A Cat.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, often referred to as "Black Friday" by those who work in retail or savvy shoppers, now has another meaning for me. The name seems appropriate since it was the day I had to put my cat, Oliver to sleep.

He was a decent cat. A handsome cat. Only bothersome when he was hungry. Otherwise, he kept to himself. And, like cats do, he slept a lot. In his later years, he discovered the great outdoors, only coming in for some food and water and to sleep at night. Occasionally, he would vie for some affection. He was cute and soft and cuddly, so I didn't mind when he curled up on my lap and purred while he snoozed. We affectionately called him Ollie-bear and my daughter refused to acknowledge his real name and corrected us if we called him anything but Ollie-bear.

But he was sick. And it was more obvious each day by his constant desire to eat, yet he was getting skinnier. He relentlessly whined for food so I fed him. Nonetheless, within 20 minutes, he demanded more. It seemed he could not get enough; nothing filled up his shrinking belly.

Finally, I took him to the vet. I have a rule that when it comes to pets, there is a financial limit on how much care I’ll allow. But more importantly, I have to rationalize who is the care benefiting - me or the pet.

Oliver sat peacefully in his carrier on the long drive, letting out a soft meow once in a while as if to remind me he was still there, while I emotionally prepared that I might not leave the clinic with him. Inside the exam room, he sniffed at the scale while the vet tech recorded his weight: 9lbs. I was stunned because less than a year ago, he weight at least 15 lbs. I knew he was skinny, but to me, this weight bordered on emaciated. I felt awful because he truly was miserable.

The vet discussed four possible scenarios of his condition: hyperthyroidism, diabetes, kidney disease or cancer. Her best guess was his thyroid. (This was a bit ironic since I also have thyroid condition.) In order to determine what was going on, they would run blood tests ($200+). The remedy for three of these conditions would be daily medication. However, the side effects could cause vomiting and diarrhea. Additionally, I would have to constantly monitor his medication, bring him back to the vet for check-ups, etc. (I’m not one to bring my cats to the vet unless something is wrong.) I had some heavy deliberations to think through. How could I possibly remember to administer daily thyroid medication to my cat when I can barely manage to remember my own? And give him insulin shots? Really? Besides, I hardly ever see this cat unless he’s hungry. And the side effects are a huge consideration. I have enough vomit messes from cat hair balls and my sensitive-stomach dog. And cleaning up diarrhea? I still have a kid in diapers and a 5-year-old who insists I wipe her after she has a BM so I have enough “waste” to contend with.

Lastly and more notably how could I willingly inflict that upon anyone – especially an old, tired cat? This is where my rational brain kicked-in: would I be doing this for him or me? He was miserable enough already.

After a lot of tears and a phone call to my husband (who volunteered to come be with me) I decided that regardless of the outcome of the tests, I wouldn’t be treating the condition. I asked what would happen if I didn’t treat him and she said he would continue to waste away. The most humane thing to do at this point was euthanasia. I left the room to wait for my husband in the lobby. I couldn’t stand the increasingly intense heaviness of what I was about to do so I could not stay with Oliver, who by this time was nonplussed to be in the cold, sterile place. I grabbed the kitty carrier, walked out of the clinic and threw it in my car trunk (where it still is, weeks later). I walked to a nearby restaurant to wipe my mascara-stained cheeks in the bathroom and compose myself. When I returned, a kindly vet tech asked me if I wanted to spend some time with Oliver, I declined. Rationally, I knew what was about to happen was the right thing to do, but it didn’t make me feel better. By simply saying so, I had the power to end the life of a living creature - my cat, whom I loved and lived with for 13 years. He was a tiny ball of velvety brown fur when I brought him home and now this was the last day of his life. The tears continued to burn in my eyes and by the time my husband arrived, I was shaking. We went into the exam room and I held my skinny old kitty as tightly to my chest as I could. He didn’t purr and didn’t look at me. I’m pretty certain he knew the score. The vet tech gave him a shot to relax him and he curled up in my lap and gently dug his claws into my pants. When the vet came in, she explained the process. This was it. I set him on the table, which was covered in soft blankets and towels, and stroked his soft silky head and told him I was sorry. That I loved him. And that he is going to a better place where he can eat anytime he wants. He closed his eyes. The vet listened for his last heart beat and then he was gone. I gave him one more stroke and left the room. My husband stayed a few more minutes and finally joined me in the lobby where we hugged and I cried some more.

