A Day at the Beach

Finally on the last day of June, we had some steamy summer weather. What else is there to do when it feels like 105 degrees outside – hit the beach!

Growing up in northern Minnesota, surrounded by lakes, I never fully accepted the notion of outdoor swimming pools. To me, they are giant vats of chemically treated water surrounded by feet-scorching concrete. The smell of chlorine and bleach takes me back to Jr. High gym class where we were forced to wear school-issued orange swimsuits that made everyone look like a floating pumpkin, regardless of their body type. Swimming in the summer means fresh, cool lakes with sandy beaches and no hint of chemicals that burn my nose. I’ll take sand in my pants over burning eyes from chlorine, thank you.

While my almost 3-year-old napped, I packed up about 40 pounds of beach gear. Towels, sunscreen, plastic beach toys, water bottles, life jackets, a chair, one pink and one blue “noodle”, and a few snacks. When he woke up, we (including my 6-year-old, who had been patiently waiting to go since she got up) packed ourselves and the gear into my tiny Jetta for the 10 minute drive to the beach.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with this beach idea. There was a double line and I was car #5 in the shortest line. Eventually, I was the last one there because on this day, the hottest day of the year, I chose to buy my season beach pass, which involved paperwork and a credit card.

We scored Rock Star parking! This meant I didn’t have to pull out the giant stroller from my tiny trunk and pack it with all the beach gear. Naturally, I regretted this decision upon the first whine from the 6-year-old that the pink noodle (the only thing she was carrying) was too heavy. We were mere feet from the beach.

We zigzagged through the towels, umbrellas, and flip-flopped feet and settled in our usual spot between the two life-guard stations. Although it was 3:30pm, I lathered up my alabaster-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed children with SPF 50. You can never be too careful! My 6-year-old decided she no longer wanted to wear any sort of life-saving equipment; she didn’t even want the noodle. Gasp.

Well, at least the almost 3-year-old would be safe in his Buzz Lightyear life jacket, even if he never enters the water. I dumped the plastic beach toys near the water for him to play with; maybe he’ll get his feet wet. I settled in my chair and look for my suddenly-brave 6-year-old among the dozens of bobbing heads. It was hot! Sweat rolled down my back, my front, my face, yet I remained in my chair. My Buzz Lightyear’s face was blotchy-red and his hair was wet (from sweat) so it was time to get him cool. I sat in the water next to him and miracle of miracles, he sat down too. We played in the 3 inches of water making sand castles.

Suddenly, there were random children absconding with my plastic beach toys! Clearly, this gang of beach toy bandits belonged to the chatty mothers sitting next to me. I cleared my throat and looked at them “I don’t mind if they play with the toys, just be sure they play with them here.” Awkward giggling. “Oh, we didn’t even notice, thanks.” Well, pay attention because your annoying cherubs were just about to enter a life of crime.

Up next, another thief, about 4-years-old, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed a blue bucket and ran to the other side of the beach! I went after the pint-size robber like a Keystone cop and caught up with him in the surf. “Excuse me little boy, but that is my bucket.” He put it in my hand without incident, except for the horror in his eyes. Big bad momma, coming for my bucket! You better be scared. And where are your parents?

I spent the next hour fending off would-be beach toy burglars, instead of watching my 6-year-old pretend to be a good swimmer. She found a friend from school who kept her occupied and I only had to yell at her once for going too far out in the water. “No, you may not swim out to that dock. That one is only for teenagers!” (Teenagers who actually know how to swim!)

More and more kids appeared for the toys. I can’t be the only one with this problem. I can’t be the only one that brought cheap plastic toys to this beach. I kept them in a pile near my Buzz Lightyear, who was clearly playing with them. But they hovered and eyed them like prey. “You may play with them, but they have to stay here.” I finally said to two different groups – some of them who were at least 11-years-old. The older they are, the more stealthy. They peered around; wondered if anyone was watching. I am. I’m staring right at you. You can’t miss me; I’m huge.

5pm safety check was the perfect time to pack up and leave. I gathered up the plastic beach toys; almost lost a cup to a kid who said it was his because he found it floating. Yeah, that’s because another one of your kind – the thieving kind, took it out in the water and left it there. It’s mine. Step.Away.From.My.Cheap.Plastic.Beach.Toys.

