an issue.  The shore is mucky and the horses tend to avoid it.  Water?  No thanks!  They prefer theirs from the tap.

Apparently, however, this baby felt the murky depths to be a safer option than the terrifying sounds and smells and sights of a milling herd of monsters... or the thorny grasp of the brush and trees clawing at her as she made her escape.  I watched and waited for a moment, thinking and hoping that Momma would run down to the water's edge, holler for her baby, and that Baby would do as she was told and return to her mother's side.

No such luck.  Momma was busy romancing Stud Boy, who was, in turn, unashamedly admiring the miraculous return of her girlish figure.  Realizing they would be no help whatsoever, I went into motion, running down the hill with one goal in mind... to save the baby.  In doing so, I thought about the fact no one else was home... and thought, "You're on your own, kid..."

Truth is, however, I'm never really alone.  I've got a few bad-ass guardian angels who've been battle-tested through the years, and I trust God to command them concerning me and guard me in all my ways, as He promised.  I'm thankful its not so much great faith on my part as it is faithfulness on His.  I knew, as I dove into the lake and called out to Him for help, that He would.

That said, I *hate* murky water, and the mud beneath it.  Murky water is creepy... I cannot see what lies beneath, be it fallen trees or snapping turtles or leeches or dead bodies.  Our lake is murky for two reasons; one, because we have a lot of iron in the water, which oxidizes and turns it brown.  Another, because this farm was once a dairy... and all plumbers will tell you that, put politely, manure runs downhill.  Fifty cows times fifty years, you do the math.

And so, until yesterday, suffice it to say I'd not yet taken a swim in our lake.  But when a baby is in danger, be it human or equine, maternal instinct takes over... common sense flies out the window... and I went for a swim.  With a panicked foal.

She would whinny to me, let me approach, almost get to her... and then swim away.  Further and further into the lake.  As I was fully clothed and wearing shoes, and the bottom slimy, slippery, muddy, my feet sinking in if I tried to walk rather than swim, it was a fight.  I had a lead rope in hand, but they tend to be too floppy to make a good loop to throw; one has to be right on top of the target.  I simply could not catch her.  The only option was to swim to shore, run up the steep hill to the barn and retrieve the lariat.  I thought of the two boats sitting in the shed, knowing I did not have the time or strength to get them in the water by myself, nor the skill to operate one (if it would, in fact, start) and simultaneously capture the foal alone.

After scrambling, water-logged, up the steep incline... I was beat, and thinking, "How am I ever going to do this alone?"  I made a couple quick phone calls, seeking prayer cover (successfully) and the remote possibility of physical help (no such luck), caught my breath, retrieved the lariat, and ran back down the hill... back into the lake.

It took some swimming, and a few throws and misses (water-logged lariats apparently don't travel as straight as dry ones).... but finally, the rope encircled her neck.  I swam to where some footing, albeit treacherous, could be obtained, and proceeded to lead/pull/encourage her to shore.  I was exhausted, somewhat jubilant, and relieved.

That relief, however, would be short lived.  She did not *want* to come ashore.  It was too muddy, too scary, too steep.  The water was, somehow, safer.

I could get her out of the water, past the muck, and onto dry land.  She would then proceed to panic, turn tail and head back to the water.  Even with the rope in a snug figure-eight around her body, a configuration which will usually control the most fractious of foals in a safe and effective manner, I simply did not have the strength to push/pull/lead her up the steep incline with her fighting to get back to the "safety" of the water.  We struggled there, at the lakes edge, tripping over fallen logs and sinking in the mud, for some time.  It was like Jacob wrestling the angel.  At this point I was not going to give up, lose the ground I'd gained and lose this foal to the lake... and she was not going to give up, either.  My compassion for that scared baby was overwhelming.  It was not stupidity, nor stubbornness, which made her fight... but fear and inexperience.  Until then, all she'd known in life was a safe, dry stall and the comfort of Momma at her side.  For her it was like the gates of Hell had opened up and surrounded her with every terrible and frightening demon it could unleash.

Enter Creedence.

Stallions can be a pain in the neck.  They are driven by hormones; the urge to gather, breed and protect their harem is their primary focus in life; pity the fool who would get in the way of those instincts.  I have been so fortunate in the fact that Creedence is so tractable and good-minded, and has been since birth; he is, quite honestly, one of the most quiet and well-behaved stallions I (or my farrier) have ever encountered.  But he is still a stallion, still a horse programmed by God to fight-or-flee when necessary... and so what I would do next would be one of the greatest risks I've ever taken with horses in my thirty years of working with them.

