Pitiful

This is what sick looks like.

104 degree fever.  Double ear infection.  A terrible diaper rash, the result of a week of antibiotics.  He tosses and turns and cries in his sleep.

A third trip to the doctor in one week.  A positive flu test.  And an emergency trip to the ENT who says his ears are in such bad shape that he needs tubes as soon as he is well.  The only up side?  Hours cuddling him in my lap, rocking him to sleep and rubbing his sweet, sweaty, little head.

My poor, sick baby.  My heart is breaking, I am sleep deprived and completely consumed by caring for him.  My pitiful, sweet boy.  

Different

My boys are very different from one another.  Alike in many ways, but different in many more.  And it is quite wonderful seeing life through two very different perspectives.  I catch glimpses of how different they really are all the time.  Today I was standing in the cow pasture with Jody as he fed.  The boys were on the other side of the electric fence, in our yard, playing. And this is what I saw...

My oldest, quietly doing his best to make the perfect snow angel.

And then I saw this.

My middle boy making and then launching then perfect snowball.

Different.  As different as can be.  And isn't it wonderful.

Our Christmas

 

Our Christmas.  Late nights.  Early mornings.  Vintage Davy Crockett buckskins.  Kitchen set.  EBay.  Hunting gear.  Toy knives.  Books.  Laughter.  Coon skin hats.  Doctor's kit. Movies on Apple TV.  The Grinch.  Gingerbread cookies.  Costumes, Costumes, Costumes...Colonel Jackson, Dinosaur, Great White Shark, Army Fatigues.  The Alamo.  Games.  Rocking horse.  Baby toys for my baby.  Cowboys and Indians.  Polaris four wheeler.  Art Easel.  Sick.  Fevers.  Colds.  Medicine.  Delicious food.  Stockings.  Candy.  Arctic Cat.  Hunting Boots.  Cowboy hats.  Leather holster and guns.  Smiles.  Family.  My boys.  A messy house.  Karaoke machine. Love.  Snow.  Joy.  The Christmas Story.  Farm toys.  John Deere combine.  Baby calves born in the snow.  Sleeping together on Christmas Eve. Sweetness.  Innocence.  Perfect.  Memories.

Merry Christmas!

Matching pajamas...check.

Three Santa hats...check, check.

Two very excited boys and one crying baby...check, check, check.

Please ignore the normally happy baby who is crying his sweet little eyes out.  He has a nasty cold, an ear infection, a top tooth popping through and he fell at Nana's and got his first bloody nose.  His tears are justified.  And really, what would a group shot be without one of my offspring crying?  

The Grinch

The Grinch.  My middle boy is in love with the Grinch.  It  began right after Thanksgiving when the boys saw the original movie at G-Ma's house.  Both the boys loved the movie and wanted me to buy a copy so that they could watch it whenever they wanted to.  And I did.  Jack was thrilled to be able to watch "that little green ant" anytime he wanted to.  And watch it he did.  Over and over and over.  In the house.  In the car.  Every single day.  We even bought a copy of the Jim Carey version and I was sure it might be a little scary for him and that he wouldn't like it.  I was wrong.  He loved it and was soon asking to watch the "pretend Grinch movie" and "the real Grinch movie."  I bought him the Grinch and Max stuffed animals and he carried them everywhere.  And then we discovered Grinch ornament kits at Michael's and we were soon busy decorating the tree in our kitchen with the Grinch, Max and Cindy Lou Who.  

So I have one son who adores Santa Claus and one who adores the Grinch.  It's quite fitting for their personalities.  On the night of their preschool program, Jack was being a little uncooperative.  Jody and I had each threatened him within an inch of his life if he didn't behave and do what he was suppose to do.  On the drive over to the church I pretended that Santa called my phone.  I talked for several minutes, telling "Santa" all about where we were going and what the boys were going to do in their program.  I hung up and went on with an elaborate story about how Santa was going to call me back later to see how well they had done and whether or not he needed to put all their toys on the sleigh or not.  My elaborate, long story had Sam wide eyed and quiet.  He vowed to do his best and behave.  I turned to Jack and asked if he was going to behave so I could tell Santa all about it.  

His response..."No, my not."   

"Oh, you're not."  Well that's too bad.  Santa will probably not bring you all your great presents then."

And without hesitation he said...

"Well, that's okay.  Cause I'll just get the Grinch to go steal all my presents from Santa Claus."