Fortunately, the friend of the 6-year-old left too, so there was no drama when I said it was time to go; except when she ran off to rinse her feet but left her flip flops back in the sand. Buzz Lightyear was bothered by his wet swim diaper, so we dragged our sweaty selves and the 40 pounds of beach gear into the rest room to change, which was sweltering because the hot-air hand dryers turned on/off for no apparent reason.

I started the car for the air conditioning (like you would do in the winter to heat it up) and I packed my beach cargo and kids in. I was soaking sweaty wet; wetter than I had been in the last hour sitting on a beach.


If and when I do this again, I will label my old, weathered plastic beach toys with a giant black Sharpie. “Do Not Touch. Or Steal. Unless you’re one of my children. Who knows manners and knows how to ask to play with things that are not theirs.”

Rodents Among Us

EEK A MOUSE!

If you look closely at this picture, underneath the travel coffee mug you will see on the left side a long tail and on the right side, a pointed nose. Yes, it is indeed a mouse.

A few months ago we discovered the presence (in the form of droppings!) of mice in the cabinet where we keep the trash can. A few days later, we heard some wrestling noises coming from there and my very senior cat stared at the cabinet doors for hours. Slowly but surely, we accepted that we have unwanted vermin in the house. We set traps for three nights in a row and caught two large-size mice. We also plugged the holes in the walls of the cabinet. The evidence of mice was gone.

Two nights ago my husband admitted that he thought he felt something brush across his feet one early morning while making coffee and wasn’t sure if it was his pant leg or something more sinister. Later, mindlessly staring at the TV, I was distracted by some activity just to the right of where I was looking. I focused on a tiny brown mouse scurrying ACROSS THE STOVE, ONTO THE COUNTER! OH MY GOD! My husband rushed into the room just as the varmint was slinking into the seam at the back of the stove. He didn’t believe me that is where the mouse went until I held up my fingers, “The thing was thisbig! They are small; they can mash their bodies to fit into anything!” My first instinct was to turn the oven on BROIL, but quickly ruled that out for fear of scraping burnt mouse out of my oven. That night we set two more traps and went to bed early. We were afraid of being on the same floor with the rodents, but not before witnessing a miraculous event; my 18-year-old cat mustered up enough strength to chase something (no doubt a mouse) unsuccessfully across the floor. It was the fastest I’ve seen him move in years!

The next morning, both traps were victorious. A large-size and the small-size variety of the average brown house mouse were dead from snapped necks, lying under the flipped-over wooden traps. Fortunately, I have not been the one to see and/or dispose of any of the carcasses.

Later that day, I spotted another unwanted mouse family member on the stove and when I screamed he ran back to whatever hole he came from. So we set more traps. We were under siege! These rodents were brazen and obviously desperate because they were coming out during the day with plenty of activity around – including the cat and dog who were both on high alert. I feared the worse; there is a nest, a colony full vermin living someplace I can never see or get to in my house.

I called an exterminator, who couldn’t come until the next day because I was calling on Sunday. I didn’t care about the cost; I could no longer live like this.

An hour later, I heard winces and muffled screams coming from my husband. He beckoned me to the kitchen where he stood covering his mouth and his other hand was pointed at the sink. A tiny little mouse was trapped. We all stared at each other. Paralyzed. “He’s kind of cute,” I said. “Not when he’s in our sink,” my husband answered. “What do we do?” “I have no idea.” So, naturally, I did what any modern girl would do and grabbed my iPhone and snapped this picture. The mouse made the decision easy for us and crawled into the garbage disposal. I grabbed a bowl and put it over the drain hole and put the travel coffee mug on top for weight. Little baby mouse will stay there until a professional retrieves it. And yes, we did consider flipping the switch on, but the idea of a bloody ground-up vermin was too much to reflect on. Poor husband was getting himself a cookie when he discovered the menacing mouse and later my 2-year-old, who witnessed the incident, surmised that “daddy was scared of the cookie.”