Creedence stood by, watching the struggle... somewhat nervous about the chaos taking place in his kingdom. Nearing exhaustion, I realized I had to do whatever it took to get that foal up the hill and away from the water.  Saying a prayer, I put another loop in the lariat, at the opposite end of the foal... and put the loop over his head, and down around his shoulders.  Pointing him uphill... I said, "Okay, boy... I need your help here.  Lets pull this baby up the hill."

What happened next was not perfect, not story-book, not pretty.  I could say that the stud just plodded up the hill like an old plow horse... truth is, I've never once in fifteen years asked him to do such a thing. While he did the job, it was not without some fast-talking (and moving) on my part.  I could say the foal just gave in and trotted up the hill behind her Daddy... um, not so much.  I could say that it was a piece of cake, that I did not risk life and limb and trampling by looping a lariat around a stallion's shoulders and asking him to pull a trashing foal up a 50-degree grade while navigating brush, rocks and trees.... truth is, it was risky, it was scary, it was dangerous for all involved and could have resulted in disaster.

But it didn't. It worked.  Creedence helped me, albeit reluctantly, to get the foal up the hill to her momma and away from the lake.  We were all shaking, exhausted, dripping with lake water and mud and sweat... but we did it.  No one got hurt beyond a few scrapes.  All horses involved have forgiven me, and now placidly graze in the summer sunshine.

Best of all, however... the experience reinforces, yet again, the fact that regardless of the circumstance, this kid is never really on her own.

God is so good.

"Go Away"

No matter how many times you hear it, the words never lose their bite.

As the mother of a sometimes-temperamental five-year old, I've heard it more than once.

"Go away."

Those words always are rooted in hurt and shame.  She lost the game.  Fell off her bike. Or maybe I found something valuable, mangled beneath her bed, and asked her to tell me how it happened.  Could be I found her doing something I'd asked her not to, and yet she just could not resist the temptation.  She's mad... not so much at me (other than the fact I've put a dent in her fun), but really at herself, thinking she's disappointed me.

She simply does not realize yet that no matter what she might do, even if it hurts or disappoints me, I love her... completely.  That everyone, no matter how good they are (and she really is a very good girl) messes up, gets embarrassed, gets hurt.  And that my job is to be there to hold her, support and encourage her, and lovingly establish and enforce boundaries (for my sake, yes... but especially for hers). To show her that regardless of the transgression, I will always forgive her and always, always love her.

The thing is... I love to see her test the boundaries.  Her curiosity, sense of fun and zest for life are second to none, and there is so much for me to learn from her.  But since I care about my daughter, her well-being and the person she will be when she grows up as well as those whose lives she will touch... sometimes I have to be the bad guy... er, gal.  I cannot look the other way, no matter how easy it may be.  Its difficult to address issues with her at times; she is who she is and I know she will sometimes have a melt-down because she is hurt, embarrassed, sick, tired, or sugared... and tell me to "go away".  It would be so much easier, in the short-term, to look the other way... but in the long-term, it would be doing her a grave injustice.

Even though I'm her mom and know that what she really is saying is, "I feel bad, please just give me a little space to pull myself together", it still cuts to the core.  Sometimes I will just hold on to her real tight; that's my instinct.  But I'm learning that it usually doesn't take too long for her to want Mom again, to feel the safety, acceptance and love in my open arms.  So lately, what I do is say, "Okay.  I'll be right here if you need me.  I love you forever."  And then I make absolutely certain to keep that promise.

We always have two voices in our heads.  One says, "You messed up, you're worthless, you've done too many bad things, hurt too many people, you'll never be any good... who do you think you are, anyway? You don't deserve forgiveness, or love, or happiness".

The other voice is God's. It says, "You messed up... you feel bad... but there is nothing I can't forgive and I forgive you.  I love you.  I created you.  You are My child, let Me comfort you and bless you. Come here."

My job, as her mother, is to teach my daughter to listen to the second voice... the voice of Truth.

The best way to do that is to show her I listen to it myself.

Mending Fences

"Just then I saw a young hawk flyin' 

And my soul began to rise 

And pretty soon 

My heart was singin'..." 

~Bob Seger

Today is the day for which I wait every year.  The last traces of snow have melted away, the ice on the lake is releasing its iron grip, corrals are drying out... and if I looked hard enough, could probably find thistles poking through the soil somewhere in the pasture.  It is the first day in months I find myself doing chores in a light jacket, and moving about the yard while giving no thought to mud or snow.


