Shiver me timbers! The glorious day has returned!
No. No. No. I am not participating. I refuse.
Avast, ya are, so says I. Or ye shalll walk the plank.
Would that be the deck?
To the deck with you then!
Whatever.
Argh-f! Argh-f! Argh’ll do it!
That’s a pretty poppet. Good girl.
Yesterday, I walked outside to accept a delivery and The Boy opened the door allowing Her Name is Rio to finally meet her presumed nemesis. It was a scary moment for everyone. Me, with my hands full of packages and sigining instruments. The delivery man, exclaiming, running. The Boy, saying, “This is my dog!” with a happy-go-lucky air about him. And Her Name is Rio, snarling. As if she’s some sort of tough dog.
Grrr.
The end result?
A poem.
To The Man Who Rang The Doorbell
By Her Name is Rio
I bark at you because I do not know you;
I bark at you because I am fierce;
I bark at you because I am top dog.
I bark,
I bark,
I bark,
Alas,
Fear not the hair standing atop my back;
Nor the teeth bared and sharp;
Nay, not even the snarl escaping my lungs.
I am all bark and no bite.
Unless you are a small yipping dog.
Which you are not.
Good-bye, good sir,
I’m sorry to have caused thee fright.
P.S. I hope your pants are clean.
Message to Her Name is Rio: Your poetry lacks substance.
What happens when there’s an unaccounted for sound in my house:
What was that? My Doggy Sense tells me something is going on outside!
Bark bark bark bark!!!
Growl… growl…
Woof!
Me: Um, seriously, dog—you need to stop.
And why am I so cold to her finely attuned senses? Well, let’s see. Her Name is Rio went a little berserk just today, barking and growling, until I finally opened the door to the backyard. She ran out and started barking at this:
A dead palm frond has fallen off the tree.
You go get ‘em girl, you show that palm frond who’s boss! You’re the dog! You’re the one in charge! Alpha Dog! Alpha Dog! Hoo-rah!!!!!!
Wake me when a real problem comes up.
So Clorox just came out with another addition to their Green Works product line, natural biodegradable cleaning wipes. They clean up everything, even wet dog prints.
Oh you had to go and bring that up!
They also smell lovely, unlike wet dog.
Enough with the insults!
Green Works has gotten the seal of approval from the Sierra Club for its products, but for those of you who require more impressive approbation, everyone’s favorite 90210 star, Jennie Garth AKA Kelly Taylor, also supports Clorox Green Works and encourages the use of reusable bags:
Big enough to carry certain wet dogs.
Lastly, and most excitingly, Clorox Green Works has rolled out the Green Heroes Grant Program, which will award five $10,000 grants each to eco-friendly community projects. From January 15 and February 28, 2009, you can nominate eco-friendly community projects for a Green Heroes grant by submitting a photo and short essay about the project for consideration. From March 16 through April 10, 2009, public voting will take place online and the five Green Heroes will be announced on April 22, Earth Day. I hope there’s a group out there doing something about wet dogs…
How about the animal rescue where you got me?
This is the newest member of my household, Fuzzy:
Tell me Fuzzy, how does it feel to be Little No Limit’s Favorite Toy?
(silence)
I mean, you’re clearly her favorite toy. She drew this:
Quite the likeness, no?
(silence)
What, you’re not going to talk to me?
(silence)
I see you trading secrets with Little No Limit all day long.
(silence)
I don’t like your attitude! What’s with you, you think you’re too good for me?
(silence)
Listen here, Fuzzy, if you don’t start talking, you’re going to find yourself on a one way trip to the dog house.
I call dibs!
Forget that, I always get dibs.
Fuzzy, what do you have to say?
(silence)
I see.
***
What is it about stuffed animals that every child in the world can carry on a conversation with them but no matter how hard I try, all I get is silence?
For more kid art, visit Magic Marker Monday at 5 Minutes for Special Needs.
The morning shower left droplets on the red and brown leaves and recently mowed grass. There is a light fog, probably leftover marine layer and the sun has finally come out. The whole park screams “Yes, I am that beautiful.”
We spend some time walking about the park and the kids sing “It’s November” to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin?”, something they learned at school and can’t get enough of (they’re fans of Albuquerque the Turkey as well, but haven’t memorized the lyrics). The Boy and Little No Limit scurry about to the tune of their song, their footsteps swishing and squishing their way through wet grass. They pick up fallen leaves. Leaf after leaf goes securely into their plastic bag for them to bring home and examine one by one for nuances in color, the random caterpillar, and full vs. broken.
