Alpha Dog Omega Cat

A pack lives in my house right now. Not just a small gathering of furry creatures. A pack. Children come and go but their pets stay forever.

My fault, I know it. No excuses from me. And these gypsy children of mine do claim (most) of their pets when their living situations permit. Otherwise, it's granny-day-care for them. Even my sister-in-law, moving across country into military housing, has taken advantage of the service- I now have a Shih-Tzu.

When my children were much younger we always had a dog. Then two. Then a manic episode from my husband... and we had three, four and almost five. But I realized recently that none of them then, and none of them now, are dogs of my own choosing.

Then the children were grown and my ex-and I became, well, ex's. I took the Huskie that no one wanted. Her name was Tasha. She had always been the family dog but when she and I started a new life together, we fell in love. We moved to the beach and walked at the ocean's edge twice a day. She nudged her doggie bed against mine so she could sleep as close to me as she could get without having to haul her arthritic bones up onto the bed. She became deaf and we developed our own sign language. We were sympatico.

I look at the pack gathered around me right now: Boykin Spaniel (hubbie's), Kai (belongs to my son in Costa Rica), Shih Tzu (sister in law's left overs), Gordon Setter (manic rescue belonging to my daughter), Mini Schnauzer (daughter's rescue) and Tortoise-shell cat (again, daughter...). And Fred, the shrimp, living in a biosphere on my kitchen table, but he was a birthday present from my pet-loving daughter.

I still don't have a dog that's mine.

I take care of them. I feed them and cut their matted hair. I give them treats and take them to the vet for shots. I buy them doggie beds and doggie Christmas stockings. But I don't feel they are mine.

Soon my children will be really and truly on their own and will come to re-claim their pets. The Boykin is nearing 12 years old- aged for a Boykin Spaniel and I shudder to think what will happen if my husband has to take him to that last vet's appointment.

When all the pets are gone, will I feel the urge to get a dog of my own? Have I become super-saturated with pets and rejoice when every fur-shedding, doggie-smelling, expensive 4 legged creature disappears?

Or will I fall in love with Cali, the Tibetan goddess of destruction, also known as my sister-in-law's Shih Tzu?

Contentment or Exhaustion?

Today I barely made it home from work. I can't believe how tired I am. I had a series of meetings today that left me emotionally and psychologically exhausted.

And I haven't exercised in weeks. Who am I kidding? Months.

My good friend Celeste just picked up and moved to Florida. We talked a few days ago and she remarked how she hadn't been homesick even one day. "And then," she said, "I realized why. It's because I AM home."

I envy her spunk. I envy her ability to choose, closer to 60 than am I, to start a new chapter. Will I ever get that energy again? That drive to start something unfamiliar? The motivation and the energy to begin again?

Naturally, I lament all this to my husband. Why am I not career-driven any more? I don't want to go back to school. I can barely make it to my knitting group each week. I have no desire to start new projects.

Is he right? Is it because, for the first time in years- perhaps the first time in my life- I'm content?

And if it's contentment.... can acceptance be far behind?

My Mother's hands

Today I was surprised to find that, somewhere between the front door, and the connector bridge to downtown Charleston, my mother's hands found their way to the ends of my arms.

The sun was streaming through the windshield and there they were. Wrinkled a little. Elasticity gone. Skin thin and..... were those a few little spots of discoloration?

Since Mama died a few years ago, I can't say that seeing them there, stuck where my own hands used to be, was an unwelcomed find. I don't have alot to remember her by. She lived according to her philosophy: "Don't love something that can't love you back."

That meant THINGS. She died owning a few inexpensive pieces of jewelry. An incredibly old television (are those RABBIT EARS???). And whatever clothes would fit into her suitcase. And since she took turns visiting us all- for two years at a time- she didn't need alot of things.

She had us.
and we had her.
and now I have her hands.

Thanks!

Thanks to friends and fb'ers who read my first blog.... I hope it spoke to you a little and thanks for your positive comments.

More to come from my slightly askew view of the world.

You say Crone as if it's a bad thing...

I remember the first time someone called me a "bitch". I proudly countered with the snappy retort, "You say BITCH as if it's a bad thing!". OK... I didn't just counter..... I screamed... but proudly.

I'm way past the age where calling me a "bitch" might offend me. But call me a "crone"? Is that a fighting word now? What exactly IS a crone?

True to our generation we have exhaustively researched the subject of menopause. We know it's symptoms, the physical effects, the psychological repercussions and the meaning of the word "menopause".

But aren't we all our worst enemies? I summon up all those negative connotations when I think of a witch, a crone. And we know all about crones, thank you, Wikipedia. A witch. Green-tinted. A wart here and there. Not married, of course. On her own. Independent. Assertive. Getting what she wants. Not too burdened by wondering what others are thinking about her. Way past child-bearing age. Does this sound like anyone we know? Well, except for the green thing. And... warts.....

Don't we all want independence? To keep it. To foster it, even? And getting our own way. During menopause we tend to lose the oxytocin hormone. The 'caregiving' hormone which is linked to women and childbirth. Loss of the hormone which might encourage us to overlook our own needs to focus on our families. It's no surprise, then, that women in their 50's initiate divorce more often than do men in their 50's.

To many, they've had enough. No more caregiving left in them. In fact, if we become grandmothers, then we brag about giving the children back to their parents after we spoil them a little. Not too interested in that 24/7 childrearing thing.

And worried about what others think? Who wrote that poem, "When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple?" She had it right. If I want to wear purple and red, then who's to criticize? Or if they do... do I care?

We only need to look a little closer at the definitions of "crone" to uncover a slightly different interpretation. A wise woman. Someone past child-bearing age. One of the Three Goddesses in the Gaia religion. Now I like that. That speaks to me. Mother Nature.

Assertive. Strong. Independent and confident. Describes every one of my women friends. I want to think that likes attract. And even if they don't, I can definitely strive to be more like the women, fictional and real, that I admire.

Either way you dish it up (except for the green thing.... and the warts...) I don't think I'll be too offended by being called, even in my own mind, Crone. In fact, I think I might even re-read Wicked. Thank you, Gregory Maguire.