This One's For You, Dear Cousin

Well, it's official, I have a ball and glittering chain.  No longer can I claim single parenting, I'm going to be a wife.

He asked Wednesday night.

This has prompted a wide range of emotions from Lou who can't decide just exactly how excited or how upset she should be.  Amid the frenzied excitement surrounding an upcoming wedding, Lou's found many things to worry about:

1.  After I get married I won't be her mother anymore.

2.  Other Half and I will go live together- without her.

3.  She DOES NOT want to change her name.

This recent development in events isn't entirely unexpected and we've been talking about it with Lou for a while now.  We've made it clear to her that being married won't change a thing about our family.  All it does is tell the world that we are, and always will be, a family.

We have daily talks about family, usually ours, but her concept of family is still new and developing, and up until just over a year ago, our family was me and her.  She accepted my Other Half right away, just as he accepted her, but the newness wore off after a while and she wasn't too sure she wanted to share me.  She and I have talked about how, by loving Dad, I don't love her any less.  Instead of splitting my love I got more.  And then, I got even more because I love our family too.  So I have love for her, love for Dad, love for our family, and then some extra love for the Collection.

Lou had a momentary meltdown when she was seized by the idea that Dad and I were going to get married and then go live together, without her, maybe in the woods or something.  And since I can't tell her how completely absurd the idea of me living in the woods really is, we calmly reiterated the family concept and stressed that marriage changes nothing about our family. 

But maybe we've been stressing this love for everyone always and forever a bit too much.  Stability is key, and I want her to know that I'll always love her, but love doesn't mean I can take care of it all.

We have a rule that if you don't attempt to eat your dinner at dinnertime then it becomes your snack before bed.  No ice cream, no animal crackers, none of the good stuff unless you eat dinner.  And, standard for a Saturday, Lou didn't even touch her plate at dinner.  So, naturally, it was brought back at story time which prompted the following: 

Lou: Mom, I love you.

Me: I love you too.

Lou: We'll ALWAYS live together, right? And we'll ALWAYS be family?  And we'll ALWAYS love each other?

Me:  ABSOLUTELY!  You are, and always will be, my baby girl and I will love you forever!

Lou: Good.
Then can you eat some of these leftovers for me?  Cuz that's what family does, they share leftovers.

Nice try. 

But, like I said, family's a new and developing concept and why not see what you can get away with.

I Think I Got a Riley

I grew up with two dogs, Tara and Riley. 

When I was three, in the first in a series of seemingly unplanned events I would grow to anticipate, I picked out Tara from the humane society.  We thought Tara was around a year old, odds are she was closer to three or four.  A German Shepherd, Corgi mix, Tara was unique, to say the least.  She was my dog, my forever companion, my confidante, my protector, and my best friend with four legs.

Tara knew my soul.   

Riley was the puppy my mom brought home, after being urged not to, and though I loved Riley, he was the dog I never wanted.

Riley's proud heritage began with a Border Collie mother who's favorite lookout was from the branches of a large tree in her front yard.  We have no idea who his dad was.  A Shepherd maybe?  Where Tara followed me everywhere, Riley couldn't care less where I was or what I wanted him to do.  What?  Did you just call me?  Um, actually I couldn't hear you...

Tara's dedication knew no bounds.  If, at the playground, I climbed up the nearly vertical stairs to the slide, Tara was right there behind me.  Something I'm told is all but impossible to teach dogs, much less ones with miniature legs.  She dutifully guarded the front door of the neighbors house when I babysat.  Walking home with me and Doc, guarding us from the silent night on our quiet street.  She never spent the night in one place, preferring instead to take short naps in a rotation of locations: start in the upstairs hallway, as close to center as she could get from the three bedrooms.  From there she moved to the landing on the stairs, my room, my brother's room, my parents' room, before returning to the hall to start the rotation again.

Riley slept wherever he happened to find himself tired and wasn't too bothered if someone came to the door.  No amount of coaxing or treats could convince Riley to ride with us in the canoe.  Tara got in because we were, Riley wanted his feet on stable ground.  We called him Guy Smiley because his hound face made him look like as if he were perpetually smiling, making him always look so pleasant, even when he was blatantly defying you.