The next day, a portly, jovial man carrying two industrial looking buckets knocked on the door and said he was here to take care of Mr. Jingles and all his friends. “Good, because have I got a surprise for you,” I said and explained about the mouse in the disposal. Smiling, Mr. Exterminator asked why I didn’t turn it on. “Instead, we are going to drown it,” he said and turned on the hot water. Great, boiled baby mouse!? He went down in the basement to distribute the bait – a delicious mixture of bird seed and poison. I watched the sink start to fill with water and wondered if any was getting under the bowl. I lifted it up a bit but apparently it was too much lift because suddenly a tiny wet mouse jumped up at me and I screamed like a little girl! I grabbed a spoon and started batting at it to keep it from getting away or worse, jumping on me! Mr. Exterminator came up from the basement grinning and asked what happened. I could not put two words together but he figured it out and said he’d handle it. I left to collect myself in the next room and I knew he was finished when he asked for a plastic bag. Bye bye Mr. Jingles.

He distributed another dozen or so mouse-death dinners around the basement and kitchen and clarified that these “dinners” are meant to be eaten by the parents and regurgitated to the young. Great, I’m going to find dead mice all over my house?! Mr. Exterminator explained that we live in MouseTown, a name he christened neighborhoods located near nature preserves. He has a client near me he services regularly because she keeps feeding birds and we all know how mice love to eat birdseed! He pointed to our birdhouse and said to get rid of it and told me to fire my cat. Eventually we’ll have to plug up all the holes we see in the basement rafters and behind cabinets and the stove to block their entry. He pointed to an opening in the foundation of our garage that seems to be the likely culprit for allowing the vermin invasion. He poured some poisoned powder in the hole and if all goes according to plan, when the mouse enters, the white talcum covers their fur so when they groom themselves it’ll kill them. I guess I didn’t know mice lick themselves too?

As he was leaving he wrapped his hands together in the air and exclaimed “What a great day already, hand-to-hand combat with a mouse.” The best $175 I have ever spent.

I realize the poison doesn’t work over night, but I’m hopeful that I won’t see anymore vermin running across my counters anytime soon.

Spring is here!

Time to pack away the puffy-down winter coat and fur-lined boots.

While it is the ugliest time of the year with brown grass and black snow, it evokes a sense of reawakening after a long spell of winter dormancy.

Soon green buds will emerge on tree branches and hosta bulbs will peek out from the brown ground.

Birds sing and fly all over the back yard! Time to put food in the bird house.

Melt, drip, melt, drip, melt, drip. Flood!

Rake up soggy leaves and clean up missed dog doodie.

No more fleece sweaters or slippers. Layers for quick removal.

Plan flowers and summer vacations.

We missed you, Spring!

A few thoughts about bullying.

Bullying. Teasing. Taunting. Ridiculing. Ribbing. Messing around. I’m just playing with ya. I’m Kidding. Just Joking. No matter what you call it, it’s mean. Pure and simple. While the teaser may think it’s all in fun (what’s wrong with a bit of good-nature ribbing) I can assure you that the teased do not always see it that way.

When does it cross the line? When does “joking around” cause children to kill themselves? These are questions no one can answer – not the victim or the victimizer.

Too many recent suicides are a little to late to get people up in arms over this seemingly senseless rite of passage. Right or wrong, every child experiences some level of bullying. When does innocent joking cross into cruelty? Every child reacts differently. Personally, I don't deal very well with teasing, no matter whom it comes from or how innocuous it is. As an adult, I’ve learned to smile and change the subject. As a child, I usually burst into tears. As a teen, I learned to not let it show that it bothered me, instead I quietly cried myself to sleep.

I have an unscientific and not-based-on-facts theory that kids with older brothers/siblings, tend to adapt better to a bit of teasing. These kids learn early and accept it as the way it is. Perhaps it is a form of humor. It is also accepted and evident in sports because it is where they first experience it outside their family. Not that I have or ever will be a member of a sports team, however I get the sense that it is a part of team building and sportsmanship – a little bit of joking around might be okay. However, as kids grow up and realize the power they can have over another human being, this mild form of bullying can be taken too far. Specifically in the case of hazing, a notorious unauthorized price of admission for many fraternities, sororities, and sports teams.

Hazing, of course, is an extreme form of bullying. And naturally, it is illegal. But what about taunting a child? Calling him names as he walks down the hall at school. School is a pinnacle of higher learning. It’s a place where kids are supposed to feel safe and flourish, not shamed and humiliated.

