Shred day 2

Knees were making really nasty, painful noises yesterday. Took some ibupro and wimped out.

So, here we are at day two. I'm still not fond of pushups, but they seem to be less hateful today.

Shred day... um... aw hell.

Well. I got 3 days in, then we took off to Scout camp for the weekend.

So, here I am at Day One again.

And I still hate pushups.

Day 3 and 4

I HATE pushups.

Shred Day 2

My daughters are watching me sweat it out in the living room. Youngest is running/dancing around. Oldest is taking video and doing colour commentary. I shall watch it later, laugh, and quickly delete it...

The things one does...

I'll be forty. In 2 days.

Since I no longer have any valid excuses to be packing all this junk in my trunk (my youngest is nearly 4!!) it's time I do something to change my shape.

I've started the shred.

This morning when I stepped on the scale I was a juicy 173 lb. Yikes.

Stay tuned...

Un-birthdays

I've heard of people celebrating half birthdays and un-birthdays, but never "other" birthdays. In my family we have one of those.

Every year on the first of May, I remember the day when my sisters and I "got our new baby brother".

Tomorrow is that day. May first. The start of a new chapter for my family and our newest member. I still recall saving every bit of spare change and pooling it with my two sisters to buy a stuffed dog for our new brother. Last time I checked, he still had it.

He's 30 now, and recently has made some really bad decisions about the people he associates with and the way he entertains himself.

After falling off the wagon again, he's looking to my parents for refuge. They're not sure they can handle having him back in their home.

It's not a matter of loving him; they most certainly still do.

All they want is for him to admit that he's an addict and to get some help.

Here's hoping that tomorrow, on his "other" birthday, my baby brother will get yet another chance to start over with the rest of my family.

Here's hoping that he will give himself and the rest of us another reason to celebrate May first.

Keelhauled

My "first born" is not human.

Years before I had children, I had Squeaky. He came to us, air cargo, from Vancouver Island. My first encounter with him was peering through the mesh on the side of a plywood crate marked "live baby bird". He made an odd little sound, like the one that comes out of a squeaky toy when you squeeze it. At that point, he'd christened himself.

The first time he mimicked the word "hello", I thought I'd imagined it. And then he did it again... and pretty soon he was saying "Hello Squeaky" on a regular basis. When he'd hear my husband's truck pull up outside, he'd yell "HELLO SQUEAKY!!" at the top of his little avian lungs.

My Canadian friends of a certain age may remember a children's show called The Friendly Giant. At the beginning of the show, Friendly would whistle for his friend Gerome the Giraffe. Gradually, I taught Squeaky to whistle that call. He soon picked up a wolf whistle as well. It's really amusing when he sits on top of the shower door as I shampoo my hair in the morning, and whistles like a construction worker.

I've even taught him a trick. I know, crazy bird lady, right? Well, maybe. But if you've ever seen him perform you will agree - it's quite amusing. Squeaky will let me place him on his back in the palm of my hand. This alone is a true show of trust, as being belly up is a position birds usually only take when they have given up against a predator. But wait... there's more!! On command, he will drop his head back - "play dead". It makes me giggle every time he does it.

Sometime earlier this afternoon, Squeaky decided he'd had enough of his perch on top of the kitchen cabinets and flew down to the floor. As he has clipped flight feathers, his landing was less than perfect. His sternum hit the floor with a thud, and the skin on his stomach split. The vet's term for this was "splitting his keel".

My husband took him to the vet for what I imagined would be an application of surgical glue and a quick trip home. Not so. It seems the cut on his belly was worse than I thought. Stitches were required. Husband returned home without bird.

Shortly after husband returned sans bird, the vet called. She wanted to tell me that since Squeaky would have to be anesthetized for the stitching, I should know the risks involved. Small animals, such as birds, sometimes do not "handle being under very well". I was silent for a moment and then asked her, "So, you're saying, sometimes they don't wake up." She confirmed my suspicion. I handed the phone to my husband and tried to absorb what I had just been told.

That damn bird, whom I have cursed repeatedly for screeching for no apparent reason, crapping on nearly everything I own, and nearly re-piercing my left earlobe, was suddenly in peril of never waking up. He's been part of our family for over 10 years. I fell apart. Suddenly, the "dead bird" gag didn't seem so funny. As much as I complain about cleaning his cage or whine about listening to the cacophony of his screaming serenades, the thought of losing him turned me into a blubbering child.

My husband is on his way to the vet as I write this - he will bring home a small plastic carrier with my "live baby bird" inside. And I'll be damned if I let him perch on top of those kitchen cabinets again.