We never needed a fence with Tara.  She knew where our yard began and ended and she never wanted to stray too far lest she miss an opportunity to protect the house or one of its occupants.

Riley was a wandering man.  Even away in college I got calls from housewives who'd had my dog with them all day, He's been great, we baked cookies!  Sure I got the occasional angry call to come pick up my dog, he's been wandering the neighborhood; but more often than not I would get a call from a woman who claimed that Riley had come to her door during a rain, or heat, or whatever adverse weather he'd invented, and begged to be let in.  Once in, Riley would happily accept any treats and a nice spot to nap.  When he was ready to be off again he would simply wait by the door.  And if, after a few hours and a failed phone call to convince her husband they should keep this dog, he was still there, I would get a call asking where she could drop him off.

Riley was Sibling's dog.  Two free spirits who had found one another.

So when I found myself dogless more than a year ago, the choice was simple: a short-legged rescue dog who was between the ages of one and three.  I wanted my Tara back.

Unfortunately, I'm afraid I've accidentally acquired a Riley.

Her name is  Gidget.

A Corgi, Australian Shepherd mix, she makes Tara look normal.  She is, at first glance, a slight reincarnation of Tara.  And yet she is also a healthy mix of Riley.

Gidge has Tara's body shape but less fur and different colors, well, that's if you don't count her massively large head. 

Gidge is Lou's best friend.  Always ready with a kiss and a smile, she's the dog that Lou can lean on, literally and figuratively.  She is more than patient with children, specifically the ones pulling her ears and tail.  She's down for a good old fashioned race, but she knows who brought her home and she doesn't want to stay away too long.  She patrols the house and yard, the lethal combination of herding dog heritage makes it impossible for her to ignore any issue, even an imaginary one.

And in so many ways she is my Tara.  She is my four legged nanny and the dog I want to snuggle when I'm happy, sad, confused, or otherwise overcome with emotion.  She loves her mother and she wants nothing more than to see me smile.  She guards my Collection because she knows that it is important to me, therefore it's important to her.

But she is also my Riley.  My goofy dog I will never understand with her own idea of what needs to be done when.

Maybe Gidge is here to teach me a lesson about loving dogs for who they are.  For loving the wanderer in them, their free spirit and departure from the term "mans best friend".  For appreciating that the darling puppy they most surely were only loosely resembles the dog they have become.  Gidge shows me how much I can love a dog that doesn't fit into my idea of what a dog should be.

In the way that Tara imparted her wisdom, Gidge has shared some of hers with me.  I do have my Tara back.

She's just also a Riley.

It's Party Time?

Today at the zoo I saw a mom wearing a shirt that said "Party Today, Confess Tomorrow."

Seriously? 

What kind of a mother wears a shirt that says this?  Is she trying to avoid play dates?  She had two kids, when does she find the time to party?  To whom is she confessing?  Does she tell the whole truth or is this day-after confession just as shady as her previous night's activities?  And how, exactly, does she define "party"?

The P word (don't want to say it too loud just in case Lou is in earshot, which she ALWAYS is, possibly even while she sleeps, it's a crazy osmosis-like process) took on a whole new meaning once Lou was in the picture. 

Party suddenly meant an alcohol free gathering, between the hours of one and four pm, made up of women who wanted nothing more than to share their wealth of maternal wisdom and give me all the things I "absolutely can't live without during baby's first year!" or things that were just "SO CUTE!" they couldn't resist buying.  The spiked punch was replaced with a concoction of fresh squeezed lemonade dotted with drowning fruit.  Finger sandwiches and salads lined the walls and there wasn't an ashtray in sight.  No more drunken darts.  Instead we cut string in an attempt to guess the girth of my ever expanding middle and sampled baby food, guessing what former food had been mashed to create it.     

