If my body had done what it was supposed to five years ago, I would be throwing a quarantine birthday party for my five year-old son or daughter right now.
Having children has never ever been a part of my life plan. Being a mother is not something I have ever craved. It has been something I’ve avoided like the plague. When I am sexually active, I obsessively avoid getting pregnant by using birth control and condoms. I’ve even gotten Plan B when condoms break because NOPE. I have enough money set aside to take care of problems if need be. I’m that kind of person.
I was that kind of person when I found out I was thirteen weeks pregnant in early fall of 2014. Miracles happen, I guess. It was too late to do anything about being pregnant. I was pregnant. I was going to be a mom. I was very much alone in my soon-to-be-parenting party. It hit me like a truck. I started planning and dreaming and getting excited because that was the only option, so I embraced it. Then, I had a miscarriage. I was mostly devastated. Relief came several weeks later as the tears slowed and the dreams faded.
As the years go by, the feelings are less poignant; the hurt is less sharp; the dreams are hazier. I still get sad. Sometimes, I even cry when I watch kids movies. Every once in a while, I think about what my life would look like had my body not failed at one of its main biologically female tasks. As ready as I was financially, in my career, and at that point in my life, I had never planned on being a mom. Five years later, my feelings have not changed: I’m sad and relieved. Those feelings can go together. You can be sorrowfully content with a miscarriage. You don’t have to have just one feeling. You are allowed to feel all the feelings whatever they are, no matter how at odds they may be with one another. It does not make you less of a woman. It does not make you less of a mother. It does not make you less of anything. It makes you a complex human, who is coping with a really difficult physical, mental, and medical situation.
Miscarriages are rarely talked about. That is starting to change as women speak about women’s issues more and more openly. Thank you to all the women on social media who are deciding to be vulnerable and honest about the crap we go through. When miscarriages are talked about, it’s usually about how overwhelmingly sad and painful they are. They are. I’m not going to lie to you about that. It’s true. It sucks. It’s sad. It’s the worst. There can also be some real positives coming out of miscarriages. They’re not apparent at first, but over the months and years as your mind and body heal, things start to look and feel better.
The majority of miscarriages happen because, for whatever reason, the body knows the baby shouldn’t come into the world for one biological reason or another. You can do everything right starting months before conception and still have a miscarriage. (Granted that was not me. Accident baby. Although, I didn’t really do much wrong.) Miscarriages happen. They happen for almost always good reasons. All babies are perfect, but not all babies are meant for this world.
Positives of miscarriages differ from person to person. One thing I can say for everyone, the life we have in this moment is not at all the life we would have had had that baby come into the world. For some of us, that’s a bad thing. For some of us, that’s a good thing. For some of us, it’s just a thing. I have an incredible life. I wouldn’t change it for the world. I would, under no circumstance, have this life with a five year old.
I would not…
have the boyfriend I have now.
had the freedom to quit my corporate job, the stable paycheck, the benefits.
be a freelance writer and blogger.
be able to sit on the couch and do nothing for hours on end.
live in Houston.
travel as much or the way I do.
have Beau in my life.
have been able to pick Tess up off the side of the road.
have the time, energy, or money to take care of thirteen puppies.
have found or reconnected with my truest passions in life.
be chasing my wild, crazy, unrealistic dreams.
have the friends I do.
walk around pantless all the time.
read as much as I do.
stay up late doing whatever the fuck I want to whenever the fuck I want to.
have the body I do.
have a savings account with money in it specifically for travel (which happens often) and/or buying things I decide I need right now (which never happens, but it’s nice to know it’s there).
be me the way I am right now.
I have no idea what my life would look like had Paeton Rae been born. I know I would have a corporate job with good benefits and a salary high enough to pay for everything she/he/their needs and wants and for us to go on a family vacation once a year. I know there would be a bedtime, healthy snacks, play dates, trips to the park, time outs, library trips, tantrums, snuggles, bedtime reading, dance parties, messes, and a lot of other things my life does not have right now. I would have loved that life for what it was, but that was never my dream. I never had to make the decision to not be pregnant, to not be a mom; my body did that for me. I was sad. I am sad. I miss the life I could have had and holding the baby I never got to hold.
But.