My son thinks the Grinch is real.  And that he is his partner in crime.  And somehow I am not surprised.

The Christmas Pageant

Last night the boys had their preschool Christmas Pageant.  It was wonderful and sweet and so precious to see all the children tell the story of Jesus' birth.  I worried how things would turn out since the boys missed preschool all last week with colds and because Jack was being rather difficult and vowing,"My not gonna do it." Here they are minutes before show time.  Sam, nervous and shy.  Jack, grumpy and stubborn.  He didn't want to wear his vest or hat and whined when it was time to line up.  Jody said he had mad cow disease.

Sam played hand bells with his class and had a small speaking part.  I ached for him because I saw how nervous he was.  The sanctuary was full and I know it was overwhelming to be in front of  so many people.  He mouthed his lines over and over again as he waited his turn.  And then he stepped up to the microphone and said, "Glory to God in the highest."  My heart overflowed with pride and I couldn't wait to scoop him up and tell him how wonderful he'd done.

I held my breath when it was Jack's turn to come out.  He made me proud by walking out on cue and taking his place on the stage.  He added a little twist to his walk and had a look of, "Seriously, folks.  This is so lame." But he did it and that's all that matters.

I didn't know I would fall more in love with my children during the program, but I did.  They both made me so proud and I fought back tears the entire time.  I am going to be one of those moms.  The one who cries at every performance and embarrasses her husband and her children.  Maybe they won't hold it against me.

Ho.Ho.Ho.

Channeling Santa Claus...

Busy

Somebody is a busy body.

And he leaves trail wherever he goes.

I might get tired of it.  If he wasn't so handsome.

Sweetness

Will had finally fallen asleep after fighting it for entirely too long.  And then Sam begged to lay in my bed for just a minute to watch television.  Because, he says, my pillows are "so super soft" and they make him "so comfortable."  I told him he could, but only if he was very quiet and didn't wake up Will.  He promised and I walked out of the room to him watching Noggin and drinking milk.  I returned just a few minutes later to find him snoring softly, nuzzled next to his baby brother.  And I melted into a puddle of love and thankfulness.  

Well Dressed

I found this monkey in the boys' room sporting a bow tie.  I smiled when I saw it and didn't dare remove it.  I felt certain Sam was behind the well dressed monkey.  You know, the one who changes so many times in a day that I 've quit counting.  He changes when he has an idea of a new character to play or if a drop of water hits his pants.  As a result, I find myself standing in his closet, hanging up clothes from morning until bedtime.  Jody calls him Samatella Versace.  He is our clothes horse.

So imagine my surprise when Jack and I were in his room together and he pointed to the monkey,"Look, Mama.  Look what my did."

"You did that?  I really love it, honey.  Your monkey looks so handsome."

"Yeah."

"Why did you put the bow tie on him?  Is he going somewhere special and he needed to dress up?"

"No, Mama. My had to do that so I could cover up his ding dong."

"With a bow tie, honey?"

"Yeah, Mama.  He didn't want nobody to see his ding dong so my covered it up for him."

And off he ran.

And the bow tie stayed on the monkey.  To cover his private parts that are apparently growing out of his neck.

Typical

My middle boy.  The spirited one.  And mischievous one.  With the sweetest chocolate eyes I've ever seen. He has grown to love costumes as much as his older brother.  This is how I found him recently.  Giraffe costume. Perched on a drum, the drum on top of a bucket.  Like an animal at the circus.  Quietly watching a little television, like any good giraffe would do. Just another typical night at our house.

Locked Up

His offense?  

Having thighs that are cuter than should be allowed?

Or for giving his Mama attitude?

Or for eating our water bill?

All of the above.  

Paternal Supervision

I heard laughter coming from their room.   Laughter and squeals and giggles.  The laughter grew louder so I walked quietly to their door, hoping my appearance would not make them stop doing whatever it was that was causing such happiness. I smiled as I anticipated seeing a sweet moment between my three boys. I  peaked my head through the door.  And I found this.

I discovered my sweet, innocent baby was stuck ( I also discovered that the boys' dresser is in serious need of some scratch remover, the result of banging it with a stool as they retrieve belts from the top drawer in one of their many costume changes of the day).  My sweetie had been tethered to a drawer by the feet of his pajamas.  

And as he tried desperately to crawl away, the guilty parties stood by, admiring their handiwork. Some tried to look like an innocent bystander.