I am not relieved quite yet, even though I know this was the best-case scenario for everyone. I don’t miss Oliver’s constant whining for food, but I do miss his presence. My other cat, Sebastian, followed me around for days after that. Cats are said to be solitary creatures but those two were like siblings – they wrestled, bathed each other, and slept in the exact same position at opposite ends of the couch – I called them my book ends. I feel a bit unbalanced. I always had two cats. I had them before anything else - husband, house, dog, kids. I understand completely the circle of life and the joy and sorrow that go along with it; nonetheless, I was caught off guard by this one.

Rest In Peace my dear kitty, Ollie-bear; 5/1996-11/2009. Enjoy the never ending supply of food, wherever you may be. We miss you.

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I came across this poem and it made me think of Oliver, especially because we had just moved into our new house and he was only here one week before he had to leave us. And he enjoyed his freedom outside, after years of being a house cat.

Hopper

by David Lehman

The disappearance of a cat is a good omen,
He said when she told him that hers was missing
A week after moving into her new house.
Cats in captivity violate the natural order,
He said. They should be out prowling, left
To fend for themselves in the streets and alleys
Of cities whose night life depends on them,
Of having them in the picture along with a cigarette,
A lamppost, the lid of an aluminum garbage can,
A police siren, an off-duty nightclub dancer
In a flimsy frock, with a run
In her nylons. A searchlight, a spotlight.
Strapless. The theater poster on the wall.

From Yeshiva Boys. © Scribner, 2009.

Home

We made it. We moved, unpacked, hosted Thanksgiving, replaced a dishwasher, and have settled in nicely to our new family home. Whew. We've been here two weeks and I can barely remember the old house. Okay, not really. In fact, I just had a dream about it last night. Mostly anxiety dreams - like the whole deal will fall through (albeit impossible since all the paperwork has been signed) or the new owners will have found something wrong and are causing some ruckus. Thankfully, it is all just dreams, bad dreams. Because my reality is much better.

Our old house felt like Jim and my house. When Shaelin came along, it was fine, but as she grew, the walls starting closing in. Then Owen came and it really felt crowded; as if our house couldn't hold anymore. Now we're here and I have a hard time believing we were all stuffed inside that house. This feels like OUR house. Everyone has an equal stake in the house now.

We have just a few miscellaneous boxes to unpack, but all the essentials are done. I feel like I can put my feet up and relax. Such a great feeling. I haven't really felt this relieved in MONTHS - nearly a year! Time to get on with the business of living. Ahhhh...

100 moving boxes

I've done my fair share of moving in my life including the "do-it-yourself" style of moving. However, somewhere in my mid-30s I decided that driving moving trucks through crowded city streets, lifting couches, and pulling beds up stairs was not for me so I vowed to never do it again. Now I leave it to professionals.

I booked the moving company on Monday and by Wednesday 100 folded cardboard moving boxes arrived. Fifty small-sized boxes, 25 medium-sized boxes and 25 large-sized boxes crowd my dining room floor. The cats use them as perches and scratching posts while the kids climb on the piles. I ignore the boxes, but they are there, watching me, waiting patiently to be filled.

When will I feel inspired to pack? To my credit, I have filled about 5 boxes because I've had fleeting impulses, but tire quickly of the whole scene and move onto something else (like Facebook). However, my general apathy toward packing is going to bite me in the ass. I know it will. I will not be the organized mover I want to be. I will end up throwing whatever and however into boxes just to get it done. My goal is to not take a lot of useless bits and pieces to the new house, but I know for certain that is easier said than done. I feel terrorized by the basement, specifically the storage room where various out-of-date electronics, childhood artifacts, and boxes of nameless, forgotten things lives.

The garage is a whole other world and I've officially put that on my "off limits" list. I will not touch it. That is the husband's domain. Especially because there are items in there that belonged to his father, who has been dead for over 5 years. Rusty old golf clubs, anyone?

I do feel like I am a bit ahead of the game [insert optimism here] because a lot of the clutter is already packed from when I got the house ready to sell. But as I look around, the feeling of oh-so-much-more to do is overwhelming and is the source of my inactivity and inability to pack more than one box at a time.

My mind is busy making lists of how I'm going to tackle each room and how I'm going to fill those dang boxes, nevertheless my follow-through is lousy.

T-minus 14 days before lift-off. I know it'll get done because the movers arrive at 8:30AM on November 20th. I accept that it will not be pretty. Packing up the lives of a growing family isn't as rousing as I thought it would be (or should be).

Just keeping my eye on the prize. Eye on the prize...!

Done!

Seven months of twisting in the wind is finally over. We're done. We not only sold our house, we bought another - in the span of 5 days!