The dogs are happy to be out on a walk, sniffing for all the latest and greatest pee-mail and leaving their appropriate responses. Another dog goes by in a car, a toy pinscher, wearing a sweater, barking at us.
Don’t even try, little dog in human clothes, you will not win.
Little No Limit is wearing jeans with large wet circles on both her knees from kneeling in the wet grass. She jumped in a puddle. I know her socks are soaked. I hope she doesn’t catch a cold. I worry if The Boy should even pick up leaves because the other day when he did that at a different park, his eye swelled up and his elbows and knees turned red and the doctor said he probably touched/rubbed against some plant.
I was talking about that incident this morning on the phone with my sister in law. “It’s so hard,” she said, while talking about how to protect our children. “What are we supposed to do, put them in a bubble?”
Honestly, there are moments. Moments when I think, man, I wish I could just do that. Hide them away in a bubble or a sanctuary like the guy in Once Upon a Day. But then I remind myself that that’s crazy talk. That I can’t lock them away. That that doesn’t protect them or help them. That I can’t stop everything, or perhaps anything, from happening to them.
I read a quote recently, attributed to Corrie Ten Boom: “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength.”
I am a worrier. There is no way around it. I worry about everything I do, everything I don’t do. I can’t stop myself. I do at least restrain myself, though, and force myself to not let my worrying stop the kids from being kids.
And so I watch my daughter get her shoes and pants wet and I watch my son play with the leaves. And the only thing that happens are smiles. Smiles and red, exuberant cheeks, and giggles, and more of “It’s November.” And I am thankful.
The Boy’s speech has made marked improvements since the start of Kindergarten. I’m sure some of you experienced your two and three year olds telling your life story to strangers, but I’m only just now experiencing this. The Boy wants to show the parking lot attendant what he has in his pockets or introduce his entire family to anyone we encounter. He’s very chatty these days, and he has this hilarious explanatory tone to his voice that sounds like a cross between his teacher and Husband.
Today was my usual day of dog walking, parenting, and errands, with a dash of psychotic breakdown and a few shakes of randomness to ensure my kids have something to talk about in future therapy sessions, and then, of course, The Boy, dispelling his little proverbs.
Let’s start with the dog walking. Hey, all you dog walkers out there, it’s a simple rule: if your dog poos, pick it up. Why is this rule so difficult to comprehend? I understand there is the occasional lapse in memory where one might have forgotten the doggy bag, in which case you pick it up later that day or at the very latest on your next walk. I understand that sometimes your dog might go in a bush and you might feel it’s not harming anyone since nobody will actually set foot there, but you should still pick it up. What I do not understand (nor do the grooves in the soles of my Converse understand) is why in the name of God’s green-and-pooed-on earth you would leave a pile in the middle of a sidewalk. PICK. THAT. UP. There is no excuse for dog poo on a sidewalk. If you’re so lame that you don’t pick it up, at least kick it to the side. Why would you leave it in the middle of the sidewalk? That’s just lame.
I got home and The Boy saw my shoe and said, “Oh no!” and put his face to his cheeks a la Macaulay Culkin and then said, “You have a yucky shoe. You better wash it.” He also pointed out a rather big gob of white paint that Little No Limit poured onto the backyard cement and then stomped around on in her latest attempt to be an artiste, and then explained to me, “She did that. I told her not to.”
So I’m irritated about my shoes and this paint I need to clean up and tell the kids we will be going to library to return the movies. Last week, we rented three DVDs from the library. Angelina Ballerina, a recurring checkout, The Muppets Wizard of Oz (look for a hilarious cameo from Quentin Tarantino), and Max’s Words, in which the key words were “I’m too scratched up a DVD to watch.” For the past week, the kids kept asking to watch it despite that I explained every time we couldn’t. And every time they asked, they picked up the DVD and carried it to me wherever I was, the bedroom, laundry room, garage et al. And I kept telling them, “Please leave the DVD on the shelf because I don’t want to lose it.”
Lo and behold, today arrived and it was time to return the videos and Max’s Words was nowhere to be found. And after dealing with dog crap on my foot, I was just mad. Mad about the dog crap. Mad that I had asked them to change into their clothes and The Boy yet again wanted to go out in pajamas and cowboy boots, explaining to me, “But sometimes I wear cowboy boots with my jams [TheBoyspeak for pajamas].”
