I'm Totally Crazy

I've been called crazy a few times in my life. Like when I got married at 19. Or when I got pregnant with Coby before Cameron was even a year old. Or that time I had a few too many Long Island iced teas at Curtis's office Christmas party and didn't realize they were so strong and ended up taking off my - well, never mind. Point is, I've done a few things in my life that call my sanity into question - but for the most part, I've managed to prove the naysayers wrong. I've been married for almost a decade ... am managing three boys just fine (well, okay, for the most part) ... and that Long Island tea incident didn't even end up on YouTube.*

*Because it happened before YouTube was even invented probably, but oh well.

Anyhow, despite all this, I have recently made a decision which makes even ME wonder if I've gone off the deep end. And it's this:

This "crazy decision" is a full-blooded Chocolate Lab, seven weeks old, who goes by (but does not necessarily answer to) the name Josie.

As you guys know (and read here and here if you don't), we very recently had to say a painful and difficult goodbye to our ten-year-old dog, Andy. And my mom, God bless 'er, tried to dispense a little advice afterward in that way she does ... phrasing it as a very subtle suggestion, as if trying to implant it into my subconscious so I'll think it was my idea (I'm onto you, Mom). "After all this, I'm sure you won't want to think about getting another dog until the boys are older," she said. Followed by some reasoning that my brain tuned out because, well, if I've learned one thing in my 29 years it's how to completely ignore reason.

Yeah, it's a talent, be jealous.

I knew we could never replace Andy - but what I needed so desperately to replace was Andy's presence. Those first few days without him here were horrible. Every noise I heard sounded like him. Every dark shape caught in my peripheral vision - the couch pillows, the clothes on the floor - looked like him. I hadn't realized, until he was gone, that a huge part of my life consisted of our simple daily interactions. 

So I guess it was grief that drove us to pick out a fuzzy, pudgy little bundle of puppy. Our new little girl, our Josie. She didn't bring Andy back, of course, but she helps me cope with his absence - although I tend to think of them both being here. Like, she'll run back to the bedroom and I'll think, "Oops, Andy's isn't going to be happy when she disturbs his ... oh." And then, like I do at least three times a day so far, I'm hit with a wave of sadness that momentarily paralyzes me. 

Wanna know what else momentarily paralyzes me? Stepping in puppy poop in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom.

And that, my friends, is why I'm crazy. Because I signed up for this. Because I willingly chose to have a four-year-old, a two-year-old, a six-month-old, and a seven-week-old puppy. Because it's such a great experience to have two that are teething and two that are potty training!

(Not really, I just made that last part up.)

She's such a sweet girl, though. Very smart. And she's already in love with the boys. Colin's a little afraid of her (but this is the child who is also scared of playground swings and artificial flowers - yes, really - so I didn't expect anything less). Cameron, the one who got a dog bite to the face requiring 40 stitches and thereby the one who should be wary of dogs, yet isn't, adores her.

... as you can plainly see. :)

So anyway, Mom, you were kinda right about the struggles of having so many needy, teethe-y, poopy-and-peedy little babies at once. But this too shall pass - it did with Andy - and at least I'll have plenty of blog fodder in the meantime.

 

No TV Any More, Ever

Damn you, children's television station, and your perky between-show segments that urge my children to make things and do stuff.

And damn you, children, for listening and paying attention to aforementioned perky segments. (Why can't you do that when *I* talk?)

Look. I'm not crafty. I don't own a hot glue gun, nor do I scrapbook. I once tried to knit a baby hat when I was pregnant with Colin, and ended up spending hours on it - only to end up in a tearful, yarn-tangled heap. For the purpose of illustrating my point, I ransacked my house for any do-it-yourself projects I might have done ... but the closest thing I came up with was my artful pairing of a Dollar General print with a Wal-Mart frame, like so:

Aw, yeah. Mama's got class, y'all.

I used to love crafts when I was little. Key phrase here: when I was little. Before I cared about staining things/glueing things to other things/finding glitter-stuffing-whathaveyou in the carpet for months. Now that I'm the one responsible for cleanup, crafts have lost their sparkle.

But.

I love my kids. And my kids love crafting (okay, they love the idea of crafting because honestly, they don't get to do it all that much with me). And there are these irritating guilt-trips between-show segments on their favorite TV station, Nick Jr., that are always proclaiming how fun and easy it is to make your own character-themed cupcakes, or hopscotch thingamajiggies, or laundry hampers, or ...

Moose and Zee No-Sew Snuggle Pillows ← (I just said that in, like, a really hateful and demonic tone. But since you can't hear me, just imagine it. Throw in some narrowed eyes and flared nostrils for good measure.)

This, in case you're lucky enough not to know, is Moose and Zee:

The boys begged for these stupid snuggle pillows. And I thought, "They're no-sew. I can do no-sew." It implies simplicity, right?

Not when you're me.