I'm exhausted, but relieved. I will write about how it all went down at another time - when things have slowed down.

In the meantime, I received this poem in my email box yesterday from "The Writer's Almanac" and it seems appropriately named for the situation and how I feel.

Patience

Patience is

wider than one

once envisioned,

with ribbons

of rivers

and distant

ranges and

tasks undertaken

and finished

with modest

relish by

natives in their

native dress.

Who would

have guessed

it possible

that waiting

is sustainable—

a place with

its own harvests.

Or that in

time's fullness

the diamonds

of patience

couldn't be

distinguished

from the genuine

in brilliance

or hardness.

by Kay Ryan from Say Uncle. © Grove Press, 2000.

House For Sale - Part II

Last week we instituted a marketing ploy in our efforts to sell this house - we "re-listed" it. This means we took it off the market for a day, then had it listed again with MLS. This sends a "new listing" email to anyone who has a saved search on real estate websites whose criteria fits our house. We hoped this would generate new interest and showings in our house. So far, it is a total failure. We've had only one showing. And they didn't like our house because according to them, "at this price, there should be a bathroom upstairs". Ah, hello...really? Do you know of any house in this neighborhood at this price with a bathroom upstairs? It doesn't exist. I know my competition.

We also decided to end this whole "ordeal" at the beginning of November if we don't have an offer before that. We think our house appeals to first-time home buyers and to qualify for the First-Time Home Buyer Tax Credit, buyers have to close by December 1st. Since closings take about 30+ days, we figure if we haven't received an offer by then, we probably won't. Additionally, the last thing I want to do is having showings in the middle of winter and/or around the holidays. Bundling up the kids and a dog in the winter and riding around in my car on the off-chance someone "might" buy my house is a little too much. So, if nothing happens by November, we're done. We accept defeat (albeit temporary) and we'll start this whole thing over again next Spring.

I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders because there is an end date. The ambiguity around this house selling ordeal is now defined. And that feels pretty good!

House For Sale - Part I

We are in the midst of trying to sell our house and it is not going well. We’ve been on the market 174 days. Yes, that is nearly 6 months – for those who, like me, are mathematically challenged. I don’t think anyone expected it to take this long, especially me.

I’m not a patient person. I’m not one who is at ease to just wait around for things to happen. I like to have some control over things in life. One would think after having kids, I would learn a bit more patience. But I’ve accepted this is a part of me I cannot change, but I can learn to “control” it I suppose. I can “tell” myself to be patient, but that will only work for so long.

I’ve moved past patience now – that happened about three months ago. Now I’m just numb with anguish and frustration. We are officially entering our third season that our house has been for sale. We started this odyssey in the spring, endured the summer showings and now entering fall. The months of waiting, the anticipation, the feeling of having your life on hold is ridiculous. It is pure and simple agony.

I do not like to be involved in things I have absolutely no control. The only thing I can do is make my house shiny and clean when people want to see it. We can control the price of the house, but after reducing the price four times, we are done with that tactic. We are at rock bottom. I feel like we are giving away our house at this price, and that has yet to work.

I understand and rationally accept “this is a tough market”. There are a lot of houses to be bought and sold out there. We have had a lot of interest in the house; there has been plenty of showings, but as the old saying goes, “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” The reasons for no one buying it vary from the color of the bedroom walls to more legitimate concerns like our street is too busy. To be fair, we did receive one offer, but it was ludicrous, so it barely warrants a mention. It was such a low offer to start with, plus they wanted us to pay closing costs, making the offer the price we paid for our house six years ago! We’re desperate, but not that desperate.

Meanwhile, many houses that we see as our next house come and go so I’ve stopped looking. Houses in my neighborhood go up for sale and in a few short months are sold. Is there a black cloud that says DO NOT BUY hanging over my house, right above the For Sale sign?

Needless to say, after six months, I’ve lightened up a bit. I’m not letting selling this house consume me too much. Whatever happens happens. I accept that we will sell our house – eventually. The “when” is the unknown, which is the most frustrating part of any of situation, I suppose

It’s difficult to write about this experience with reflection and a healthy distant perspective because I’m still in the midst of it. However, I have realized that while this may consume me, life is still happening. My kids are growing and I need to divert my focus to them and enjoy the time while they are young. So, while I still may be impatient, somehow I’m managing to overcome that and just live.

a nice, little poem

In My Next Life
by Mark Perlberg

I will own a sailboat sleek
as fingers of wind
and ply the green islands
of the gulf of Maine.

In my next life I will pilot a plane,
and enjoy the light artillery
of the air as I fly to our island
and set down with aplomb
on its grass runway.

