I love this picture for many reasons (hello, knee socks!) but the dog has to be the best part.
{ 12 comments }
this Mayberry dog
(or, just another mommyblog post)
10:47 p.m.: Decide I’ve done enough even though project is not complete; sleep more important.
11:03 p.m.: Actually shut down computer. 16 minutes: Possibly a record.
11:04 p.m.: Contemplate starting load of laundry. Determine that is crazy talk.
11:05 p.m.: Arrive upstairs to discover child in my bed. Haul 50 lbs. of resistant kid across hall to designated sleeping environment.
11:07 – 11:21 p.m.: Brush, floss, moisturize, NY Times Sunday Magazine.
11:22 p.m.: Bed.
11:27 p.m.: Suspicious retching sound. Did dog just barf? Get up to check.
11:28 p.m.: Nope.
11:31 p.m.: Enter child (35-lb version), stage left.
11:32 – 11:41 p.m. Impassioned debate with self. Return child to bed (requires getting out of bed) or defer to apathy? Child’s knees pinning my right arm against my body; child’s flannely arm thrown across my throat.
11:42 p.m.: Dude, talking in your sleep = automatic eviction.
11: 47 p.m.: Back in bed, sans child.
12:01 a.m.: Crying. Yeah, I heard it even before my husband elbowed me in the back.
12:01 – 12:17 a.m.: Impassioned debate with self. Wait one or both of them out? Get out of bed (definitely faster)?
12:18 a.m.: Guess which one I picked. It was the “please *whimper* come here *whimper* Moooommmmmmy” that finally got to me.
12:31 a.m. Back in bed. Notice it is now nearly two hours after I decided I should go to bed “early.”
P.S. I know exactly why this happened. The night before, I said, out loud, that bedtime had “gotten much better for us recently.” Kiss. of. death.
{ 11 comments }
Isn’t that the sweetest face you’ve ever seen! That’s my girl. Ninety-five percent of the time, she is a lovely member of the family. She doesn’t shed much (just twice a year, and then it’s rather exciting to take her outside and brush her and be astonished at all of the fluff we send into the breeze, you’re welcome little birds for the ultrasoft nests). She tolerates kid antics, or walks away from them without a grudge. She makes me feel safe when I am home alone at night and keeps me company when I am home alone during the day.
Yes, she does steal food from the children, but she also cleans up all crumbs and spills for me, so it’s kind of a wash. I am still working on forgiving her for one particular incident, though. Our first Christmas in Mayberry, we decided to have a party for our new friends and neighbors. I was 6 months pregnant with Opie at the time. My husband (aka the hermit) had no interest in helping host this shindig so I had most of the food catered. But the one thing I made myself was a freaking TON of cookies. Now, not only am I not a very good cook, I am s-l-o-w. It takes me forever to do the simplest thing. I spent an entire week of post-bedtime evenings baking. Did I mention I was 6 months pregnant at the time? By the end of the week I could barely stand.
The day of the party, I put all of my precious cookies on serving trays. To keep them cool and out of reach of toddlers, I stashed them on our screened porch, which was closed up for the winter. Just before the party began we started bringing the trays into the dining room.
And then someone left the door to the porch open. Allowing canine access. Said canine polished off an entire tray of my baked goods. You can imagine my hormonally enhanced reaction.
Oh, you better believe I served all the other trays, even though there was no guarantee they hadn’t been contaminated with doggie spit.
Tell your own messy, naughty pet story–it’s a Parent Bloggers Network blog blast. I don’t think you’re going to beat the Great Baby Oil Caper, though.
P.S. You know that chair in the picture is covered by a sheet, right? That’s not really what my living room chair looks like? OK, just so we are clear.
{ 2 comments }
At some point in kindergarten, every time Jo went to the school library she would only check out totally boring nonfiction books with some variation on the title Caring for Your Pet ____ or All About [Dog/Cat Breed X]. These were dry as dirt earnest, detailed manuals published by the likes of the ASPCA and the American Kennel Club. Not exactly my idea of soothing bedtime reading, but who was I to interfere with my child’s interest in books/science/companion animals?
In the months since we have come to discover that the kid had an ulterior motive. She filed away all the details and used them to craft her master plan. And now, once a week or so we hear “When Folly dies can we get a bichon frisé? And then, you know bichon frisés get along with cats so we can get a cat? Or a rabbit, and also a guinea pig.”
After she tried this a few times and I responded with horror at her blasé attitude toward the death of our beloved pet, she amended her request thusly:
“When Folly dies, it’sgoingtobereallysad, and then can we get a bichon frisé?”
