I’m going to have to ask you to give me some leeway on this one regarding syntax, typos, and random clowns. Currently edging towards the end of a 12 hr. work day, which means that my baby brain is exhausted from trying to string together semi-intelligent declarations longer than two sentences all day long. It’s like trying to beat a rented mule at this point: useless, not even gratifying past hour 9, and it makes your arms tired. Ok, maybe it’s not QUITE like beating rented mules. And who came up with that phrase anyway, the sick bastard…?
See what I mean? Keeping my thoughts together at this point is, as my friend Jess so beautifully phrased it, “like trying to herd retarded cats.” B/c it’s not bad enough that they’re cats. They’re retarded, too.
Went out to the barn yesterday to meet the vet for the second of Gabe’s biannual hock injections. As I rolled out, I find that my horse is more affectionate than usual and is trying to crawl nose-first into my jeans pocket. One of the other boarders asks me if the barn owner called, and when I ask why, she says “because it involved Gabe.” Those are not fun words to hear, even though you can clearly see your gelding—fit, happy, perfectly fine—snuffling excitedly at you through the bars of his stall. She proceeds to explain to me how one of the barn owner’s working students, who I loan Gabe for to a couple times a week, got dumped off him earlier that morning in her lesson. Now, the girl who fell has ridden him several times before; he’s currently helping her get her confidence back (as he’s become so very good at doing) after some shaking incidences in her past, and she gets along with him quite well. That is, until she takes him over a foot-and-a-half jump, which he sounds like he took somewhat athletically considering his hocks were sore, and she came off upon landing. And I totally understand this—I’ve been the space monkey ejected from Gabe’s driver’s seat plenty of times. Usually I was able to get back on.
But, after she had what I was told was “a mini-seizure” and her legs went numb, her pleas to get back on were denied and she was taken to the ER in an ambulance. I’m told she’s fine, just bruised and scraped, but what was kind of funny about the whole incident was how people were like, “Yeah, she fell off, legs went numb, took her to the ER,” in an offhanded tone, but then get really animated suddenly. “But GABE! Man, he was so upset! He kept hanging his head like he was sad, and when we brought him in [to his stall] while waiting for the ambulance, he just lay down and put his nose on the ground like he was the saddest puppy in the world. Like Bambi after the hunter killed his mom. So we loved on him for about a half an hour, and that perked him up some…” And that explained why I was trying to keep him from giving me a full-body hug as the story was being recounted. I felt really bad for the girl, even though she was ok. But I felt worse for my boy. Is that bad of me? He was obviously still a bit shaken up. And, it did make me feel worse that, on the day that happened, he had to get poked in the joints a couple of times, too. I believe I made up for it in treats, though.
And we’re dog-sitting Maynard and Jaden again. Only this time, there hasn’t been any linebacker tackles in the middle of the night like last time. And Nell’s taken to yodeling for us when I leave her behind and go on a Big Dogs’ Only walk. It’s like they have their own little club. They’ve got logoed jackets and everything. All the cool dogs want to be just like them. But I still feel like a badass when I stroll down the street, 5 mo. pregnant, with a cadre of 3 huge dogs (and one fun-sized dog) padding obediently along on either side of me.
I wrote yesterday, which also made me feel like a badass, b/c I got the idea for a really neat story. The badass part isn’t so much the really, REALLY cool idea, so much as the fact that I took about 2 hours yesterday to write on it while Clayton programmed on his Next Huge Project. (These projects come up about every other month, since that’s usually as long as his attention span lasts for any given project. But this time, it’s lasted almost 4 months, and I’m very proud of him for his new record.)
And finally, tomorrow we see if we can find a tiny third leg on the sonogram picture. Yup. We confirm that we’re having a girl. I understand that might sound a bit overconfident, but I’m gonna claim women’s intuition on this one. It’s not that I would be disappointed with a boy at all, either. I’m just POSITIVE that it’ll be a girl. I’ve got a gut feeling (no pun intended…ok, maybe a tiny one….GET IT?! Geez you’re a loyal reader to put up with this…)
So, we’ll see. When I asked the OB doc. why we haven’t been able to find out earlier (since I hear gender can usually be found at about 18-20 wks. and I’m at 21), he was like, “Look. If we did it before then, the technicians would only be about 80% positive.” Clayton and I looked at each other, and then looked back at the doc., and Clayton was like, “Yeah, I’m ok with those odds,” the doc. just made a disgusted sound and rolled his eyes like stupid kids. “80% may sound good now, but realize that the techs would’ve been 50% sure about 5 mo. ago. You really want to trust just a 30% increase?” Well, when you put it like that…
Wish us luck!