I love my life. I see the blessing the sadness of my miscarriage was. I see all the opportunities and possibilities my life still has in store for me that would not have been possible as a single mom to a five year old.
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
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Welcome to the family Tess, Siren, March, Knight, Hardy, Duke, Nosky, Hera, Boudica, Makeda, Lily-May, Athena, Oryol, and Bear.
No this is not an April Fool’s prank. This is real life. Sorry I’ve been keeping it from you, but we wanted to find some equilibrium before announcing it to the world. Here is a cliff notes version of a much longer story.
Exactly five weeks ago, I was driving to an event in Houston on a frontage road during rush hour when I saw a small and seemingly very pregnant dog on the side of the road. Nothing pulls on my heartstrings more than a homeless dog. I was driving too fast to stop. I quickly flipped around and stopped traffic in high heels and a skirt to make sure she made it across the road to safety. I knelt in a fallow field as people sped home to their families, holding out my hand, wishing I had dog treats in my car, crossing my fingers my car didn’t get hit all while looking at a very skittish dog, hoping she wouldn’t run away. It took thirty seconds before she picked up a mutilated bird wing and dropped it at my feet. My heart broke as I touched her head for the first time. A minute later, I took a calculated risk by picking her up. Instead of biting me or struggling to get free, her body relaxed into mine as I carried her across the field to place her in the back seat of my car. She immediately curled up and let out the biggest sigh.
Once I was back on the highway, I called Dylan. “Hi, honey. I have a dog in the car.” “I didn’t know you took Beau with you.” I paused, “It’s a different dog, and she’s pregnant.” He paused for even longer, “Oh. Well. Okay. I’ll be home soon, and we’ll talk.” Then I called my bestie, Kelsey, and asked, “What the fuck did I just do.”
Before I brought this new and unknown dog into the house, I put Beau in her box to make sure both would be safe and quarantined. It took ten minutes to bring the new dog through the front door. She was scared and didn’t know what a doorway was. I didn’t want to push her or make her feel uncomfortable, so I sat down, petting her head until she walked far enough in so I could shut the door. I laid a blanket down for her with a bowl of water and food. She drank two full bowls of water and nibbled on the dog food before she laid down and closed her eyes. Her belly was huge. Her nipples were about to burst. I could see the movement of tiny puppies in her stomach. My family had a litter of puppies when I was fourteen, so I knew the signs and what to look for. We had maybe a week before the puppies would arrive.
Dylan walked through the door and made eye contact with the cutest stray you ever did see. I saw his heart melt. We talked for a long time about keeping her or contacting a rescue. Taking on a stray is a big commitment. Taking on a pregnant stray is a HUGE commitment. I knew she would be ours in the field, but I didn’t want to push Dylan into that decision if he wasn’t comfortable with it.
That night we [I] gave her the name Tess. We decided to lengthen it to Tessa because Dylan likes that a little better. Her name comes from the titular character in Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. The plot mimics Tessa’s own story, in a way, but with a happier ending. We gave her a bath, fed her, and loved on her.
A call to the vet happened immediately the next morning. We kept hoping she would be microchipped by a home with someone desperately searching for her. No such luck. Dylan and I knew at that moment, we had a second dog. We spent three hours at the vet running a full panel of tests, x-rays, blood work, ultrasounds, and more to make sure Tess and the babies were healthy as can be and, at least, not contagious before we brought her home to Beau. After a once over, we found out Tess is maybe a year old. The vet came in with the results from all the tests, and it wasn’t all great news. Honestly, it was mostly bad news. Tess had hookworms and tapeworms. We put her on pregnancy safe dewormers to take care of that problem. As expected in a street dog, she has heartworms. We won’t be able to treat that until she has weaned the babies, but she is on heartworm prevention to keep it from getting worse. That will be a process to take care over the next year. Then, the vet told us we were expecting THIRTEEN puppies. Tess isn’t very big. She weighed 52 pounds pregnant. I didn’t think she could fit more than eight babies in her tummy. The vet pulled out the x-ray saying, “Here is where the pellet is.” My brain didn’t register it at first. My dog. My pregnant dog had been shot in the spine. I don’t understand. I can’t understand it. It makes me want to cry thinking about it. I was trying to register and process that this small, young, helpless dog was full of fleas, worms, heartworms, a pellet, and thirteen babies. Other than that, she was healthy, and sweet. The vet prepared us to only have nine puppies survive because of the amount of puppies in the litter and the fact she had been living on the street for probably ever. Oh, and the puppies could arrive any time between now and a week. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Tess looked at me with the most soulful eyes and the biggest, pointy ears, and I knew we would do everything in our power to make her happy and healthy.