Others were so proud of their work, they danced and did a little finger snapping to celebrate.

Mama was not happy.  Especially since that lump you see under the covers was their Daddy.  He was snug and warm, watching television as our older boys anchored my baby to a dresser.  Paternal supervision at it's finest.

Message From Santa

My mom found this and shared it with me.  The Portable North Pole .  I created a message for Sam and Jack and called them over to the computer, announcing that they had received a special message from Santa.  My boys were riveted, their eyes as big as saucers, as they watched intently, listening carefully to what Santa was telling them. It's easy to create and allows you to personalize your message with pictures and even references what they want for Christmas.  And what better way to remind your kids to behave than with a message from Santa. The Portable North Pole joins Mr. Christmas in my bag of "best-behavior inducing" tricks.

Jack's Message

Sam's Message

Reality

I have high hopes.  Great expectations.  In all areas of my life.  Dreams about how situations will play out. Allyson has told me so often that I build up situations in my mind, hopes for how others will react, how moments will play out and how I will feel.  And as a result, she reminds me, I am often disappointed because I have created something in my mind that just isn't going to happen.

Like recently when I tried to get the boys to share all the things they were thankful for, only to have my perfect moment of thanksgiving nixed as the conversation turned to bodily functions that they were grateful for.

Recently, I again saw my high hopes for a perfect family moment fail to come to reality...the purchase of our Christmas tree.  I envisioned bundling up my babies, browsing the selection of trees while my boys giggled and sang Christmas songs.  We would find the perfect tree, take some pictures and rush home to begin stringing the lights and hanging the ornaments.

I should have known things were not going to go as I'd hoped before we left home.  Sam insisted on wearing camouflage since we were going to "look for trees."  Apparently he thought we were going into the woods to cut down the tree ourselves.  After hearing the many reasons he had to wear his hunting clothes, I gave in, knowing that the picture I had envisioned of my boys dressed adorably in their winter best wasn't going to happen.  Jack was tired and ill and had a meltdown over having to wear a coat and hat.  He whined and complained, cried and fussed.  And when he nearly tripped over his bottom lip as I ushered him to the truck, I knew my dreams of a wonderful outing were disappearing before my eyes.

We arrived at the tree lot and Sam was on my "Let's Make Memories" bandwagon, smiling and overflowing with excitement.  He ran around, laughing and jabbering about this tree and that tree and even stopped and said, "Mama, take my picture by this one." And at that very moment, he may have become my favorite child.

Meanwhile, my middle son had ripped of his the hat that I had lovingly placed on his head and was walking up and down the rows of trees kicking every single one of them.  Walk.  Kick.  Move to the next tree.  Kick.  Moan, whine, call the trees "stupid," kick.  Move to the next tree.  Kick, yell "My not like trees!", crush his Mama's dreams one kick at a time.

Sam insisted on bringing his gun to make sure there were no varmints hiding in the branches.  I told him no. And he told me he needed to make sure there were no squirrels or snakes or lizards hiding in there that would scare me when we we got home.  My sweet little redneck.  How could I say no to that?  And just like he'd promised, he walked from tree to tree, shooting his gun and scaring away any critter that might frighten his Mama.  

My sweet baby, the only one bundled in the winter clothes I wanted him to wear, slept like a sweet angel. Unfortunately, he napped during his entire first Christmas tree purchase, but he sure looked handsome doing it.  Handsome and well dressed.

We picked our tree.  Actually, Sam picked our tree.  It was smaller than we usually get, but I was happy to let him choose.  Especially since he had worked so hard to free it from any wild life.  I told Sam his pick was excellent and was thrilled that my dreams of a perfect evening weren't all lost.  A gentleman that was working the lot, walked over to us and asked us if we'd decided which tree we wanted.  We told him that we had, indeed, decided and  I pointed to Sam's choice.  He made small talk, thanking us for our purchase and telling us they would gladly put the tree in our stand for us.  He then turned to speak to Sam.  He praised him for his choice, complimented him on his camouflage attire and said he sure liked his gun.  