While out there today, I began to work on repairing the winter damage to my fences... they usually need quite a bit of attention after months of heavy snow, deer running through them, horses in closer confinement than usual and squabbling with one another as a result.  This was just busywork... when truly serious about the job I'll retrieve my bucket of fencing tools and supplies from the tack room and set aside the time to go over every inch of fence line.  Today it was more about enjoying the day, soaking up the sun and giving thanks for spring's arrival.


As I straightened wires and made adjustments, it made me laugh to look at my handiwork of years past.  In places there are knots and tangles; some lengths of fence have plenty of extra wire with which to make repair, and in other parts its a struggle to make the ends meet.  Different gauges of wire, different brands and ages of posts and insulators.  My fence is a cobbled-together arrangement in places, but serves its purpose in keeping my livestock contained, safe from harm, off the road and where they belong.


The term "mending fences" came to mind, how it it applies to fixing damaged relationships as much as it does to straightening and re-wrapping wire.  I can't remember a time that I've ever just given up on a fence because it was broken and needed repair.... fences are expensive for one. But there also is some pride in making the old one work... in carrying my bucket up and down the hill, mending what was broken, making it whole again.  


Oftentimes I pound my fingers with the hammer, get scratched by the thorns on the plum trees, trip over stumps hiding in the grass, slip in the sticky wet clay.  Sometimes I dread the fixing, the work, and wish for a brand new maintenance-free version (is there really such a thing?).  On a particularly trying day, one might even wonder what on earth compels me to this lifestyle and this work when I could be sitting in a nice suburban home somewhere, maybe blogging from my well-appointed sun room or taking my turn hosting the neighborhood mommy group.  But then, I am reminded of the fact I chose this life, and for good reason.  Its where my heart led me, I pursued it with a passion and did not take no for an answer.  


As for the fences... they can always be repaired. It may take some work, but is worth the effort.  I've built my fence, tended it, cursed at it and apologized and restored it time and again.  Its far from perfect or even picturesque, but it works, and well.  A new one might be prettier, more convenient, and less hassle than the old one comprised of mismatched wires and posts of all sizes... but that old fence? Its unique, I know and appreciate its idiosyncrasies, and its all mine.  


So I pick up my bucket and move on to repair the next broken wire or replace another missing insulator, looking around for evidence that I did, indeed, make the right choice... and God always provides it.  Today, on this first real day of spring, it was the first robin.  Not just one robin... but an entire flock, merrily hopping around beneath my favorite tree, a grand old ash which stands watch over our farm.  Those robins were congregated in the special place where I often retreat to think and just be, when necessary.  


I followed them and sat beneath that big old tree for awhile.  Just then I saw a young hawk flyin'... my soul began to rise... and pretty soon, my heart was singin'.


Spring is here.  It always returns.  No matter how long the winter, no matter how dark the night... the sun always rises, spring always comes again... and with it, the chance to mend fences.

Love

"I'm not a smart man... but I know what love is." ~Forrest Gump 

While sitting in a smoky bar, years ago, someone once asked me, "What is love... really?"

It was a rare instance in which a definition completely escaped me.  I was speechless, and always regretted my lack of an answer. As a result, I've spent a whole lot of time in the many years since, thinking about love and what it really means.  Much as I would like to sit here and give a concise definition... I still cannot.  What I can do, however, is tell you what love means to me, and what it does not.

Love is not hearts, gifts and flowers, cards and cake.  Those things can represent love, or offer a show of affection, and are often appreciated by the recipient, but none are the nuts and bolts of the emotion.  To equate a bunch of flowers or a card to love, is to diminish it in a profound way.

Love is not what makes babies and brings new life into the world... its what nurtures that life; before, during and long after the birth.  Its what walks the floor at 2am with that colicky baby, cleans vomit out of the carpeting, changes the nasty diapers, waits up past curfew for rebellious teenagers to arrive home safe and works the third shift to pay for it all.  Love is working overtime and setting that money aside to put those babies through college.

Love is not words. All the fancy words in the world cannot express it, without the action to back it up.  Love is action; its about being there, standing by and supporting someone you believe in, even when they don't always believe in themselves.  Love is about going farther, reaching higher, working harder, dreaming bigger and digging deeper than you ever thought possible... not for yourself, but for another.  Love is about giving of yourself, and your time.