I'll be a whiz at math, master five or six
of the world's languages, write poems
strong as Frost and Milosz.

In my next life I won't wonder why
I lie awake from four till daybreak.
I'll be amiable, mostly, but large
and formidable.

I'll insist you be present
in my next life—and the one after that.

"In My Next Life" by Mark Perlberg, from Waiting for the Alchemist. © Louisiana State University Press, 2009.

It's all about baby products...

Finally, the little boy sleeps through the night! And what was the secret? A simple device I bought for my daughter - the wonderful crib tent. Neither of the kids are (or were) climbing out of the crib; it was a solution to the binks “falling” out of the crib.

My daughter would clear the crib of her binks by spreading her arms out across the mattress, pushing the pacifiers out the sides. (Yes, I’m using plural – both kids have/had no less than 4 binks with them in crib at any give time.) My son prefers to stand up and throw them across the room. The crib tent fixed both of these problems. And this fabulous invention creates a “cocoon”, a cave-like dwelling that both of them love(d) to sleep in.

Since my son is in our bedroom, the crib tent also provides a nice hide-away from any distractions caused by my husband, the dog, or me entering the bedroom to sleep.

The best part of the crib tent is that it is machine washable! Yesterday, I awoke to a most horrifying scene inside the crib tent: my baby boy was covered head to toe in his own feces! At some point in the night he had a major BM blow out! The mess leaked through his diaper and pants and throughout his night sleep cycles, managed to smear it EVERYWHERE! (You think I would have smelled it since his crib is a mere 20 inches from my bed!) As I unzipped the cocoon and between my gags and gasp for air, I managed to get him out and head for the tub. Then I collected many of the soiled items – some for the garbage and some for the washing machine.

I can’t sing the praises of this wonderful invention more! It has helped both of my kids sleep through the night. Also, naptime became a whole lot easier – he goes in willingly, pops a bink in his mouth, waits for the zip and then goes to sleep!

Yay!!

Finally, a solution...

Well, I did it. I did what everyone was telling me to do; including medical professionals. I put my precious baby boy in his bed awake and let him cry himself to sleep!

Despite his torturous screams and my visceral reaction (heaving chest, flood of tears) I resisted the natural motherly urge to scoop him up and calm him. In fact, I left the room. Daddy and the dog also left because it was 4 o’clock in the morning!

A few nights ago, it took three hours to get him to stay asleep. (See previous post “How to Put a Baby to Sleep”.) From 7pm to 10pm, I rocked, nursed, and bounced on the Yoga ball until I was successful at putting him in his crib without waking and crying. All my hard work was for naught since he woke up two hours later. So I put him back to sleep, another 30 minute trial. When he woke up again at 3AM and wouldn’t go back to sleep, I hit a wall. I refused to get out of bed – despite his cries from the crib (which is less than two feet from my bed.) Even the pleas from my poor, sick husband (he had a dreadful cold) couldn’t pry me from my warm blanket and the safe envelope of my pillow. I gave up. So my runny-nosed husband got up and bounced the writhing baby on the Yoga ball and rocked in the chair without success. He put the baby in with me and got back into bed. Still, the baby was not going to sleep. I nursed, soothed, and did whatever I could from the comfort of my bed, but nothing worked. Finally, I scooped up the baby, changed his diaper, made sure he was burped, hugged and kissed him, and place him in his crib. Screaming and crying. My husband asked if he could leave to finish sleeping someplace else and I excused him. The dog left too – he gets upset and nervous when babies are crying. I lay in bed for a few minutes before I realized my presence in the room was more torment to the screaming baby. “Why are you not picking me up,” his sad, sad, cries seemed to say. I turned off the monitor and left the room. I found a warm spot on the couch and listened to his distress for another 20 minutes. Then it was quiet. I woke up about an hour later and went back to bed.

There is no turning back. This is how it works. I’m learning to accept the protests – some minor screams and cries, which are less desperate and shorter in duration now. He seems to accept these terms too. Although, I backslid at 3AM this morning, I was too exhausted to put up with his agony so after 10 minutes I pulled him into bed and we were all fast asleep in one minute.

I admit that despite its inherent nature of torture and my abhorrent skepticism, letting him protest a little to get himself to sleep seems to be working.

And with that, we are all a little less crazed in this house because of it.

How to Put a Baby to Sleep

Step 1: Get yourself a Yoga ball and fill it so it’s chair height and rather bouncy. Any color will do, but the white balls, when placed in front a night light, glow like a giant orb, which can be quite soothing for you at 3 in the morning.