This is the point that I should admit that his gun is real.  A real bb gun.  His Dad, my husband, bought them each a bb gun.  He explained to me that we have spent a small fortune on toy guns that last a few days before being busted to smithereens.  He told me they are cheap and poorly made and that a real gun would not break and would last more than a few days before being tossed into the burn barrel.  I wasn't thrilled, but obliged when I knew they would never receive bbs and thus couldn't harm themselves or anyone else.  I should also explain that Sam's gun is pretty powerful and makes a loud pop while releasing a burst of air.  It can easily startle unsuspecting bystanders.  He knows the rules.  Don't point it at anyone.  Don't shoot it near anyone's ear.  Don't scare anyone.  And he obeys the rules.  Usually.

As the nice man admired his hunting gear and what he thought was a toy gun, my son hit the trigger.  And the barrel of the gun was pointed at that poor man's face.  He heard the pop and was hit in the face with the burst of air and dust.  And his knees buckled.  And he gasped.  And I gasped.  Jody yelled at Sam.  I began apologizing.  Jody apologized.  I was mortified.  I apologized again.  And again.  The man soon laughed and told Sam, "You shot me, boy!"  And I began to apologize again.  He threw his hand up in the air and said, "Don't worry about it.  No big deal."  But I had seen his knees buckle and heard him make a sound that I only thought girls could make.  I knew it had scared him.  I knew for a small instance he thought he was a goner.  And so once again I began telling him how sorry I was.  He must have felt sorry for me or he really wanted us to leave, because he offered to take a family picture of us in front of our tree.  Wow, I thought.  A picture.  With me in it.  That never happens.  Maybe this night isn't a total loss.  He took the picture, I grabbed my camera and headed to the truck with my youngest two, leaving Jody and the rifleman behind to collect our purchase.

I bombarded Jody when he got in the truck. "See.  See.  That's why they can never have bbs.  Never.  Or at least until they are like twenty or something.  And Jack.  Jack can't have any until he's thirty five.  And I mean it.  I really mean it.  Never.  Absolutely never."

And then I turned on my camera, excited to see a rare shot of the five of us.  I was thrilled to have a picture of us together and felt that somehow that rare surprise would make up for all the mess I had just experienced.  And then I saw the picture.   The picture that the gentleman proudly bragged about saying, "Okay!  I think I got it and it's a good one."

The perfect ending to our night.

High hopes.  Great expectations.  

And a little thing called reality.

Three Guesses

Three guesses who thought our giant Santa' s traditional hat wasn't good enough, and that he'd look much better sporting a giant trash bag?

Probably the same person I caught earlier today trying to cut our giant Santa's nonexistent toenails.

Need a hint?

Yes, the same little boy who wore our new stockings as leg warmers before bed.  And was later caught trying to conduct sack races in the play room with those same stockings.  Never a dull moment.  Courtesy of my Jack.

Caught

This is how I caught him.  No clothes.  Underwear on backwards.  Lighter tucked in the side of his drawers.  Dancing. Spinning.  Singing.  Laughing.  

Singing what?  "My gonna start a fire.  My gonna start a fire."  Loudly.  And with great excitement.  As if it was his favorite song.  "My gonna start a fire.  My gonna start a fire."

Oh, sweet Lord.  Add my name to the prayer chain.  Send me a life supply of root touch up to cover my grey hair.  Nerve medication, please.  This one is going to give me an ulcer.  Or a heart attack.  And he is only three.  I shutter when I think about him at twelve.  And I hyperventilate when a vision of him as a sixteen year old crosses my mind.  Lord, help me.

Nine Months Young

Will.  You.  Today.  Nine months young.  Nine months of laughter and giggles and tickling your back.  You are so happy. You smile all the time and grow a little more independent each day.  Your eyes are still blue, but brown around the pupil.  I find myself staring at them often, checking to see what color they've become.  You love your big brothers deeply and they love you just as much.  Few things bring me as much joy as watching the three of you together, laughing and playing like old friends.  You love your Daddy and your sweet face lights up when he comes home from work.  You already love "farm life" and are mesmerized by the cows grazing beside our house.  I am already quite certain a love for cattle is rooted in your heart and it won't be long before I catch you climbing the gate and running through the pasture.  And I think that's pretty wonderful and I am so happy to know you will be raised running through wide open spaces, learning to love and care for animals being taught things you could never learn in school.  I hope you'll always know how blessed you are to grow up here and to experience things that so many others never do.