Love is not always pretty. Its about weathering storms and standing firm in the face of adversity.  Its about taking the pain with the pleasure, the sorrow with the joy, the mundane chores with the wild adventures.  Love is as much about sickness, loss and sacrifice, about blood and pain, about hardship and arguments, as it is about the happy times, prosperity, fun and romance.  Its about taking the bad with the good... which makes the good times even better.

Love is not about youth and beauty.  It is about acceptance and forgiveness.  Its about making accommodation for age and idiosyncrasies, looking the other way when things aren't perfectly pretty, about forgetting the angry and derisive words and remembering the supportive, encouraging and affectionate ones.

Love is not a silent doormat.  Sometimes, love says what needs to be said, stands up for itself regardless of the consequence, points out the wrong in an effort to make it right.  Love is not politically correct or cowardly.  Love is about hanging in there, about fighting for what you believe in... and sometimes, about letting go.  One thing is certain, and that is the fact that human love is never, ever, perfect.

I am so abundantly, profoundly blessed with love in many forms, as a mother, daughter, wife, sister, and friend... and to have borne witness to so much of it, even in ways I will never personally experience.  Love is what gets me out of bed in the morning, and what lulls me to sleep at night.  Love is what drives everything I do throughout each day... whether cooking or cleaning or writing or shoveling out the barn.  Its what focuses my passions and sparks my dreams, makes the tough decisions and allows me to give just a little more each time.  I will never be perfect at it, and will always fall far short of the goal... but I will always try.  Even when it hurts.  Especially when it hurts.

I wouldn't have it any other way.


"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing." 1 Corinthians 13 v.1-2

Invasion

For whatever reason, we have been invaded.

By shrews.  The Northern, short-tailed variety, I believe.

They are ugly, and sneaky, and squeal and chatter like tiny disembodied spirits.

On my blind, half-asleep jaunt to the coffee pot this morning, I noticed the cat seemed rather... um, active... in the downstairs bathroom.  Upon hearing the squeak and chatter of her prey, I knew she wasn't just doing her morning calisthenics.

So I did what every self-respecting woman in pajamas does when faced with a home invader...

I woke my husband.  (For what its worth, he needed to get up anyway.)

Nice guy he is, he set the nasty vermin free in the forest.  Thankfully, our dogs are not quite so compassionate.  They have been honing their shrew-hunting skills all winter (we seem to have a bumper crop), and proudly displaying their trophies on my front porch for all to see.

I am forever beholden to them.  Good dogs.  (Okay, the husband gets some credit, too.)

Maybe I should be more compassionate, but just really hate when I'm watching a good movie from my favorite chair and wonder, "What's that smell? Honey, is there a propane leak or something?"... then have to push around all the heavy furniture to find the dead shrew.  And then remove the dead shrew and clean the carpet.

It sort of hoses up my evening.

Though I will admit to preferring that over, say, a bat flying around my bedroom at midnight. Bats in my bedroom make me scream like a little girl and hide beneath the covers.

Just sayin'.

Ah, the joys of living in a 96-year-old farmhouse.

Just A Mom

As I sit here this morning sipping my coffee, watching the news and waiting for my precious daughters to awaken, a great sense of foreboding overshadows the beautiful sunrise.

1,330 miles from here, politicians gather in our nation's capitol to cast their votes on a bill which would forever change America, mortgage my children's future and, most frightening of all, give the government control over one of our most basic needs: healthcare.

While not a scholar, a politician, a pundit or a medical professional, I do have a vested interest in what happens in that Capitol Building today. I am a mother.  And I have experienced what happens when the government gets involved in health care.

Back in October, and as many of you already know, my twelve-year-old daughter contracted the H1N1 flu, which weakened her defenses and allowed all sorts of infections to run rampant throughout her body.  She fought strep, pneumonia, thrush... the most life-threatening of which was the pneumonia.  The staff at the Children's Hospital saved her life by inserting a chest tube which drained nearly two liters of fluid from her chest cavity. I am filled with profound gratitude that my daughter's life was spared, each and every day.

The problem is, she never should have fallen so ill in the first place.  A drug exists which would have saved her before the flu weakened her immune system to the point of such acute susceptibility.  Its called Tamiflu and is readily available.  From the moment my daughter spiked a fever, the very first day she was ill, I fought like a tiger to get her a prescription for Tamiflu. I called every hotline, every clinic, every emergency room around, in an attempt to acquire treatment for my daughter.  Maternal instinct drove me to pursue every possible option in a desperate effort to get the anti-viral drug my daughter needed.