Party slowly evolved to include birthday parties.  Not the last minute, uncoordinated get-togethers I had been attending not so long ago, but full fledged kids' parties complete with inflatable jumpy and face paints.  They start at ten in the morning and we need two days to get back to normal.  Not because of anything we put in our bodies, but because of the energy exerted by them. 

Maybe I need to get out more often, but it seems that the parties I remember from my past are fewer and farther between.  Now when I hear the word Party my first thought is something along the lines of, "what the hell do you buy a three year old boy?" or "how much do you think they spent on THIS setup?" instead of, "what should I wear?"

We've got a party tomorrow.  And yes, it will be one hell of a shindig, there's going to be fire trucks and cake. 

But really, when your world revolves around someone who's forearm is about the size of your hand what more do you want?

Of course I still want to party like an adult.  And, I'll admit it, I sometimes do.  But I don't advertise it and I have no desire to.  There comes a time- in theory it happens before you have that second kid- where you realize you have to grow up.  Party doesn't revolve around you, it's not for or about you.  And that's not just ok, that's how it should be.

You're a mother now, so save the T-shirts printed with sayings for the childless set.  They have less to lose if anyone finds out about the previous night.

As for me, I'm keeping my "adult parties", and confessions, to myself.

If You Give a Girl a Turkey

If you give a girl a Turkey she has to make sure that he's cozy.

So she makes a little bed and gives him lots of light.

Then she has to feed the Turkey.

So she goes to the feed store to get some Turkey Food.
When she gets there she discovers that the feed store has
     some baby Chicks.
Well she's sure the Turkey wants some friends.
So she gets a couple of Chicks to live with the Turkey.

If she has Chicks they need a bigger house.

So she builds a coop for her Chickens and Turkey.

Once she's built the coop she realizes that it looks really plain.
So she builds some flower boxes to adorn the coop.

Once she's built the flower boxes she realizes that she should
     probably grow more than just flowers.
These birds like corn so she may as well grow some of that too.
When she gives the birds the corn they say they also want some
     grains.

So she goes out into the field and plants some of that too.

The grains grow really fast and soon she has more than she
     knows what to do with.
So because she has extra grain she gets some Goats to keep it
     down.
The Goats get lonely at night and ask for a friend to watch over
     them.

She asks the Dog to sleep outside to watch over the flock.
Of course the Dog wants to sleep inside with her.

So because the Goats are lonely she gets a Llama to keep them
     company.
And that's when she realizes that she needs a bigger barn.

So she builds a nice big barn to keep everyone cozy and out of the
     cold.

Well the chickens have babies and the goats have babies and soon
     she needs more room.
So she buys a bigger farm to make everyone happy.
Her garden grows because if she's growing corn she may as well
     plant everything she likes to eat.

And someday she'll wake up in a large farm surrounded by animals
     and covered in crops.

So if you give a girl a Turkey you should probably just buy her a farm.

And make sure you've got lots of extra cash.

We'll Call Him Mack

This evening family and I went to the beach for a swim before dinner.  As we made drove down Farm Road on the way home my Other Half suddenly slammed on the breaks.

There, just to our left, was a mama turkey and two tiny turkey babies.  They couldn't have been more than a day old.  The little darling stumbled through the field, barely visible above the grass.

That's what my family saw.  What I saw was a lonely baby turkey squatting on the right side of the road. 

My Other Half gave him a wide berth and drove around him.  And then we waited for him to join his mama.  But he didn't join her.  He just stayed sitting on the side of the road peeping like a madman.  After a painfully long minute of his pitiful cries I finally walked over, picked him up, and placed him safely in the tall grass on the other side of the road.  At least he was closer to his family.  Then we stood by the car waiting for him to leave.

But he didn't leave.  And his mother didn't give a damn.  She kept on walking away with her two favorite babies.  Ignoring his cries for help.   

When it was more than obvious that she was just going to leave him there I asked the question we were all thinking: Can we keep him?

And so, of course, we did.  Baby Turkey rode with me in the front seat.  When we got home I busted out the baby chick gear we have from last year's baby guineas.  We got out the heat lamp and crunched up some chicken food for him to eat until I can make it to the feed store tomorrow.  We put Baby Turkey in an empty cardboard box and brought him inside until the baby coop- the rabbit hutch- was ready for him.