Just getting the right supplies posed a challenge. I went to Wal-Mart because Wal-Mart has everything, right? Well, not so much. I got the polyester stuffing, the fabric scissors because I didn't have any at home, and the fabric glue there. I had to go to a craft store to get the felt pieces the next morning. But I left the damn house too early and the craft store didn't open for an hour. When it did open, I got the yellow felt. The black felt. The pink felt. The blue felt. The brown felt. But I didn't get the stiff brown felt, because they didn't have it, so I got stiff black felt instead. 

Then when I got home, I went to the computer to print out the oh-so-handy Moose and Zee printable templates. Except oops, there was no printer ink. So I decided to freehand the pattern using a picture. Moose and Zee aren't all that hard to draw, and I've got mad art skillz, yo, so the patterns actually turned out okay.

But then.

There was the cutting.

Of the felt.

The sheets and sheets and sheets of effing felt.

The whole time I'm cutting and cutting, Colin is whining and whining because why can't heeeeee do iiiiiit? 

And then it was time to glue. I let Colin glue the felt pieces onto the other felt pieces. But when it came time to "sew" the pillow shut with the glue so I could stuff it, I figured I'd better do it. Which is why my fingernails are still crusty today, despite the surgery-worthy scrubbing that has gone on. And it's also why, due to darker felt-fuzz and pieces of skin, the perimeter of each pillow looks dirty. Niiiice.

By the time I cut, placed, cussed, glued, cussed, stuck to the table, cussed, stuffed, and cussed some more, nearly three hours had elapsed.

THREE HOURS.

For a craft that a.) took all of two minutes on TV, what with their pre-cut pieces and other such nonsense, and b.) my kids - who had begged for these pillows forever - fought over for all of five minutes and then abandoned completely. For a craft that turned out to look like this:

Whatever. My kids are never* watching TV again.

*And by "never" I mean not until 2, when "Wow Wow Wubbzy" comes on.

What Aisle is THAT On?

Colin worked diligently at the kitchen table this morning to make me a grocery list. He's just learning to read and write, and so sometimes it takes a little work to decipher what everything says, but for the most part I can get it. (It's that parent-thing that allows you to translate for your kids when, like, "thank you" sounds like profanity.) As I read through the items on the list, I was impressed - it's all stuff I would actually buy. With one big exception (or would that be two?):

Yep, that indeed does say "TITS." As for what it's supposed to say, it remains a mystery - because Colin couldn't remember what he was trying to spell.

I can't help but think that someone exactly like him wrote this grocery list that I found on the floor of Hy-Vee a while ago:

After Andy

DISCLAIMER: This post will be sad. I'm sad as I write it, and by the end, you'll probably be sad as well. (Unless you're, like, cold and heartless or whatever.) So if you don't want to be sad, I suggest reading through the archives and finding a LOL-worthy alternative (how about this?) - and I promise, I'll be back to my normal dorky self real soon. Thanks for understanding, y'all.

*And by the way - in order to really understand this post, you'll need to read this one first.

I write for a living, but I'm having so much trouble finding words right now. How can I explain the depths of my love for the soul I bid a tearful goodbye to yesterday? Sure, he was a dog. Just a dog, some would argue. But anyone who has ever loved a four-legged friend so much will understand that there is no such thing as "just" a dog.

Though the classified ad in the paper had screamed, "FREE BLACK LAB PUPPIES," we knew he wasn't a full-blooded Lab when we saw his curly tail ... but he was adorable - tiny, sweet, and shy - and we loved him from the first time we laid eyes on him. We called him Andy because I swear he told me that was his name. At least that's what popped into my head and wouldn't leave, so even though it rhymed with Curtis's ex-girlfriend's name, that's who he became. Our Andy.

Andy was our first baby. He was part of the logical progression of family-building, our practice run for parenthood. Through the potty training, the chewed-up shoes, the adorably aggravating puppy stages, Curtis and I learned how to take care of another needy little being. Together.

We couldn't have predicted that a harrowing five-year battle with infertility would threaten our chances of ever having a "real" baby. Between seemingly-endless cycles of fertility drugs and invasive, dignity-stripping procedures, our hopes of having children dwindled. I clung to my Andy, the closest thing I ever had - the closest thing I ever thought I would have. He was my consolation, my only outlet for the maternal instinct that swelled within me. I shed many bitter tears into his shiny black fur, his warm weight cuddled close, temporarily easing an ache that wouldn't go away. Into him I poured my grief, my frustration, my feelings of inadequacy. In return he gave me constant, unconditional love.

Even after we finally had our boys, Andy remained as close to our hearts as ever. Which is why, when he bit Colin's arm several years ago in response to a startle, we chose to give him another chance. We thought it was an isolated incident. And for a long time, we all lived a peaceful coexistence - until two weeks ago, when our two-year-old fell on a sleeping Andy and was bitten in the face. It took forty stitches to close his wounds, and was a heartbreaking jolt into the reality that Andy was a threat to our children. Whether the bite was in response to an accident or not, he could have done far more serious damage. And that left us with an agonizing decision to make.

I immediately took to my blog and Facebook to ask for help - and my wonderful readers, friends, and family members offered up so much advice and encouragement. It wasn't all positive - I got several of the standard "if it had been my dog, he would have been killed instantly" type responses, and was even questioned as to whether I had the "mommy instinct" that led me to protect my children - but even those comments, as hard as they were to read, were made with my family's best interests at heart.