What kept the Tamiflu out of my hands?  Was it a greedy, giant insurance company?  A selfish, profit-driven pharmaceutical giant?  Some rich doctor who didn't care about my child?

No.  We have excellent health insurance and skilled, compassionate doctors.  It was our own government standing in the way of my daughter's treatment.  At every single turn, I was told, "Ma'am, we need to follow CDC guidelines, and your daughter is not eligible for Tamiflu.  She is not in the right age group, and she does not have an underlying medical condition which qualifies her.  I'm sorry, but its just the flu.  Do not bring her in, we will not do anything.  Give her fluids and Tylenol."   My daughter was denied treatment because she was in the wrong demographic.  The government, in its infinite wisdom, had instructed the healthcare industry to ration the drug, for fear of a shortage.  It instructed them to tell people to stay home, for fear of hospitals being overrun.  It was the RATIONING of healthcare, and it was only the beginning.  I shudder to think of the children who died as a result.

Tamiflu is most effective in the first 48 hours.  I knew that, and therefore fought like hell as soon as my daughter fell ill to get my hands on some.  Instinct drove me nearly to the point of taking hostages.  Had there been a black market for the stuff, I'd have sold my soul to get it.  But hey... I'm just a mom.

This mom sat here four days, watching my daughter's previously vibrant health fail, bathing her with cool water to reduce the fever, pushing fluids and Tylenol and Motrin.  I spent countless hours on the phone with nurses, seeking advice.  We took her to the emergency room once, and she was sent home (with a high fever, full-body rash, deep wet cough...).  When we took her back the next day, she was in excruciating pain (a couple liters of fluid crushing your heart and lungs will do that), covered from her neck to her ankles with a bright red rash, fighting for breath, rapid heartbeat, dangerously low blood pressure.  When she was finally admitted to a local hospital, she stayed there for three days, failing further, until she was rushed by ambulance to the Children's Hospital which saved her life and where she stayed for three weeks.

We found it ironic that while in the hospital, she was finally given enough Tamiflu (and other antivirals) to choke a horse.  Ironic, too, that when my parents contracted the same flu, I went through the same fight to find Tamiflu for them... this time, calling from my daughter's hospital room, working the phone for hours.  A compassionate nurse finally put me through to my personal doctor who, knowing our story, immediately asked where he should send the prescription and for whom he should write it.  My parents, both in their 70's, were better within 48 hours of taking the drug, though their initial symptoms were every bit as serious as my daughter's.

Tamiflu, administered immediately upon the onset of her symptoms when I asked for it, would have saved my daughter three weeks in the hospital, five weeks absence from school, endless suffering, numerous painful procedures, the failure of her kidneys due to the heavy doses of antibiotics, and a serious brush with death.  Our insurance company would gladly have paid for the drug... if not out of the kindness of their hearts, then for the fact it would have saved them the nearly $60,000 in hospital bills they did pay.  Oh, and by the way... they paid immediately.  Without question.  That big, bad, horrible insurance company.  Go figure.

The government, in its desperate need for control, and its bureaucrats, in all their arrogant self-importance, nearly cost my daughter her life.  In taking away the power of doctors to make the best decision for each individual patient, and in taking away the power of parents to decide what is best for their own children, they not only complicate healthcare... they prevent the immediate and instinctive care that most medical emergencies require.  When people sit around on their hands, waiting for some bureaucrat to make a decision regarding treatment for fear that if they make their own decision, they will lose funding and good graces from the powers that be, it cripples the system... and PEOPLE DIE.

Healthcare decisions need to be made by those passionate about the well-being of the patient... that patient, her family, and her doctors. As I sit here sipping my coffee and watching what goes on in Washington, it makes me sick to hear the politicians accuse the doctors and insurance companies and pharmaceutical giants of greed and callous disregard for life, while simultaneously selling their own votes to the highest bidder.  Its an absolute freak show... and yet they want to be in control of my body?  Or, God forbid, those of my children?

For Americans to willingly hand their very lives over to bureaucracy, believing they will be coddled and their best interests guarded by people who "care", is proof positive we are victims of the biggest snow job in the history of the planet.  NO ONE is going to care more about your health and well-being than YOU.  And none of us, save the veterans who have honorably served this country, the genuinely impoverished or the truly and permanently disabled, should expect the rest of the nation to pay for the care of it.  We've adopted an embarrassing sense of entitlement in this country...  we have the best healthcare on the planet, the most compassionate, dedicated and skilled doctors, the most advanced technology, the most progressive research, and the most generous philanthropists who help to fund it all... and yet, its not enough. We think everyone should have everything all the time, on demand.  For free.

