Amidst All the Shriekiness

Hello!  Without trying to catch up on the past (which has been great and happy and full of family time and work time and not enough horse time), here's a little slice of our life lately.

Beep was the flower girl in my dad's wedding.  I think it was the highlight of her life.  She still asks "Am I your flower girl?"  Because being a flower girl is tantamount to holding the most illustrious, loving, special and elevated position possible.

Thank you for the precious head wreath for my baby girl, Dad and Joyce.  I had no idea what to do about the lingering baby mullet.  Because, you guys, she's still the same Beep we all know and love.  Mullet in the house!

Apparently to make up for her persistent lack of front hair, I got bangs.

 But!  The hair situation does evolve, at least in the back, and she now allows pigtails.  They are tiny and precious, just like her.  As proven by this photo, where the other kids look approximately 3 years older (spoiler alert: they're not).

Yes, it's true.  I am a soccer mom.  Beep is loving soccer, and watching their games has become my favorite weekend activity.  The team's entire game strategy consists of trying to remember which goal to score on.  Not that anyone keeps track, you understand.  

Our baby boy has been a wonderful addition to our family (does anyone ever say otherwise?).  But, if you want to hold a grudge because life without my regular blog postings has become a meaningless wasteland... well, blame him.

Having a second child definitely pushed my schedule over the edge, and it continues to be a challenge for me to find time for myself.  Blogging falls under that category, along with riding, exercising (oh baby weight, how I hate you), and blow drying my hair.  Air dry 4evah!

Brother Bean, as he is mostly called, is merry, sweet, giggly, and has a ridiculously cute set of dimples that guarantee every woman within sight falls helplessly in love with him. 

In other news, he's really really shriek-y.  As in, make your ears bleed.  He recently decided it's his main mode of communication, and really it's so much more efficient than, say, talking.  Who needs verbal communication, or signing?  And pointing is for sissies.  So I am frantically trying to reinforce words, both verbal and in sign language. 
Him: *shriek*
Me: Brother, do you need a drink?  Drink?
Him: *shrieeeeeek*
Me: Brother, drink? [holding up cup]
Him: *SHRIEEEEK*
Me: [signing "drink"]
Him: *SHRIEEEEEEEEEK!!!!*

So that's really working.
  
Finally, in our household of four there is only one person who favors clothing, and that would be me.  Otherwise Cabbage Ranch is populated by one man who'd rather walk around half dressed most of the time.  Then there's the baby who sees no need for clothing, especially anything restrictive like, say, long sleeves or shoes.  I can't really blame him, because up until now he probably thought his life would be nothing but onesies and the reality of denim and buttons would indeed be a bitter pill to swallow. 

And then there's The Naked Chef. 
  

How are you guys?

Allow Me to Introduce Myself

This blog isn't the only thing I've neglected lately.

That bay on the right?  The one turning his better side to the camera?  That's him.  Sam has been nothing but a pasture ornament for... over a year.  It feels like forever.  He's right to show me his backside.  He's entitled to hurt feelings and treating me with an air of disdain.

I don't have time for him these days.  He is meticulously cared for, of course, but he isn't ridden and I can tell he misses having a job. 

It's not just that I need to manage my time differently (though I could always do a little better), it's that there's only so much time in the day.  It's hard to admit I can't do everything, but... I can't.  And I have had to pick and choose.  He has lost, and I admit I've lost some of myself in putting him aside.

Motherhood is blessed but hard.  Being a working mother is without a doubt the ultimate challenge of my life.  I fill my days with work, with babies, and the few minutes left over is spent trying to conquer housework.  I love my family, but it becomes a grind and I do feel depleted.  So!  I'm working on learning to leave the house dirty and fill up my spirit instead of a bucket of mop water. 

A few times lately I lunged Sam, and I swear I started to feel the stirrings of my horsewoman's heart.  It was an amazing feeling.  

On Mother's Day I asked for nothing more than two hours, uninterrupted, with my horse.  It took me the whole first hour to get Sam cleaned up and assemble some dirty, cobwebby tack.  I lunged him, and he bucked and kicked and bolted around me in a maniacal circle.  When he settled he was lathered but pliable and content, and I dared to climb on. 

It was familiar, and strange, and triumphant.  It was just him and me.  I could do nothing more than sit in the dappled sunlight, pat his neck, and breathe.  I didn't even really think at all.  I just sat as a near stranger on his familiar back and silently asked him to remember me and the partnership we used to have.  I communed with him and my innermost self, the one that used to ride until my legs quivered and I sweated through my jeans.  The one who chased knowledge and skills by riding any horse I could, the one who loved to jump and learn new skills and work together with my horse, every day.

He was calm and happy.  I was peaceful and hopeful. 