I demanded they help me find the DVD and the Boy nodded and put his hands on his hips and said, “I’m serious about this. This is NOT funny.” Which was kind of funny, but then I felt a little guilty, like I had totally scared him into talking like this.
We eventually found the DVD under the couch and then we went to the library. We checked out some new DVDs, had a nice lunch at Selma’s, and then went to Lowe’s. The Boy wanted to show everyone the new DVD he’d rented at the library, Word World, and asked everyone if they could spell C-A-T or T-R-U-C-K or H-O-U-S-E.
On the drive home, I was almost hit by no less than four cars, all of whom were simply NOT looking as they were pulling out driveways, crossing over parking lots, etc. I mean, seriously, I was really freaked and felt like that Simpsons episode where Homer’s horoscope told him he was going to die.
Mmmm, horoscope…
I got back home, and the kids sat down to watch Word World with their leftovers from Selma’s and the Notorious F.O.X., after an hour of biding her time and lulling us into a fool’s trance, scored big time on sneaking away with Little No Limit’s last slice of pizza. Little No Limit screamed from the living room and when I got there and witnessed the atrocity, I actually pulled that pizza slice from Notorious F.O.X.’s mouth, which may not sound like the wisest thing to do, to part a Chow Chow and her food mid-chew, but in addition to not wanting her to get away with such conniving behavior, it’s also not good for her health to eat people food, and her health is ailing as it is.
I should have bitten you.
Afterwards, The Boy put his arm around Little No Limit to comfort her and said, “You know, sometimes, there are some dogs who take other people’s foods. Would you like some of my potato chips?”
And finally, after all this, I laughed the good long laugh I needed all day.
You know, sometimes there are people who don’t pick up dog poo. Would you like some of my potato chips?
You know, sometimes there are people who don’t look while driving. Would you like some of my potato chips?
You know, sometimes there are kids who say the darndest things. Would you like some of my potato chips?
You know, sometimes there are bloggers who are shameless enough to write ‘kids say the darndest things.’ Would you like some of my potato chips?
Mmmm, potato chips…
Continuing on with MomDot blog party with the hopes that the police haven’t been called in to ruin all the fun…
Today, MomDot wants to know what my favorite holiday recipe, what my holiday table looks like, and what my biggest holiday disaster was. Let’s start with the easy ones: fave recipes are my crumb topping apple pie and sweet potato soufflé. I also like my mother’s lumpia, even though I haven’t been able to eat it lately and mine just doesn’t taste quite as good. Of late, one of my favorite recipes has been gluten free, rice free pizza dough, but that doesn’t scream holiday fun the way a nice bowl of red-coated Christmas caramels does. Just look at how much fun Little No Limit was having at her second Christmas with those babies:
I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
On to my holiday table. Given the above picture, I considered posting a picture of an exam table from Gross Anatomy 101. But, no. Here is what my holiday table looks like:
Kneel before Zod!
As for my biggest holiday disaster was, I recently posted on my first Thanksgiving Day dinner. I’d say that was probably the silliest dinner every, but disastrous? Not sure I’ve got anything disastrous, for Christmas or any holiday. At Little No Limit’s first birthday party, my mother dropped the cake icing side down on our pool table. This was bad both for the cake and the felt on my pool table. There was also the Valentine’s Day dance where my date stood me up. Does that count as a holiday disaster? When you’re in high school, it does. (fyi, it turned out to be a misunderstanding, like in Three’s Company, but still…).
There was also a particularly memorable Christmas when I went into labor and got rushed to the hospital, oh wait… that never happened. Nope. I was due on December 21st and then the doctor suggested we might have the baby early, say, closer to the 15th, but when I passed that date with nary a change to my special lady places, we started thinking I might have a Christmas baby, and come Christmas day, we were all on edge that maybe, just maybe, I was going to have a baby. But lo and behold, The Boy held out until December 30th at which point I had a planned C-section because I hadn’t even effaced and he was a behemoth child. No mistakes with the date, btw, just a little boy who found his Mommy’s internal world the right place to chillax. Of course, I might still call that Christmas a disaster because I had just been informed that the Little No Limit I was expecting was actually The Boy. Yes, I am one of those moms who was told the wrong sex of her child. Disastrous, I say. Disastrous. (not anymore, of course - just at the time).
So anyways, thank you MomDot for these pressing questions that forced my stumble down memory lane, and thank you to Bottlewise and Glow Mama for sponsoring the MomDot Blog Party Day.
There is something wrong with the Notorious F.O.X. I don’t know what it is, and unfortunately, right now, neither does the veterinarian.