Bullying has been around since the beginning of time. It now has an official name – one that everyone unfortunately knows all too well. During junior high and high school I was both prey and predator. My worst offense was name-calling. And my junior year of high school, I was duly paid back for my part in this crime by being called names. A few times, the names were chanted at me from the bleachers as I stood on the basketball court, doing a cheer routine for the team. Yes, even as a cheerleader I was taunted.

To this day, I do not and will not forget or forgive my tormentors, who were a small group of older boys. (Nor do I forget the girl whom, together with a group of others caused much anguish and torment in junior high.) The hardest part for me and I suppose for any kid who gets bullied is the confusion. I never did anything to these kids. I never spoke a word to them before, during, or after this angst-filled time. Trying to understand “why” is what keeps you awake a night.

Yesterday I read an article about a 13-year-old who hanged herself from her canopy bed. She had texted a picture of her naked breast to her boyfriend, which then went viral. She was tormented and teased until she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d show them. The saddest part is that even after her death, she was still being called a whore. This story has so many layers of wrong. Too many to examine right now. But I can’t help wondering about the relationship of this 13-year-old girl and her “boyfriend”. Personally, I would die if my 13-year-old daughter even had a boyfriend, especially one that she felt the need to expose herself in such a way. But more importantly, there is a double standard at play here. While this girl, however innocently she thought sending that picture was, it turned her into a pariah. On the other hand, the boyfriend was probably high-fived. Yep, that was super funny sharing a picture of your girlfriend’s breast. Who's laughing now?

Today’s bullying is much worse because of technology. The internet and cell phones make our lives easier, but our creature comforts come with a price, and I’m not talking about money.

My children are still small, although I now have a Kindergartner. My idealism tells me that I have a few more years before I have to deal with this issue, but reality says this is simply not true. Our kids seem to grow up faster than us. They know more at 5, 10, and 15-years-old than we did. I’m ill-prepared for the emotional warfare of growing up, despite having gone through it. I don’t know what to say to my kids if this becomes an issue. I can read books and do all the things I’m suppose to do, but are we suppose to prepare for this? Should we really have to?

While my mother isn’t known for great nuggets of wisdom, I do thank her for this: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Now, if only more Moms would say this to their kids, maybe they would stop being so mean.

Q: What has been your experience with this issue? What advice do you have?

Time. And some chocolate.

It seems lately that I don't have enough time to read emails. Least of all junk e-mail. Even ones I subscribe to. There are two junk email sources that I get daily, both of which I love. However, they pile up in my email box.

The first (subscribed) junk email I get is called A Word A Day and I've been receiving these daily emails for years. I often read them quickly, however, I don't think I spend enough time with it to let the meaning of the word sink in, so I file it away and figure I'll return to it when I have more time. Which is unlikely any time in the near future. So, there they sit, in my email box waiting patiently for their knowledge to be absorbed.

The second one I receive is a relatively new source for me called The Writer's Almanac, created by Garrison Keillor. The email contains a poem followed by the mention of the birthday of notable writers and a brief synopsis of their life and/or noteworthy events in history that happened on the day. I only slightly admire poetry and quite honestly, I tend to skim over the poems in this email. But every now and then, one stops me and I think that it is too good not to share. I've posted a few poems on this blog from this source and today, I have another one. It's about my favorite pastime. Chocolate. And I could not have said it any better than how this poem does.

Ode to Chocolate

by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.

"Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker, from More. © C&R Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission.

Dogs

All dog owners can related to this poem. It perfectly captures what happens when we take our 4-legged friends out for a walk.

Cleaning up after the Dog
by Jason Tandon

Pull plastic bag from pocket
and wave it like a flag

or diploma. Make sure many people
congratulate your care
for the community.

Check bag for holes.
Double check.

Inspect stool for odd hues.
Greens, blues, blood.

Evaluate consistency.

You don't want to leave smears
on the sidewalk or grass—no prints.

Getaway must be clean.

Prepare to go in for all of it.
Hold breath.
Grab, clamp, reverse bag, twist, knot, cinch.

Smell hands.

Hold loaded bag high in the air,
assure onlookers that Everything is Okay.

If a cop should cruise by,
his crew cut bristling
in the sun,

hold that bag higher,
so he, too, can salute
your contribution.

