Hairy Hubby Hardships II

This… is supposed to be my on-line diary of sorts, for me to look back at when I’m 90 (ha haaaaa! Inherited heart disease will see Hubby burying me long before that. If he’s still compos mentis enough to work a microwave, he’d cope better than I would, so that’s fine. Except I’ve now thought about Harry being all sad and having no Mum and I’ve gone weepy. Shit! Train of thought gone badly off-course. It’s only my first sentence and I’m drifting already. Back! Back to the wagons!) and smile reminiscently at my youthful shenanigans. Of which I seem to have none.

What have I done lately? Umm.

Well, I’ve bullied Hubby into making a start on the garden. I was bitterly disappointed about Harry’s birthday party not being a garden party due to absence of lawn, and he also needs some dogshit-free ground to play on this summer, so we are tackling our patch of hillside scrub. Phase one was initiated on Sunday, and Doris the Digger arrived from the farm to pull out a fence and level out the soil.

 

Then Hubby got down to the serious business of earthmoving, whilst Harry tottered off

walking-6 walking-5 walking-4 walking-3 walking-2 

to explore the drive – with only one or two tumbles!

fallen-down1   getting-up walking-1

When I turned around from taking photos of Harry’s expedition in search of his beloved trike, I began to wave my arms and shout over the digger engine.

Wifey: “You’re getting stuck!”

Hubby (cupping ear) : “What…?”

Wifey: “Sinking! Axles! Deep! Stuck!”

Hubby: “Nah!”

Shortly afterwards, we were obliged to pack up and head back to the farm in order to select a tractor grunty enough to tow Doris out from where she was immovably sunk in our wet clay. She shouldn’t have been stuck, apparently. He couldn’t understand how she was stuck. I did video the moment when he eventually killed the engine and climbed dejectedly out of the cab, but I just haven’t the heart to post it.

Because he’s not having a brilliant week.

The sheep are starting to lamb, and so far we are running at about 50% lamb mortality, which is appalling. To give you a context, 10% is just about acceptable. The lambs are big enough to survive, and look perfect, but they just don’t start to breathe when they are born. It’s early days yet – only about 20 out of several hundred – but still worrying. I was all keen to do more lambing this year, but not if I’m just going to be pulling out small dead bodies. I can’t cope with that. I filmed John and his Dad calving a cow a few years ago – the calf was born unexpectedly dead, and it’s a dreadfully sad little piece of film.  

I could, incidentally, do with rolling around in some sheep placenta the same way my revolting spaniel does. Everyone talks about the dangers of cat litter, but sheep are absolutely rife with toxoplasmosis – which is a big worry when you’re a mysteriously non-immune pregnant farmer’s wife and your unborn small-for-dates child is being worked up for possible infections. John put his own clothes into the washing machine and set it going (I knew he knew how to…) when I was pregnant, which we thought would be ok – until the Delightful Doctors Next Door looked alarmed and told John to just leave his lambing clothes at the farm. Toxo was eliminated as Harry’s culprit, but I would feel happier if I could actually catch it this year.

Hubby’s Granny B ceased to ‘do’ over the weekend. This was a lady who was vaguely concerned that Harry would not ‘do’. I feel the customary New Great-Grandchild cheque may even have been delayed some weeks after we got Harry home because of these fears regarding his morbidity. Really, after about day 6, there was never much doubt about Harry’s likelihood of ‘doing’, but it’s fair to say that a 3lb-er wouldn’t have ‘done’ awfully well at the time when she was having her children. Hubby thought a good deal of his Grandfather, some years deceased, but was not particularly close to Granny B. This could easily be discerned by the way he actually forgot to tell me Granny B had died until nearly lunchtime on Sunday, despite having seen his Mother at breakfast-time.

The funeral plans have sent me into a tizzy of haircut appointment making (I am Farrah ‘Dulux’ Fawcett again) and worry about the fact that, despite owning myriad black items of clothing, none of them are smart enough for a funeral. Having put on 10lbs since Christmas – and also avoided the gym for 3 weeks –  I am currently TWO POUNDS lighter than I was when I wrote this post, which is very very sad, and means I will have to buy a size FUCKING HUGE black skirt from somewhere this week. It also means that Hubby’s twin brother may  – although family troubles will probably dictate against – fly back in from the States for a few days, in which case I need to find a spare room. I know there are a couple available, in theory, but there’s a shitload of junk wedged precariously between the doorways of Theory and Practice.

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3 Responses

  1. I am toxo non-immune, along with EBV and CMV- major secretors of the last one is toddlers (going to hard to avoid two of those next spin round) and teenagers kissing (I’d get arrested, so safe there).

    Clearly I didn’t share enough bodily fluids as a kid or adolescent. Seroprevalence is bloody high yet I’m negative. 🙂

    J

  2. My TORCH work-up revealed me to be a big fat carrier of CMV, despite not being much of a teenage snogger. I felt strangely soiled!

  3. I have been so slack of late but I just came over and have had a read. Great to hear all is going well.

    I will try harder! lol

    Hugs
    xxx

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