The tail of two Weimeraners

In addition to Star I have another two boys that I am responsible for as a SAHM, and there are far and away bigger babies than Star.  And arguably more work. They go by the names of Dexter...

And Stanley...

...and never could two Weimeraners be more different.


Dexter was our first.  We brought him home when he was 8 weeks old in April 2005 and he is (shhhh, don't tell) the love of my life.  He was a challenging puppy, not in the house training, whining all night kind of way, no problems there.  But he was quite simply a ball of teeth wielding energy.  For those of you that haven't experienced life with a puppy I should explain that just like humans they lose their baby teeth and get big teeth. And when this is happening they like to chew...on wrists, the back of thighs, shoes...and finally we sussed it..rawhide.  Phew.  He also used to hurl himself around our sitting room, throwing himself onto each sofa before hurtling onto the next and round and round he would go.  At about a year old, around the time of the photo, he entered a new phase.  Too much energy and not enough exercise.  He was getting two 45 minute walks a day, of which at least 30 minutes of each was running free.  The problem was this was not enough and living in a new build house with a new build sized garden was not giving him enough opportunity to burn off all that adolescent energy.  So he started to eat the walls...through the pasterboard until he came to  blocks.  Not just nibbling you understand...holes up to half a meter in diameter...all over our kitchen.


Thankfully, shortly after this we moved house.  We now have a much bigger garden with fields on two sides providing plenty of dog brain stimulating smells.  And Dexter is a changed dog.  He is calm (provided there are no strangers in the house/at the door or food in smelling distance), he is very loving, he is clever, he is loyal.  He can read moods.  If I'm ever feeling down he is at my side, nuzzling his love and understanding.  Unbelievably he knew I was pregnant before I did.  One night he, seemingly inexplicably, left his bed in the corner of our bedroom to sleep on the floor next to me, and there he stayed, every night until Star was born when he returned to his bed.  He is wonderful and I love him so.  I can't imagine life without him and I am haunted by the knowledge that this day will come...


And so to Stanley.  The term Mad Dogs was invented for him.  We foolishly thought, new house..new baby, let's get another puppy, another lovely Dexter, a playmate...Doh ! In April 2007 Stanley arrived, aged 8 weeks.    From the moment he arrived home he couldn't have been more different to Dexter.  He wet his bed... for weeks, he whined through the night...for weeks.  He didn't chew though.  Well, he did but he chewed Dexter, not us or the house.  In fact he still does, at every opportunity, in a dominating/playing kind of way... in between perpetually trying to hump poor Dex.  And unlike Dex, who eats everything in sight and is now at risk of being mistaken for a coffee table, Stan doesn't like eating.  Anorexic Stan as we like to call him.  This is not entirely his fault.  He has colitis which is a 'pedigree dog problem' suffered my Weimies.  Stan is too highly bred you see.  Show champion dad, crufts champion mum...very beautiful but bad stomach and so highly strung he is a drama queen of the highest order.  Dex on the other hand had a show champion dad but a mum who could only just be classed as pure bred.


So, what have we ended up with ?  Stan makes Dex's life a misery most of the time, other than when they are chasing each other gleefully around the garden. We have to hand feed Stan a variety of food...currently on special vet food at £3 a tin !  But despite it all, Dex remains a stoical soul and takes whatever is thrown at him, and Stan... he just dances and prances from dawn till dusk, and his tail never stops wagging.  

The tail of two Weimeraners

I am not pregnant...

I can't quite believe that I am posting about this.  After laying awake thinking about it last night the only way I could get back to sleep was to think through what my blog post would say.  So I've taken that as a sign that I need to do this for my sanity and hope that it will be somehow cathartic.

To start making sense of the title I should explain that I was pregnant.  Not very, only six weeks, but I definitely was pregnant.  And then, after a visit to A&E and two nights in hospital, I wasn't.  In fact I had only been kind of pregnant for the preceding two weeks.  During my hospital stay I was scanned and a 'pregnancy sac' and 'yolk sac' was found which is what you would to expect to see at four weeks, not six.  I should have had a little bean, but I didn't.

Now I know that as a miscarriage goes, to have it happen so early is relatively non traumatic.  But I am finding it quite difficult, and this has been surprising to me as I'm normally a pretty tough, unemotional, resilient soul.  On analysis, which I am too good at, there are reasons for this that I will now endeavour to explain.