Step 2: Position the baby. Lay his head in the bend of your left arm and turn his face slightly toward you. His right arm/shoulder should be under your left arm/shoulder. Wrap the rest of his body around your abdomen so his tummy and your tummy align. Then mold your right arm around his legs and apply a tight hold.

For those grabby kinds of babies, use your left hand to hold down his flailing left hand.

Step 3: Insert the binky. Sucking typically calms and distracts him, especially during the transfer to the crib.

Step 4: Sit on the Yoga ball. Close your eyes and start bouncing. Count to 100 to pass the time. Try counting backwards from 100 to keep your mind sharp (which might be hard since mothers of young babies have very few available brain cells to do much else beyond eating). You will probably need to count to 100 a few times; at least until the baby’s eyes are closed and then throw in another 100 for good measure. Or you may wait to start counting when he finally closes his eyes. And then you will only have to count to 100 a few times. Don’t be surprised if you lose track and skip from 20 to 50, it is bound to happen. This is normal.

If the baby isn’t settling, feel free to pat his backside with your right hand and/or throw in a few rhythmic “shushes” with the momentum of the bouncing.

Step 5: Once the baby is in a relative sleepy way, stand up on your last 100, which by the way, has 3 bounces “one.hun.dred” so you’ll want to spring up swiftly on “dred”. Getting off the ball is all in the legs. Do not move your arms because you might jostle the baby’s eyes open.

Quietly make your way toward the rocking chair. A rocking glider is recommended for its smooth and quiet motion.

Step 6: Carefully lower yourself into the rocking chair. Balance the baby’s legs on the arm of the chair so your right hand is free to grab the pillow next to the chair. Place the pillow under your left arm. You will need this pillow because that baby’s big old noggin gets heavy as he drifts off to sleep.

Don’t forget to throw a couple thick blankets on the back of the chair to cushion your own noggin once it starts bobbin as you drift off to sleep. Which you will. Again, all completely normal. Your sleep deprivation is a powerful state when you’re putting a baby to sleep; don’t fight it.

Rock the baby for no less than 10 minutes. Do not cheat – the baby will wake up if you stop even after 9.5 minutes.

Step 7: After the requisite 10 minutes or more, stand up gently and slowly. Again, this action is all in the legs; do not disturb the baby enveloped tightly in your arms. Quietly walk to the side of the crib. Roll up on your tip toes so you have enough height to lower the entire upper half of your body into the crib. This makes the transition easier for the baby when you roll him from your arms. A note of caution, it is not a good idea to have the side of the crib down because of the excruciatingly loud and disruptive noise it will make when you move it back into place. For shorter people, feel free to have a step stool next to the crib to carry out the transfer.

Step 8: Transfer the baby. As you’re leaning over the crib, slowly roll the baby from your arms onto the mattress. This action will cause him to roll onto his left side - which is okay (who cares what the “Back to Sleep” people say). Eventually he will roll himself onto his back, but starting out on his side seems to do the trick. Once you’ve laid him down, keep your right hand on his legs, while patting and rubbing his back with your left hand. Count to 100.

Slowly walk away. But don’t wander too far. More than likely, he will wake up in 30 minutes, which you will then have to start the process all over again at Step 1.

You may skip Steps 1-5 (the whole Yoga ball thing) and start at Step 6 if you breastfeed the baby to sleep. But he’ll probably need to burp, which in that case, you’ll just have to start at Step 1 anyway.

Finally:
1.Turn on a fan. The white noise keeps the baby focused. He will not hear the 4-year-olds squeals of delight that her favorite TV show is on and/or the dog barking for no apparent reason.
2. Throw a sheet over the blinds – the darker the better. Babies like to sleep in dark, cool caves.
3. When you leave the room, take the dog with you. Otherwise you will hear his whimpers over the monitor because clearly he can’t open the door to follow you from room to room.

Good luck and Godspeed.

A Few Minutes With a 4-year-old:

Mom, may I have some tape, please?

I’m sorry, we don’t have any tape.

Please, can I have some tape?

We don’t have any tape.

Tape!

I just told you, we don’t have any tape.

Please!

How can I give you tape, when we don’t have any.

Tape! Tape!

We don’t have any tape so stop asking for it.

Pleeeezeee!

I know you understand what I’m saying so stop asking. We don’t have any tape.

Tape! Tape! Tape! Please!

If you ask me again, you’re going in a time out.

NO time out….!!!! Tape…! (runs away screaming…)


A few minutes later:

Mom, I guess we’ll just have to go to the store to buy some tape.