You have four teeth now.  Your top teeth that took forever to appear, are so big already.  I love seeing your grin change nearly daily now.  You haven't eaten baby food for weeks now.  You love bananas, spaghetti, rice cakes, mashed potatoes and cereal.  You are no longer nursing and rarely drink an entire eight ounce bottle at one feeding during the day.  You are too busy to sit still and drink for more than five minutes and I find myself constantly offering you bottles during the day. You make up for it at when everyone else is sleeping, drinking several bottles during the night.  There are nights you drink four bottles, but average three a night.  I think you choose to fill your belly when all is quiet and you are too sleepy to do anything but lay there and drink.  There are no brothers to chase or toys to play with.  You drink slowly and then sweetly roll yourself over and begin snoring.  I'm sure others will think it's just awful that you are so needy during the night.  And I'm sure the experts would tell me to let you cry it out a few nights and you'll learn to eat during the day and sleep at night.  But don't you worry about that happening, sweetie.  Your sleep habits are a result of me, not you.  I've never really allowed you to put yourself back to sleep, choosing instead to cuddle you, feed you or whisper in your ear until you drift back to sleep. And while there are nights that I am tired and desperate for a good night's sleep, I wouldn't change a thing.  You'll be two in the blink of an eye, sleeping all night and full of independence.  And I'll be thinking back to the nights when you were a baby and wishing I could have those special moments back again.

You love music and constantly make noises by patting your mouth with your hands. A ball is your favorite toy and you crawl all over the house tossing it in front of you, picking it up and tossing it again.  You always pull your socks and shoes off and refuse to be still long enough to have your diaper changed or to be dressed.  Bath time now involves you splashing and giggling when the water hits your face.  You constantly drop things as soon as I hand them to you and then you stare at it until I pick up and hand it to you.  And then you drop it again. And again.  And again.  You can stand alone for several seconds before dropping to the floor.  You love opening cabinets and any drawers you can reach.  And to my horror, you have already been caught on more than one occasion playing happily in the toilet.

You are busy and determined and try every day to keep up with your big brothers.  I love watching you grow and learn new things.  You show me that the simplest things can bring the most joy.  Like singing "You Are My Sunshine" over and over. Or rocking you as I hold you as tight as I can and you grasp onto my necklace with your sweet fingers.  You make me so happy, so content, so grateful.  Thank you for sharing your days with me.  Thank you for loving me like you do.  Thank you for being overjoyed when you see me.  I promise you this, today on the day I celebrate your ninth month, I will always be overjoyed to see you too.  And I will always light up when you walk into the room.  Always. It's a promise I've made to your older brothers and my promise to you now. I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  More than you'll ever know.

The British Are Coming

My boys have a new obsession.  Yes, they are still obsessed with Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone and cowboys, but now there is something new.  Fighting the British.  It began on a Saturday many weeks ago.  The boys were with Jody and "The Ballad of 1814" came on the radio.  The boys loved the song and watched it over and over and over again on You Tube. They soon knew the words by heart and sang it all the time.

"In 1814 we took a little trip

Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.

We took a little bacon and we took a little beans

And we caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans.

We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin.

There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago.

We fired once more and they began to runnin' on

Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico..."

And then their Daddy surprised them with a cd player and a cd with the song on it.  It also has "The Ballad of Davy Crockett,"  "Daniel Boone" and "Sink the Bismark."  And they were thrilled.  And they play it all the time. Over and over again.  And they create their own "Battle of 1814."

They line their stuffed animals up and they become the British soldiers...

And then the battle begins.  Jack usually stands on the couch, shooting his rifle...

while Sam takes them down from behind the couch.

And they sing as they shoot...

And they talk to each other in deep voices, telling each other, "I got 'em, man. I got 'em."

It happens on a daily basis.  The singing.  The reenactment.  And you know who else knows that song by heart? Me.  I catch myself singing it throughout the day.  It's sad.  Me, singing a 1959 Johnny Horton song.  I am constantly amazed by what my life has become living in this testosterone filled house of mine.   And I wouldn't have it any other way.  

Fat Chance

Tonight I asked the boys what they wanted for Christmas.

Sam responded in great detail about needing a black mama bear with a black bear cub and the mama is looking a certain way at a wolf. And the wolf is sitting a certain way, and is a particular shade of grey and has his headed facing to the side. Santa should have no trouble finding that. And he also really needs a new Davy Crockett bag and a new brown cowboy hat. And a polar bear costume and a wolf costume.

Then it was Jack's turn. "Jack, what are you wishing for this year, honey?"

A short pause.