When we'd had our fill of our quiet time, I hopped off and untacked.  I asked for Beep to join me so I could have a helper for Sam's bath.

The guys came out to keep us company.

 

And my baby girl and I scrubbed our beloved horse clean, and spent some time with our friend Sam.

Demise of the Baby Mullet

Cabbage and I have had some heated disagreements about the fate of our baby's mullet.  He didn't see it as a mullet at all, even though it was.  [this is my blog, so I win]  He referred to it as Beep's long, pretty hair.  As it grew longer (and the hair on the front half of her head remained short), I felt more and more that my baby was walking a dangerous line into Hair From the Eighties.  I didn't like it at all, but I was stuck.  I'd told him I would never cut her hair until or unless he agreed.  As weeks passed, I was so. tired. of looking at her scraggly ends and I sensed this could go on eternally... so I straight-up browbeat him into accepting a truce of sorts.   

I cajoled, pleaded, reasoned, and finally harassed him about it, telling him "You'll have to speak up if you want her to hear you- she can't hear you through the mullet."

He reluctantly agreed to (or at least shrugged and walked away when I AGAIN suggested) a trim of only the longest hair, just to clean up the ends.  I was gonna to take the heat outta that mullet.

Here, kitty kitty kitty.  Nice little baby mullet.

Snip, snip, snip in a line across the back, a little shaping angling up the sides, and I had just enough trimmed to save in a baggie as her first hair cut.

And my baby had a cute, neat little style.  I need to take more pictures- it really is adorable, it looks like a tiny bob.

And with that we bid adieu to the baby mullet. 

I suppose I shouldn't hold it against Cabbage that he was so attached to her old style.  After all, I have it on good authority he proudly wore one during the eighties.  It was long, proud, and P.E.R.M.E.D.  Yes, that's right.  So he was probably just feeling nostalgic every time he looked at her little hairs cascading softly against her collar...  Business in the front, party in the back.  Those were the days.

How To Peel a Crawfish

This is where Cabbage feels right at home...  A big, steaming pile of crawfish, boiled with new potatoes and corn, spiced with Old Bay and just waiting for his attack.  I've never seen anyone peel crawfish as quickly as he can.  It may be partly due to the years he spent going to college in Louisiana, but I think it's more that he has a natural-born talent.  Crawfish peeling is his calling.

Me?  Notsomuch.  I like crawfish, but I don't love them.  Sure, they're tender, buttery, and taste like lobster or good crab.  I like the tactile experience of peeling them, and I enjoy eating them at newspaper-covered tables with a cold beer and lots of friends.  When I say I like them, I do.  Like.  But Cabbage?  He's another story.  He L.O.V.E.S. them.  Can't get enough of the little mudbuds.  So when our local grocery store had a nice fresh batch in, I told him I was up for it.  

Turns out I was, but Bean (my belly passenger) wasn't.  I occasionally have shellfish aversions when pregnant, and this was one of those days.  So I opted out of shellfish and into some leftover spaghetti. 

After watching Cabbage go all Tasmanian devil on the little crustaceans (a sight which is not for the faint of heart), it dawned on me that he should pass on his knowledge.

Enlighten the world.

And distract me from the gestationally-induced squeamishness leading me to question if I could stay in the same room with the crawfish one. more. minute.

My semi-pro shellfish sheller husband put it in slow-mo to give the rest of us (me) a tutorial on peeling crawfish.

Allow me to introduce our model.  He's just been cooked to a reddish orange and he's ready to be eaten.  See how he's whole, and the tail curled is under?  That's good.  Don't eat crawfish that come out of the pot in pieces, and don't eat ones with straight tails as they may not be fresh. 

Pick up your crawfish (you can do it), and grasp the body in your left hand, tail in your right.  The tail meat is your primary target.

 
With a pulling and slight twisting motion, pull the tail off the body.

You have about three options with the body in your left hand:
1. Suck the juices and orange fat out.  Foodies love this- it's where the intense flavor is.
2. Crack the claws open like you would a crab and eat the yummy meat there.  These were too small to bother with, but with larger crawfish it's definitely time well spent.
3. Throw it away.

To peel the tail, grasp the end between your right thumb and forefinger, and using your left hand lift the orange tail shell back one section at a time, just like you're peeling an orange.

After a section or two, gently pull the meat out with your left hand while the right still holds on at the base of the shell.  The trick is to kind of anchor the shell with the tip of your thumb, while the left hand pulls.  Sometimes you'll just get part of the tail out, but with a little practice the whole tail should come free in one nice piece.

Eat that luscious little piece of sweet meat!  Dunk it in butter, drizzle it with lemon, or just enjoy it as-is.  Delicious. 