After paying a small fortune at the vet, we took her home and made her comfortable. Then we headed to Petsmart where we spent another small fortune to get puppy formula, crate, blankets, collar, leash, dog food, dog bowls, puppy pads, bottles, flea collars, flea baths, flea bombs, puppy shampoo, and more. We bought a kiddy pool for Tess to whelp in, syringes, thermometers, and more at Target. Then we hopped on Amazon to order towels, blankets, bleach, sheets, and more. Normally, people have two months to prepare and spread out the cost of puppies before they arrive. Not only did we not have days, we also had to get everything for our new dog. Those first eighteen hours were very, VERY expensive .
What made this whole thing harder was the fact I had to leave town two days later. Dylan had never whelped puppies. I had, but I had agreed to watch my cousin in New Orleans a year prior to this. I couldn’t back out. Dylan had to work that weekend, and he was stressed out of his mind trying to be a prepared doggy daddy. We tried to board Tess at a 24 hour vet office to make sure she was taken care of while Dylan was at work. That ended up being a complete nightmare, I will talk about that more in another blog post. Instead, we bought cameras to watch Tess in the puppy room and relied on my best friend, Amanda, to come over and lend a hand. I headed to New Orleans, hoping Tess would wait a week to have the puppies. In the meantime, I watched the cameras like a crazy person.
Makeda and Me
Five days after I brought Tess home, she went into labor. Fourteen hours later, Siren, the first puppy, arrived at 3:45 in the afternoon. It took seventeen hours for all thirteen puppies to arrive. My best friend, Amanda, came and helped. I was on Skype, as Overwatch, the entire time, letting them know when a puppy was coming and what to do when they needed help. We almost lost Tess between puppy ten and eleven, but she made it through. The three of us were up all night; it was exhausting and stressful. Dylan and Amanda were absolute champs. With every squeaking puppy, we let out excited cries. All thirteen puppies survived.
At two weeks old, we had a huge scare. Oryol, Athena, and Knight’s necks started to harden and swell very quickly. The swelling started at their necks and worked towards their faces, closing their eyes. It looked bad, but what was even worse was the swelling was cutting off their air supply making them wheeze and cough for air. We loaded Tess and all thirteen puppies into the car with blankets and pillows to head to the Blue Pearl Vet in Spring, a 24 hour animal ER, at 8:45 at night. We were prepared to stay as long as we had to with credit cards in hand willing to pay whatever price we needed to. All the puppies came with because the swelling came on so suddenly, I couldn’t bear to leave the puppies at home and risk another one getting sick. The Coronavirus hysteria had started, so we weren’t able to go inside with our three sick puppies. The vet was baffled by the case. They went on a regimen of steroids and broad spectrum antibiotics to take care of anything it could be because it would be days before pathology could confirm if it was viral, bacterial, or autoimmune. We were hoping it was an autoimmune disease; the other options meant a possibility of losing the entire litter and even Tess. After pathology and all sorts of other small fortunes were spent, we found out it was a wildly atypical case of the rare autoimmune disease: Puppy Strangles. It doesn’t occur in puppies younger than three weeks, which is why it was such a rare case. The fact three puppies had it at the same time in the space of an hour made it even more uncommon. Normally, it is not lethal, but because they were so small, had we waited much longer they would have strangled to death. They’re still on steroids, but they’re doing great and should be off them in a week!
Coronavirus sucks. Honestly, it couldn’t have come at a better time for me, though. I was supposed to go on a three week trip to Europe, which was cancelled because of the pandemic. Also because of the pandemic, work has been very slow, and Dylan and I are stuck at home with the puppies all day. It’s an amazing way to spend our quarantine, and I’m not in Europe missing out on this preciously short time.