Those misguided expectations will cost us our freedom... and possibly, our lives.  Our children and grandchildren will certainly pay dearly for our selfishness in countless ways.  Their tax burden will be overwhelming, and their choices and freedoms severely restricted compared to those we've known.

As a mother, I make every attempt to teach my children responsibility, generosity, selflessness, independence and empathy.  Today's antics in Washington  fly in the face of all that.  This is not about the care of our fellow human beings, not about putting others' needs above our own.  This is not about generosity nor about philanthropy.  It is all about greed, power, corruption and control... truly, a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing.  If what those politicians are doing were right, they would not need to be usurping the very Constitution our forefathers set in place to guard against such evil.  There would not be such a desperate push to "pass the bill so we can then see what's in it".  I've heard quite a few good lines in my time, but that one takes the cake.

I teach my children that when they are pushed to make an immediate decision, before they know all the facts and ramifications of that decision... it probably is best to step back away from the situation and take deeper look. Usually, its an attempt to get us to sign on the dotted line before we realize the full impact and the negative consequences of that decision.

But hey... I'm just a mom.

Rubber Duckies Are Dangerous

While enjoying my coffee this morning, my sense of peace was shattered by some disturbing news:

Rubber duckies are dangerous.

One of the morning programs aired a segment regarding childrens bath toys, and unveiled the scary fact that dangerous bacteria grow and spread like wildfire amongst the rubber duckies and toy boats. One reporter sent her kid's toys to a lab, which swabbed for the treacherous bugs... lo and behold, it was contaminated with "fecal bacteria"!!!!!

I kept sipping my coffee.

Maybe its just me, but having survived the toddler years with my kids (twice over, as they are seven years apart), I've come to accept the truth that bacteria, fecal and otherwise, is a fact of life.  While its important to keep hot food, hot and cold food, cold...  to encourage hand-washing and cough-covering... to keep the kitchen and bathrooms acceptably sanitary (my standards for which vary, depending on the week)... one simply cannot live in fear of every nasty little bug lurking in the crevices of our homes. 

Seriously, no matter how vigilant you are about bubble-wrapping your kid and dunking them in bleach water, they will, at some point, play in the cat box (or the cat will use the sandbox), get french-kissed by a dog who just ate something dead and putrid, eat a bug, romp in a stagnant, scum-covered mud puddle.  The antidote always has been to toss my little one into a suds-filled bathtub and let her play (with those sewage-infested toys!) until the dirt from beneath her fingernails dissolved and her toes wrinkled like prunes.

Now, after all this time, some guy in a lab coat informs me that those baths were "bacteria soup"?

I don't think so.  Bacteria soup is the juice which collects in the bottom of the garbage bin while it waits for the truck to empty it on Monday morning.  Its the stuff that overflows the septic tank, or cultures in the Cool-Whip container of leftovers shoved to the back of the refrigerator and forgotten for... well, a long time. Bath water is soap and water... still proven to be the most effective kid-cleaning solution to date. 

In my opinion, its far more important to make sure the children are well-fed, get plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep and more than enough love.  No matter how vigilant you try to be, bacteria (and viruses, and fungi) are everywhere. They outnumber your kid a bajillion to one.  Common sense tells us that if your kid's bath toy is looking grungy or black furry stuff starts growing inside it, you toss it in the dishwasher or throw it away (when Precious Darling is otherwise distracted, if peace in the home is your preference).  Otherwise, rather than trying so hard to shelter the children by sanitizing and bubble-wrapping and forbidding them to play with bath toys... maybe we ought to lighten up a bit and focus on building healthy immune systems? 

The amazing thing about the immune system is that its automatic, its free, and works remarkably well.  The immune system is vigilant 24/7, even when Mom's back is turned.  It quietly does its job, destroying E. Coli and Staphylococcus and myriad other invaders on a daily basis, and we don't even hear about it or get a progress report from the battlefield.  We only get notified when the immune system is overwhelmed and needs to call in reinforcements.... a relatively rare occurrence, usually when it has been compromised by fatigue or poor nutrition.

Life is too short to be stressing about the bath toys and fearful about what lurks in the bathwater.  Hyper-vigilance is not only redundant, it is exhausting.  We need to relax a bit, enjoy our children, nurture and spend time with them, while placing just a little faith in the fact that we, and our children, are fearfully and wonderfully made.