I began exhaustively researching our options. I called area Lab and elderly dog rescues and no-kill shelters, all of whom gave me sympathetic explanations that they just couldn't take a dog who has bitten a child. Through tears I posted a long ad on Craigslist, begging for a child-free home for Andy. The only result was a cluster of e-mails echoing what the Animal Control people had already told me - that if Andy were to ever bite anyone else, we would still be liable. One lady said she had re-homed a rescue dog who ended up biting someone, and she lost everything because of the resulting lawsuit.

For two weeks we hoped against hope. Weighed all the terrible options over and over again. Felt the choking, breathtaking sorrow as we considered - for the first time in ten years - life without Andy. And finally, came to a conclusion.

Yesterday morning, Andy had bacon and eggs and a big drink of cold water for breakfast. Curtis and I, just the two of us, took him out for a drive in Amish country. On the first 50-degree day of the year, Andy rode with his head out the Jeep window, just the way he loved to: ears flapping in the wind, soaking up the beautiful sunshine.

He got to run around without his leash, splashing gleefully through the early-spring thaw. He chewed on a beef-basted rawhide bone. He took a nap with Curtis. And in the afternoon, he was taken to the first vet he ever saw, the "pediatrician" of his puppyhood. Just before four o'clock, sedated and in the comfort of Curtis's arms, he was calmly and humanely put to sleep.

We buried him in one of his favorite locations: my grandparents' yard. He had spent many hours running freely through their orchard, weaving through the tall grasses in their field; it was only fitting that it be his final resting place. We wrapped him in a blanket and placed him gently in a hole that Curtis and his brother had dug by hand that morning, right beside the barn. We prayed and we cried. With heavy hearts we covered Andy's body with dirt, giving him up to the earth. We had driven four hours from home to end his life and rest his spirit in the best way we could think of - and afterward, we drove home again, virtually silent in our sorrow.

This is the first morning I've woken up to an empty spot on the floor beside my bed, but he seems to be everywhere. The hairs he's shed. The dent in the couch pillow where he always laid. His food and water bowls downstairs. Every movement, every shadow, looks like him to me. But it isn't. Andy is gone. And, like his footprints that still dot the remaining snow in our backyard, he will slowly fade from our lives.

It isn't what I wanted. It's what I feared most. And it is, and has been, agonizingly painful. I know we made the right choice for everyone, but the right choice is sometimes the hardest.

Cameron escaped serious harm. His stitches have been out for more than a week now, and his healing has been remarkable. He'll have no lasting effects, and the plastic surgeon says that there'll come a time when we won't even be able to see the scars any more. Can I say the same for my own scars, the ones developing over the still-fresh fault line that has opened up in my heart? At this point, it feels like the pain will never go away. Andy's absence is as big as his presence was.

Andy, Mommy loves you. I miss you. Thank you for being my baby. Thank you for ten wonderful years of companionship. Thank you for being more than just a dog.

Oh, the Madness!

I don't know what I've gotten myself into, y'all.

Yeah, I've had cold feet about the whole "three kids" thing before - on more than one occasion. Right before Coby was born in September, I had a mini-meltdown thinking about how I was going to handle the two I had plus a new baby. But you know what? It worked. Coby is nearly six months old (already! Yikes!), and there have been no major fiascos in his short little life ... yet. We've got our routine down, and I can handle a four-year-old, two-year-old and five-month-old simultaneously ... for now.

But.

Several developments of late have got me seriously fearing for my future sanity. First of all is this new trend of the boys beating each other's asses. I mean, they've more or less always squabbled, but now they're taking it to a whole new level. Brother steals a piece of food from your plate? Whack him with a mean sidearm. Brother wants the random piece of junk toy you're playing with? Shove him into the nearest wall. Brother innocently watching TV? This calls for an ambush, ninja-style. The change mystifies me ... all I can chalk it up to is the fact that they're getting older. But they're four and two. I have the sinking feeling that this is only going to get worse. I mean, I've still got another one to add to the mix. Lord help me.

(We interrupt this blog post for a "LOL" moment: I actually just heard Colin say to his brother, "You can blow me, but don't lick me." He was talking about his shoulder, but ...hee hee hee)

*ahem*

Then there's the nap schedule. I've had it down to a science until now: all three boys, for the past three months at least, have napped at the same time every day. But now Colin is outgrowing the need for an afternoon rest. And Coby has entered this catnapping phase - close eyes for ten minutes, wake up and fuss because he's tired, repeat. This is a crisis, y'all. That precious nap was my ticket to surfing the 'Net in peace getting things done! How am I supposed to stay abreast of pop culture get my laundry caught up now?

I guess I can handle everything. I mean, I don't have much of a choice (if I did, I'd be in some tropical locale sucking up frosty drinks like they're going out of style). But it'd be nice if the boys would give me some warning before they decide to throw a wrench into our routine. Or if they, you know, came with an instruction manual or something.

Off to mediate another beating dispute.