Lou wanted to name him Cinderella.  My Other Half is totally over the Princess names.  How about we name The Turkey something other than a Princess name?

Um... Ok. 

Well, how about Belle?

Princess name.

Oh I know! 

Aurora!

After a few unsuccessful attempts to steer her away from Princess names we realized we had the entire arsenal of names from the movie Cars- perfect!  How about Lightning?  Like Lightning McQueen?

Not good.  It should be a girl's name.

She did finally give in, though, when we suggested Mack.  Yay!  We'll call him Mack!  My Other Half is more than a little relieved we didn't name him Cinderella. 

Sure, he might actually be a she, I haven't read enough on turkeys yet to know if there's a way to tell before they get huge.  Oh well, it might actually be Maxine, but for now Turkey is officially Mack.

We had planned on keeping Mack inside for the night to keep an eye on him.  Odds are pretty good that there's a reason his mama didn't want him.  Turns out that day old baby turkeys (poults to be exact) can actually jump quite well.  Mack made his escape from the diaper box as we were putting Lou to bed.  My Other Half discovered him missing and there were a few minutes of frenzied searching- step lightly!- before I spied him frantically trying to leave through the door that goes to the furnace.

So, out to the coop with him.  He looked lonely so I made a bed out of a hand towel and gave him a small stuffed bear to snuggle with. 

And so, once again, the collection grows.  Although at least this time it wasn't, entirely, my fault. 

Oh, and by the way, does anyone have some spare baby turkeys to keep Mack company?

I'm kidding!

I think...

Chronic Bug Aversion

I don't like bugs.

Maybe it's the girly girl in me.  Maybe it's worn off from the distaste for bugs my mother had.  Maybe it's an aversion to all their creepy legs.  I have no idea what it is, but I don't like them.

That's why I have Guinea Hens.

That's also why I have a vacuum.

When my Other Half is around, he's the designated bug-getter.  But he's not always here.  So what's a girl to do?  Why, get the vacuum, of course!  My vacuum is indispensable not only for all the conventional reasons, but also because it's the perfect way to get rid of bugs without having to look at them too closely or to hear that nasty crunch when you grab them.

I don't like to touch bugs- maybe if I absolutely HAVE to, like Lou's life depends on it.  But other than this extreme and remote circumstance, I try not to touch them.  This leaves me with a few options when one appears inside:

The first is the Napkin Technique, where you use a napkin as a paper shield and grab the offending bug.  But you need to get so close to the bugs.  You need to actually grab them.  Sure, your hand is protected by a thin layer of paper, but what if the bug suddenly mutates into a Godzilla-like entity that threatens to destroy your home unless you feed it?  What if it grows a set of fangs and infects you with a poisonous venom in one deadly bite?  And I have to come back to the grabbing aspect because when you grab a bug you need to hold on tightly lest it get away.  What if you feel it?  What if you hear it crunch?

No.  For obvious reasons the Napkin Technique simply will not work.

Another technique is Drowning- glorified water boarding.  This technique removes the risk of a deadly hand bite as your hand need never touch said bug.  But the first problem is that one must get close enough to turn on the water and you run the risk of seeing the bug.  Sure, once the water is on the bug is rendered helpless as he is sent to the watery depths from whence he can never return.  But what if he does?  What if this particular bug is some sort of super bug, able to withstand massive amounts of water?  What if the water actually brings about these super bugs powers; fueling his bug-filled rage and causing him to launch himself skyward and back into the sink?  Plus, this only works if the bug is already in the sink.  If it's not then you're faced with the dilemma of getting it in there and you're most likely going to have to apply the napkin technique.

Therefore Drowning, too, is out of the question.

I could trap them in Tupperware and toss them outside.  The Trapping technique was highly favored with the geckos that often made their way inside when we lived in Florida.  But, again, I don't want to see or get too close to bugs, so I cannot use the Trapping Technique.

