And I finally experienced the original Pinkberry flavor for Nicole.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
32 years
The best present one can give a new mom is time.
I was able to spend a large portion of the weekend sharing dinner with friends and working on the quilt.
The most fun aspect of hosting a dinner is setting the table.
Those little guys are growing on a vine along my fence.
The piecing is coming along quickly now that I've finished the larger panels of stripes. I'm excited to reveal the finished piecing, but for now it'll stay crumpled. I'm having a hard time deciding whether it's unique and stunning or downright hideous, ha ha.
The best present one can give a new mom is time.
I was able to spend a large portion of the weekend sharing dinner with friends and working on the quilt.
The most fun aspect of hosting a dinner is setting the table.
Those little guys are growing on a vine along my fence.
The piecing is coming along quickly now that I've finished the larger panels of stripes. I'm excited to reveal the finished piecing, but for now it'll stay crumpled. I'm having a hard time deciding whether it's unique and stunning or downright hideous, ha ha.
Friday, September 11, 2009
my pico
My Pico is gone. She passed away a few days ago and we are heartbroken.
A few days before, she was her normal self. Then we noticed she was acting lethargic and hanging her head down when laying down. A day later, her paw was spotted with brown drool. On Labor Day, she was unable to walk, her legs slipping out from underneath her. Her child-like crying moans woke me in the middle of the night.
On Tuesday morning, I stood in the pouring rain on the stoop of the veterinary office, waiting for them to flip their sign to "open." They did blood work. I waited for the results. The vet called my name and escorted me to a room in the back of the office. He showed me her chart, which was stamped with a large pink sticker warning the reader that she "MAY BITE!," and the numbers weren't even close to what would be considered normal. She was suffering from full-on kidney failure.
He suggested we end her life to which I agreed. He brought her in the room, swaddled in a towel, placed her on the table and she couldn't even lift her head. She was already fitted with an IV, so when I gave my approval, he placed the needle in the tube and slowly injected. It felt like an eternity.
He left me alone while I continued to stroke her bunny-like soft fur, knowing it would be the last time. I played with her ears simply because I could, there was no flicker. I tried to shut her eyes closed, but they remained open.
We're having a rough time. Every minute I'm at home, I feel her absence.
There's no one meeting me at the front door when I come home.
There's no one sitting on the toilet watching me brush my teeth in the morning.
There's no one following me from room to room and there's no one sleeping between my legs at night.
After I put Avery to sleep at night, the house becomes eerily quiet. For the first time in 9 years, I feel so alone.
There is some relief. For the first time, we let the baby crawl around in the main part of the house tonight. Owning an aggressive animal is stressful enough and adding a baby to the mix only complicated the matter.
We're thankful that there was never a confrontation between the baby and the cat. And I'm glad we didn't have to find her a new home. In the end, part of me is thankful that she passed when she did, with nothing but good memories (except the time she nearly bit Dr. P's hand off, but that's a different story).
She's being cremated and we're going to bury her ashes in our backyard under our St. Francis statue on October 4, the day of the feast of St. Francis (blessing of the animals).
In a sense, her death signifies a passage of time. She was my companion before the baby and the husband. She witnessed a parade of roommates and boyfriends come and go through the various apartments we occupied together. She represented my independence and my solitude.
I'll miss you, Pico. You'll always continue to be my girl.
My Pico is gone. She passed away a few days ago and we are heartbroken.
A few days before, she was her normal self. Then we noticed she was acting lethargic and hanging her head down when laying down. A day later, her paw was spotted with brown drool. On Labor Day, she was unable to walk, her legs slipping out from underneath her. Her child-like crying moans woke me in the middle of the night.
On Tuesday morning, I stood in the pouring rain on the stoop of the veterinary office, waiting for them to flip their sign to "open." They did blood work. I waited for the results. The vet called my name and escorted me to a room in the back of the office. He showed me her chart, which was stamped with a large pink sticker warning the reader that she "MAY BITE!," and the numbers weren't even close to what would be considered normal. She was suffering from full-on kidney failure.
He suggested we end her life to which I agreed. He brought her in the room, swaddled in a towel, placed her on the table and she couldn't even lift her head. She was already fitted with an IV, so when I gave my approval, he placed the needle in the tube and slowly injected. It felt like an eternity.
He left me alone while I continued to stroke her bunny-like soft fur, knowing it would be the last time. I played with her ears simply because I could, there was no flicker. I tried to shut her eyes closed, but they remained open.
We're having a rough time. Every minute I'm at home, I feel her absence.
There's no one meeting me at the front door when I come home.
There's no one sitting on the toilet watching me brush my teeth in the morning.
There's no one following me from room to room and there's no one sleeping between my legs at night.
After I put Avery to sleep at night, the house becomes eerily quiet. For the first time in 9 years, I feel so alone.
There is some relief. For the first time, we let the baby crawl around in the main part of the house tonight. Owning an aggressive animal is stressful enough and adding a baby to the mix only complicated the matter.
We're thankful that there was never a confrontation between the baby and the cat. And I'm glad we didn't have to find her a new home. In the end, part of me is thankful that she passed when she did, with nothing but good memories (except the time she nearly bit Dr. P's hand off, but that's a different story).
She's being cremated and we're going to bury her ashes in our backyard under our St. Francis statue on October 4, the day of the feast of St. Francis (blessing of the animals).
In a sense, her death signifies a passage of time. She was my companion before the baby and the husband. She witnessed a parade of roommates and boyfriends come and go through the various apartments we occupied together. She represented my independence and my solitude.
I'll miss you, Pico. You'll always continue to be my girl.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)