Dillies and Bear
Tess is the sweetest dog you ever did meet. Beau and her love each other. They are becoming the best of friends, taking on the other’s habits and falling asleep snuggling. Tess is becoming exhausted and drained from all the nursing, but she is doing an amazing job. Thirteen teething puppies with only eight functional nipples does not make for a happy mama. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, but we’re loving her fiercely through it all. Beau is obsessed with the puppies. Whenever they squeak, Beau runs in to check on them. Tess sees Beau taking care of things and lays back down. They’re coparenting, and it makes my heart so happy. Beau is torn between being enamored and terrified of the puppies. She wants to play with them so badly, and they’re now old enough they have started to play back.
My thirteen poop factories keep me busy doing laundry. And I mean a LOT of laundry. I’m a laundry goddess. They are the cutest things in the whole world, which makes it all worthwhile.
Last week, at three weeks old, my bestie, Jenn, took family pictures. We wanted to capture all thirteen babies, Tess, Beau, Dylan, and I before they’re zooming all over the place in complete and utter chaos. They turned out so cute. I will treasure them forever.
They’re officially one month old today. It’s an amazing age. They are walking and talking and playing. They mimic Beau’s boxerish play tactics. A herd of puppies run to me whenever I get near. I spend all day cuddling them when I’m not cleaning up. They are perfect and delightful and too good for this world.
The only reason I knew I could bring a heavily pregnant dog home off the side of the street was because Dylan would have done the exact same thing. When we started dating, he knew this was the kind of person I am, and he signed on anyways. He had been pushing to get a second dog for the last two years. I have been very resistant to it because dogs are a lot of work and a lot of money. I love them to death, but it is hard to travel with one dog let alone two. The Monday before Tess came home, I had told Dylan we were absolutely NOT bringing a second dog into the house. By Wednesday we had two. A week and a half later, we had fifteen dogs. I guess I was wrong. I couldn’t be happier about our circus.
She couldn’t wait any longer!!!Refusing to look at me until I gave her treats.There was some impatience while I took her picture. She was getting treats, but having them in front of her was too much.Give me.
Beau will go down in history as the best Valentine’s present ever. Three years ago today, she came home with me. We have been through so much in the past three years, but I wouldn’t change a day of it. I love her with my whole entire heart. She is my world. If you know me or met me, you already know this. She is at the heart of my life and my happiness. I don’t know what I would do without her.
For as obsessed as I am with Beau, it’s a surprise I have never made her homemade dog treats. I did this year!!! She LOVES them. They’re completely safe for puppers and humans. Dylan tried the dough and the biscuits. He says they taste like peanut butter and pumpkin, which makes sense. Even if you’re not celebrting adoption day with your dog, the puppers in our lives deserve some Valentine’s love too. Honestly, they probably deserve it more than the humans in our lives. I love the humans, but I love the dogs more. Beau is perfect, so I made her some homemade dog treats and cut them into hearts because she cares so much… I don’t usually do hearts, but it’s Valentine’s season!!!
Some heart shaped dog treats!!!
Dog Treats Recipe
Ingredients
1 cup Peanut Butter – safe for doggos 1 cup Pumpkin Purée ⅓ cup Vegetable Oil 2 Eggs 2 ½ cups Whole Wheat Flour 1 teaspoon Baking Soda
Directions
Preheat oven to 350°
Mix peanut butter, pumpkin, oil, and eggs until well mixed.
Add in dry ingredients. It will be a stiff dough but very oily.
Roll out on a floured mat. For little dogs roll it thinner. For bigger dogs, roll it thicker!
Cut out into whatever shape you want!
Place on cookie sheet. For a smaller biscuit, bake for 12 minutes. I baked mine for 15 minutes. For a hard biscuit make until there is no give when touched.
Let cool.
Then generously hand out to the dog in your life!!!
Worth A Read Yes Length 320 Quick Review “Not Racist” is inherently racist. We’re all racist, but some of us are actively fighting against racism in the world and within ourselves, and that’s called antiracism.