If you didn't already know I am 40 and I have one perfect son, my little Star who is 13 months old.  Star did not come to us easily.  We started trying to conceive when I was 36, immediately following our wedding (I know, old fashioned !) but when nothing was happening we had tests only to be told we were both perfectly formed in the reproductive department.  By the time I was 38, still nothing, so we started down the 'assisted conception' route.  Thankfully we were given three goes at IUI and on our last attempt...bingo!  I stressed badly until the private eight week scan showed a heartbeat, I stressed badly until we were past the twelve week high risk period, I stressed badly until the downs syndrome scan and blood test the results of which almost destroyed me (our risk was 1:160) but  I couldn't take the chance of an amnio induced miscarriage, so I stressed some more until the anomoly scan told us all was well.

Somehow I made it to the end and Star was born by elective c section which was fantastic, as was he.  I always knew however that I didn't want Star to be an only child.  As with all parents I'm sure, I have only ever wanted the very best for him.  In my book one of the very best of life's good things is to have a sibling to share your  childhood with.  Someone to play with, someone to talk to, a companion.  Someone to teach you how to get along with people...the most valuable of life's lessons.  I felt so strongly about this that it was a condition of having Star...that we would have another.  Of course, now that he's here I couldn't imagine not having him, but before he was conceived I would have preferred to remain childless than to have an only child.


So, just before Star's first birthday back to the clinic we went.  Thankfully after some tests they agreed that I was still reproductively young enough to have another three goes at IUI before moving on to IVF (which I desperately don't want to have to do - far too invasive for a holistic person like me) and bingo once again, it worked.  I was pregnant on our first attempt.  My overwhelming reaction was one of relief.  Thank goodness, a sibling for Star.  Thank goodness, no more IUI treatments,  Thanks goodness, no IVF.  Thank goodness, I'm just 40...not 41, 42, 43, 44...  And as, despite my stressing, my pregnancy with Star had passed, pretty much, without event and he was such a prefect outcome, I relaxed.  I didn't worry.  My body had done all this before and coped, dare I say even did a good job.  So this time I would enjoy my pregnancy and not worry...


I did just this...until I was six weeks.  I did it so well that I met the fate of my pregnancy with disbelief and shock.  I couldn't believe it.  Things like this don't happen to me.  I'm healthy.  I don't drink alcohol...ever.  I don't smoke.  I don't drink coffee.  I eat organic food.  I take supplements....I'm too old.  It's not going to work for us this time.  Poor Star.  I've let him down.  I've failed him.  I've failed him.  I've failed him...


My eyes are welling up just writing this but I can't seem to get it out of my head.  I know it will take time but I haven't got time.  We'll be back to the clinic in January to start it all again, and I must be in a calm, confident, positive frame of mind but I'm finding it so hard....

I am not pregnant...

My favourite things about Star

As I seem to be frequently posting about how much I don't enjoy motherhood I thought maybe I should do a post about some of the things I like about my precious little angel (he is 13 months old by the way)  Just in case you were thinking it's him I don't like...

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I love the way that he opens his mouth REALLY wide when he's smiling about something.  No toothy grin for my boy...fly catching gob.


I love the fact that he has so many teeth that I have lost count (12 at 12 mths and more since) and we have had not one sleepless night and not one grouchy day.


I love the fact that he has never (yet) had a clingy stage.  Despite spending the vast majority of his time at home, alone with me, he is in no way shy.  Men, women, old, young he greets everyone with his wide open gob and outstretched arms.


I love the way he uses his pincer grip.  Put some peas and sweetcorn on his plate and he will masterfully pincer each individual piece and pop into his mouth, using alternate hands.  Unless it's chocolate covered raisins (my one concession to his healthy eating regime, and then only if they're organic), when it's left pincer only.


I love the fact that my boy looks as though he will be left handed.  I prefer slightly unusual in all things.


I love his fascination with eye lashes.  His own or anyone else's that he's close enough to touch.  He very gently puts his index finger on the end of the lashes and then blinks.  He also likes to blink his lashes against my cheek when we're cuddling.


I love the way he sucks his thumb, with his index and middle finger hooked over his nose, whenever he is tired, hungry or cuddling with mummy.