The bomb diffused,
the world a little safer, a little cleaner,

will not offend the deep treads
of someone's shoes.

"Cleaning up after the Dog" by Jason Tandon, from Give Over the Heckler and Everyone Gets Hurt. © Black Lawrence Press, 2009.


This is my dog Murphy. He drives me crazy. But I still love him. Most of the time.

There was nothing simple about this

Do not be alarmed. This isn’t a play-by-play account of a colonoscopy. One’s back end and its true function isn’t something anyone really wants to talk about, let alone read about. However, I feel compelled to put pen to paper (or fingers to computer keys) and write through this less than pleasant experience.

First off, the fact that I’m only 42 puts me in an atypical colonoscopy patient group. Normally, one doesn’t have this screening until they are 50+ years old. Nonetheless, a family history makes me eligible for this procedure. I use the term “procedure” lightly because on paper it may seem like a simple procedure when a doctor can do two an hour, however it is a major production for the patient.

Many will tell you that the procedure is easy compared to the preparation and I’m inclined to believe that since the “pre-homework” is ghastly. Once I started the prep work, I was useless for about 48 hours. Not an easy task for a mother of two young children.

My father was diagnosed with colon cancer when he was 50 years old and while it is a very curable cancer if caught early enough, his was not. Ultimately, it spread to his lymphatic system and eventually he died from liver cancer; a mere 9 months later. That was about 15 years ago and there was no reason for him to have an early screening since up until then there was no history of any kind of cancer in the family. Nonetheless, the doctors told each of his children to get screened for this cancer at age 40 – ten years before the age of the diagnosis of a parent.

When I made the appointment, I was handed a packet full of information, specifically, instructions of the prep work I had to do the day before the procedure. This involved laxatives – lots of them and included fasting the day before and drinking a gallon of clear liquids. Certainly, not my idea of a good time.

The hardest part was NOT eating. As a stay-at-home mom it was particularly difficult to make food for the kids all day! I was dizzy and weak by 10am. I could drink juice but I’m not a juice drinker – in fact, I hate juice. But I sucked down apple and white grape fruit juice as if it was life-sustaining. I needed the sugar to keep me going. Around noon I had to load up the kids and drive my daughter to preschool. I should not have been driving because I was shaking by this point. I called the mother of one of her classmates to walk her into school because I simply didn’t have the strength to get out of the car, get both kids out, carry the baby, and get her to her into the classroom on time.

When I got home, I put the baby to bed and began to drink the first of the required two 10 ounce bottles of Citrate of Magnesium. A delicious blend of laxatives and lemon and perhaps battery acid. It was clear and a little bubbly and totally misleading. I expected it to taste like 7UP but it was bitter and shocking and I can’t find the right words to describe this most hideous “flavor”. I wondered if it was even edible. I put it on ice as an attempt to deceive myself as I choked it down. I sat on the couch watching mindless daytime TV and gulped it – 5 gulps at a time. I should point out that some may have guzzled it because the taste is so heinous, but I’ve never been a guzzler. Not even in my most heavy beer drinking college days – I could never guzzle anything!

Fortunately my husband was able to leave work early to pick our daughter up from school. He also had to buy more Gatorade. The directions say that during the laxative phase one has to keep hydrated. I bought orange Gatorade, but the instruction sheet said to avoid red and purple drinks. So to be safe, I had him buy the yellow flavor, which, by the way, I hate because it reminds me of all the times I’ve been vomiting sick and had to drink it for the “electrolytes” .