"Um, Mama. Hammers. Just hammers, Mama. Lots and lots of hammers. So I can do this, motions as if he is banging something and yells, "Bang! Bang! Bang!" "Yeah, Mama. That's all I want. Just hammers."

Poor little thing. He's going to be so disappointed. Jack with a hammer is like Jack with matches or a knife or a can of spray paint. It ain't happening.

Busy Body

It's official.  My youngest is into everything.  Absolutely everything. I think this is the point where I am supposed to realize how hard having three kids is.  And this is when I'm supposed to seriously consider that I have, indeed, had my last child.  

And it is hard.  And tiring. But beyond wonderful.  And the only thing I'm considering these days is whether or not I should put a Christmas tree in the kitchen, knowing that he will tear it apart on a daily basis.  It doesn't hurt that he's beyond adorable and as sweet as sugar.
And, yes, that is a piece of trash bag in his mouth.  I saw it as he smiled for the camera and promptly removed it from his chubby, little cheeks.  My busy boy.  The one who cried all morning and was beyond cranky, which is so abnormal for him.  So I carried him to the doctor and discovered his ears are infected.  My poor little sweetie.  But on a high note, both of his top teeth broke through today.  Hallelujah!  My fingers stayed numb from constantly applying orajel and my child had begun gnawing on the edge of the wooden table in the den. So Will and I made a deal.  If he won't cut any more teeth for a while, he's free to destroy my house, room by room, on a daily basis.

Abundance Designs

I am happy to have the opportunity to design Christmas Cards again this year. I have added new designs and new products this year. Please check out my design site if you are interested.

Heart Failure

We have had a hawk looming around the farm for some time now.  The hawk has snatched a few chickens and has become more "brave" in the last few weeks.  He would sit at the barn, waiting to grab a chicken, even with people there making plenty of noise.  A couple of weeks ago I walked outside and found him sitting on the fence in our back yard.  It was then that I made it very clear to my husband that the hawk had to go.  Immediately.  Sure it was bad that he had already killed a few chickens, but hanging out in our backyard, um, bring out the shotguns, please.  So Jody has tried several times to shoot him.  Jody is a great shot, but couldn't ever get him.  His Daddy was sure he had killed him one afternoon only to discover he had killed a buzzard.  Everyone around knew about the hawk and knew that we wanted him gone.  And today it happened.  He was flying near the barn this morning and one of the boys that helps around the farm was able to shoot him.  

But that's not the end of the story.

I had a tough night last with Will and his top teeth that refuse to make their entrance.  So when he woke up at 7:15 this morning I didn't know how I was going to function.  My sweet husband took him and the other two boys out so I could go back to sleep.  And sleep I did. Until 10:30.  What woke me?  The sound of my boys playing outside?  No.  The smell of breakfast cooking? Um, no.  The telephone?  Again, no.  

I was awakened by my husband opening the door to our room and calling my name. Through blurry eyes I saw him holding something large.  Jack was standing beside him and said, "Look, Mama.  Look.  The hawk!  The hawk!"  I sat up and nearly climbed up the headboard. There was my husband holding that huge, dead hawk under his arm like he was a pet.  A parakeet or something.  I screamed to "get it out of my house" and I must have said it with enough fear and panic that my husband knew I wasn't kidding.  He took that nasty thing out of my house and laid him in the driveway.  He had the nerve to ask me to take pictures of the boys with the bird to which I might have shot him a nasty look.  So he grabbed my camera and took pictures of his prize.

Seriously, look at this thing.  Talk about fear.  Birds freak me out.  It's no secret.  But all fears have levels.  A hummingbird or robin...slight raise in my pulse and maybe a little sweating. Chickens, large tropical birds, geese...major heart racing, clenched hands, walking very, very fast, intense sweating, likely nausea.  Eagles, hawks, owls, ostriches...call the coroner, I'm a dead woman. 

Look at the claws on that thing.  I am sweating as I type.  I can hear my heart beating in my ears.  Hello, nausea.

Had he brought that thing any closer to me this morning, you would be reading about my funeral arrangements.  The inside of my nose is raw from smelling Lysol all day.  I used an entire can to kill any lingering germs or bird dander.  And tonight my husband informed me that he pulled out the feathers so the boys could dress up as Indians and that he couldn't wait to show me the talons.  Yes, he cut them off.  Yes, he intends on saving them. That's it.  I'm a dead woman. It's been nice knowing you.