We’ve had this dog since before the kids were born and they really do have a sibling relationship. By which I mean a love/hate kind of a thing. She tries to steal their food and they freak out. Then they feed her their leftovers right off their plates. She grabs their toys, they grab hers. They play together intensely for awhile and then ignore each other intensely for awhile.
She’s over 10 years old and she has a heart murmur. She sheds, she barks viciously at the vacuum cleaner, she sometimes refuses to go outside and then has accidents in the basement. And when she’s gone, it’sgoingtobereallysad.
(Photo is from 2002 and is one of my all-time favorites.)
This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by Burger King Corp.
{ 19 comments }
1. Any bug with 6 legs or less (i.e., any true insect) is edible.
Source: Fetch! with Ruff Ruffman
2. To calm a dog who is disturbed by a thunderstorm, rub her with a dryer sheet.
Source: Random mother on school playground
Guess which one I tested?
It didn’t work.
{ 10 comments }
Roger: strange old coot
Jowls, limp, cranky attitude
Eyes crossed, heart mighty
When we lived in the city, like real city people we had a dogwalker. He came once a day to dispense biscuits and walkies to the dog and lots of opinions to the humans. That’s if we happened to cross paths, which we’d do our best to avoid. Roger was one of those people who’d just plunk down on a kitchen chair and rattle on about who knows what, oblivious to any signs that we were ready for him to move along. It was only the other “animal children” on his route that kept him from staying parked for hours. Once I came home from work early to take something to the post office and discovered he hadn’t yet arrived. As I gathered my things I heard him huffing up the front stairs of our building. Like a total coward I actually sneaked out the back door just to avoid being waylaid.
Still, he found other ways to dispense his wisdom. Three-minute long voicemail messages, say; or his daily notes reporting exactly what happened during the walk. Not just what the dog produced, but anything they saw or people they met. Once there was a page-long tale of a “Young Girl” who accused Roger of not picking up after our dog. He defended himself by pointing out that the “feces” she had indicated were not fresh, since they were no longer warm. To prove this, he wrote, he made her touch them (“I provided tissues,” he noted). I’m sure the Young Girl was sorry she ever tangled with Rog.
If only I’d saved more of those notes (or had a blog back then). We did preserve the final missive. Here it is, with only a few identifying details changed.
Well here we are! Down to the final walk. These past four (almost) walking F. have been good. She will be missed. The years go by as quickly as a wink. It was good to work with you & I tried my best.
Of course I knew Jeff from the times at [his former address] when he would take care of [a friend's dog/fellow Roger client] & I would travel down to walk the canine
Please enjoy the new page of your collective lives in [Mayberry]. I am very happy for you also especially Jo who will have a chance to attend good Public schools when she is ready.
Until we meet again
Roger
I do wonder about him still. If he’s still shuttling up and down the Boulevard with his animal children, living with his cats, complaining about his landlord, his neighbors, and most of humankind. I hope so.
{ 10 comments }
So, the kindergarten report: All was well. Drop-off and pick-up, while logistically messy (wait outside! no, wait near the cafeteria! no, go to the classroom!), were emotionally pretty easy. In four hours, Jo and her class squeezed in group time, an art project, a story, and a snack (Scooby-Doo animal crackers–Mrs. B. taught the kids to say “Bone appetit. Let’s eat” first), plus trips to the bathroom, playground, library, and cafeteria. She’s thoroughly ready to go back for more tomorrow.
So now I turn my attention to my first baby, our 9-year-old dog. Paradoxically (and I’m sure this is familiar to many of you who’ve made similar moves), she often got more exercise back when we lived in a 1200-square-foot apartment. Then, we had to take her for regular walks. Now, we turn her out into the backyard a few times a day and that’s about it. If we’re spending time outside, she’ll run around and play; but regular walks are, shall we say, irregular.
I’ve noted before that my attempts to exercise, including long dog-walks, seem to be constantly thwarted by children. So unfair. So it was kind of a stretch for me to tell the good people of Parent Bloggers Network that “Yes! I’m an exerciser! Sign me up for them free shoes!” But follow my logic: If I replace my six-year-old (yeah, six) cross-trainers with new, wonderfully comfortable, designed-for-women walking shoes by Ryka, I will be forced to use them.
Cliffhanger: Did I? What do I think of the shoes? And more importantly, what does my dog think? To find out, please check out my review over at The Full Mommy. There’s more good stuff there too: a cool building toy endorsed by our resident preschool teacher, a how-to video for dads, even our top picks for kiddie snacks. Plus, we’re welcoming a new reviewer: Mrs. Chicken!
{ 6 comments }