The best technique I've found thus far, aside from calling one of the Hens inside, is to suck the offending bug up with the vacuum.  Best part is that you can stay as far away from the bug as your vacuum hose is long.

Of course, you can't just suck up the bug and be done with it.  You need to run the vacuum for a period of time to ensure his death and eternal entrapment.  I like to count to ten before I turn the vacuum off.  It's a good, safe number to count to.  Plus, it's easy to remember in times of high stress, such as the times I'm faced with a bug.

For all of us with Chronic Bug Aversion, there is hope and there are options.  Pick your technique and perfect it.  You too can conquer bugs without the help of a designated bug-getter. 

Although it never hurts to keep one around, just in case.

Time for Me

That's something I have to do for myself.  Make time for myself. 

Time to shower, time do put on makeup, time to read, time to do nothing but be.

That's the thing about being Mom.  My job is to take care of everyone around me, but who's going to take care of me?  For the lack of another qualified candidate it has to be me.

There's this image that mothers try to live up to.  This impossible standard of a well-manicured woman with an immaculate house who makes extravagant dinners but her kitchen's still clean.  A woman who makes sure that everyone's bed is made, the toilet seat is kept down, the pantry is full, the playroom is clean, and the diaper bag is always packed.

We accept this image of a well-run house, but what about the woman behind it all?

How does she find the time to be so put together?

She has to take time for herself.  She has to set limits in order to do this.  How come we don't see that part?  And when the hell does she do it?!?  Out of the plethora of baby advice I received, I really wish someone would have just said to me, "you deserve to shower every day."

Instead I got advice on which diapers to buy, what clothes Lou should be wearing at every stage of life, tricks to get food out of the minuscule crevices high chair manufacturers are apparently mandated to make (why aren't high chairs made of one solid piece of plastic? that would eliminate the countless folds and cracks that trap baby food and breed mold...), what food I should buy, what food I shouldn't buy, which diaper cream was best, where to buy nursing pads, how to fold blankets to form perfect baby sushi rolls, what music to play at bedtime, what music to play in the morning, what books I absolutely, positively must read to my child. 

But nothing, not one little bit of it, was about how to take care of me.  How am I supposed to shower when I have a child who sleeps no more than two hours at a time?  When do I get to read? Do I ever get to just sit?Oh, I should do all that when she's sleeping?  Ok, well then when do I sleep? 

But that's the point of motherhood (martyrhood?).  No one cares if your teeth are brushed.  What matters is whether everyone is fed, diapers are clean, there's socks to wear to the playground and you know what's for dinner.  You have to be the one to care about you, and it's all about finding a balance. 

After my ethereal epidermal with Lou I was seized with the compulsion to curl my eyelashes.  I believe the drug-induced logic was that people would be looking at me, fretting over me after I had given birth. 

Oh how I was mistaken. 

Despite seventeen hours of the most gruesome pain of my life, no one gave a damn how I was doing.  It wasn't about me anymore.

So it's not about me, and it never will be.  But through it all, I do still care whether or not I'm clean.  I do feel better when I've curled my eyelashes, and I'm a hell of a lot more confident when my underwear is clean.  And that's the thing about being Mom.  I'm the one in charge now, I'm to one to take care of others, there's no one here to remind me that it's ok to be clean.  I'm the one who does the teaching now.

So I'm trying to lead by example.  Sure, I could play with Lou as soon as I get up.  But I'll be a much better sport if I have a cup of coffee and let myself shower first.  She won't waste away without me for fifteen minutes and she'll learn that I'm human too- crazy concept.  Hey, she might even learn that showers are something she should WANT to do in the morning.  I can take twenty minutes to read sometimes.  If I want my child to read, it can't just be something I preach.  She values what I value and if I read, then she will too.  And I can curl my eyelashes in the morning.  Odds are I won't give her some makeup complex, hopefully I just teach her to make sure she's put together.

So maybe that baby advice I needed was really just some reassurance that it's ok to take care of me too, doing so won't take away from my parenting.

Well that and, "Leave sometimes!  Everyone will be better off if you do."