I didn’t know who Ibram X. Kendi was until this book. Now I’m a fan. I would love to go to coffee with him and discuss racism, history, and the meaning of life. He seems like the kind of guy who will point out how you’re being an asshole and let you grow from it because he spends How to Be an Antiracist pointing out the times he was a racist and grew from it. These are my favorite people; the people who acknowledge their growth by admitting the reality of their pasts. If only all of history could do the same, the world would be in a much better place. Books like this one are a step in that direction. It calls attention to history at large and personal to demonstrate and juxtapose how the two intertwine and affect each other. History is an amalgam of individual’s choices for good or bad, and all of those choices converge to create society, thought, and policy, which in turn influence individual choice for good or bad.
Kendi doesn’t state anything revolutionary. If you’re tuned into policy, psychology, history, anthropology, sexuality, philology, African/African-American studies, sociology, gender studies, feminism, ethnic studies, etc., you’ll be aware of most of the topics and ideas in How to Be an Antiracist. The difference is in the wording. Kendi writes clearly and effectively, saying what he means even, especially, when it makes people uncomfortable. I had to stop taking notes and writing down quotes because there were so many poignant moments of blatant honesty. He names things as they are instead of finding a polite way of identifying racism, “Only racists shy away from the R-word – racism is steeped in denial.” As a writer, linguist, and reader, I’m a words person. I like them to be exact, and Kendi is the same. I love that Kendi does not like the word “microaggression” because of its inexactness. As an advocate, I have always used the exact words to describe things because anything else gives room for people to make excuses and shirk personal responsibility. Kendi calls racism racism, especially when it makes people uncomfortable. I’ve always believed people are uncomfortable because they can see themselves in it.
How to Be an Antiracist is told through personal anecdotes, world history, policy, and culture. Kendi points out what’s wrong with society, policy, and everything by pointing out the ways he has had to face and overcome his own racism while breaking stereotypes, destroying myths, and shedding light on the truth.
The book is pretty much summed up in the quote, “We know how to be racist. We know how to pretend to be not racist. Now let’s know how to be antiracist.” For more clarification on the term antiracist and the title, this quote speaks for itself,
“The opposite of “racist” isn’t “not racist.” It is “antiracist.” What’s the difference? One endorses either the of racial hierarchy as a racist, or racial equality as an antiracist. One either believes problems are rooted in groups of people, as a racist, or locates the roots of problems in power and policies, as an antiracist. One either allows racial inequities to persevere, as a racist, or confronts racial inequities, as an antiracist. There is no inbetween safe space of “not racist.” The claim of “not racist” neutrality is a mask for racism.”
How to Be an Antiracist is intellectually stimulating and emotionally draining. Racism is rampant, systemic, cyclical, institutional, and ingrained in culture, history, religion, and policy. So many lines felt like a punch to the chest. I will never have to live in a world where my skin is viewed as a crime and a threat. I will never be able to comprehend that kind of pain, but Kendi’s words cut, making me ache to hug the pain away for every person who has been wronged, forgotten, abused, and left behind. I was also left to question, ‘What would I have done in that White person’s shoes. Would I make those same racist choices? Or would I have been better, done better?’
Not only is Kendi a brilliant writer and scholar, he is a role model. Everyone has internal biases, which is a nice way of saying: we’re all racists. It’s hard to confront the ugly parts of ourselves, but society can’t move forward until we do so. Kendi is setting an example and a new standard for the way allies, advocates, and activists create change. He does so from the very first page in his introduction where he calls himself out for his racist ideas and misconceptions about the community he belongs to.
People often think books about racism or Black culture are antiwhite, but that, in and of itself, is a racist idea. As How to Be an Antiracist states, “The only thing wrong with White people is when they embrace racist ideas and policies and then deny their ideas and policies are racist.” Calling attention to racism is just that: calling attention to racism. It doesn’t matter your background, ethnicity, education, intelligence, skin color, we are all capable of being racist, but we are all capable of combating that and being antiracist.
Memorable Quotes “Internalized racism is the real Black on Black crime.” “Racism itself is institutional, structural, and systemic.” “The Black child is ill-treated like an adult, and the Black adult is ill-treated like a child.” “Racist ideas make people of color think less of themselves, which makes them more vulnerable to racist ideas. Racist ideas make White people think more of themselves, which further attracts them to racist ideas.” “The use of standardized tests to measure aptitude and intelligence is one of the most effective racist policies ever devised to degrade Black minds and legally exclude Black bodies.” “Racist ideas love believers, not thinkers.”