Soon you'll be a semi-pro like Cabbage, and you'll have a pile of discarded shells in a huge glass mixing bowl next to your plate.  This what he ate by himself at warp speed.  See the beer can peeking out from the back?  That'll give you a sense of scale.

...And then he went back for seconds and thirds.  I wish I was kidding, but I'm not.  He's a freak of nature. 

I hope you try out your brushed-up technique soon.  Enjoy!

The Vagus Nerve is the Devil (but Yay! We Love a Parade!)

I thought it might be time for a field trip off Cabbage Ranch.  Come along, my little blog friends...

So last Friday Cabbage and I had the pleasure of participating in one of San Antonio's biggest parades, the Battle of Flowers Parade.  It's part of the famous citywide Fiesta event, and the parade route winds through the heart of the city and past the Alamo itself.  Very cool.

Cabbage and I were invited to judge the horse entries in the parade, which threatened to make me feel very legit and accomplished.  Not really.  But it did sound like fun, and promised a change from the daily grind.

That morning we dropped Beep off at the babysitter's as usual for a weekday, and made our way downtown.  Parking on the outskirts of the parade route, we walked about 3/4 of a mile to the Alamo, where we met our hosts for a pre-parade luncheon in the courtyard behind the historic building.

The Alamo is one of my favorite places in San Antonio.  People have mixed reactions about it, and some remark it's "so small" or "not what I expected" but I love its crudeness juxtaposed with the high-rise buildings around it and the nearly palpable sense of history. 

Plus there are those lovely courtyards surrounding it on three sides.

We checked in with the parade organizers, mingled and talked with our hosts and other judges, and generally enjoyed ourselves and our sense of civic involvement.  Suddenly, though, I started to feel hot.  Like... sweaty hot.  I ignored it and hoped it would pass, and I hoped noone would notice I'd suddenly become a melty mess while everyone else seemed cool and comfy. 

Then things got a little more desperate as I started to feel lightheaded.  I wished for an easy way to excuse myself, but within a minute or two I became downright dizzy.  I turned to Cabbage and said "I don't feel good."  That was about all I could get out, and fortunately he clued in and asked me if I needed to sit down.  I nodded, and he tried to help me to the nearest chair.  Suddenly, I could barely walk, was stumbling at best, and although I could hear Cabbage, I couldn't even respond to his questions.  I couldn't follow Cabbage's instructions to sit down, either, but after a minute he got me into a chair and people gathered around the spectacle me as they gave me ice packs and I started coming back to myself. 

For the first time in my life I had very nearly fainted.  At a luncheon.  With tons of people around.  For no real reason.  Fabulous.

As soon as I was able to talk again, I apologized and said "I'm so embarrassed.  I'm five months pregnant, that must be it."  (and may I add, "so embarrassed" doesn't even cover it. Mortified? Crawling under a rock? Ridiculously conspicuous?) 

Several doctors and medical professionals came by to check on me, and within a short time I felt like myself again.  I sat and ate a little lunch, drank plenty, and tried to not cringe at the scene I'd caused.  Everyone was very kind and concerned and urged me to go home and rest, but I knew we had a couple of hours until the parade so I asked to just stay and see how I felt. 

True to my usual hale and hearty style, I was soon fine and able to safely stay and be part of everything.  Which was great because Yay! We love a parade!

The view from the judges' stand across the street from the Alamo

Loved these bright orange Converses as part of this band's uniform.

 LOTS of parade royalty- the court members wear these elaborate gowns... and cowboy boots!  Hey, man.  it's Texas.

And some really great horses in the parade, like this Budweiser entry.  I don't have photos of the others, though, because we were busy being very responsible-like and marking score sheets. 

After the parade was over, Cabbage and I took a quick spin around the front of the Alamo to enjoy the grounds and all the flowers the parade entrants left as they passed in front of the shrine.  It's customary for the parade participants to leave a bouquet, and the military floats stopped and saluted in a touching tribute to those who lost their lives here.



I had an appointment with my doctor yesterday for a routine baby check-up, and we discussed the fainting episode.  I'd been eating and drinking, it wasn't overly hot, etc etc, so there really wasn't an easy culprit to blame.  She explained, though, that the Vagus nerve, which helps control blood flow, can sometimes get a bit wonky (my technical term) during pregnancy and send some random crazy-ass signals to drop blood pressure suddenly.  Once that happens, it can lead to being dizzy or even fainting.  

In summary: the Vagus nerve is the devil. 

So even though I'd been taking care of myself, my body suddenly turned into its own worst enemy and EVEN THOUGH nothing like that has ever happened to me before.. and hopefully won't again... I almost didn't remember the Alamo.  But they'll remember me.

A Fence for Tabor

After almost two months of seeing our doe, Tabor, only on the wrong side of our property line, she is finally home.

As an aside, I think I have a greater appreciation for what Amish parents must go through when their kids leave for their rumspringa. 