By 3pm, I was nauseous and tired and the baby was still sleeping, so I climbed into bed. The phone rang a few minutes later but I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voicemail. Watching the blinking red light beckon me to check the message, I realized I hadn’t seen the dog in a while. He’s usually my shadow and jumps at the opportunity to nap with me. I knew the call had to be someone who found him because he’s prone to getting off his chain – especially in the last couple days. I listened to the young female voice saying she found him wandering by the school. I had no recollection of when I put him outside - starvation does that to one’s memory. When I called back and explained where I lived, she offered to bring him home because I was babbling about how was I going to get him. (I was queasy, had a sleeping baby, I shouldn’t be driving, and I am liable to mess my pants any minute – that part I didn’t say out loud…at least I don’t think I did.) She didn’t know where I lived and said she’d call her mom for directions. I called my husband but he was on his way but it would be another 40 minutes before he’d be home. I called my mother-in-law but she couldn’t help. I finally realized this stupid dog was my responsibility and in my delirium I could just about hear the mother of this girl saying “come pick up your own damn dog!”. Which is what I did – extracting the sleeping baby from his warm bed, stuffing him in a coat and hat, pulling on my boots, a jacket, and praying I wouldn’t have an accident in my pants as I drive to pick up the Harry Houdini dog that lives in my house. When I arrived I was relieved that I didn’t make the girl bring him home because she was a lot younger than her voice (11 or 12). No one that age should walk through an unfamiliar neighborhood to return a leash-less dog she found.

When my husband got home I went back to bed and within the hour, I was on and off the toilet for the next 6+ hours. Again, I’ll spare the details – but just let me say this: at times, I had no idea if I was urinating or defecating but more than likely both. In between all that, I drank more water, Gatorade, and the other 10 ounces of the liquid laxative/lemony/ battery acid concoction and per the instructions took a few more laxative tablets to make extra sure I was clean.

In the waiting room of hospital the next day, I laid my head on my husband's arm – I was weak and tired and my head seem impossibly heavy. The nurse led me into the area appropriated named “Endoscopy”. I put on the standard-issued hospital gown and bathrobe and the nurse asked me a dozen health questions. Her first attempt to put the IV needle in my hand failed – as proof by her display of the bent needle, so she gave up and after taping a cotton ball to my bleeding and bruised hand and giving me some ice, her partner stuck a needle into my other hand.

I was wheeled into another room where I met the doctor who explained the process and procedure. Pointing out the computer monitor where I can watch the whole thing in living color! They rolled me on my left side, I pulled my knees up to my chest, exposing my back side and they asked me how sleepy I wanted to be. I said I was ready for a nap and they injected the sedative. Instantly I felt dizzy and closed my eyes and didn’t open them until I felt a blunt object trying to scratch its way out of the inside of my lower abdomen and I moaned “OHMYGOD”. I guess I was warned about this. Apparently the lower part of the colon is curved and the “scope” has some uncomfortable turns to make to get where it needs to be. The nurse held my hand and talked me off the ledge. Once the probe was in further and the searing pain subsided, my eyes stayed open long enough to catch a glimpse of the inner sanctum of my colon. It was nothing spectacular or riveting so I went back to my sleepy place.

When it was over I was wheeled back to the recovery area and left alone to sleep. Eventually a nurse came in to check on me and explained that as soon as I “pass the air”, she could discharge me. The colon is like a flat tire when not in use so they pump in air to inflate it during the procedure. I had no idea how hard it would be for my body to do this (pass air). It doesn’t seem to have much trouble when I don’t need it to. The nurse suggested a few different positions to help me get this done but they didn’t work. After a while, I managed a walk to the bathroom and passed a small bit of air, but it didn’t make me feel better as the nurse promised. Being upright and even sitting made me nauseous and when the doctor came in he said I looked a little green and ordered some anti-nausea medicine, which worked immediately. I also ate some ice chips and quietly “passed air” again. I finally got dressed and discharged. My husband went to get the car and the nurse walked me out as I clutched the printed report of the procedure, complete with full color pictures of my perfectly clean, cancer-free colon.

At home, I went directly to bed and later my husband brought food – the best peanut butter toast I have ever eaten in my entire life. The next day I had no lingering effects. And no, my behind does not hurt as a few have asked. Although the gas pains were still with me the next morning, eventually they subsided and it’s all just a distant, faded memory. One I am destined to repeat in 5 years.

What's Next...

When I quit my corporate job 5 years ago to stay at home with my daughter (and despite 3 years of freelance after that) I said I was “retired”. And I meant it. Specifically, I have retired from advertising and marketing.

So here I sit, blissfully unemployed and careerless and wondering what my next move is. I’m not in a hurry mind you (because I still have another baby at home) but attending Kindergarten registration this week got me thinking about what is next for me. I am and will always be a Mom (and a stay-at-home one for a couple more years), but eventually, I think it’s my duty to bring some cash into this house instead of spending it. I want to save for retirement (again), save for college tuition, and take family vacations. Buy a car built in 2000-something. Paint my living room. You get my point.