I love the fact that he likes grown up things.  From 9 months he has eaten grown up food (Thai curry, chilli con carne, spag bol, moules...) and insisted on only drinking from a glass (other than bedtime bottle)


I love the way whenever you go towards him with a tissue/wipe for his nose/mouth he opens his mouth slightly and makes a continuous noise so that you can pat over his open mouth to achieve a 'cowboys and indians' style sound effect.


I love his attempt at kissing.  He will lean in, mouth open and when you pucker up he closes his mouth over yours.  If you're lucky he doesn't use his teeth.


I love the fact that when he has his bedtime bottle, he stops after 3 or 4 ozs, not for wind, but to play pat-a-cake and have a cuddle for 5 mins before returning to finish the last 2 or 3 ozs.  (I know it's not a big bottle but he has never liked milk much - unfortunate for a baby I thought)


I love the fact that, other than kissing and cuddling, he's a real 'boys boy' as my health visitor once put it.  He likes climbing, ranting and rough and tumble and doesn't seem to feel pain.


I love the fact that he is happy in his own company.  When he wakes in the morning, after his morning nap and after his afternoon nap he will quite happily play in his cot for, well, I don't know how long as I've never left him longer than 45mins but he is still happily playing with and chatting to his soft toys.


I love...my little Star immeasurably x

My favourite things about Star

Giving away my old life...

This is my first writing workshop post so I'm not sure how it will turn out or if I'm doing it right but I'll give it my best shot...


A few weeks ago I truly understood the term life laundry for the first time, and in particular the emotional baggage that goes with it.  This is quite a convoluted story so please hang in there while I start at the beginning...


When I met 'The Daddy' seven years ago I was very happily in a successful corporate career.  I had achieved....the power suits, the perfectly manicured nails, the company car and all the benefits that go with it, the big office complete with fridge, the PA..and I was respected throughout the company as someone that would get the job done without upsetting people, something I was very proud of.  I also had a house,  full of 'my stuff'.


Over the next two years things started to change, and ultimately go very wrong.  I took on a different role at work, I moved from Devon to Berkshire, I moved house, I gave up smoking...I was signed off with stress/depression for 9 months.   At this point I moved in with 'The Daddy' and started to rebuild my life.  Suddenly everything I had achieved seemed hollow and meaningless so I took voluntary redundancy, let out my house, put 'my stuff' in storage and retrained as a holistic therapist.  Everything was good again and I felt that I had found the 'true me'.


About a year ago we decided that as the economy was looking dodgy we would sell my house, and the contents would remain in storage until we had more time to sort it out (Star's due date was rapidly approaching)


Fast forward to today and I am a SAHM and not feeling fulfilled, feeling that I have lost the 'true me'. So. when we had 'my stuff' delivered from storage we had to decide what to do with it.  Now we have a house full of our things and no room or need for another two king size beds, a wardrobe, a dressing table... and five boxes of kitchen equipment, books and general rubbish.  So, what should we do with it?


Unfortunately this was a rare occasion when 'The Daddy' and I had 'a heated exchange of views'.  The Daddy being in 'fix it' mode decided that we should take most of it to the tip and the bigger pieces of furniture we could sell.  Well. I flipped.  I don't do it very often. At all.  But I flipped.  This was the last remains of a time in my life when I felt fulfilled, proud of my achievements, successful...none of which I feel now.  The thought of taking it to the dump and/or selling it for next to nothing filled me with horror and left me feeling bereft.  How could I get rid of all that it represented, even if I didn't actually want any of it ?  Worst of all how could I sell it and get peanuts for things that are priceless in terms of what they represent for me?  It would feel as though the buyers were telling me that the best that I had ever been was worth only pennies.


The outcome was difficult to get to but after a few weeks to calm myself I decided that I should give it away.  If I gave it to a charity I felt that they would be grateful for it, and value it, and it would do some good...and my old life would move on in the world with it's head held high.  So that is what we did.  The Daddy sorted it all out ( as he always does) checking with me at every step to make sure I was happy and a very nice man from The British Heart Foundation came and took it away.


He was grateful, they did value it, and it will be doing good.  And I am happy with that.




This post was written for Sleep is for the weak's Wednesday Writing Workshop, prompt number 4, 'Tell me about something precious you gave away'

Giving away my old life...