So what I'm saying is, Tabor may be Amish. 

Anyway, over the past weeks her band of fairweather friends moved on (I told her it would never last/they weren't any good for her/we knew better).  She wandered the property in back of Cabbage Ranch, usually by herself.  She seemed fine and as her belly grew larger with her baby she visited more frequently.

As time passed she allowed closer contact and eventually Cabbage was able to feed her from his hand again, then pet her.  Within the last week my toddler, Beep, and I were able to visit with her at feeding time, and I was reassured that she was still the same sweet little deer.  Tabor was happy to be petted, happy to eat corn from our hands, and even tolerated Beep's hollering, baby pats on her forehead, and bucket-shaking antics.  That made me all the more certain she was ready and able to come back home. 

Our back fenceline stretches long and tight, paneled with wire and without a single gate.  Tabor has never been confident in her jumping abilities, but that's been especially true since she injured a hind leg two years ago and suffered some permanent tendon damage.  Jumping the fence wasn't a safe option for her, and she was still refusing to cross the fence where Cabbage had lowered it.  There, it was plenty low enough for her to hop over but she was wary of it... She's a deer.

Finally, on Saturday evening, we stood along the back fenceline as I fed and stroked Tabor.  I looked at the lowered fence, then at Tabor, and back at the fence.  Cabbage knew what I was thinking, and chuckled.  But I resisted the temptation to try to shove her over it, knowing she was very fast and strong, and my odds of success were about nil. 

I asked about putting a gate in, or cutting the fence, or... something... "Can't we just help her out?  She seems ready to come home."

Cabbage had obviously been thinking the same thing.  He ran through a few options that would allow us to create an opening in the fenceline without compromising the whole dang stretch of wire, and finally hit on an idea that made sense to him.

Sunday morning we headed to Lowes, got supplies, and he got busy sawing and drilling and clamping.  Beep and I napped, because I'm a good helper like that and on the weekends I have the sleep schedule of a toddler. 

When he was done, Cabbage had made a sturdy little braced frame just wide enough for a deer to walk through.  Once it was installed he cut the fence and bound it back to the frame.  The deer portal was ready.

Two hours later Tabor came up for her feeding and happily wandered through.  She was back on Cabbage Ranch.  She had, perhaps, been waiting for a gate all along.

We're a little slow, but we catch on eventually. 

Now we are just letting Tabor settle back in, get reacquainted with her two-year old daughter, Abby, and relax before she has her fawn(s).  We hope she'll stay and fall easily back into her old routines, but if she ever does need help getting back through the fenceline again, we now have her little doorway.  It's a fence built for Tabor.        

 Cabbage's fence brace along the back property line

The fence brace (closed with a piece of wire panel) after Tabor came home 

 Do you see our little deer in this picture?

 Beep is happy to have Tabor home, too

The End (for now)

A Whole Lot of Hay

Cabbage heard about some Timothy hay, which is the kind we both prefer to feed our horses.  It's so hard to find here in South Texas, though, that we haven't fed it since we moved here.  He went to check out his lead, bought a humongous bale, and drove home.

Once in our pasture, he was faced with unloading 1,500 pounds of hay without heavy machinery.  If it was up to me, I probably would have contemplated leaving the truck there for a few weeks until the horses ate the hay down. 

Fortunately, Cabbage is more ambitious than I, and he also possesses the uncanny ability to make anything a redneck adventure.  In his world, many problems are solved with a rope.

In this picture, the hay bale has roped the tree... or vice versa.

Goldie looked thoroughly embarrassed at this turn of events. 

But there was a method to Cabbage's madness.  The other end was looped around the front of the bale.

Then Cabbage hopped in the truck, inched it forward, crossed his fingers as the rope around the bale tightened and strained... Beep and I judiciously moved further out of the way.

Some creaking and rope-stretching later, the bale stayed put as the truck moved forward, and it flipped off the end of the bed.  Success!

Miss Nosy checked it out before the dust even settled.

Nice work, cowboy.  Coil up that rope!  And now it's even longer than it was, lucky you. 

Our hay ring helps keep big hay bales together and reduces waste, so Cabbage moved it over to the new Timothy hay.  But hay rings are made for round bales...  This quickly became a case of a square peg in a round hole.

Sooo...  It won't fit until the mares eat a little hay.  Two hundred pounds should do it.  Luckily for us, Goldie isn't scoring her dinner on presentation, and she also isn't shy.  She got started right away.

And that, my friends, is how one person unloads a 1,500 pound bale of hay.  It is also the start of how two mares eat 1,500 pounds of hay, AAAAnnnnnnd it's your tutorial on how to stretch out a rope.  This is a super informative multipurpose post.  You're welcome.

You guys have a great Monday.