Recently, I had a short-lived income source – a seasonal, temporary gig as a cashier at Target. While I didn’t mind the brain-numbing work, I did mind the longs hours of standing and worse, working every Saturday and Sunday every single weekend. I quit my full-time corporate job to stay home and build a family yet I was leaving them every weekend. I craved family time with Mommy, Daddy and Kids. This was especially hard when my baby was sick. I went to work and fought to keep back the tears. A baby needs his mommy, especially when he’s sick. Besides, I worked really hard to finish college and endure the corporate world to avoid jobs like this.

Right now, at the top of the list is teaching. I’ve gathered information and talked to admissions at Hamline University about a Master of Arts in Teaching degree. Since I’ve already been a graduate student there, I have nothing but admiration for this school; so naturally, this is the place I’ll choose if I pursue this idea. I believe many of my existing graduate school credits would transfer to this new program; specifically because the area of teaching I’m considering is literature and writing. One roadblock is securing two letters of recommendations. I have simply been out of touch too long to have anyone rise to the top that I can ask. Nonetheless, if and when I do this, I should start soon so I can be nearly finished by the time my youngest starts kindergarten – which, by the way, is the unspoken agreement I have with myself (and my husband) of when I would return to work.

But the prospect of teaching makes me nervous. What if I don’t get a job? The job market in my chosen field is not great. And what if after all the school, time, and money, I suck at teaching!? What if the kids hate me and the parents and faculty doubt my ability? Furthermore, I’ve never been very good at dealing with bureaucracy and I can’t think of any place that would have more red tape, rules and “guidelines” than the education system.

Some days I’m completely ready to dive into this teaching thing, but other days the choice isn’t as clear.

Teaching isn’t something I plucked out of the air. It’s always been there – sitting in the back of my mind. Midway through my freshman year, I declared an Education major, but was distracted and changed to Communications my junior year. Years later, while working on an MFA in Creative Writing, it was a given that I would simply teach as an income source while working on my writing.

Two kids, a move to the suburbs, and kindergarten registration have made me realize the quick passage of time. Truth be told, I don’t think I have it in me to finish my MFA in Creative Writing and really, I don’t think I have the luxury of working toward a degree like that, one that has less promise of a job than a teaching degree.

I always knew I had to do something else. But what? I’m open to suggestions…

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.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

The Great Pet Debate...part I

The cats have outgrown their usefulness, according to my husband. When have they ever been “useful”, I ask? Indoor cats stopped being useful when dirt floors were replaced with linoleum. And we don’t have a mouse problem. Although, it’s unlikely they would know what to do if they saw a mouse anyway.

My husband hasn’t always hated the cats. The cats were here first and he had a healthy affection for them when we started our life together. His distain for them started when he took over the task of cleaning their “bathroom” four years ago when I was pregnant. It remains one of his few household duties to this day, much to his dismay.

We debate about which is the better pet – the dog or the cats. My argument is based on which pet is more destructive to the house and the dog wins! His claws scratch the wood floors when he spastically runs from window to window trying to catch a squirrel he spied in the front yard. The window ledges are shredded from him clawing at the bunny hiding in the Hostas outside. The glass is permanently stained with “greasy dog nose”. And the newly refinished steps have deep gouges from his need to race us up the stairs. The cats have scratched a few pieces of furniture and occasionally take out their frustration over being locked up in a room by leaving a steaming pile of defecation in the middle of the floor (we no longer lock them up). It’s a lot cheaper to replace a couch than repair the wood floors and windows.

My husband’s argument is based on personality of the pet. And while I agree the dog has more personality, he is more annoying than the cats. He barks – a lot. But not because he’s protective, he barks from excitement and the simple act of my husband walking into a room is cause for celebration in the dog’s world. The cats could care less if we are around, much less make much noise. One of the cats whines because he’s eternally hungry; the other cat bullies him away from the food dish. I throw a few cat treats on the floor and push him outside and I don’t see him for hours.

If it were up to my husband, the cats would have met their maker by now. I say that if we get rid of the cats, the dog goes too. The discussion is dropped. At least until the next time we discover some of their destruction or have to clean up after them.