We adopted Notorious F.O.X. from the animal shelter when she was between three and four years old. She’d been brought to the shelter, adopted, returned, then adopted again, then found roaming the streets pregnant and they couldn’t track down her owner (she could be her own Lifetime movie). She had her puppies at the shelter and watched all of them get adopted away from her within two months, after which she was spayed. By the time we came along, she’d been in the shelter for three months (it’s a wonderful shelter that keeps all their animal friends as long as it takes for them to find a home). She was depressed, they told us. She never ate. But she was so calm and sweet. When Husband Then Fiancé and I walked around the shelter, she just looked at us, with those eyes that look like they’ve lived a million lifetimes, and when we put our fingers to the metal wires, she walked up and licked us.
We left the shelter with Notorious F.O.X and brought her to her new home, where she promptly got into the potato salad while we weren’t looking. We didn’t even get mad. Oh, early love. Over the following months, we learned things about Notorious F.O.X. – how she could take down a Christmas tree, for example, and bust through a window and its wooden blinds. Later, we discovered she could chew through and/or break any kind of metal crate. We have addressed the anxiety in different ways over the years, sometimes with better results than others, but inevitably, she reverts to her original namesake self. She’s notorious. There’s nothing else to say. What other dog do you know of who has tried to escape from a house through an AC vent?
Her anxiety is at its worst now. She’ll crawl on top of me in bed, jump up and walk along the outside wall, attack corrugated cardboard boxes like there’s raw meat hidden inside of it. She’s also between ten and eleven years old now and her eyesight and hearing are waning. A few days ago, I came home to her shaking violently. As in, looked like she was having a seizure. I immediately called the vet and asked to bring her in.
The vet is on the same block I live on, on the opposite corner, and across the street. It only takes a few minutes to walk there, or a half hour depending on how distracted the children are (Look, leaves! Look, a car! Look, a speck on the sidewalk!). It was my first visit to the vet with both children, since this visit.
To start, as soon as the veterinarian walked into the room, the first words out of his mouth were “So what seems to be the problem today with—oh, hello.” See, The Boy decided that he should walk up and grasp the veterinarian’s legs in a big bear hug. I smiled and nodded like this was totally normal. Rather than explain to the vet “My son has autism and we’ve been working really hard on encouraging him to socialize and be affectionate but he doesn’t always understand the differences between friends and strangers, not that you’re a total stranger of course, but blah blah blah” I simply smiled and said, “My son’s very friendly. Son, you can let go now.”
The good doctor let it drop and we began our dog discussion. We went through the usual list of Notorious F.O.X.’s anxiety issues, then I added that they seemed worse lately, and coupled with the shaking/possible seizing, I feared the worst. He asked me if there was anything different at home, did we have a new baby, did we get another pet, did we buy her a new bed—
“Ahhhhh! A cat!”
Apparently, Little No Limit thought that an appropriate moment to prance the toy cat the receptionist gave her through the air.
“Please keep your voice down while Mommy is talking with the doctor, thank you,” I said, and smiled at the doctor. “Um, the only thing new is her leash. I can’t imagine that’s an issue.”
Just then, The Boy tried to climb up on top of the table where Notorious F.O.X. was resting while the vetertinairan petted her head. “I’m going to ride her!” he exclaimed.
I immediately informed the veterinarian that the children are not allowed to ride the dogs (even if they can dance with them). He asked if Notorious F.O.X. ever lashed out at the kids, or anyone, and I said, “No, she’s really quite calm and well behaved around them [even when they do succeed in riding her]” at which point Little No Limit thought it necessary to TURN THE LIGHTS OUT and scream “Daaaaark!!!!!”
In my best mother voice, I said, “TURN THAT BACK ON – THIS. INSTANT.”
It is either a show of my acting capabilities and/or complete idiocy that when the lights came back on, I kept a straight face and said to Dr. Probably Now Scared Of Having Kids, “So what do you think?”
He, for his part, maintained a calm demeanor and acknowledged that it could have been a seizure, or worse (eg: central nervous system tumor), but nothing was giving him that indication now, as her vitals were all normal.
Pause, with look at the kids.
“I think I’d like to prescribe an anti-anxiety medication for her for the next two months and see how that goes.”
Another pause, as Little No Limit and The Boy start arguing over their imaginary personas – “No, I’m a robot!” “No, you’re a dog!”
So, uh, doc, you want to prescribe any of that for me too?
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