Beau has been dealing with storm induced anxiety. And yes my Christmas tree is still up. Don’t judge me. | Pajamas | Blanket | Chair | Ottoman |
We’re no strangers to anxiety in my house. We deal with it all the time. The past week has been a long one because of all the storms that have been passing through the area.
Houston can have some pretty epic storms. Hurricanes aside. The past few years, January and February have been particularly gloomy and rainy. This past week has been filled with storms, which is particularly stressful for Beau. I was having a gloomy, emotional week completely unrelated to the weather, so I wasn’t too upset that we stayed in and cuddled. I’ve rather enjoyed listening to the rain outside my window as I work or rest or read.
Beau is fine with the rain as long as she doesn’t have to go outside in it and it’s not accompanied by thunder and lightning. Unfortunately, not going potty isn’t an option, and there has been quite a bit of thunder and lightning. So the week has not been ideal.
Mostly, Beau just wants to curl up and cry. Literally, cry. Sometimes she hides in the closet shaking when the winds pick up and thunder claps. She likes to crawl as far into my arms as possible or squeeze herself tightly between Dylan and I on the couch or in bed. When we cuddle in our chair, she nestles into the blankets and lays on top of me. Being touched, held, and loved on makes her feel safer. It doesn’t stop her shakes or whines, but it settles her as much as possible.
Beau has a whole collection of sweaters. They help keep her anxiety in check. On the very worst days, we give her benadryl, which makes her sleepy.
It’s heartbreaking that she has such a hard time with storms. I wish I could do more to help or make her feel better. It’s so much harder when she refuses to leave the house during a storm because she needs to go potty. Sometimes I drag her outside covered in a coat and an umbrella, but she hates when her feet get wet. I have even tried to make her go potty on our covered patio but no. She is a stubborn girl; I have no idea where she gets it from.
I’m hoping the storms will pass soon.
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
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I’ve been hiding from the world for a week and a half. Beau hasn’t complained.
If I can’t see the world, that means I’m successfully hiding. Beau is not convinced. | Pajamas | Sweater | Hat | Sheets | Bed Frame |
Every once in awhile I basically disappear from social media. I don’t consciously decide to take a break; it just happens. I won’t post for a week or two. It doesn’t mean I’ve quit, I’m just having an accidental social media detox. This is the first post in a week and a half; I was kinda done with life and needed to disentangle myself.
I have a life, and I get busy. When life is happening, I don’t have time to post.
Being present with my loved ones and all the people I choose to spend time with will always be more important to me than posting at a certain time.
PTSD is a bitch. When I’m in the throws of a bad day or a bad week or a bad month, being a successful blogger is on the back burner. I’m just trying to hold it all together and not be a human puddle.
Traveling sucks up my time. When I’m behind the wheel, I’m obviously not going to post.
Sickness. I hate working when I’m sick, so I don’t.
BURN OUT!!! It’s real. I’ve been dealing with some burn out lately. Not necessarily because of Instagram or social media. Just burnt out in general on a lot of things. When the burn out hits, though, I’m gonna take a break. It can strike at any time.
Migraines are horrible. I refuse to stare at a bright screen when my head feels like home to a mutiny.
I’m lazy.
Work takes up way more of my time than I would like it to. When I’m busy, I literally can’t stop the word flow to post. It can be hard to hold onto thought streams as a writer, so I refuse to interrupt it.
There are periods of time where I lose all brain activity and have zero original thoughts. At least, it feels like that is true. It’s hard to be an enthusiastic content creator when I don’t feel like I’m creative.
I’m not in the mood to deal with the fucking algorithm. The algorithm sucks, and I don’t want to deal with it. Instagram hates me, and I don’t want to deal with the shitty, shitty interaction percentages because NO ONE sees what I post because Instagram withholds them because Instagram hates me.
I’m never going to feel bad about not posting because it is my life and my feed. Being present is more important to me than having a plugged in and constantly curated social media existence. I love my job. I love being a blogger. I love connecting with everyone. I love sharing my life with each and every one of you. Sometimes, I need a vacation or mental break from being present all the time.
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
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Hello, world. I’m blogging again after a small recess.
